A slow-burn, the longggggg way. This is nearly finished in my drafts, so don't worry about me abandoning this story. There's no reason for me to :D. I've been writing this for a year and a half... and I'm so glad you seem to like it so far :).
The Motherlist
Summary: a camping trip ends in another world, leaving her with no way home and no choice but to rebuild her life among strangers. As she searches for answers, she forms an unlikely bond with Azriel, whose own life has begun to unravel in the quiet after the war. What begins as companionship slowly becomes something neither of them expected, forcing them to confront who they are alone before they can discover who they might become together.
Content warnings (so far): profanity, disappearance, anxiety, loneliness, references to casual sex
18+
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter one
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter two
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter three
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter four
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter five
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter six
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter seven
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter eight
｡ .⠐✿ Chapter nine - coming on 08-12-2026
Summary - In a season of balls, gossip, and carefully arranged marriages, she intended to do the one thing no lady was supposed to do.
Refuse. Refuse the marriage. Refuse the man. Refuse the life chosen for her.
The problem was that the man she intended to refuse was Rhysand, and Rhysand was not a man easily refused.
Their story began not with a dance but with an attempted escape, a ruined reputation, a scandal in the rain, and a kiss that should never have happened.
He did not want a wife. She did not want a husband.
Society would call it a courtship. They would call it a war.
A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
Another requested fic, and I was so excited to write it! Season 2 of Bridgerton is my favorite and Anthony's character totally gives Rhysand vibes x
This fic is packed with some of my absolute favourite tropes—enemies-to-lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity—and I had so much fun bringing it to life. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3
Warnings: Mild Violence. Period expected misogyny.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.1k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
Bucky had survived a winter march with half the army dead of frostbite before they reached shelter. Had survived captivity, and the things that came after captivity.
He was fairly certain he could survive a modern bath.
"This way," she said, leading him down a short hall he hadn't noticed before, past two closed doors -one in front of the other- to another door at the very end.
He followed a half-step behind, close enough to catch her scent again, that same soap-and-flower warmth, and made himself stop noticing it. That particular exercise was becoming a full-time occupation, it seemed.
"Tell me something," he said, before he could think better of it. "The kitchen. That water, arriving without a hand to draw it." He kept his voice even, no longer troubling himself to hide his curiosity. "Does the bath work by the same principle?"
She glanced back at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"You catch on fast."
"I am not an imbecile," he said again, for the second time that day. "Merely unfamiliar with how things work here."
"I know that." Something in her tone had softened since the kitchen episode. "Pipes. A boiler somewhere in the building does the heating. You turn the handle, water shows up already knowing what temperature you want it. Fancy, right?"
The room she led him into was smaller than the kitchen, tiled floor and walls both, pale and seamless in a way that made him think of the inside of an eggshell.
A white porcelain basin sat against one wall, not unlike the one in the kitchen but smaller, mounted at waist height with the same two-handled fixture. Beside it, something else entirely.
A low, white, seated thing. Porcelain, like the basin. A bowl set into a pedestal, water sitting still and clear at the bottom of it, and above the water, on the wall behind, a small metal lever.
He knew a garderobe when he saw one, a plank with a hole cut through it, seated over a shaft dropping into a pit somewhere below. He simply couldn't reconcile that knowledge with something built to sit inside a lady's own home rather than tucked into a stone alcove.
"A garderobe?" he said, testing the word against what he was looking at.
"If that means what I think it means… yeah, sure. Close enough." She crossed to it, unbothered by the topic, and pressed the small lever down.
Water rushed loudly with violence in the bowl that swallowed the still water whole and refilled the basin clean and clear a moment later, the sound tapering off into a soft hiss and then nothing at all.
He stared at it.
"The water… where does it go?"
"Pipes again. Out to the sewer line under the street." She shrugged, hands already moving toward the towels, like the miracle she'd just performed wasn't worth a second look.
"No pit," he said. "No need to empty it. No smell."
"None. I’m sure you’ll get used to it fast. Give it a day, and you'll forget people ever lived any other way."
He looked at the thing with something bordering on genuine reverence, and thought, distantly, that whoever had built this century had made something very close to a small miracle and simply hadn't noticed.
"C'mon," she said. "The good part's over here."
The tub sat at the far end of the room, white and deep, longer than most he'd bathed in, with a single faucet mounted at one end and three handles above it, identical in principle to the ones he'd already seen. Above all of it, a metal bar was suspended between two walls, and from it, a curtain of some pale, slick fabric, drawn back against the wall.
He studied the faucet.
"Same deal as the kitchen," she said, following his gaze. "Turn the handles, water comes out. Hot's on the left, cold's on the right, and don't ask me why, because I didn't design the plumbing."
He nodded slowly, filing it beside everything else he'd learned today. Simple enough. He could manage that much on his own.
"And that." He gestured at the metal ring overhead, the pale curtain hanging still, waiting for some purpose he hadn't yet worked out. "What is its function?"
"That's for the shower. Watch." She reached past him and turned one of the handles.
Water erupted from directly above the tub, not from the faucet at all, but from a wide metal disc fixed to the underside of that hanging ring, a sudden violent hiss of spray striking down into the bathtub below it, loud and fast and entirely without warning.
He was against the wall before he'd decided to move, one hand thrown up, the other reaching for a blade that wasn't there, hadn't been there in hours. He stood well clear of the tub, untouched; every part of him had gone tense and ready to fight.
He stared at the water driving down into the bathtub, chest heaving, and felt something in his face go hot that had nothing to do with the steam now rising off the spray.
She shut it off fast, both hands up, already talking. "Okay- sorry, sorry. Should've warned you first, I forgot that's not a normal thing to walk into."
"No." His voice came out rough, lower than he meant it to, and he didn't look at her directly. "You could not have known to warn me. I would not have thought to ask."
Then, unwillingly, the corner of his mouth lifted.
"A rain," he said, "that a man commands from a wall."
"That's the general idea, yeah. Very fancy. I promise it won't try to kill you."
She then crossed to a narrow cabinet built into the wall and pulled out a folded towel, thick and white, along with a smaller one, and set them both on the edge of the tub.
"Towels. Big one's for after, little one's for scrubbing." She reached to a shelf above the basin, plucking down a bottle and a bar wrapped in shiny paper. "This is soap. This is shampoo, for your hair, not the rest of you, no matter how good it smells. Work it in, rinse it out, don't overthink it."
He turned the bar over once in his hand, testing its weight, the uniform white of it, no grit or tallow-yellow to it anywhere.
"This is fine soap," he said. It wasn't quite a question.
"It's forty cents at the drugstore. Nothing fancy, I promise; they just make everything smooth now."
He had no notion what a cent was worth, but something in how easily she'd said it told him enough.
"Everyone bathes like this, then. Not only the wealthy."
"Pretty much everyone. Rich people just get bigger tubs."
She set both items beside the towels, and for a moment neither of them moved, the small room feeling smaller than it had a minute ago, the two of them standing over a bathtub with nothing left to explain.
She was close enough that he became abruptly aware of how filthy he must look, all the dried blood, dirt, the accumulated grime of a day that had started on a tournament ground and ended in a century that hadn't existed yet, all of it pressed close to skin that smelled of nothing but soap and something clean and feminine.
His eyes dropped, without his permission, to the bare skin above the neckline of her blouse.
He thought, with a clarity he immediately resented, of how his own hands would look against skin like that. Rough. Scarred across the knuckles, calloused from sword grip.
He wondered, briefly and with considerable self-loathing, how her hands would feel instead, all soapy against his chest, or rubbing the muscle in his shoulders that hadn't unknotted itself once since he'd woken on her stockroom floor…
He dragged his eyes back up before she could catch where they'd been, jaw clenching, furious at himself.
"Thank you for the soap," he managed.
Then, because his mouth had apparently decided to finish the thoughts his mind had been having without consulting him first:
"I know how to bathe myself."
He heard the words leave his lips and winced internally.
Why in God's name had he said that?
Her brows drew together, confusion plain on her face. "...Okay?"
Heat crawled up the back of his neck before he could stop it, fast and traitorous, and landed in his face a moment later, worse for knowing she could see it now.
"I meant only," he said, and heard how stiff it came out, "that you needn't trouble yourself further. On my account. I am capable."
"I wasn't going to offer scrubbing your back, Mr- Bucky." A beat. "Unless that's a service you're expecting. In which case, I have some very bad news about this century."
Christ.
The heat in his face redoubled, and he was abruptly, furiously aware of it: of being a knight who had stared down drawn steel without so much as a change in his breathing, currently losing a battle against his own blood rising to his cheeks over a bath.
"I am aware," he said, with as much dignity as a man could summon while visibly turning the color of a ripe plum. "I only meant to say-"
"You've said it. Three times now, actually, I've been counting." There was something at the corner of her mouth now, almost a smile. "I'll be right outside. Yell if the shower jumps you again."
She was already moving toward the door, and he let himself watch her go, then caught himself doing it and, with great determination, looked instead at the tiled wall.
The latch clicked a moment later.
He stood alone in the strange white room, his own reflection scowling back at him from the mirror -bruised, filthy, and blushing like a virgin bride over nothing at all- and decided, with grim finality, that he would not be examining that particular lapse in judgment any further that day.
He was, mostly, lying to himself about that already.
----
He looked at the tub a long moment, tempted. It would have been simple enough, in theory: fill it, sink into hot water until the ache in his ribs dissolved into something more bearable.
But he knew how filthy he was, layers of sweat and tournament dust and dried blood, and a full tub would foul itself before he'd even reached his second arm. He'd need two, perhaps three changes of water to come out decent, and he had no real certainty about how generous the water supply was.
The rain, then.
The metal disc overhead came alive with the same sudden violence as before, but this time he was braced for it and did not flinch back.
He undressed slowly, each piece of clothing its own separate exercise in pain, until there was nothing left but skin and the accumulated wreckage of the day. Then he stepped over the lip of the tub, drew the curtain closed behind him with a rattle of metal rings, and let the water find him.
He groaned before he could stop himself.
It came up from somewhere low in his chest, unbidden, entirely without his permission. He had spent the day being struck, thrown, nearly killed by a horseless carriage, and marched up three flights of stairs on cracked ribs, finally allowed to stand still and simply feel something that didn't hurt.
The water ran over his shoulders, down the ladder of his spine, hot enough to loosen muscle he hadn't realized he'd been holding rigid since the tournament grounds. He tipped his head back into it and let it beat against his face, his throat, and for one long, indecent moment thought of absolutely nothing at all.
It was, without exaggeration, the finest thing that had happened to him since he'd woken on her stockroom floor. Since way before that, if he was honest with himself.
He stood there longer than was strictly necessary before he reached for the soap.
It lathered easily, some pale film building between his palms with none of the gritty resistance of the soap he knew, and he worked it over his chest, his shoulders, the plane of his stomach where a fresh bruise was already purpling beneath older, yellowing ones.
Then he reached his left arm, and his hands slowed down.
He didn't need to look at it. He knew the raised, rope-like ridges running along it, pale against the rest of him even after a summer of tournaments spent half-armored under the sun.
But the water was sliding over it now, catching the lamplight in a way that made the old scarring stand out starker than usual, and some part of him looked anyway.
Traced one particular line with his thumb, the one that ran deepest, the one that still pulled tight when he reached a certain angle.
He'd spent two years in a cell. Give or take. He'd ceased the counting somewhere in the second winter, when the days had stopped meaning anything beyond dark and less dark, and had never quite bothered to pick the count back up once he was free of it.
He remembered the field, at least. Remembered that much clearly enough: the mud, the horse going down beneath him, a blade finding the meat of his upper arm somewhere in the chaos of falling. Remembered darkness swallowing the noise of it whole.
What came after, he remembered in pieces. A stone floor. A stone wall. The arm, swollen and wrong, heat radiating off it that had nothing to do with any fire in the room, because there had been no fire in the room. Ever.
There had been a rot-smell he associated with fever more than memory, and somewhere in there -hazy, unreliable, a thing he'd never been certain enough of to say aloud- the impression of a friar's hands.
Cool fingers against a forehead too hot to bear its own weight. A voice praying in Latin, or perhaps just muttering, he'd never been sure which. He didn't know if the man had been real, or a fever's mercy, some kindness his mind had invented because the alternative was believing no one had come at all.
He didn't know how he hadn't died of it. He genuinely didn't. The arm had swollen fat and tight as a wineskin, the skin splitting in places from the pressure of it, and by every rule he understood about the body, that should have been the end of him.
It wasn't.
He'd kept the arm. Kept his life, such as it was, for another eighteen months of the same stone wall, the same shackles.
The arm wasn't the worst of it. He thought that plainly, without drama.
Two years chained to a wall, and guards with too much idle time and inventive enough minds about how a man might be made to suffer without being killed outright, had seen to the rest, before whatever ransom or exchange had finally been arranged came through and put him back on a horse heading home.
He didn't examine that further. Never did. There was a door in his mind he'd built precisely for that particular room, and he'd learned long ago that opening it accomplished nothing beyond making the following days considerably harder to get through.
The water had gone from scalding to merely warm while he stood there. He noticed, distantly, and reached to adjust the handle before it could turn cold entirely.
Enough.
He finished with the soap, quick and thorough now, some old discipline reasserting itself over the part of him that wanted to keep standing there a while longer, arm bared to the water, letting himself remember things better left where he'd put them.
He thought of her, briefly, on the other side of the door. Of the stockroom that morning, and the dozen easier choices she could have made instead of the one she'd made. He didn't know yet what to do with that thought, so he set it down beside the door in his mind and finished rinsing.
----
She'd put the pot on for two and couldn't remember the last time she'd done that.Even with her friend Marion occupying the spare room, they ate mostly separately since their shifts were very different. She ate alone most days, the radio doing the talking.
It occurred to her, grating the last of the cheese into the pot, that she hadn't cooked for a man since her father passed.
Now, she was cooking for one who wasn't family, which was a different thing entirely, and she knew exactly what the neighbors would call it if they ever got wind of a strange man living in a single woman's apartment.
Oh well, they had their own dirty laundry to take care of, mind them.
She decided on mac and cheese. Something hot, something that would actually fill him, and God knew, after the morning he'd had, he needed more than another sandwich.
She had a box of the noodles in the cupboard and just enough cheese left in the icebox to make it worth the trouble. She was grating the last of it into the pot when she heard the bathroom door open down the hall, then his footsteps.
She didn't turn around right away.
"Almost ready," she said, still facing the stove. "Figured you could use something hot after the morning you-"
She turned around, and the rest of the sentence simply left her brain.
He'd managed the trousers. Managed the shirt too, mostly, buttons in the right holes, tucked in at the waist, and the belt in place. But the collar… instead of folding down the way collars did, he'd left it standing straight up around his throat, the points reaching almost to his ears, like something out of an old painting.
Filthy and bruised and half out of his mind that morning, he'd been undeniably good-looking in the inconvenient way of men in magazine ads.
Clean, in actual clothes -even worn wrong- he was something closer to a problem.
"Okay, hang on," she said, already crossing the kitchen, reaching up before he could react, reaching for the stiff edge of the collar. "You've got- here, let me just-"
He went rigid under her hands.
Utterly still, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder like the wall behind her had suddenly become very interesting.
Her fingers were still on his collar. She was, she realized with something close to horror, standing close enough to feel the warmth still coming off his skin from the shower, close enough that this was… well. Too intimate.
This was invading his space, and she'd done it without even asking.
She dropped her hands and took half a step back.
"Sorry- is that- am I in your space?"
"No," he said, too fast.
He still wasn't looking at her.
"You sure? Because you went kind of statue on me."
"I said no." His voice had gone a little rough. He cleared his throat, gaze fixed somewhere near the icebox now. "Thank you."
She looked at him a moment longer than she probably should have, at the careful way he was very deliberately not meeting her eyes. His collar was still wrong, but she let it pass.
"Sit down," she said instead, turning back to the stove. "This should be ready in a few minutes."
He lowered himself into the chair, watching her stir the pot with open, unguarded curiosity. The same look he'd given the icebox, the same look he'd given the shower.
"What is it," he asked, "that you're making?"
"Pasta with a cheese sauce. Kids love it. Grown men who've had the day you've had love it even more, trust me, I've fed a few."
He said nothing to that, but she caught him leaning very slightly toward the stove when she wasn't looking.
She plated it a few minutes later and set the bowl in front of him -thick, golden, still steaming- and watched him study it the way he'd studied the sandwich that morning, turning the spoon over once in his hand before committing to it.
The first bite did something to his face that she was going to be thinking about for longer than was strictly wise.
His eyes actually closed.
"This," he said, very seriously, "is a very fine plate."
She pulled out the second chair and sat down across from him with her own bowl, because there was no version of this where she stood at the counter and watched a grown man have a religious experience over macaroni without joining in.
He didn't seem to notice her sitting, not at first, too occupied with the bowl in front of him, and she let herself watch him for a moment without the excuse of doing anything else.
The bruise along his cheekbone had darkened further since the morning, blooming into a deep, ugly purple that made her wince faintly on his behalf. The cut above his brow had scabbed over clean, at least, no longer weeping at the edges the way it had in the stockroom.
Clean, fed, dressed in clothes that fit reasonably well even if he'd worn the collar wrong, he looked, she thought, almost ordinary. Almost like a man she might have passed on Camden Street without a second glance. She wondered if that was easier or harder than the alternative -a man who was clearly, unmistakably not of this world-.
He ate like someone reacquainting himself with the basic mechanics of pleasure. He had manners, clearly, real ones. Every bite got his full attention.
She found herself, against her better judgment, charmed by it.
Stop that, she told herself, and looked down at her own bowl instead.
"It's really that good?" she asked, mostly to have something to say.
He looked up, spoon still in hand, and there was something almost sheepish in his expression, like he'd been caught at something.
"I have had feasts," he said slowly, "with roasted boar and spiced wine."
He looked back down at the bowl.
"I would trade some of them for this."
She huffed a short laugh, surprised into it. "It's a two-dollar box of noodles."
"Then this century has done something extraordinary with two dollars, whatever that means."
"I'll pass the compliment along to Kraft."
He didn't ask who Kraft was. She got the sense he'd decided to stop asking about every single thing, and was simply letting some of it wash over him instead.
She let the quiet settle after that, comfortable enough now that neither of them seemed to feel the need to fill it, and watched him eat while her mind, unhelpfully, went back to work on the question she hadn't managed to put down since the stockroom.
Who are you, really?
She thought again of the war. Of the men at St. Benedict's with the hollow stare, the ones who flinched at car horns and wouldn't talk about where they'd been.
Maybe that was still it. Maybe somewhere under all of this -the ring, the knight, the six hundred years- there was a man who'd simply broken somewhere overseas, badly enough that his mind had gone looking for somewhere safer to live and built an entire kingdom to hide in.
People did stranger things than that, she was fairly sure, when the alternative was staying inside their own memories.
Give it a few days, she thought, watching him scrape the last of the sauce from the bottom of the bowl reverently. Maybe it wears off. Maybe he wakes up tomorrow, or the day after, and he's just... someone.
A man with a hometown and a mother somewhere worried sick, and all of this comes back to him as something to be embarrassed about, and I get to hear the real story.
She waited for that thought to feel like relief, the way it should have.
It didn't, not quite, and for now she let herself off the hook for figuring out why. There'd be time for that too.
"Would you like more?" she asked, nodding at his empty bowl.
He looked at it as though the question had genuinely never occurred to him as a possibility.
"...I would not be imposing?" he mumbled.
"It's a pot of macaroni, not the crown jewels. Yes. It's permitted. Eat until you're full, nobody's judging you for being hungry."
He relaxed at that, and pushed the bowl toward her without further argument.
She got up to refill it, and told herself, refilling her own thoughts right alongside the bowl, that there was time. A few days, at least, before she had to figure out what came next.
Summary: You came to Velaris under duress five years ago—pregnant, alone, and in hiding from something, or someone, too dangerous to even speak aloud. When your daughter begged you to go to school years after settling down in the apartment above a worn-down apothecary, you obliged her. But things still didn't feel safe. Azriel was going to do everything in his power to give you that safety. At least, he would try.
Warnings: Angst, illness, injury, brief mention of abortion, single mom!reader, ongoing warnings
a/n: This series is in progress with no determined amount of parts :) It really needed a masterlist due to the length, so here it is. Thank you for reading!! 🤍
Summary: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes has returned from the front lines, recovered from a career-ending injury. When he arrives home, he finds that his childhood friend is very much not a child anymore, and has been selected the diamond of the season. How can he hope to court you as a broken man, and with the eyes of the entire ton watching your every move?
A/N: Bridgerton season 4 is upon us, and what better way to celebrate than with a good, old fashioned yearning Regency fanfic? Reply or message to be added to the taglist! (PS: I went back on some previously posted chapters to fix some anatomical inconsistencies with descriptions of Bucky, if you noticed those errors before... no you didn't)
Thunderbolts!Bucky x Reader • Canon • A Baby Mama Drama Fic
A one-night stand with a stranger named James should have stayed anonymous. Until two little pink lines ruined that plan. When you see him on the news and realize your baby daddy is a congressman, avenger, and super-soldier, you have no idea what kind of chaos is in store.
This is a Baby Mama Drama reader-insert fic, featuring Valentina the Devil, pregnancy cravings, angst, hilarity through Thunderbolts team interactions, and, of course, a happy ending. Spicy chapters will have clean and spicy versions for inclusivity.
Trigger Warnings: Reader Insert Series ("you"); Drinking (NOT while pregnant); One Night Stand; P-in-V sex (Protected!); Failed Birth Control (duh); Accidental Pregnancy; Paternity Test; Pregnancy Cravings; Baby Shopping; Feeling Kicks; Labor (not graphic).
Author's Note: This series was a request from @nefarious-prat, that I had actually already outlined in series form! Thus, the series got moved up the to-do list. Also, she requested reader-insert, which saved me from having to name a character. Yay!
Main Masterlist
Prologue: One Night (18+; MDNI Version)
Prologue: One Night (Clean Version)
Chapter 1: Discovery
Chapter 2: The Results
Chapter 3: Unwelcome Eyes
Chapter 4:
Chapter 5:
Chapter 6:
Chapter 7:
Epilogue:
Chapters will be released when they become available. There may be more time between chapters than you’re used to, because I have some *events* coming up November and December!!
Message me if you want to be added to the tag list! (or removed, of course)
This is not your typical love story.
Typical love stories don’t involve sex pollen, accidental pregnancies, Doombots, failed HYDRA medical experiments, or red-headed witches who may or may not be trying to help.
Despite all this, you and Bucky are determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if it kills you.
(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)
Posted in full on AO3; one-shots are also cross-posted to Tumblr. Please follow the tag [#not a fairy tale kiss verse], or request to be added to a tag list. Main MCU Masterlist is here.
Fics are listed in Recommended Reading Order. Tumblr links under the cut. If there is no link, it is not yet posted.
Prequels:
Coffee Thievery - In which you attempt to steal Clint's coffee, and run into a slight problem. (Takes place approximately 1 year prior to NAFTK.)
Arms and the Iron Lady - In which you are still figuring out your place in the Tower. (Takes place immediately after Coffee Thievery.)
The New Girl - Bucky's POV. (Takes place shortly after Arms and the Iron Lady.)
Team Dinner - In which you are in charge of dinner, and Bucky is inadvertently helpful. (Takes place approximately 2-3 months after Arms & the Iron Lady.)
The Baseball Game - A story about the Red Sox, the Dodgers, and Bucky's arm.
Captain America's Birthday Cookies - In which you attempt to troll Steve Rogers. Rookie mistake, honestly.
Not a Fairy Tale Kiss (no names for this exist) (75 chapters + epilogue. There are several ficlets that happen between chapters and will be marked as such.)
In which a totally normal mission goes totally normal. For now.
In which there is a teeny tiny SNAFU with the totally normal mission. Oops.
Post NAFTK
Worst Case Scenario - Bed rest sucks. (No, it's okay, this is mostly crack.)
The Baby - A birth story.
All In - Steve's POV of Bucky being a dad. Also on AO3.
What If What if Bucky and D didn't spent Pollen Night together.
Untitled Chaptered Story (approx 125k, begins 16 months after NAFTK's epilogue, written but in editing, est posting January 2026)
Untitled Chaptered Story (very much a WIP, begins 3-4 years after NAFTK's epilogue)
Tags: Established Relationship. Pregnancy. Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: Bucky achieved what every male of his kind is supposed to want. But the Thal'kyr don't do fatherhood -don't even have a word for it- and now he must figure out how to be something his species never taught him to be.
note: Follow-up story to Tangled
Word Count: 5k.
Two pink lines.
She stared at the test for the third time, as if the result might change if she blinked hard enough. But there they were, clear as day, stark against the white plastic.
How?
Her pills sat in its usual spot on the bathroom cabinet, the little compact case she opened every morning at eight-thirty. She'd been religious about it, never missed one, never threw up after taking one. Never even taken antibiotics that could interfere.
So how the hell...?
Sometimes it just happens, she thought, recalling what she'd read in articles, what doctors said in disclaimers. Even with perfect use, ninety-nine percent effective wasn't one hundred percent. That one percent had to happen to someone.
Apparently, it had happened to her. To them.
She was pregnant. With Bucky's child.
The child he'd said was possible, theoretically, if they were careful about timing and circumstances. And, also theoretically unlikely, because his kind had a very low birth rate.
She set the test down on the counter with shaking hands.
How was she supposed to tell him?
He didn't have a framework for this. His species didn't do pregnancy announcements or parenting counseling. Males mated and left.
And yet, Bucky had stayed. Learned to read and gotten a job. Built a life with her that had nothing to do with what his species expected of him.
But this was different. This was a baby.
And she had no idea if some deep, primal part of him would hear the news and feel that ancient pull to leave. To swim away and never come back, the way every male of his kind had done since the beginning of time.
Her hand drifted to her belly -still the same as yesterday, as last week- but knowing what was growing inside changed everything.
She needed time. Time to figure out how to say it. Time to brace herself for whatever his reaction might be.
Just... a little more time.
----
Three days later, he heard the retching from the kitchen.
He was at her side in an instant, finding her hunched over the toilet, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching the edge of the bowl. When she looked up at him, the exhaustion was written plainly across her face, making his chest clench.
"Again?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, accepting the glass of water he pressed into her hands. "Just... give me a minute."
He crouched beside her, pressing one hand uncertainly against her back. Several days of watching her struggle to keep food down, of that strange new scent clinging to her skin. Not unpleasant, but different. Richer. Like her body was changing in ways he couldn't identify but his senses picked up anyway.
He was starting to panic.
"It was the chicken," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I undercooked it."
She blinked at him. "What?"
"Tuesday night. The chicken breast. I rushed it because you said you were hungry." His jaw clenched, the self-recrimination rolling off him in waves. "I poisoned you."
"Bucky, no-"
"I did." He stood abruptly, pacing the small bathroom like a caged animal. "Food poisoning. That's what this is."
She watched him wear a path across the tile, his hands flexing and clenching at his sides. The guilt he felt was almost palpable, and her heart twisted. He was so convinced he'd hurt her, so ready to shoulder the blame for something that wasn't even wrong.
"We need to take you to a healer," he said suddenly, stopping to face her. "One of those... what do you call them? Doctors."
"I'm fine-"
"You're not fine!" The words came out sharper than he intended, and he immediately softened his tone. "You're sick. You can barely eat. You look..." He gestured helplessly. "Exhausted. Weak."
She stood slowly, testing her balance. The nausea had passed, leaving behind only that fatigue that seemed to follow her everywhere these days.
"It's not food poisoning," she said gently.
"Then what?" His eyes were dark with worry, searching her face for answers she wasn't ready to give. "What's wrong with you?"
Everything and nothing, she thought. I'm growing your baby, and my body is going haywire, and I don't know how to tell you without terrifying you.
"I don't know," she lied, and hated herself a little for it.
----
She picked at her dinner, moving the pasta around her plate without really eating. The smell of the garlic bread that usually made her mouth water now made her stomach turn.
"Not hungry?" Bucky asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
She shook her head, pushing the plate away. "Sorry. I know you made it specially."
His jaw clenched. For the past week, he'd watched her grow more tired, more drawn. Watched her struggle to keep food down, to stay awake past eight in the evening. And now she wasn't eating at all.
His mate was wasting away, and he had no idea why.
"You need to eat something," he said quietly.
"I can't. I'm just... tired."
Tired. She was always tired now. Tired and sick, and every instinct in his body was screaming that something was desperately wrong with her.
He stood from his chair, the scrape of wood against the floor too loud in the quiet kitchen. Without a word, he moved to her side and gently pulled her up, guiding her toward the couch.
"Bucky, I'm fine-"
"No." His voice was firm but not harsh. "You're not."
He settled onto the couch and drew her into his lap, arranging her carefully so her back pressed against his chest. His arms came around her waist, holding her securely, and then he began to rock.
Slow, rhythmic movements that had nothing to do with comforting her and everything to do with calming the storm raging inside him. It was something he did when his mind was spinning too fast, when the world felt too chaotic to process. A self-soothing behavior left over from childhood, from the days when Steve was small and sick, and Bucky had been too young to know how to help.
She felt it immediately, the way his breathing had gone shallow, the tension in his muscles, the barely-controlled desperation in the way he held her.
He thought something was seriously wrong with her.
Her heart clenched. She could feel his fear, could sense how close he was to complete panic. And she was the cause of it, sitting here letting him think she was dying when the truth was the exact opposite.
"Bucky," she said softly.
He didn't respond, just continued that gentle rocking, his face buried in her hair like he was trying to memorize her scent.
"Bucky, I need to tell you something."
His arms tightened around her, and she could feel him brace for bad news.
"I'm not sick."
The rocking stopped. "You are. You're-"
"I'm pregnant."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
She felt the exact moment the words registered, felt his entire body go rigid behind her. His breathing stopped. His heart, pressed against her back, seemed to skip several beats.
"What?" The word came out strangled, barely audible.
She turned in his arms so she could see his face. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, staring at her as she'd just told him the sky was falling.
"I'm pregnant," she repeated gently. "That's why I've been sick. It's... it's normal."
He blinked once. Twice. His gaze dropped to her stomach, then snapped back to her face.
"Pregnant," he repeated slowly, like he was testing the word, trying to understand its weight.
"About six weeks, I think."
His hands moved without conscious thought, sliding down to rest against her belly. The same shape as always, but somehow transformed now that he knew what was growing beneath his palms.
"Our..." He swallowed hard. "Our pup?"
She nodded, watching his face carefully. "Are you okay?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Just stared at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Shock, yes, but something else underneath it. Something that looked almost like reverence.
Then his eyes went distant, unfocused, and she watched something shift behind them. Not fear exactly, but... recognition. Like a door had opened in his mind to a room he didn't know existed.
His breathing changed -shorter, faster- and for a terrifying moment she thought he might bolt. Might stand up and walk out the door and never come back, just like his instincts said he should.
But he didn't move.
He just sat there, staring at nothing, trying to process.
----
The thought hit him like a riptide.
He did it.
The words formed slowly in his mind, primal and absolute.
His seed took root. He was fertile. He was worthy.
It was the first thought, the deepest one, rising from some ancient place in his biology that had been waiting for this moment his entire life. Every failed mating season, every time he'd returned to his cave alone and wondered if he'd ever achieve what every male was supposed to achieve-
He had.
With her.
The pride that flooded through his system was almost physical, a warmth that spread through his chest and down his limbs. He'd done it. Proven himself. Accomplished what had eluded him for decades.
He was a father.
The word felt strange. Foreign. His species didn't have a word that meant what the humans meant by "father." There was "sire" in the biological sense -the male who contributed seed- but nothing that implied presence. Nothing that implied an after.
Because there was no after.
You mated. You left. The seed either took or it didn't. Never cared to know, even if you always knew, because the female was absent from the mating grounds for the next three years, and other males would look at you with envy.
And that was where the pride began to crack.
His breathing was getting faster, shorter, and he forced himself to slow it down before she noticed. His fingers pressed a little harder against her abdomen, as if he could feel something, anything, some proof of what she'd just told him.
A pup.
No. Not a pup. A baby. That's what humans called them. A baby that would be born, that would exist, that he would see.
The panic started as a flutter in his chest, then grew.
What the hell was he supposed to do with a baby?
Male Thal'kaari didn't... do anything. The male's role ended the moment he swam away from the mating.
But he wasn't swimming away.
He was here. Sitting on a couch in a human house, holding his pregnant mate, and he had absolutely no idea what came next.
You're supposed to leave.
The thought wasn't even his own voice, it was older, deeper, like an echo of every male who'd come before him. You've done your part. Your seed is planted. There's nothing else for you here.
His jaw clenched.
No.
He wasn't leaving.
But then... what? What was he supposed to do?
He didn't know how to care for a pregnant female, human or Thal'kaari -even if the last one probably would have tried to stab him if he dared to wander too close to her after the mating-. Didn't know what she would need, what the pup would need, or how any of this worked beyond the most basic biological facts.
The females of his kind retreated during pregnancy, became solitary and territorial. Was she going to do that? Push him away? And if she did, was he supposed to let her, or was that a human thing he was supposed to fight against?
He didn't know.
And beneath all of that, quieter but more insidious, was another thought:
What if his entire biology, everything that made him him, was wired wrong for this? What if he woke up one day and the urge to leave was too strong to fight?
He'd never wanted to leave her before. Never even considered it.
But he'd also never been faced with this.
His hands were trembling slightly against her stomach. He closed his fingers, trying to still them, trying to keep his face neutral.
Don't let her see you are weak.
She was watching him. He could feel her gaze on his face, careful and worried, waiting for him to react the right way.
What was the right way?
Humans did... something. He'd seen it on the screen sometimes, when she watched her shows. The male smiled. Kissed the female. Said something reassuring and tender.
Bucky couldn't remember how to smile.
"Bucky?" Her voice was soft, cautious. "Say something."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
He had to say something. Anything.
"You're sure?" The words came out rougher than he intended, almost accusing. He winced internally. Wrong. That was wrong.
She nodded slowly. "I took two tests. All positive."
Two tests. Not just one. Not a mistake.
The panic ratcheted up another notch, but he shoved it down, buried it deep where she couldn't see it. He was good at that, had spent most of his life hiding what he felt, keeping his face carefully neutral, showing nothing.
He could do that now.
"Okay," he said, and his voice sounded steadier than he felt. "Okay."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Are you... happy?"
He didn't know. There was too much happening inside him to identify any single emotion. Pride, yes. Terror, absolutely. Confusion. Wonder. A desperate, clawing need to fix this, to figure it out, to know what the hell he was supposed to do.
But happy?
"I..." He swallowed hard. His hands hadn't moved from her stomach. "I don't know what I am."
The words came out before he could stop them, too honest, too raw.
He saw the exact moment they landed on her.
Her expression shifted, not quite falling, but... closing. The tentative hope in her eyes dimmed, and her body went tense against him. She didn't pull away, not quite, but he felt the change in her, the way she seemed to draw into herself.
"I see," she said quietly.
Two words. Flat. Careful.
Fuck.
She started to shift in his lap, as if preparing to stand, to put distance between them, and his arms tightened around her instinctively.
"Wait," he said quickly, and there was an edge of desperation in his voice he couldn't quite hide. "Wait, that's not-"
He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to fix what he'd just broken with his thoughtless honesty.
She stilled, but didn't settle back against him. Just sat there, rigid and waiting.
"I didn't mean..." He exhaled roughly, frustrated with himself, with his inability to find the right words. "I'm not... unhappy."
Still wrong. He could hear how wrong it sounded even as he said it.
"This-" He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, suddenly unable to look at her face. "This is new. For me. My kind, we don't... we don't do this. Don't stay. Don't know what comes after. And I-"
He stopped, jaw clenching.
And he had nothing.
No knowledge. No instinct. No model for how to be what she needed him to be.
But he couldn't tell her that. Couldn't let her see how lost he was, how terrified. She was already scared, he could see it in the way she watched him, the tension in her body, the careful way she'd said pregnant like she thought the word might make him bolt.
He wouldn't bolt.
He couldn't bolt.
Even if every cell in his body didn't know what the hell it was supposed to do now.
He pulled her closer, trying to keep her here with him even though he'd just said the wrong thing, even though he'd hurt her with his honesty.
"I was scared to tell you," she said quietly, and her voice was smaller now, more fragile.
The words slapped him like a physical blow.
"Why?" he asked, though he already knew. He'd just proven exactly why.
"I didn't know how you'd react. If you'd... if you'd want this."
Did he want this?
He didn't know. Wanted her, desperately, always. Wanted to stay with her, build a life with her, keep waking up in their nest and falling asleep with her scent in his nose. And the thought of being anywhere else, of not being here for this, made something in his chest twist painfully.
"I want you," he said finally, and that much he knew was true. "I want... whatever comes with you."
It wasn't eloquent. It wasn't what she probably wanted to hear.
But it was all he had.
She shifted slightly in his lap, turning just enough to look up at him. Her eyes searched his face for a long moment. Looking for what, he wasn't sure. Certainty, maybe. Reassurance. Something he didn't know how to give.
Whatever she found there, it was enough.
She leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a heartbeat before settling back against him.
But when she pulled away, she wasn't smiling.
Not frowning either, just... thoughtful. Like she was processing his words, accepting them for what they were rather than what she'd hoped they'd be.
"Okay," she said softly.
Just that. Okay.
Not we're having a baby with excitement. Not relief or joy.
Just... okay.
His arms tightened around her, and he pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in.
And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the fear and confusion and absolute terror, there was something else.
Something that felt almost like... purpose.
He just had no fucking idea what to do with it.
----
The first few days after that were... strange.
Not bad, exactly. Just different in ways neither of them seemed to know how to navigate.
She still went to work, even though the nausea hit her most mornings like clockwork. She'd lean over the toilet, retch until there was nothing left, then drag herself upright and get dressed. Bucky would watch from the doorway, silent and tense, hands fisting and unfisting at his sides like he wanted to do something but didn't know what.
"You should stay home," he'd say.
"I can't," she'd reply. "We need the money. Babies are expensive."
The word *babies* still made him flinch slightly, like he hadn't quite accepted it as real yet.
He never argued. Just watched her leave with that same tight expression, jaw clenched, eyes tracking her movements until she disappeared from view.
But now he was there every single day when she got off work.
Before, he'd come sometimes, when he felt like it. But now? Every day. Without fail.
She'd step out of the Shipyard Supply Office, exhausted and queasy, and there he'd be. Leaning against the side of the building, arms crossed, eyes scanning the area like he was expecting a threat to emerge from the shadows.
"You didn't have to come," she'd say.
"I know," he'd answer, and take her bag without asking.
The ride home was always quiet. She was too tired to talk much, and he... well, he was thinking. Always thinking now. She could see it in the way his gaze would drift to her, then away, then back again. Like he was trying to solve a problem he didn't have the tools for.
----
He started doing strange things.
Small things, subtle enough that she almost didn't notice at first.
Like the way he'd smell her food before she ate it.
Not obviously but she'd catch him watching her cook, or hovering near the table when she sat down to eat, nostrils flaring slightly. Testing the air.
"What are you doing?" she asked one night, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth.
He blinked, caught. "Nothing."
"You're smelling my dinner."
"No, I'm not."
"Bucky."
He shifted his weight, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Just... making sure it's good."
"Good?"
"Not spoiled. Or... wrong."
She set her fork down. "Wrong how?"
He frowned, struggling to explain. "I don't know. You're carrying a pup. Your body's different. Maybe some foods are... dangerous now."
"Bucky, I'm not going to spontaneously develop an allergy to pasta."
"You don't know that."
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. He looked so serious, so genuinely concerned, that she didn't have the heart to push back.
"Okay," she said gently. "If it makes you feel better, you can... smell-test my food."
He nodded, visibly relieved, and sat down across from her.
She took a bite of her pasta, and he watched her chew like he was waiting for her to keel over.
----
He started watching her sleep, too.
Not in a creepy way -at least, she didn't think so- but she'd wake up sometimes in the middle of the night and find him propped up on one elbow, just... staring at her.
"What?" she mumbled, still half-asleep.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep."
"You're watching me."
"No."
"Bucky."
A pause. Then, quieter: "Your breathing changes sometimes. Gets shallow. I'm just making sure you're still..."
"Alive?"
He didn't answer, which was answer enough.
She reached out, found his hand in the dark, and squeezed it. "I'm fine. The baby's fine. You don't have to keep vigil over me like I'm going to disappear."
His fingers tightened around hers. "I know."
But he kept doing it anyway.
----
"There's a doctor's appointment next week," she said one evening, nestled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "First prenatal checkup."
Bucky looked up from where he was washing dishes. "Prenatal?"
"To make sure everything's developing okay."
He set the dish down carefully, drying his hands on a towel.
She hesitated. Didn't want to pressure him into something he wasn't ready for, but the way he was looking at her -intent, focused, almost hopeful-made her change her mind.
"Do you want to come?" she found herself asking.
"Yes."
No hesitation. Not even a pause to think about it.
"Okay," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "We are going together."
----
The clinic was small, placed between a pharmacy and a bakery on Main Street. The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and old magazines, with motivational posters about breastfeeding and infant care plastered on the walls.
Bucky sat rigid in one of the plastic chairs, hands on his knees, scanning the room like he was cataloging exits.
She filled out paperwork at the reception desk, answering questions about her medical history, her last period, and whether this was her first pregnancy. The receptionist was friendly, chatty, and asked if the "father" was here with her today.
She glanced back at Bucky, who was now staring intensely at a poster about the stages of labor.
"Yeah," she said. "He's here."
----
A nurse appeared in the doorway, calling her name, clipboard in hand. "Dr. Connors will see you now."
She stood, and Bucky was on his feet immediately, following close behind as they were led down a narrow hallway to a small examination room.
She settled onto the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath her, while Bucky remained standing. He'd moved closer now, positioned between her and the door, and she could feel him tense.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Fine."
"You look like you're about to fight someone."
"I'm not."
"Bucky-"
The door opened, and Dr. Connors walked in.
He was older, sixty-something, with grey hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the calm, weathered demeanor of someone who'd been doing this job for decades. He smiled warmly at her, then glanced at Bucky.
"And you must be Dad," he said, extending a hand.
Bucky stared at the hand for a beat too long before shaking it, his grip probably a little too firm.
"James," he said flatly.
Dr. Connors didn't seem fazed. He'd probably seen all types over the years. He turned his attention back to her, flipping through her chart.
"So, first pregnancy," he said. "How are you feeling? Any concerns?"
"Morning sickness," she said. "Pretty bad."
"That's normal. Should ease up around the second trimester." He set the chart down and washed his hands at the small sink. "Let's take a look, shall we? If you could lie back and lift your shirt just above your belly."
She did, and the doctor moved to her side, preparing the ultrasound equipment.
And that's when Bucky spoke.
"You're touching her?" His voice was carefully controlled, but there was an edge to it.
The man paused, glancing up. "Yes, that's generally how these appointments work."
"You're a male."
The room went very still.
She turned her head sharply toward him.
He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on Dr. Connors, and there was something dangerous in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.
The older man, to his credit, just raised an eyebrow. "I am. I'm also a board-certified obstetrician who's been delivering babies in this town for thirty years."
Bucky narrowed his eyes.
She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard. He finally looked at her, and she gave him the sternest look she could muster.
Don't.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, and she watched him forcibly swallow whatever territorial instinct was trying to claw its way out of his throat.
"Fine," he muttered, stepping back slightly.
Dr. Connors exchanged a brief glance with her -one that clearly said I've seen worse- and continued setting up the ultrasound.
"This might be a little cold," he warned, squeezing gel onto her abdomen.
She flinched at the temperature, and Bucky's hand tightened around hers.
The doctor pressed the transducer against her stomach, moving it slowly, eyes on the small monitor beside the bed.
For a moment, there was only static. Grey and black shadows shifting on the screen, meaningless to her untrained eye.
Then-
"There we are."
He turned the monitor slightly so they could both see.
On the screen, barely visible, was a small, blurry shape. Tiny. Almost nothing.
But something.
"That's your baby," he said, pointing at the screen. "About eight weeks along, by the looks of it."
She stared at the screen, her breath catching.
That was... that was real.
She'd known it intellectually, of course. She'd taken the tests, felt the nausea, the ache in her breasts. But seeing it -seeing that tiny blob of life on the screen- it was different.
Beside her, Bucky had gone completely still.
She glanced at him and found him staring at the monitor like he'd been struck by lightning. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted. His hand in hers had gone rigid.
"And here," Dr. Connors said, adjusting something on the machine, "is the heartbeat."
A sound filled the room.
Rapid. Rhythmic. A steady *thump-thump-thump-thump* that seemed impossibly fast.
Bucky made a sound. Low, choked, almost inaudible.
His gaze was locked on the screen, unblinking, and his hand trembled slightly in hers.
"That's..." His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. "That's its heart?"
"That's right," Dr. Connors said. "Strong and steady. Everything looks good so far."
Bucky didn't respond. Just kept staring at the monitor, at that tiny flickering shape, listening to the impossibly fast heartbeat.
She squeezed his hand gently. "Bucky?"
He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and finally looked at her.
There was something raw in his eyes. Something she'd never seen before.
Wonder. Awe.
"That's our child," he said quietly, and it wasn't a question.
"Yeah," she whispered. "That's our baby."
He looked back at the screen, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed hard.
Then, suddenly, he turned to Dr. Connors.
"What does she need?" The words came out fast, urgent. "For the pup. What should she eat? How much rest? Can she still work? What about-"
"Bucky-“
"-water? Should she be in water? what if the sickness doesn't stop, what if-"
"Mr.... James," Dr. Connors interrupted gently, clearly taken aback.
But Bucky didn't slow down.
"She's exhausted all the time. And she can't keep food down. How long does it last-"
"Bucky," she said again, tugging his hand.
He looked at her, and she saw the barely-restrained panic in his eyes. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to keep her safe, to keep the pup safe.
To have answers he didn't have.
Dr. Connors, to his credit, had recovered from his surprise and now looked almost... amused.
"You know," he said, pulling up a chair, "in all my years doing this, I don't think I've ever had a father ask this many questions." He smiled. "But I'm happy to answer them."
And he did.
For the next twenty minutes, he patiently explained everything: nutrition, rest, safe activities, warning signs to watch for, what was normal, and what wasn't.
Bucky absorbed every word like his life depended on it.
She sat there, watching him, her heart doing something complicated in her chest.
This was the man who'd said I don't know what I am just days ago.
The one who'd looked at her like he didn't know if he wanted this.
And now he was interrogating her obstetrician, desperate to understand everything, to get it right.
When they finally left the clinic, he was silent.
He held her hand as they walked to the car, his grip firm but gentle, and she could feel him thinking. Processing.
"That was..." he started, then stopped.
"A lot?" she offered.
"Real," he finished quietly.
She squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back, then pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her in the middle of the parking lot.
His face pressed into her hair, and she felt him take a deep breath.
"I'll do better," he murmured into her hair.
She held him back, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You don't have to be perfect, Bucky. Just... be with me."
He exhaled slowly, then pulled back just enough to look at her.
A small nod. An unspoken promise.
They got in the car and drove home in silence, his hand resting soothingly on her thigh the entire way.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Nora Angelopolous (curvy OFC)
Word Count: 5.4k
Summary: Bucky moves into Nora’s apartment, and it’s a bit awkward. Their first GRC compliance inspection brings a new hurdle for them, and more paperwork gives Bucky an insight to Nora’s motivations for marrying him.
Trigger Warnings: passive gov't interference in private marriage matters; I use the phrase "state-backed eugenics";
Author’s Note: So, I feel like I should more thoroughly explain that Nora's grandparents fled the regime of the Colonels, the junta, in Greece. They came to the New York, and set up a life for themselves in a Greek community in Queens. (Listen, my OC's have full lives, ppl.)
Series Masterlist
Masterlist
Previously: Paperwork
Bucky knocked at the door at five minutes to noon with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a small duffel in one hand.
Nora opened the door with one hand while the other kept her phone pressed to her ear, a pencil tucked into the messy knot of hair at the base of her skull. She didn’t look surprised to see him, just shifted enough to let him pass, already muttering something into the receiver.
“No, Engine 214 can’t cover the South Slope run. They’re still dealing with the manhole collapse off Fifth. Send 116 or reroute through Battalion Chief Guzman’s district—yeah, I know he hates short notice, tell him I’ll buy him lunch.”
Bucky stepped inside, ducking slightly out of habit, trying to make himself small. The apartment was warm. Not temperature-wise, but in a homey way. The faint scent of clove hung in the air, and underneath that: ink, lemon cleaner, and the quiet hum of living things.
It was lived-in, in a way that made him suddenly, acutely aware that he didn’t belong here.
He set his duffel down by the wall, orderly, reflexively squared to the baseboard, and gave the place a slow once-over while she paced into the kitchen, still on the phone.
The space felt open, with a small corner kitchen open to the living room. The furniture didn’t match. The couch was too big for the room, the coffee table was chipped at the corner, and the bookshelf looked like it had been assembled by someone who’d run out of patience halfway through. But there was a set of glass coasters on the end table that looked handmade, and a stack of dog-eared paperbacks sat beside the couch, next to a half-finished mug of something that had long since gone cold.
A framed photo caught his eye: Nora, standing in the middle of a group of guys who had Fire Department written all over them, judging by the soot-stained sleeves and the turnout pants. They were mid-laugh, clustered around a barbecue grill with paper plates in hand, and she looked… lighter there, unburdened.
Another frame held a quieter picture: Nora as a child, standing between two smiling adults. Her mother had the same dark, unruly hair; her father’s eyes stared out at the camera with gentle intensity. Bucky blinked and looked away.
"—No, I know, but the West Side unit already pulled a double last night. We’re not burning them out over a water main. Send it to Midtown, or get the reserve list out of the damn drawer like I keep telling you.”
She ended the call with a sigh that seemed to come from her spine, then turned toward him like she hadn’t just been coordinating city-level emergency response from her kitchen.
“Hey. Sorry. You’re early.”
“Oh, I thought you said noon,” Bucky offered.
She checked her phone and scrunched her nose adorably. “I did. Never mind, I’m late.” She gestured toward the single-cup coffee maker. “You want a cup? I have all kinds of flavors.”
“I’ll take whatever,” he said, grateful more for something to do with his hands than the caffeine itself.
She leaned one hip against the counter and folded her arms as the coffee dripped into mugs. “So, I know this is weird.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s fucking weird,” she said, voice warm despite the words. “But we can either suffer in silence or call it what it is and just… deal. I vote we deal.”
Bucky looked around again. Too many colors, too much texture. Woven rugs and mismatched chairs.
He muttered, “Your place’s got a lot of personality.”
She snorted and smiled. “You mean clutter and chaos.”
“No, I mean… it feels lived-in.”
She tilted her head. “Yours doesn’t feel lived-in?”
“Nah. My place is just quiet.”
“Like a waiting room or like a grave yard?”
He considered, then shrugged. “Bit of both, I guess.”
“Well,” she said brightly, “you’re welcome to haunt here for a while. As long as you don’t eat my emergency Girl Scout cookies or… I don’t know, leave your socks in the sink.”
“I don’t wear socks.”
She stared, momentarily incredulous. “You don’t wear socks? Like, at all?”
“No, I mean, I do. But, like… not at home.”
“Oh. Okay, then.”
They stood there in silence for a moment. Not quite awkward, but not quite comfortable either.
When she handed him his mug, she nodded toward the hallway. “Why don’t you drop the backpack and I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
Bucky took a sip and immediately furrowed his brow, not in disgust, just confusion.
Nora caught the expression and grinned. “I guess you’ve never had huckleberry flavored coffee before.”
He shook his head slowly, lips twitching. “Can’t say that I have. Thought maybe the machine was broken.”
“It’s not,” she said, clearly delighted. “I’ve got a drawer full of weird little pods. Coconut mocha, crème brûlée, toasted marshmallow… It’s basically a coffee-flavored dessert roulette.”
He took another sip, considering. “It’s not bad.”
She tilted her head, watching him over her mug. “You’re welcome to try any of them. Or get some plain pods for yourself. It’s a judgment-free coffee zone.”
He didn’t say much, just nodded, and something about the idea, the drawer full of odd flavors, made the place feel less like a battlefield, and maybe even like somewhere he would eventually want to stand still.
“Okay. Grand tour. Kitchen, obviously. The fridge is… bare. I don’t cook, but I have a Door Dash account and I know how to use it. Living room has the world’s least supportive couch.”
She led him slowly down the narrow hallway, gesturing as she walked.
“Bathroom’s kind of nice,” she admitted. “Water pressure’s good. Tile’s old but solid. The mirror does that weird haunted-flicker thing sometimes when the humidity hits just right.”
He glanced toward the door, noticing the small scuffs on the paint near the handle; years of grabbing the knob with wet hands, probably.
She rapped her knuckles lightly against a door as they passed it. “Laundry closet. Handle’s crooked and sticks half the time. With your strength, you probably won’t ever notice, tho.”
He gave a small hum of acknowledgment. “Could probably fix it.”
“You know your way around tools?” she asked, half surprised, half impressed.
“Used to do repairs. Long time ago.”
She nodded once, like she’d file that away for later. “Cool. I’m gonna pretend that’s not extremely attractive.”
Bucky looked at her, startled, but she was already moving forward, unfazed.
“This room used to be storage,” she said as she pushed open the second door on the right. “Which means I shoved a lot of junk into my closet to make space. The sheets are clean and the closet’s empty. Windows stick in the winter, but they open.”
The room was small, but not suffocating. A full-sized bed sat against one wall, a standing lamp in the corner, and a dresser. There was a long mirror hanging on the closet door. It actually looked remarkably similar to his own apartment in how bare it was. He’d feel right at home in this room.
He stepped inside and set his backpack on the bed, then straightened up and nodded. “This is great. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She lingered in the doorway for a second, eyes scanning the room like she might’ve forgotten something. Then, with a shrug, she turned and walked back out to the living room. Before he followed, Bucky stood there for a moment longer, staring at the clean bed, the dusty blinds, and and a dent in the wall, like someone had shoved something heavy into it and never bothered to fix it.
He reached out and ran a finger along the frame of the mirror, then pulled back like he wasn’t sure he had permission to touch anything yet. He followed her back out like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be left alone, either.
Nora shifted. “I’m just hanging out for the day, so I’ll be around if you have questions about anything. Feel free to settle in or… you know… barricade yourself in there if you regret all your life choices.”
He chuckled.
As he picked up his duffel bag, she added, “Oh, try not to trip over the floorboard outside the bathroom. It’s a bit loose.”
He nodded as he disappeared down the hall, duffel slung over his shoulder, the gold ring on his finger catching the light for just a second before vanishing into shadow.
Nora watched him go, then turned back to the counter, took a long sip of her coffee, and muttered, “Yup. This is gonna go great.”
*****
It was just before six when Bucky stepped into the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbow, bare feet making no sound on the old linoleum. He moved like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house, even though the apartment was very much awake. The television murmured low in the background, some cooking competition on mute. From the other room came the occasional creak of a floorboard or the hiss of the radiator throwing a fit.
Nora was sprawled on the couch, legs tucked under her, scrolling something on her phone with half-lidded eyes. A loose sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, the kind that looked too comfortable to be judged.
Nora peeked over the arm of the couch. “Are you making dinner?”
He didn’t look up. “Yeah.”
“You gonna let your wife starve on your first night under the same roof? Real bold.”
He glanced at her, brow slightly raised. “You want some?”
She blinked. “Wait, really? I didn’t mean—I would never expect—I was just gonna order something.”
His shoulder hitched in a faint shrug. “There’s enough for two if you want it.”
“…What is it?”
“Pasta. Chicken, mushrooms, spinach. I went out and got a couple essentials. Your fridge was… pretty bare.”
She laughed at his attempt at diplomacy. Her fridge wasn’t pretty bare, it was empty.
“I live off takeout and frozen microwave dinners, so you should know it’s perpetually “pretty bare”. When Sam asked if I made the Spanakopita, he genuinely wanted to know if it was safe to eat.”
One side of his lips tilted, like that didn’t surprise him at all.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and caramelizing mushrooms. A pan sizzled, followed by the soft scrape of a spatula and the clink of a lid. Bucky didn’t talk while he cooked. His movements were quiet and efficient. One pot for pasta, one pan for the additions, and a few spices lined up on the counter like little soldiers.
Fifteen minutes later, they sat at the small table that barely fit two, mismatched forks in hand. The light above hummed, the radiator hissed, and the city outside murmured its usual lullaby of sirens, distant bass, and arguing neighbors.
Nora took one bite and blinked.
“Oh. This is actually good.”
Bucky lifted his eyes. “You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised. I figured you’d eat like, I dunno, canned beans and MREs. Or maybe just raw vegetables and a blue steak.”
He huffed a short laugh. “I’m not great. But I can cook well enough to not starve.”
She twirled another bite around her fork. “Well, color me impressed, Barnes. Maybe the GRC should rebrand you as their first success story and a domestic god.”
“House-husband of the year,” he deadpanned.
Nora tilted her head back in full-bellied laughter. “Oh my GOD, I bet they’d love that. Harmless and soft: former Winter Soldier tamed by apron strings and spinach.”
Bucky cracked a small smile.
They lapsed into companionable silence for a few bites.
Then he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “About what I said. Back at Sam’s.”
Nora blinked.
“I didn’t mean it how it sounded,” Bucky said, gaze fixed on his plate. “When I said it’d be ‘strictly legal,’ I didn’t mean to insult you.”
She sat straighter. “It’s fine—”
“It’s not,” he cut in gently. “I just… I know what I am. What I’ve done. And you’re a single woman inviting the ‘former Winter Soldier’ into your home. I didn’t want you to feel like there was some expectation hanging in the air. Some threat. I didn’t want you to feel unsafe with me.”
She blinked again, caught off guard. Her fork paused midair.
“Look,” he added, finally glancing up. “I know this whole thing is weird. But I never meant to make you feel like I thought you weren’t—”
“Bucky, I don’t feel unsafe with you,” she said, stopping him, voice quiet.
He closed his mouth.
Her tone softened. “And thanks for saying that.”
He gave a small nod, eyes flicking back down to his plate.
“And I wasn’t hurt,” she added after a moment. “Not really. I’ve spent most of my adult life being the one with the loud mouth and the strong opinions and… well, a few extra pounds. Guys don’t usually see past that.”
“Well, they’re idiots… if I may say so.”
She looked at him a long moment, then, so softly he almost missed it, she smiled.
Another few beats of quiet passed. The pasta cooled on their plates.
Then Bucky tilted his head toward the mantle. “That picture,” he said. “You and your parents?”
Nora’s eyes flicked over. Her smile turned wistful. “Yeah.”
He didn’t press, just waited.
She twisted her fork a little before answering. “They died when I was twenty-four. Drunk driver ran a red light. Hit ‘em head on.”
Bucky’s face went still. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“They were coming home from a movie. I was supposed to go with them, but I took a last minute shift.”
He stayed quiet.
Nora took a breath. “Didn’t have any other family living. So I buried myself in work. Started picking up shifts like they were lifelines. Firehouse crew noticed, brought me in, kept me busy. Got me laughing again. They became… my family.”
Bucky nodded. “They look like they’d kill for you.”
“They would, and brag about it,” she said, lips quirking. “They’ve seen me ugly cry in the back of a supply truck. One of them cut the crusts off a sandwich for me once during a panic attack. They’re good men.”
Bucky looked back at the photo. “Yeah. I can tell.”
Then Nora pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll load the dishwasher.”
“I can—”
“Nope. You sit. House rules. If you cook, you don’t clean.” She straightened her spine for a moment, “God, I haven’t heard that in a decade.” she shook herself, “But starting tomorrow, you’re on the chore wheel.”
“You have a chore wheel?”
“Metaphorically, yes.” Then she grinned sheepishly at him, “Physically, it’s a post-it on the fridge that says ‘clean your shit.’”
Bucky smiled again, wider this time.
She collected the plates, dumped them in the sink, and started rinsing before she opened the dishwasher.
He stood too, lingering in the kitchen doorway.
The apartment now smelled like mushroom pasta, but with an undercurrent of clove. It was a mix of both of them. He didn’t admit how much he liked it.
She loaded the dishwasher without a word, then stretched her arms over her head, murmured a quiet goodnight with a yawn, and walked toward the hallway, barefoot and still wearing that loose sweatshirt like she owned the damn world.
And maybe she did.
Bucky watched her go, then turned off the kitchen light.
*****
Patricia Steele arrived at 9:06 AM on a Saturday.
She was tall and pale in the way that suggested her preferred SPF was a concrete building. The navy pantsuit she wore probably cost more than Nora’s rent back in 2013, and her hair was a helmet of precision pulled tightly back into a bun that didn’t dare misbehave. She introduced herself in a voice flat enough to power-wash paint off the wall and didn’t offer her hand to shake.
Instead, she held up a GRC-issue tablet like it was a badge. “Patricia Steele. I’ll be your GRC liaison. I’m here for your routine compliance verification.”
Nora stepped aside with a polite smile and let her in, barefoot and unbothered, wearing soft gray joggers and a giant FDNY T-shirt knotted at the hip. Her hair was up in a messy bun, making her look like she meant to look this relaxed.
Bucky was dressed plainly in a long-sleeve henley and jeans, his left hand in his pocket, shoulders a little too stiff for someone who hadn’t technically done anything wrong.
He gave the woman a nod. “Morning.”
She didn’t respond, just raised the tablet and began taking photos. First of the entryway, then the kitchen, then the framed photos on the mantle. She paused at the one of Nora’s parents, zoomed in slightly, then tapped the screen.
“Lovely home,” she said, in the tone of someone complimenting a Craigslist lamp. “I’ll need to document shared living spaces and evidence of cohabitation.”
“Of course. My BB didn’t have much when he moved in, more of a minimalist. But he took over the guest bedroom closet for his clothes,” Nora offered, leading her down the hall.
Bucky hoped neither of them noticed him tense at Nora’s unexpected nickname for him.
“Our bathroom is probably the only space that’s actually half and half,” Nora continued.
Steele didn’t smile. She made a mark on her tablet, then proceeded to open the coat closet, took a picture of two umbrellas, one pale blue, one black, and then made her way to the guest bedroom.
She hummed at the military corners on the bed, and took a photo of Bucky’s clothes filling the closet.
In the master bedroom there were two pillows. One of them was clearly dented in a way that suggested regular use. The other, Nora was now realizing with dismay, was suspiciously plump.
Continuing on to the bathroom, she photographed the two toothbrushes on the sink.
Steele turned slowly. “You both sleep in here?”
“Of course,” Nora said. “Is that a problem?”
Steele blinked once. “Just confirming.”
She made another note.
Nora didn’t fidget, but Bucky felt her go still.
He stepped forward slightly, placing his hand at the small of her back, he hoped in reassurance.
That earned him a glance from both women.
Steele continued on, snapping pictures of the open dresser drawers, the shoes by the door, and the utility bills posted with magnets on the fridge. She paused beside a bowl of fruit.
“What did your partner cook for dinner last night?”
Nora didn’t miss a beat. “Baked chicken with roasted sweet potatoes and broccoli. It was unreasonably good.”
Bucky ducked his head. “It was just dinner.”
“It was magic is what it was.”
Steele typed, not looking up. “Mr. Barnes does the cooking?”
“Oh, yes,” Nora said. “I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”
“And your morning routine?”
Nora shrugged. “I’m out the door before sunrise. Shift starts early. He’s usually still asleep. So unless you want to know how I brush my teeth in the dark and try not to trip on his tactical boots, there’s not a lot to report.”
Steele made another mark.
“Disagreements?” she asked. “How do you handle conflict?”
Bucky’s mouth quirked.
He looked at Nora, then back at Steele, and said with unblinking seriousness, “Happy wife, happy life. On the rare occasions we argue, I buy her flowers, apologize, and remind her she’s perfection incarnate and a saint for putting up with me.”
Nora blinked, staring at him.
She made no sound, but her jaw moved slightly, like she was trying to bite back either a laugh or something much more dangerous.
“How romantic,” Steele said dryly, not even glancing up.
Nora held Bucky back as Steele made her way briskly back toward the front door, “Did you just weaponize romance?”
He shrugged, the picture of forcible calm. “GRC likes it when I play nice.”
She muttered, “Jesus, that’s brilliant.”
Nora smiled, just for a moment, but something in her chest pulled tight.
Her father had been like that with her mother. All quiet mischief and gentle charm, making her laugh when no one else could, smoothing over the sharp edges of life with nothing more than a wink and a hand at her back. The memory came so fast she almost tripped over it.
And here she was, watching a man she barely knew fake that same kind of devotion toward her with practiced steadiness. But it wasn’t real.
She let out a breath through her nose and looked away.
Whoever the real Mrs. Barnes turned out to be one day, if there ever was one, was going to be damn lucky.
Steele finished tapping on her tablet and slid it back into a sleek black case. Then she turned to the door, but paused halfway, twisting back with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’ll need you both to fill out some additional forms,” she said. “And before I go, one final thing. The GRC has extended an invitation for you both to attend the Veterans Integration Gala next month. Mr. Barnes’ participation is… strongly encouraged.”
Nora raised an eyebrow. “Encouraged, or required?”
Steele only smiled. “Attendance is, of course, voluntary. But… the committee is always looking for positive examples to highlight in the quarterly report. Especially when the individual in question is... high profile.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked.
Nora’s tone flattened. “So if we say no, our ‘positive example’ status gets revoked.”
Steele shrugged delicately. “We simply like to celebrate success. It’s good optics. Especially for couples who’ve managed to... integrate so smoothly.”
She handed over a folder. “Dress code is formal. Expect press.”
Then, with another simpering smile, she left.
She handed Nora a file folder of paperwork, turned, and disappeared with the efficiency of someone who’d done this a hundred times.
The door closed with a click.
Bucky didn’t move. Nora exhaled like she’d been holding her breath.
*****
Nora stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the door like she could still burn a hole through it.
Then she spoke.
“She said ‘expect press,’” Nora muttered, voice low and livid. “What she meant was, ‘smile for the cameras.’ They want to use us as propaganda. Good optics for their little post-Blip rehabilitation policies.”
Her arms dropped to her sides, slow and measured.
“This,” she said, voice rising just a hair, like a blade being drawn, “is exactly the kind of shit my grandparents warned me about.”
Bucky looked up, alert now. Not alarmed, just intently listening.
She turned toward the kitchen but kept talking, pacing.
“They told me how this happens. You dress it up in policy, wrap it in words like ‘safety’ and ‘stability,’ and suddenly it’s normal to make people prove they’re safe. Prove they’re good. Prove they deserve to exist in public.”
She opened a cabinet. Pulled a glass down. Set it on the counter with quiet precision.
Bucky didn’t interrupt. He was too busy watching her turn fury into focus.
Her hands were steady, her voice clear and controlled. There was power in the way she sharpened it, aimed it, instead of letting it explode.
“My grandparents came here in 1968,” she said, more softly now. “Snuck out of Greece with forged documents and a suitcase full of banned books they had to burn before crossing the border.”
Bucky’s chest tightened.
Not out of surprise—but recognition. He realized this was the reason she agreed to marry him. This was the reason she was so indignant on his behalf in the first place.
She continued. “They fled a regime that taught people to fear their neighbors. That arrested teachers. That called dissidents ‘unreliable.’ My papou was a radio tech. My yiayia passed messages from the bakery she worked at. They lived under a government that criminalized their minds.”
She finally looked at him.
“And now, here we are. Fifty years later. And their granddaughter gets to be the smiling proof that a man like you can be tamed.”
The last word landed like a punch. It was blunt, honest, unsparing, but not cruel. At least not toward him.
Bucky inhaled, and let it out slowly.
He didn’t know what to say. But he also knew she didn’t need comfort. She didn’t even need agreement. She just needed a witness.
And he could do that.
Because goddamn, she was fire.
Not the kind that burned out of control. Not wild or reckless or loud for the sake of it.
She was the kind that knew how to burn with intent and where to aim.
And maybe even more dangerously, when to smile.
Bucky watched her move, precise now, not calm exactly, but collected. She wasn't out to win anyone's approval. She was deciding which mask to wear, and how long it could stay on before the edges started to melt.
She set the glass down gently. Turned toward the stack of GRC folders still sitting on the coffee table like they'd dared to breathe wrong.
Then she exhaled once through her nose.
“Alright,” she said, voice even. “I’ll smile for their cameras.”
She didn’t look at him as she spoke her resolutions, “But if they ask questions,” she added, reaching for the folder, “they’re not gonna like the answers.”
Bucky felt something hitch in his chest.
Because that wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise, quiet and razor-edged, and somehow more terrifying than rage. She wouldn’t scream. She wouldn’t make a scene. She’d answer the questions with truth wrapped in barbed wire. And then smile, just sweet enough to make them print it.
“They won’t be able to use my picture,” she added, flipping open the first page, “without acknowledging my words.”
The elegance of it gutted him.
She wasn’t resisting out of pride, or bravado, or even anger anymore. She was doing it out of principle. She’d play their game, but the moment they held her up as a symbol, she’d make damn sure the symbol burned with subtext.
He stood still for a second longer, looking at her.
Not at her face or her body, but at the mind behind it; the clarity and the restraint.
She had just taken her anger and folded it into something clean and surgical.
And fuck, it was attractive.
Not in some cliché way, or some overused "strong woman, me like" kind of way. It was that she was playing the long game, which they would never expect.
“I get it now,” he murmured.
She looked up.
“What?”
“You’re not trying to survive the system,” he said. “You’re setting it up to choke on you.”
Nora blinked.
Then tilted her head. Her mouth twitched, the faintest almost-smile curling at the edge.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I want to make them regret they ever thought of this despicable policy.”
He didn’t smile back.
But his eyes lingered on her face a second longer than they needed to.
She looked away first, back down to the form she’d opened, and he realized he hadn’t moved. He was still standing there like a bump on a log.
He finally stepped forward, settling in the chair beside her without another word.
They didn’t speak again as they pulled out pens and started skimming the GRC’s next round of questions. But every so often, he glanced sideways.
Not because she was beautiful, but because she was dangerous in the exact way that should be feared.
*****
The dining table was strewn with paperwork, half a ream of stiff, government-issued forms, each more absurdly intimate than the last. The official GRC logo, tastefully rebranded fascism in serif font, was stamped at the top of every page, daring them to flinch.
Nora slouched in one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, feet bare, a pencil tucked behind her ear. Bucky sat next to her, elbow on the table, absently flipping their new shared bank card between his fingers like a coin he didn’t want to spend.
They were already halfway through. Some of it had been surprisingly painless: favorite movies (Nora said Speed; Bucky said Casablanca, which made her weirdly emotional), takeout preferences (both Thai, but different spice levels), and a question about sleep positions that turned into a ten-minute argument whether back sleepers were more prone to snoring.
But then Nora flipped the page and went still.
She read aloud, “How and with what families do you plan to spend holidays?”
The room fell quiet.
She glanced at Bucky, then back at the page. Her voice, when she spoke again, was lower. “I haven’t celebrated a holiday since 2015.”
He nodded once, slowly. “Yeah, it’s been a while for me.”
They didn’t say why, but they both knew.
He could imagine her at 24, newly orphaned, trying to force herself to smile at someone else’s dinner table.
She could picture him staring at a TV dinner while Christmas lights flickered in someone else’s window.
Bucky reached for the form and neatly answered:
“No family living. We holiday privately.”
Nora only nodded.
A few minutes later, Nora blinked at another page and scoffed. “Oh, wonderful. Now they want to manage my ovaries.”
Bucky looked up, confused. “What?”
She read it out loud, mock-sweet:
“Have you and your spouse discussed a timeline and intention regarding reproduction?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“That’s not just invasive,” she muttered. “That’s dystopian. This isn’t a relationship check. This is state-backed eugenics.”
Bucky said nothing.
He just watched her, watched the tension rise in her shoulders, the way her sarcasm couldn’t quite mask her anger.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “No. This is the kind of bullshit my grandfather warned me about. They fled a dictatorship, fled when men in power decided how much freedom the rest of us were allowed to have. And now I’m sitting in my kitchen with a decorated war veteran filling out breeding paperwork so the government thinks we’re in love.”
Bucky’s throat worked. “Yeah. I know.”
His quiet words landed heavier for her than expected.
She realized he did know. Not in theory or academically, but he knew exactly what it was like to be treated as a resource and have strangers legislate your autonomy with no regard for the human underneath.
She took another breath, then delivered her own truth like it was carved in iron, “My Papou used to tell me: the moment they try to legislate what makes you human—run. Because it doesn’t end with paperwork. It ends with control. It ends with shame. It ends with people being told who they’re allowed to be.”
Bucky swallowed hard.
He hadn’t been able to run. He’d obeyed and been rewritten and reprogrammed and reduced to a tool.
And now she was legally his wife. And she refused to be rewritten, or allow it to happen to him again.
Nora glanced away, jaw tight. Then she picked up her pen and scratched hard across the answer line:
“None of your fucking business.”
They were nearly done, just one page remaining.
Nora’s pencil hovered above the final box:
“Please provide a short paragraph describing your spouse, including their character, work ethic, and what you most admire about them.”
“Ugh,” she muttered. “Vows, but for people who spy on their neighbors.”
She jotted something quickly, safe, vague, and a decent enough placeholder. She didn’t overthink it until Bucky pushed his page toward her.
She scanned his handwriting without meaning to.
“Nora is grounded, smart, and unapologetically real. She shows up for people when it’s hard, and she doesn’t blink at chaos. There’s a steadiness in her, a fire that doesn’t burn you, just keeps the room warm. I admire that. And I trust it.”
She didn’t say anything about it, or even look at him. She just folded her form quietly and pulled a fresh blank sheet of paper from the stack of extras.
She’d rewrite hers; not for the GRC, but for herself.
Nora cleared her throat and tapped a pencil against her notepad. “Thank god that’s over. This was more paperwork than my mortgage.”
Bucky smirked, but it held a core of sadness. “I must be more of a threat than your apartment.”
Nora was beginning to realize that that was not only how the GRC saw him, but how he saw himself as well. It didn’t sit right with her.
“Let me be the threat, Husband. They’ll never see it coming.”
Since this beloved feline has clearly stolen some hearts (and more than a few laps), I’ve decided to continue this drabble series a bit more formally.
Thursdays with Alpine is a soft, funny, and domestic collection of drabbles featuring Bucky Barnes, his suspiciously intelligent cat, and you (afab reader), as you navigate love, trust, and fur-covered affection. Each moment captures a point in time where Alpine’s influence is most keenly felt… for better or for betrayal.
Trigger Warnings: listed individually per fic
Author's Note: I really should have known Alpine Barnes would gain traction. She should have had her own Series Masterlist from the start. My apologies, Alpine.
Blog Masterlist
Thursdays with Alpine
Advice from a Cat
The Alpine Challenge
Alpine’s Betrayal
Alpine Knew First
Alpine’s First Watch
Alpine's Promise
Alpine Felt Her
Alpine’s Approval
Alpine Holds the Fort
Alpine Meets Her Sister
Alpine to the Rescue
Alpine and the Midnight Confession
Will be posted every Thursday 9am EST (had to move it from 4pm, sorry, she's a morning feline)... until I run out of ideas?
Message me if you want to be added to the tag list (or removed, of course, lol)!
previous chapter (twelve). series masterlist. the playlist.
chapter summary - all you need right now is space and time. shame the universe has other plans.
pairing - dads bestfriend!bucky x female reader - soulmate au
warnings - cursing. angst. allusions to a sort of panic attack/anxiety.
word count - 5k
authors note - tell a friend to tell a friend… she’s back!! hi babies. I can only apologise for the unplanned long absence - there’s a few reasons and they’re all boring. but I am so happy to be back here bringing you another chapter of honey and her honey. thank you to everyone that’s stuck with me and stuck with this series. I love you all <3
masterlist. inbox.
You wake to the smell of breakfast and the sound of someone breathing steadily into your ear.
Lacie’s wrapped around you like a koala bear, legs and arms circling you like she’s afraid you’ll roll out of bed. She’s always been a clingy sleeper, ever since she was a child. As a kid, you’d open your eyes to see her hand clasping yours so tightly, you were surprised she didn’t break any bones. You’d simply smile and drift back off to your dreams, happily content that she was always seeking you out, even subconsciously.
“That smells so fucking good.”
It’s murmured into the bare skin of your shoulder, making both of you laugh. The sound of your shared amusement is slow and syrupy, both of your voices coated with sleep.
“Morning,” you whisper, leaning in to rest your head on top of Lacie’s. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” she murmurs back, trying to keep the volume low so as not to disturb the peace. “This bed is so comfortable. Always has been.”
“I miss it now I have my own place. My new bed is okay, but nothing compares to this one.”
“Maybe it’s all the memories it holds. Makes it softer.”
You chuckle, shaking your head gently.
“Oh, yeah. That’ll be what it is.”
“Knew it.”
She stretches like a cat next to you while you rub the tiredness from your eyes, both of you adjusting to the morning light.
“What time is it?”
“Ten thirty.”
“I definitely thought you were about to say two in the afternoon or something,” she chuckles. “Also thought I’d be hungover as hell when I woke up.”
“Maybe it was the tea that we drank before bed. Or all the crying. Counterbalanced the alcohol.”
She snorts, squeezing you tightly as she remembers your conversation from last night.
“For sure. There’ll be science behind that.”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
You’re both shaking with laughter when there’s a knock on the door, both of you sitting up in bed.
“Come in!”
“Good morning my girls,” your Mom half sings as she walks in and opens the curtains to let the day in.
The melody of her voice, the words she’s saying, her waking the two of you up after going to bed too late at a sleepover… it’s like being twelve again.
“There’s breakfast on the table, thought you might be hungry after your exciting night last night. You know, drinking tea on the porch at one in the morning, all that crazy stuff you got up to.”
She can’t help but chuckle to herself as both of you do the same, amused by the familiarity of it all.
“There’s pancakes, fruit, toast and cereal. And pineapple juice for you, Lacie.”
“My favourite,” she coos. “You remembered.”
“Won’t ever forget it,” your Mom responds, pinching your best friend’s cheek like she did when you were first graders. “Now come and eat before it goes cold.”
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
Breakfast is divine - which is absolutely no surprise to anyone.
“You wanna stick around here today, Lace?”
“Wish I could. I’ve got a couple of afternoon clients, but the first isn’t until one thirty, thankfully.”
“You sure you can’t stay?” you ask, hating how your voice makes you sound like you’re six years old again.
“Sorry babe. But you know where I am if you need me. Pop by the salon anytime, okay? I could use an assistant.”
You laugh, both of you knowing you’d most likely be terrible at that job role.
“Thanks for being here last night,” you say as you grab her hand atop the table. “I needed it.”
“So did I,” she replies as she squeezes your fingers. “More than I even realised.”
“You girls want to join me today?”
Your Mom pokes her head around the door frame, looking at you both with a gentle smile.
“I can’t, but thanks for the offer, Lori. I’ve got clients later. But she will,” Lacie nudges you with her foot probably a bit harder than intended, giggling as she does it.
“I will, Mama.”
“Okay sweet girls. Have a good day at work, Lacie. Don’t be a stranger, alright? We’ve missed you around here.”
“I’ve missed you guys too. You’ll regret saying that - I’m about to be here twenty four seven.”
Your Mom chuckles as she leaves, the sound of it clinking off the glasses of pineapple juice that you’re both still drinking.
“Seriously babe. You need anything, just ask. I’ll be here, no matter what.”
“Thank you. You’re the best, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You never have to know.”
Lacie leaves in a cloud of expensive perfume and vanilla scented body butter, off to go make peoples hair related dreams come true all day.
“I’ve got some errands to run,” your Mom says as you’re standing at the front door, waving to your best friend as she walks down the street. “Be my passenger? I’ll pay you in coffee.”
“Let’s do it.”
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
All five of your senses are catered for as you walk around the market, soaking in all of the sensations. There’s mothers pushing their babies in strollers, elderly couples strolling leisurely, children running around buzzing with excitement. It’s alive, with sounds and smells and new sights wherever you turn.
The sun beats down, cooled slightly by the gentle breeze that whips around between the stalls. It’s a glorious day, not a cloud in the sky. It’s making you feel hopeful, more joyous than yesterday.
“Sweetheart, will you grab me some fruit from the guy in the corner while I get some bread? Pick whatever looks good.”
“Sure Mama.”
You part in different directions, making the journey towards the most colourful stand at the market. The fruits are vibrant tones of pink and orange and yellow, bright and fresh and completely irresistible.
“What do you have that’s in season?” you ask the guy behind the boxes, a redhead probably about the same age as you are.
He’s objectively handsome - freckles, cheeky smile, tall and muscular. He looks at you for a moment before holding out a peach.
“Right now is the peak time for peaches. I promise these will be the best ones you’ve ever had in your life.”
“In my entire life?” you question, hint of mischief in your voice.
“Want me to prove it?”
“Go ahead.”
He picks up a knife and carefully cuts around the pit, before tearing into the peach and handing one half to you.
“You’re not ready for it,” he teases.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
You bite into it, juice running readily down your wrist as you do. And as much as you hate to admit it - it’s divine.
“Say it.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me it’s the best peach you’ve ever had.”
“Well then I’d be lying.”
His face falls for a fraction of a second before he regains his confidence like nothing ever happened.
“Confess. Come on.”
“Fine, fine. It’s the best peach I’ve ever had. In my entire life.”
“I knew it!” he grins, satisfied. “Knew a pretty girl like you wouldn’t lie to me.”
“I thought about it.”
“Oh, I know.”
He stares at you for a moment too long, taking in your features with his green eyes.
“Do you have a soulmate, peach?”
You’re processing the new nickname for a second when your Mom appears behind you, answering the question.
“Yes, she does. A complicated one.”
“Ah,” he laughs. “The best kind, no?”
“Depends on the day,” you smile, shaking your head. “Mama, we have to buy a dozen of these peaches. They’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”
The man winks at you before throwing some into a paper bag for you, along with raspberries, strawberries and oranges at your request.
“Thank you for these,” you say as you’re paying.
“Anytime. See you around, peach!”
“Oh he likes you,” your Mom all but sings as you both walk away. “You’re Tethered and you’re still attracting all the boys.”
“One guy at the fruit stall, not all the boys.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Sure.”
Your Mom hasn’t talked about your Tethering before. Neither of your parents have. It hasn’t been spoken about since that day your Dad was in the hospital. She’s mentioning it so easily, so casually, anyone would think that you’d all had a comprehensive conversation about it.
“Coffee now?” she asks, breaking you out of your thoughts.
“How about matcha? For a change?”
“Ooo, yes! I’ve heard that place on the corner does all different flavours. Clara at work had a blueberry one the other day.”
“Think I might stick to vanilla. You’re more adventurous than me.”
“Always have been,” she winks, bashing into you with her shoulder cheekily.
You can’t argue with that.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
The coffee shop has a beautiful deck with an ocean view out back, perfect for sitting and gossiping with your Mom in the sunshine. The two of you catch up like no time has passed, patching over the disconnect that has crept into your relationship recently. You both know it’s no one’s fault - life just gets in the way sometimes.
There’s a pause in conversation, and you decide it’s now or never to ask the question that’s been on your mind for a while.
“Mama?”
“Sweetheart?”
“Why haven’t you guys tried to talk to me about the whole soulmate situation sooner?”
She thinks for a moment, carefully considering what she wants to say.
“Did you want us to?”
“No. Yes. Maybe? Honestly, I don’t know. But the three of us have always talked about everything, and now all of a sudden we’re silent when it comes to anything to do with my Tethering. It’s just unusual is all.”
“When your Dad and I first figured it out, I wanted to speak to you straight away. I thought we’d tackle the topic immediately, right? I think maybe I was a little upset that you hadn’t mentioned it - it’s such a huge milestone, arguably the biggest one in your entire life. And then Jack slowed me down, and helped me think a little more rationally.”
“He’s good at that,” you whisper.
“The best,” she smiles. “He figured that there must have been a reason that you didn’t say anything to us - that you were probably working things out for yourselves. So we kept quiet. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you, it’s that we felt like it was best that we didn’t until you were ready.”
“So you weren’t just… ignoring the problem until it went away?”
“There’s no problem in my eyes, sweet girl. Just two people going through something they’ve never experienced before.”
You take a deep breath, willing the weight you’ve been carrying around to be lifted from your shoulders.
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner,” you murmur. “It’s not because I didn’t want to.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
She grabs your hand across the table, just like Lacie did this morning. How lucky you feel to be surrounded by such gentle, golden hearted women. What a gift.
“Can I ask you a question, sweetheart?”
You nod, urging her to go ahead.
“Did something happen? The last couple of days, you’ve seemed a little… down. And Bucky hasn’t been around, and it all feels… unusual? Like something’s changed, maybe.”
It feels like she can see into your soul when she looks at you, staring right through any kind of facade you try to put up. You’re begging yourself not to start crying again, sick of the sensation of tears falling down your face.
“We, uh - it’s a long story and it’s complicated but uh… where to begin-”
“Hey, you’re okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. If you’re not ready, then-”
“It’s not that I’m not ready, it’s that I don’t even know where to start. I’m so confused about everything and I don’t even know how to even begin to put it into words that are somewhat comprehensible and I just… I don’t even know.”
The birds chirp above your heads, a million and one conversations happening around you on the deck as the two of you exist in your own little bubble for the moment.
“Give me the facts. Just the bare basics of it.”
“I don’t know if I know him, Mama.”
“Hmm?”
She looks completely puzzled, but she’s trying to stay focused on getting some cohesive answers out of you.
“There’s so much I don’t know about him. It hit me all at once the other day, and now I just… don’t know where we stand.”
She thinks for a second, measured and careful.
“What do you feel like you don’t know?”
“So many things. He never told me he had a sister, and then you and Dad mentioned her and-”
“Oh honey, I’m sorry. If I’d known you didn’t know-”
“No no, it’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. That was just the catalyst to me realising that I think we might have done this whole thing in the completely wrong order.”
“You know, there isn’t necessarily a right order.”
“I know that, but still. We’re all twisted and backwards now. Feels like we’re facing in the wrong direction.”
Your Mom rubs circles into the back of your hand with her thumb, keeping you grounded.
“You’re allowed to have a honeymoon phase, you know. Most soulmates have them. Some last longer than others, yes, but they’re not unusual. You’re wrapped up in your little bubble of love and excitement and sometimes confusion - it’s hard to see outside of that.”
“But surely there’s a difference between a honeymoon phase and obliviousness.”
She exhales her deep breath, sighing as she does it.
“You’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You often are. Trust yourself more.”
“I do, I just… This is the one area of my life where I really do feel completely clueless.”
“And you hate it.”
“And I hate it.”
You take a long sip of your drink, looking out over the ocean and letting the repetition of the waves crashing against the rocks calm your racing heart.
“You wanna know what I think the solution is?”
“Tell me, Mama.”
“I think you need to go right back to the beginning, and work on everything you skipped over. Date each other again. You’ve gone too deep too fast and now you’re struggling to swim. So take yourselves back to the shallow end, put your floaties on, and start afresh. Not completely afresh obviously, but as much as you possibly can.”
“I like your water metaphors. Very fitting.”
She laughs all silvery and melodic as she kicks your foot under the table in retaliation.
“You know what I mean,” she teases.
“I do.”
“Good. The two of you need to get to know each other again - this time without worrying about getting caught or keeping the entire thing a secret. You can just be, now. Be completely as you are. No pressure, no worrying. Just you and your soulmate.”
You digest every single one of her words, knowing instantly that she’s right. There may not be a magic solution to your situation, but she’s found one that’s damn close.
“I like that idea,” you say eventually. “And if we both go into it with open hearts, promising to be completely honest, then we can’t go wrong, right?”
“Exactly. It’s all about keeping open hearts and minds. Both of you.”
“I’ll talk to him about it later. Or maybe tomorrow. Whenever I’m ready.”
“There’s no rush, sweet girl. Take your time.”
You inhale a lungful of the salty seaside air and take a moment to breathe. You’re going to be just fine. Both of you.
Your Mom stands up suddenly, grabbing her bag as she does it.
“I’m in the mood to wander around that street full of little boutiques around the corner. They all have new window displays in and you know I can’t resist.”
“Then let’s do it,” you encourage as you trail after her, almost running to keep up. “Retail therapy might be just what I need.”
“That’s the spirit!” she laughs as she grabs your hand to pull you along. “You are your mother’s daughter.”
“Always,” you grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
Your Mom manages to distract you for the rest of the afternoon with hours of shopping and leisurely browsing, neither of you in a rush to be anywhere. It’s exactly what you needed - rare, precious time with your favourite woman in the world. Just the two of you.
It’s when you’re sitting in your apartment later on that evening that you realise the days activities haven’t cured your sadness - only masked it temporarily.
Suddenly, the walls feel like they’re too close, the colours surrounding you too vibrant, the lights too bright. You take a deep breath and dig your fingers into the couch cushion, willing yourself to stay grounded. There’s a ball of anxiety in your chest, swirling around and slamming itself into your ribcage, your heart thrumming nervously underneath it, fighting to be heard.
You need to get out.
You need air. You need the wind whipping across your face, you need the sea salt on your lips, you need the birds squawking above your head.
You shove your feet into some shoes and grab a hoodie, throwing it on and grabbing your keys simultaneously. Practically sprinting down the stairs, you push the front door open with far more force than necessary, striding down the sidewalk with more momentum than you thought you could muster. Your legs are carrying you where they know you need to go - even if your mind can’t comprehend where that may be.
You turn the corner, and feel the sidewalk change to sand beneath you.
Inhaling deeply, you revel in the ocean breeze rattling through your bones and the chill it brings. It’s a welcome feeling. You’re right where you need to be.
You realise that you can’t even remember the journey to get here. It’s as if the Universe grabbed your hand and pulled, dragging you exactly where it wanted you to be. You venture onto the beach, heading towards the cove that’s tucked away, sinking familiarly with every step.
You turn your head, and realise suddenly why the Universe wanted you to be right here, right now.
Sitting on the sand, knees tucked into his body, barefoot and windswept.
Bucky.
He feels your presence before he sees you, even from across the beach. His head whips around to find you perfectly on the first try, eyes locked on you standing too far away for his liking. But he doesn’t move. He wants you to determine this interaction. If you walk away, still asking for space, he’ll give it to you. If you run into his arms and never let him go, he’ll hold onto you. It’s your choice. Not his.
“Hi,” you whisper, sound stolen by the wind. He hears it clear as day.
“Hi, honey girl.”
You’re a hundred feet apart and speaking in hushed tones as if you’re right next to each other, the Universe doing all the heavy lifting in your communication.
“Can I join you?”
“Always,” he says without hesitating. “You don’t ever have to ask.”
You make your way over slowly, trepidation weighing down every step. You’re not scared to see him. You’re scared of what you’re going to feel. You’re scared your heart will betray you and you’ll crumble into him, that you’ll let him kiss you stupid like nothing ever happened.
Sitting on the sand a few feet away, you try not to get lost in the deep, sky blue pools of his eyes that are watching every single minuscule movement you make. You get comfortable, tucking your knees into your chest and holding onto them for stability. Mirroring each other absentmindedly, as always.
Both of you sit and listen to the repetitive crash of the ocean waves against the shore, soothing and grounding. It’s been the soundtrack to so many of your milestones, so many of your important moments.
Bucky’s the first to break the silence. You’re not entirely sure what to say.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t. I got a little overwhelmed in my apartment and decided I needed to take a walk. Ended up here.”
“The damn Universe.”
“Yeah. Damn her.”
There’s an inkling of a smile threatening to break across his face, but he tampers it down, stoic again in an instant.
“Are you okay?”
You take a deep breath, considering your answer carefully.
“No. But I will be. Time heals all wounds, right?”
“Is that what this is? A wound?”
“I don’t know,” you exhale. “It feels like one.”
“And I caused it.”
“Not necessarily. We have joint responsibility here. I just…”
You’re trying to find the right words to explain yourself without making the rift in between you worse. You realise quickly that you need to be entirely honest - and if the distance gets wider, then that’s a necessary pain.
“You’ve upset me, Buck. And I can’t sit here and lie and pretend you haven’t.”
“I don’t want you to lie to me. I never do. No matter how bad you think it is, or how much you think it’ll hurt me.”
You nod, half in agreement and half to stop yourself from bursting into tears.
“I’ve spent the last few days debating everything,” you say with a shake in your voice. “I want you to know that no matter what… it’s always going to be you, Buck. You are my soulmate for a reason. I love you with every single fibre of my being.”
“I love you so much,” he chokes out, eyes welling up with emotion. “I wouldn’t want to be Tethered to any other person in this entire world. Only you.”
You nod again, chewing on your lip to try and keep yourself together. You feel like you’re falling apart at the seams, held together only by the clothes on your body.
Taking another breath as deep into your lungs as you can, you exhale it shakily before hugging your legs as tightly as you can.
“I think I need to take a step back from this.”
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, but you know that they’ve come from your heart. You mean it - but that doesn’t lessen the hurting.
“From us,” you continue. “You are the only person I will ever want. You are my entire life, James Buchanan Barnes. That is exactly the point. We will be together for the rest of our lives - and I cannot wait for that. That guarantee of us, forever, means that we don’t have to rush. We can take our time. And right now, I really need to take my time.”
He nods, encouraging you to continue. There are tears silently falling down his face, and you can feel the sadness and the longing rolling off of him in waves. You want to squeeze him as tightly as you can and never let go, but you know you have to stand your ground here.
“I need space, Buck. Space and time. I’m just completely overwhelmed. I need to get my priorities in check, too. I need to start really putting focus into the bakery franchise to make it the best it can be. Stella asked me if I was alright when we were on the phone a few days ago, and it made me realise that if she can tell - from the other side of the country, and just by my voice - that somethings wrong, then I need to just… take a breath.”
“I’m sorry you’re feeling overwhelmed,” he says, voice cracking with the emotion of it all. “I know that a Tethering can be all consuming and intense on the best of days. And I think that I was aware that it was a lot for you, and so I tried to keep everything as chilled and low pressure as possible - which in turn, has come back to bite me.”
“Is… that what happened here? Why we seemed to have gone from zero to a hundred really fast, but I somehow feel like I don’t know you at the same time?”
“I think so. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought these past few days, after that morning on the boat. I hated seeing you upset and I hated that I couldn’t fix it there and then.”
You give in to your instincts and reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers and resting them on the sand in between you.
“I know,” you whisper. “I could feel it in my chest. All the sadness and regret and confusion.”
“I could feel it too - the betrayal and the upset and the anger that you were feeling.”
“I wasn’t angry at you, Buck-”
“You were, honey. And that’s okay. You were allowed to be angry at me. You are allowed to be angry at me.”
You nod gently - the slightest of movements, almost imperceptible to anyone but your soulmate.
“I think I was so worried about it all being too much for you that I started holding stuff back. Not in a bad way, but just so that I didn’t overwhelm you. Stories from my childhood and about my mother and sister aren’t exactly light entertainment most of the time. We were figuring stuff out, and I didn’t want it to get too heavy. I didn’t withhold anything on purpose, sweet girl. I promise. It just happened. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“That’s not the point,” you find yourself saying. “I don’t want to sit here and quiz you about your family tree and growing up in New York, Buck. It’s supposed to come up naturally, not because I’ve asked you twenty questions at once.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry,” you say at the same time. “I didn’t mean to snap. I think I’m still a little angry. Which I shouldn’t be, because you’ve explained yourself.”
“You’re allowed to feel what you feel.”
You hum, squeezing his fingers in between yours. You’re not sure who you’re trying to comfort, yourself or your soulmate.
The wind picks up, as if she’s telling you that it’s time to go home. You shiver, the icy ocean breeze whipping around you and settling into your bones.
“Come on, it’s getting dark.”
Bucky rises and pulls you with him, brushing the sand off your pants for you in gentle sweeping motions. He does it without thinking, so accustomed to the little gestures.
“Can I walk you home?”
You should say no, tell him that the space begins now and that you can’t automatically fall back into old routines. Instead, you say,
“Please.”
He hasn’t let go of your hand yet, very aware that he doesn’t know when the next time he’ll get to hold it is.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
No one speaks the entire way home.
Neither of you mention that you can both feel the big blue waves of sadness coursing through your chests, unsure if it’s coming from yourself or the other person.
Neither of you mention that Bucky walks you the long way, adding a good twenty extra minutes to your journey.
Neither of you mention that when he hugs you goodbye, he holds you so tight that you can’t breathe for a second.
You’re not sure why, but this feels like the end of something.
Bucky feels it too.
as always - if you enjoyed, please reblog!! reblogs are like gold dust, and are genuinely the only way to circulate your favourite fics - which therefore produces more !! <3
a/n: aaahhhhh i can't believe i finally get to share this story with you all!! hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it ♡
summary: “I–…” you blinked hard, scared that you might faint at any moment if the fear looming turned out to be true, “…could you do me a favour?” you mustered just enough strength to request in a small voice, “…could you go buy me a pregnancy test?”
warnings: firefighter!bucky barnes x pregnant!teacher!reader, smut, firefighter!avengers, teacher!yelena belova, teacher!peter parker, fuckboy!billy russo, roommates to lovers, unplanned pregnancy, being knocked up from a one night stand, bucky isn’t the biological dad, former fuckboy!bucky, y/n teaches the first grade, mutual pining (but you think it's one-sided), nickname (bunny), first trimester of pregnancy, nausea/vomiting, crying, doctors' appointments, domestic fluff (except they aren't together yet), masturbation, sex toys
word count: 5588
∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽
series masterlist | next chapter [coming 16/8-25]
masterlist | join my taglist
WEEK 0
“Well, well, well… look who’s sneaking in, late at night like a freaking teenager…”
“Bucky!” you yelped as you spotted your roommate in the dark, “jesus fuck!” you nearly jumped out of your own skin before clutching a palm to your heaving chest, “what are you doing sitting here in the fucking dark?”
“Thought it would be funny,” his broad shoulders shrugged as he chuckled, “and you know, it was,” he tilted his head, “don’t you have school tomorrow, missy?”
“Oh, ha-ha, how hilarious,” you rolled your eyes, too weary to deal with his jokes, “I’m going to bed.”
Rising from his seat in the armchair in the living room section of the open floor plan of the apartment, “no, but seriously,” he shadowed you as you swiftly strayed into the bathroom, “where have you been?”
“Uh… I–, you know–,” your eyes grew slightly as you scrambled your brain for a lie, “nowhere.”
“Nowhere?” he echoed with a cocked brow, “really?”
“Fine,” you gave up with an exhausted sigh, “Yelena and a few of the others from work dragged me out to a bar…” you shared, though still left out a few very key details.
“You went out drinking and didn’t invite me?” he then scoffed dramatically and clutched a hand to his burly chest, “I am hurt.”
Standing before the sink, you picked up your toothbrush and uttered, “it was a girls night–, or well, Peter was there as well, so it was–,” you then promptly snapped, “look!” and slammed both of your hands down against the sink’s edge, “we already live together, you don’t have to be a part of every other facet of my life!” you exclaimed defensively before regret instantly trickled down your spine as you caught sight in the mirror the genuine look of hurt that flashed over Bucky’s features, “…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that…” the alcohol in your system made the entire apartment feel like it was swaying as your poor heart shattered a little bit more than it already had managed to that night, “…I’m just really tired. I shouldn’t even have gone out in the first place…”
Brows knitting together, he then finally picked up on how you didn’t simply seem exhausted, but there was something else plaguing your weary features, “…hey, are you okay?” his tone was soft as he continued to stare at you, “did something happen tonight?”
Other than the fact that you’d fucked some random bartender, someone that your friends had sworn was like a sexual sorbet, a palate cleanser to cure one of any crush. And though it wasn’t exactly horrible, it still hadn’t worked as the only way you’d managed to get through it was by closing your eyes and imagining that it was your roommate instead.
“No, nothing happened, I’m fine,” you uttered as you couldn’t hold back any longer, and tears began to stream down your cheeks.
Exhaling solemnly as he gazed at you, “come here…” he swiftly reached for your frame and closed the gap between you, enclosing you in an embrace that arguably only made things worse for you, as it truly confirmed how the desperate experiment hadn’t worked in the slightest.
You were still utterly and painfully head over heels for him.
“I’m fine,” you sobbed, “I swear, I’m just tired… and way more drunk than I realised… when did I become such a lightweight?”
“Well, you’ve never really been the big party animal to begin with, so that might have something to do with it,” his broad palm coasted down the length of your spine, causing goosebumps to erupt.
As his intoxicating musk filled up your nostrils and made you even more dizzy than the alcohol, you eventually mustered up the courage to blurt out, “…I’m gonna go to bed,” you abruptly pushed yourself away from his warmth, though stumbled slightly in the process, prompting Bucky to catch your elbow to steady you, “do you remember where a bucket would potentially be hiding?”
“Yeah, I’ll go grab it,” he nodded faintly, though only let go of your arm when you had reached out to lean against the wall behind you, “I don’t think you’d be able to reach it on your own without having to balance on a stool.”
WEEK 2
Propped up against the pillows on your bed, your head sloped back and bumped against one of the pastel blue walls in the small room, as you let out a stifled moan.
Steadily strumming your clit, your other hand slowly pumped a dildo in and out of your pussy, as your eyes fluttered and your mind floated away, fooling yourself that the silicone was somebody else.
As your roommate was out on a run that morning, you hadn’t bothered to shut your ajar door before going to town. Though you must have lost track of time, as the sound of the front door slamming shut suddenly echoed throughout the entire apartment, causing you to jolt jaggedly against the sheets.
“Hey, I forget, did you want company today at the farmers market?” Bucky casually bellowed as his footsteps swiftly shuffled in the direction of your room, prompting you to panic and painstakingly rip the glistening toy out of your cunt and scrabble for your duvet to cover up your bare bottom half, “it’s just, I kinda made some plans with Steve as well, but I can cancel them if we already had something, it was just a thing for fun I suggested yesterday after our shift when I thought I was free this weekend.”
By the time that he settled against the doorframe to your room, you were utterly out of breath, “uhm… I’m sorry, w-what?”
“Did we have plans today?” he repeated, and you hoped and prayed that he wasn’t able to notice just how flustered you were, as well as how your room surely smelled like pussy.
“I–, uh… no,” you hazily shook your head, “I don’t think so.”
“Great!” he smiled before crossing his arms over his chest.
With your mind still in the gutter, your eyes couldn’t help but flutter down and fixate on the glisten of sweat that gleamed across his rippling physique, the drool-worthy sight promptly causing your cunt to clench around nothing and throb for the missing toy that laid abandoned only centimetres further south beneath the sheets.
“So…” he exhaled as his brows suddenly furrowed, “you’re still in bed,” he observed in a puzzled tone.
“Well, yeah, i-it’s the weekend,” you tried to say, “I wanted to try to sleep in, but naturally I couldn’t.”
“So you’ve just been–, what? Sitting there all morning, frozen like a porcelain doll?” he squinted down at you from the doorway.
“No! I’ve been–, I’ve–…” you scrambled your brain for a lie before spotting the closed laptop on your bedside table, “I’ve been prepping something for work,” you then hastily reached for the computer and dragged it into your lap.
“Really? Working from bed? Cosy,” the corners of his lips twitched, “and what have you been working on then?” he teasingly poked as a smirk lit up his features, though you didn’t dare ponder if it was because he’d sniffed out the truth.
Averting your gaze, you tried to ignore his knowing grin as you began to share, “well, starting next week, I’ll be kicking off this kind of career theme with my class that’ll last the rest of the school year,” you told him, “essentially, each one of the students will get to pick a job and then I’ll find someone with it who can come in and talk to the kids about it,” your hands gesticulated gently as you explained, “I know that they’re only first-graders, but the point isn’t at all for them to already lock in on one singular path, it’s kind of the opposite, it’s to expose them to options that they hadn’t thought about before, you know, broaden their horizon just a little bit more.”
“Oh, my first-grade teacher did something similar,” he recalled, “although, I don’t think I remember what career I picked…”
“So, it wasn’t firefighting that you grew up dreaming about?”
“No, that came much later,” he cocked his head.
WEEK 5
“…and so the only kid who hasn’t thought of something yet is Laura,” you spoke, your fingers flexing around your phone as you held it to your ear.
“Which one is she again?” Yelena’s voice seeped through the telephone.
“Curly hair, pretty shy and has a tendency to cry a lot,” you uttered, raising your gaze from the laptop before you to cast a glance out of your bedroom window, “I think there might be something going on at home, so she’s just very closed off.”
“Oh, right,” your colleague murmured, “I remember her.”
Fiddling with one of the buckles on the denim overalls you wore, you said, “she’s just overthinking the whole thing, which is understandable, but still, nothing I’ve tried so far has done the trick.”
“What have you tried?”
“Well, I took her and the other kids in the same boat to the library to see if that could give them some inspiration. I also tried to just brainstorm a bit with them, tried to find something that excites them, and it worked for everyone else except for her.”
“I’m sure you’ll break through to her in no time,” the teacher on the other end of the line tried to reassure you, though soon thereafter, you heard as she let out a stifled groan.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Yelena sighed, “my period just started yesterday and it’s really kicking my ass this time around…” she winced as she presumably breathed through a severe cramp that crashed into her, “like my uterus is going through a meatgrinder.”
Like an ice-cold bucket of water splashed in your face, it suddenly dawned on you how you couldn’t recall the last time you were on your period, which was very odd as everything about you, including your menstruation, was always very punctual.
“U-uh…” you scarcely breathed, “Yelena? I–I gotta go… see you tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, alright. See you,” you just barely heard her utter before you hung up.
Slamming the laptop shut before you with a reverberating echo, you felt dazed as you rose to your feet and swiftly exited the room.
Stumbling into the living room, you nearly crashed into the back of the couch as the panicked tornado inside of your mind held you prisoner.
Though just then, perfectly timed as your nails dug into the upholstery, the door to Bucky’s bedroom swung open, and as your roommate exited, his feet promptly halted in their stride when he spotted the ashen expression upon your face.
“Hey…” he cautiously uttered, “bunny, you good?”
“Huh?” you lifted your head to finally notice his presence.
Taking a step closer to your frozen form, he asked, “are you alright? Because you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I–…” you blinked hard, scared that you might faint at any moment if the fear looming turned out to be true, “…could you do me a favour?” you mustered just enough strength to request in a small voice, “…could you go buy me a pregnancy test?”
At first, the firefighter began to chuckle, assuming that it was some sort of joke. Although when you remained petrified, “oh, you’re not kidding,” his laughter promptly faded once more, “I–, uh, yeah, of course.”
With each of you thoroughly speechless, you sat side by side in shock on the bathroom floor.
“This doesn’t feel real…” you eventually heard yourself murmur.
“I think it’s pretty real,” Bucky nodded to the tiny test still clutched in your hand.
“I know, but this isn’t–…” your sentence crumbled as you blinked back down at the stick, “it doesn’t exactly fit into my plan… work, then meet someone and get married, then get a dog, and then, after all of that, I’d have a kid,” you slowly listed off, “I always imagined this would be something I’d plan meticulously, not stumble into from the one time in my life that I have a stupid one-night stand.”
The soft sound of his exhale seeping into the space hung in the air for a second before he then uttered, “…so,” as his eyes flickered down to the positive test once again, “what do you wanna do?” he asked. Though as you let out a sigh, twisting your neck to glance back at him, he reached down and caught your other hand, promptly tangling his fingers with your own as he vowed, “whatever it is, I promise, I’ll be right by your side, every step of the way.”
WEEK 6
“Hey, is the owner around?” you asked the man behind the bar, “Billy, I think his name is,” you hoped you got it right, as you’d had to ask your friend for a reminder of what the bartender’s name was.
“Yeah, one second,” the mixologist uttered before you watched him poke his head in the back to get his boss.
Strolling out of the back room, a shiver ran down your spine as the visage of the proprietor awoke too many memories you’d rather forget. Although judging by the carefree look upon his face, he didn’t remember you.
“Hey, what can I get you?” he promptly leaned against the bar.
“Hi,” nerves began to crawl up your throat as you blinked back him, “Billy, right?”
“Yeah,” he murmured before he then narrowed his dark eyes in your direction, “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
“Kinda…” you exhaled, scrunching up your face as you then explained, “I’m Y/n, you know, from a little over a month ago? We kinda–”
“Oh!” the lightbulb went off above his head as he then casually blurted out, “we fucked?”
“Well, uhm, yeah,” you blinked.
“Well then, Y/n,” he promptly relaxed in your presence, savouring your name on his tongue as he uttered it, “what can I do for you? Are you back for more, because if so, I’m taking my break in a little bit. There’s a lock on the door to the storage room,” he winked.
“Oh no,” you swiftly shook your head, “I mean, no thank you,” you felt heat rise in your cheeks as you averted your gaze, “I–, uh… could we talk? Maybe go somewhere else, somewhere a little more quiet?”
“Sure, I mean, we could go talk out back if you want,” he briefly nodded in the direction of the back door.
“Great,” you swiftly squeak.
“Alright,” he smirked before he then raised his voice, “hey, Jerry!” you watched as his coworker perked up, “I’m taking my break!” Billy called out, though his stare continued to be trained upon you, “man the deck till I get back!”
“You got it, boss,” the other bartender muttered before the two of you filtered through the small storage room and into the alleyway behind the bar.
The very spot where he’d not too long ago had you up against the rough brick wall…
“Okay, so,” you anxiously panted, “I’m just gonna rip the band-aid off…” before you then blurted, “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh,” his face momentarily stayed neutral as the news ceased to sink in, “…oh…” realisation then finally dawned on him as his cocky expression faded and he instead began to gasp, “you mean–…”
“Yep,” you nodded faintly.
“You sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” you exhaled, his question nearly making you chuckle.
“But like, how sure are you really?” he panted, “maybe it isn’t mine.”
“No, it is,” you stated and shot him a look.
“How do you know?”
Blinking back at him a moment, you then stated matter-of-factly, “…because other than that one time with you, I haven’t slept with anyone for over five years.”
“Oh…” his brows promptly floated up, “yikes.”
“Excuse me?” you squinted back at the fuckboy.
“No, I’m sorry,” he swiftly raised up his palms, “I didn’t mean it like that, just–, I’m so sorry,” he uttered as if you’d instead shared with him that one of your loved ones had just passed.
“You’re sorry for knocking me up, or sorry that I haven’t gotten any in half a decade?”
“Well, I was talking about the no sex thing, I don’t know how you did that,” he tilted his head, “but now that you put it like that, yeah, both, I'm sorry for both…”
Exhaling faintly, you then uttered, “apology accepted.”
Blinking back at you, his nervous glance then fell into a pattern of darting between you and your still unnoticeable stomach, “…so…”
“Look, I don’t expect anything from you,” your hands floated up to gesture alongside your words, “I mean, I don’t even really know you.”
“…is that like a trick question?” he squinted back at you.
“No, it’s not, I swear,” you swiftly shook your head, granting him some reassurance before you stated, “I’m pregnant, I’m keeping the baby, and you don’t have to be any more involved than you want to be. We could figure out some system if you want, or you can just go on with your life as usual, whatever you want.”
“Really?” he blinked, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks.
“Yeah, really,” you nodded.
“Okay, whew…” relief crashed into him like a title wave, “good, because I am really not built to be a father. Don’t get me wrong, I had fun with you that night, but like, that was just it, it was just that night, it was just sex, not the beginning of a white picket fence life…”
“I completely understand,” you offered him a genuine, but faint smile.
“Cool,” he puffed out one last huff, “well, uh, good luck, I guess.”
“Thanks,” you watched as he then shifted, closing the gap between him and the bar’s back door.
“And, you know,” he paused just as his fingers enclosed around the door handle, “if you ever want some company again, you know, if you’re in the mood for a good time,” he glanced back at you over his shoulder, “just hit me up.”
Letting out a sigh, you simply uttered, “okay,” grateful that you simply got through the mortifying interaction relatively unscathed.
WEEK 9
Raising just your chin as you heard your roommate finally waltz through the door, “hey,” you uttered from your horizontal position on the couch after you’d finally crawled your way back out of the bathroom. And though you were already exhausted, the day haven barely even begun, you were just grateful that the sickening nausea had finally settled, “I know you just finished a twenty-four-hour shift, but please tell me that you picked up some more on your way home.”
Walking up behind the couch, he then dropped a roll of crackers in your lap, “of course I did.”
“Oh, you’re my knight in shining armour,” you swiftly tore open the wrapping.
And as Bucky beamed down at you, his eyes then drifted down over the robe that still draped your frame, “hey, aren’t you supposed to be out the door already? You’re not even dressed yet.”
“It’s Tuesday, the kids have PE,” you explained as you chomped down on a saltine, crumbs raining down upon your chest, “so I get to go to work a little later and puke in my own bathroom instead of hogging the one in the teacher’s lounge.”
Reaching for him to give you a hand, Bucky swiftly tightened his grasp around your own and helped you up off the couch, even though you’d much rather just stay right there and take a nap in the morning light that streamed in through the tall windows that looked out upon the apartment’s small balcony.
Shuffling into your bedroom, the door to which stood directly behind where the large sofa was planted, you began to get dressed, first slipping on a pair of comfortable panties and a soft bra. Although, when you reached into the laundry basket balanced on your chair and brimming with clean clothes, already folded and waiting to be put away, you plucked out your favourite pair of jeans only to discover something that broke your heart.
“Oh no…” you breathed as you discovered that you couldn’t do up the button around your growing waist, “oh no!”
“What’s up?” Bucky heard your alarm and swiftly appeared in the doorway, his eyes already wide and prepared for the worst.
“I am turning into an elephant, that’s what’s up,” you pouted before flinging yourself back onto the bed and giving it another go, struggling with the stubborn denim before you ultimately gave up with a dramatic huff.
Sulking a moment on the mattress, your eyes traced the ceiling as your mind combed through your recollection of your entire closet, thinking of options you could wear that weren’t simply sweatpants, since that might not be the most appropriate thing to show up for work in.
But then your roommate opened his mouth with a gentle sigh, “alright,” he extended a hand in your direction, “give them to me.”
“What?” you twisted your neck against the sheets to blink over at him.
Pushing off the doorframe, the firefighter then sauntered over and grabbed your legs, “I am gonna hang onto these, and anything else you can’t fit into, for that matter,” he uttered as he tugged the pants off for you, “put them in a box over in my closet so that you don’t have to get all depressed looking at them every morning.”
“Really?” a soft smile found your lips.
“Yeah,” he uttered before you scurried up to your feet and shadowed him as he crossed the home and entered his own bedroom, “and then, maybe this weekend or something, we’ll go shopping,” he suggested as he opened up his wardrobe to stash away your jeans.
“You wanna go shopping for maternity clothes with me?” a small chuckle bubbled up your throat, “seriously?”
“Well, you can’t run around butt ass naked for the next many, many months,” he shot back in a jesting tone, though he still briefly glanced over his shoulder at you, his eyes fleetingly flickering down over your body, still only covered in your undergarments.
Giggling gently, you then caught sight of yourself in the large mirror propped up in the corner of the room. Shifting closer, you couldn’t help but search for any changes, even if you didn’t spot any, you still puffed out your belly just to imagine what you’d soon look like.
“Wait!” Bucky nearly startled you as he suddenly yelped, “don’t move!”
“What?” you twisted around a bit, frozen with your palms still resting on your stomach, as you watched him scramble to fish his phone out of his pocket.
Opening up the camera, he then pointed it towards you and said, “turn to the side.”
“What?”
“Come on, Bunny, flash me that belly,” he sang as he sank down to sit on the edge of his bed.
“Why?” you cast a glance down at yourself, “I haven’t even popped yet.”
“Well, then just let me snap a picture now, and then we can see how you grow from each week.”
“Seriously?” you couldn’t help but chuckle back at him.
“You are a magical creature who is literally making another human being from scratch as we speak,” he said with a completely straight face, “of course I wanna document this.”
WEEK 10
Double-checking that all of your students were out as they clustered around you in the parking lot. With a child clutching each of your hands, you heard Laura on your one side quietly murmur, “wow…” as her eyes grew, the closer the blinking sirens came into view, as a huge fire truck finally curved into the school’s premises.
Leaping out of the engine, you spotted both Bucky, Steve, alongside colleagues like Tony, who coincidentally had a kid in your class.
And as you watched your roommate pause in the chaos to tap his captain on the shoulder, getting his approval to stay outside while his coworkers stormed in to assess the school, you then saw as he began to march straight towards you.
Leaning over a bit, you murmured, “hey, Peter? Would you mind watching my class for a second?”
“Yeah, sure,” the science teacher nodded before you traded off the children still clinging to you.
Weaving through the crowd of evacuated students, you met Bucky halfway before he swiftly scooped up your hand and guided you around the back of the fire truck for some more privacy.
“Are you okay?” he panted, his wild eyes scanning you, “is the baby okay?”
Taken aback slightly at the level of alarm that seeped through in his tone, you tried to keep your tone soft as you said, “I’m fine, Buck, we’re both fine.”
“You sure?” he continued to gasp, “it’s just, when I heard that it was your school, my heart fucking stopped.”
“Bucky,” you uttered, promptly clutching his hand tighter, wrapping your other palm around it as well as you tilted your chin and forced his darting eyes to meet your calm ones, “I’m okay,” you reassured him, though when he kept on hyperventilating, you then brought his touch down upon your belly, “I swear.”
Staring down at your still unnoticeable stomach, he finally let out an exhale, his broad shoulders relaxing a bit as he shifted his palm slightly over your abdomen, letting it ground him.
Curving around to the side of the truck that the pair of you were situated behind, two blonde firefighters appeared and began to pack their supplies away again.
“Hey, false alarm, dude,” Carol informed Bucky as she returned the hatchet in her grasp back into a compartment on the side of the engine.
“What?” you twisted to look at them both, “there wasn’t a fire?”
“No,” Steve shook his head, “turns out it was just the fire alarm that was pulled.”
“Yeah, apparently Tony’s kid was just acting out,” Carol let out a faint chuckle, “he’s over there right now, probably grounding her till she goes away to college.”
WEEK 11
“Hey, Buck?”
“Mhm?” he hummed when you appeared in the doorway out to the balcony, bowls of dinner balanced in your hands, the mild evening warmth still enveloping you both.
Handing him his portion of pasta, you then joined him at the small outdoor table, “there’s actually something I wanted to ask you.”
“Okay, shoot,” he uttered as he began to dig in.
“So, you know how I’m doing this career thing with my class all year?” you reminded him before he offered you a faint nod in response, “well, one of the kids, for the longest time, couldn’t decide on a job to pick,” you told him, “but then after that day with the fake alarm, when you guys came by, she hasn’t been able to stop talking about it. She thought it was so cool,” you smiled before asking, “so, I wanted to see if I could maybe convince you to pop by one day and talk a bit to the kids about what it’s like, you know, being a firefighter.”
“Oh, well,” he breathed, barely giving it a second thought before he uttered, “sure.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, “although, I could also talk to Captain Fury, see if the whole class could maybe do a little field trip to the station,” he suggested as he caught some more pasta on the tip of his fork, “you know, let them slide down the pole, try on a helmet or something.”
“Wait, are you serious?” you promptly gasped, “that would be amazing!” you then leaned in and nearly tackled the boulder of a man in a hug.
WEEK 12
“You don’t have to be here, you know.”
“Nonsense,” Bucky squinted down at you on the exam table, “of course I’m here,” he shrugged as a smile found his lips, “wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
So far, he had tagged along to each and every one of your doctor’s appointments, even if it had just been to get your blood drawn.
“I really am okay,” you uttered, scared that he was doing all of this out of unnecessary obligation, “I can do this on my own.”
“Sorry,” he simply smiled, “but you’re stuck with me,” as the doctor then entered the room.
“Aw, you two are so cute,” she uttered as she caught the tail end of your bantering, naturally misunderstanding the smirk on Bucky’s lips, “seems like you picked a good one to start a family with.”
“Oh,” your eyes went wide, “he’s not–, we’re not–…” you stammered as you promptly gestured wildly between you both, “we’re just friends–, roommates,” you clarified, “he’s not the father, we’ve never–, uh, you know, u-uhm–…”
“Oh, my apologies,” she promptly bowed her head.
But Bucky swiftly offered her a tight-lipped smile and assured, “it’s fine.”
“So,” the doctor then tried to transition onto the business at hand, “shall we take a look at how this little bun is cooking in there?”
“Sure,” you exhaled to try and cool down the heat in your cheeks.
“Okay, just lean on back and lift up your shirt a bit,” she instructed, and as you did so, she then picked up a squeeze bottle resting on the ultrasound machine nearby, “this might be a little cold,” she warned before squirting some of the gel on your stomach. Picking up the broad wand to the machine, she then glided the tip against your belly, “let’s see…” she murmured as she redirected her glance towards the small screen, scanning it efficiently before she soon uttered, “okay,” a reassuring smile flashing on her lips, “everything looks beautiful.”
“Yeah?” you tilted your head to try and catch sight of the scan she was inspecting.
“Yeah,” she then spun the screen around towards the pair of you, “if you take a look right here,” she pointed to a small flicker on the image, “that right there is your baby.”
Blinking back at it, the only thing that left your lips was a small, “wow…” as you found yourself unable to tear your stare away. And as the doctor pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and a soft rhythm suddenly began to echo from the machine, goosebumps swiftly erupted across your skin, “is that–”
“A strong and healthy heartbeat,” the doctor smiled.
“Holy shit…” you heard Bucky murmur off to your side, the reality smacking him in the face as well.
“Is this crazy? Me doing this all on my own? Can I actually do it, or am I about to be in over my head?” you finally broke the silence, your head spinning, though it wasn’t because of how the subway hummed beneath your seat.
“Hey, look at me,” Bucky then grasped your hand, “I can’t predict the future, I wish I could, but I do know this,” he made you meet his eye, “you are going to be an amazing mom.”
Sucking in a deep breath, “really?” tears welled up in your eyes as you felt his fingers squeeze your own.
“Yeah. I mean, I wish more parents were the kind of human beings that I know you are,” he uttered with the utmost sincerity, “you’re so kind and patient. You’re gonna be great, I know it,” he tilted his head slightly, “and this little kid? I mean, they’re gonna be your child, so naturally they’d turn out to be just a ball of sunshine, a little tree hugger, just like their mom.”
Melting down against his shoulder, you half hugged his burly frame as you murmured into him, “why are you so wonderful…”
“Oh,” he then couldn’t help but joke, “a question that I ask myself every day…”
But instead of smiling as well, you just blinked up at him and uttered, “no, I’m serious. You’ve been so incredible throughout the beginning of all of this. But just because I’m now becoming a parent, that doesn’t mean you should be forced to be one as well,” you then averted your gaze and said, “I know I can’t keep living with you after the baby comes.”
Brows knitting tighter, he asked, “what are you talking about?”
“I don’t want you to suddenly hate me when I turn your bachelor pad into a freaking family home,” you said, “I would never want to force you into a lifestyle that’s not for you.”
“I–… I’m sorry, you actually think I could ever hate you?” he continued to squint before he then cocked his head, “bunny… come on… first of all, I would never ever kick you out. Sure, I lived there first, but that apartment is as much your home now as it is mine, no matter how it may change, you can live there for as long as you want,” he continued to clutch your hand in his own, “and secondly,” he then uttered, “Y/n, I love you,” making your heart momentarily flutter before you reminded yourself of his purely platonic meaning of the phrase, “and so I automatically already love this little baby to bits, purely because it’s yours,” he smiled down at your stomach, “and so just because you’re doing this by yourself, doesn’t mean you’re in it alone. I’m not going anywhere. You’re one of my favourite people in the entire world. And I already promise that I’ll lend a hand and be there for you, and this little nugget, whenever you let me.”
Requested by Anon: Caplan Caplan Caplan! If you’re feeling so inclined, can you please do a fic where f!reader is Bucky’s sorta-gf and she’s helping Pepper or Peggy or Nat try on wedding dresses and ends up trying one on herself? And when Bucky sees, he just spirals into “that one. I want that one. We are getting married immediately.” Please and thank you?
Summary: An outing for wedding dress shopping with your friends spirals into your own celebrations when Bucky, your boyfriend, happens to walk in on your playfully trying on a wedding dress.
Warnings: Pure fluff!, Established Situationship-Turned-Engagement
WC: 1.2K
Ao3!
A/N: This was requested when i was celebrating my 2K Party Bash this week! I know I'm posting a lot today, but I don't care <3 Trying to ignore my actual responsibilities today.
You weren’t supposed to be trying anything on. That was made extremely clear when Pepper invited you, Natasha, and Wanda to help her narrow down her wedding dress options. It was a girls-only kind of day—champagne, way too many boutique consultants with clipboards, and racks of white lace and silk that cost more than your rent.
“You’re just here for moral support,” Pepper had said brightly. “No pressure, just vibes.”
And that was the plan. You were content sipping something bubbly and pretending not to touch things labelled “couture.” But then—
Then Nat had dared you.
“Try one on,” she said, smirking behind the rim of her glass. “C’mon. Live a little.”
“You’re terrible,” you hissed.
“I know. Now pick the sparkliest one and put it on, you menace.”
You tried to resist. You really did.
But twenty minutes later, you found yourself in front of a full-length mirror in a back dressing room, laced into something soft ivory with a fitted bodice, a slightly off-the-shoulder neckline, and a gentle tulle train that caught the light when you turned. It hugged your curves in all the right places.
And you—annoyingly—looked stunning.
“Oh no,” Wanda whispered from behind you.
“Oh no,” Natasha echoed.
You blinked. “What?”
Pepper leaned in from the hallway and gasped. “Oh my God. You’re done for. If Bucky sees you in that, he’s going to—”
A sharp ding from the boutique’s front door cut her off.
You all froze.
“…Was that the—”
“Ladies?” came a very familiar voice.
“Shit,” Natasha hissed, shoving a hanger at you. “Bucky’s here.”
“Why the hell is Bucky here?!”
"Who told him we'd be here?"
Pepper groaned. “I texted him to swing by to help pick up a gift bag I left in the car, but I didn’t think he’d come in—!”
Too late.
Bucky’s boots clunked across the polished boutique floor, his voice drawing closer as he called out, “Hey, Nat, you said it was in the trunk—wait, babe? You back here?”
Before you could even shout a warning, the curtain whipped open.
Bucky stopped cold.
His mouth dropped open.
You froze, wide-eyed, one heel half off, veil slipping sideways on your head like a drunk ghost. “I swear this isn’t what it looks like—”
But Bucky didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
His gaze raked over you slowly, almost reverently—like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real.
“That one,” he said hoarsely.
You blinked. “What?”
His eyes stayed glued to you. “That one. That’s it. That’s the dress.”
“Bucky, I—” you stammered. “We’re not even engaged, I was just—”
“We are now.” His voice cracked with something fierce and unshakable. “I’m not even joking. I’m gonna find a priest. A rabbi. Tony. Someone. You’re not taking that thing off until someone pronounces us married.”
“I am calm,” he snapped, but his tone betrayed him—unhinged, elated, utterly overwhelmed. He stepped closer, eyes glazed and worshipful. “You—look at you. How the hell am I supposed to function knowing what you look like in that thing?”
You felt your heart trip over itself. “Bucky—”
“No, no. Don’t talk me out of it.” His hand curled gently around your waist, pulling you close. “We’re doing this. I’m putting a ring on your finger, you’re keeping this dress, and I’m legally binding myself to you before someone else sees you in it and I have to commit a crime.”
You laughed, cheeks flushing. “This is insane. We were just dating.”
“Not anymore,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “Now I’m yours. All the way.”
Your fingers curled in the lapel of his jacket.
“You’re serious?” you whispered.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
And just like that, Natasha was pulling out her phone to find a courthouse, Pepper was tearing up, and Bucky—Bucky looked like he’d just been handed the moon.
You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve told him he was being dramatic, ridiculous, Bucky, with his hair a mess and his hoodie half-zipped like he’d run here straight from a mission. But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Not when he was looking at you like that.
Like you were the only living thing in a dead galaxy.
“Bucky,” you breathed, eyes darting to the others—Pepper discreetly dabbing at her eyes, Wanda beaming like she already knew this was written in the stars, and Natasha grinning like she knew her dare would end like this.
“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t know? The second I saw you—really saw you—I knew. This was always gonna be it for me.”
His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You wearing that dress just made it impossible to pretend I could wait anymore.”
Your throat tightened. “But we never talked about—marriage. Or even living together.”
“I don’t care where we live,” he murmured, forehead pressing to yours. “I’ll sleep in your damn bathtub if I have to. I just want you. Waking up next to you. Coming home to you. Tying myself to you in every way I can.”
You could feel your pulse fluttering under your skin like a moth trapped in your ribcage. You wanted to say something smart, something grounded, something that might cool the fire in his eyes—
But instead you whispered, “Okay.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
And then—chaos.
Pepper shrieked. Wanda clapped. Natasha screamed, “CALLED IT,” and ran to grab a bottle of champagne off the nearest table. And Bucky—Bucky kissed you like you were oxygen and his lungs had gone dry.
“Wait—” you pulled back just a little, blinking. “Are we actually getting married today?”
“Yes,” Bucky and Natasha said at the same time.
“No,” Pepper said, already on the phone with someone. “You are not getting married without hair and makeup. I know a team.”
“I’ll get Tony to open the tower chapel,” Wanda said, typing furiously. “He owes me for that Sokovian dessert wine I smuggled back for him.”
“Wait, chapel—?” you blinked. “Tony has a—never mind, of course he does.”
“Dress is already picked,” Natasha smirked. “Now all we need is a ring.”
Bucky grinned, eyes never leaving yours. “Already got one.”
You blinked. “You what?”
He fished in his jacket pocket—because of course he had it on him—and pulled out a small velvet box, sheepish and smug all at once.
“I was gonna wait,” he muttered. “Till your birthday. Or Valentine’s Day. Or a meteor shower. Some dumb romantic crap. But clearly the universe decided today was the day.”
He opened it. Simple. Elegant. Yours. A platinum band, thin and glinting like starlight, set with a single dark sapphire—midnight blue, stormy and fierce, just like him.
Your hands trembled when he slid it onto your finger. It fit perfectly. You couldn’t stop staring at it. You couldn’t stop smiling. “Holy shit,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said, resting his forehead against yours again. “You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”
“God help me,” you murmured, and kissed him.
----
You weren’t even sure how it all happened so fast. One minute you were being dragged into a makeup chair, the next you were in a penthouse rooftop chapel lit with candles, Tony officiating in a suit and sunglasses, Steve giving Bucky his tie because his was wrinkled, and Bruce holding up someone’s dog as a makeshift ring bearer.
You and Bucky barely heard the words. You were too busy smiling. Laughing. Crying. Gripping each other’s hands like lifelines.
And when he kissed you again—really kissed you, as husband and wife—the rest of the world fell away. Just you. Just him. The dress. The dare. The forever. All of it. Yours.
summary: you and bucky barnes were enemies. always arguing, always getting paired up for missions that ended with yelling and maybe a few broken ribs. but when the rest of the thunderbolts get turned into toddlers by accident, you and bucky are the only ones left to take care of them. suddenly, you're stuck playing mom and dad to five chaotic babies with too much energy and too many opinions. between diaper changes, late-night cuddles, and a few soft moments you didn’t expect, something between you and bucky starts to shift. but when the babies go back to normal, will they remember what happened... and will he?
warnings: slow burn, enemies to reluctant co-parents to something more, emotional whiplash, soft bucky barnes, soft reader but in denial, found family vibes, accidental parenting, hurt/comfort, some angst, a lot of fluff, crying (mostly the reader), bucky calls the toddlers “his kids” once and means it, thunderbolts chaos, baby bob being the favorite, baby walker being loud, baby yelena being feral, baby ava being shy, baby alexei being dramatic, tiny duck plushie slander, and one single dance on the porch that might ruin you.
note: this was supposed to be a joke. it is not a joke anymore. it got feelings. i blame baby bob. thank you to my brain for deciding bucky barnes as a dad is both funny and heartbreaking. this story includes a lot of cuddles, chaos, and emotional damage. thank you for reading and if you cry, good. i did too.
masterlist
The elevator dinged just once before the doors slammed open like they were afraid of the man inside. Bucky Barnes stormed into the Tower lounge with all the grace of a loaded weapon. His boots were thunder, his jaw was a locked trigger, and his eyes were practically glowing with rage. The kind that was cold, quiet, lethal—but held together by the sheer force of “if I talk right now, I will commit a felony.”
The rest of the Thunderbolts froze mid-conversation. Ava paused in her weird halfway-phase through the kitchen counter. Yelena blinked, a Cheeto half-raised to her mouth. John Walker raised an eyebrow like he was about to make it about him. Again.
Only Bob—the sweet, sunshine-soul Bob—visibly recoiled, clutching his comic book like a holy relic and mouthing a silent “oh no.”
Bucky's metal hand slammed onto the kitchen counter hard enough to make everyone jump. “I can’t stand that bitch.”
The room went dead silent.
Except for Alexei, who straightened on the couch like a Soviet mother had just entered the room and slapped him.
“HEY!” he barked. “We do not talk to women like that!”
Bucky didn’t even look at him. He was pacing now, jacket half-off, murder radiating off him like steam. “She acts like she knows everything. She doesn’t follow orders, she pulls blades out of thin air, and then she’s got the nerve to put one to my throat—”
“She did what now?” Yelena asked, suddenly way more interested.
But Bob was frozen. Like actually frozen. Pale, wide-eyed, whispering something that sounded like a prayer—
Because you had just appeared beside him. Not walked in. Not entered through a door.
Teleported. Green shimmer. Quiet spark. Instant chaos. You were sitting way too calmly on the edge of the couch, next to Bob like you'd been there all day. One hand resting lazily on the back cushion, the other pinching a chip from his bowl like you hadn’t just appeared from a different plane of existence.
“Aw, Bucky,” you said sweetly, voice smooth as honey and twice as toxic. “Miss me already?”
Bob made a noise like a dying animal and scooted three inches away without blinking. Bucky stopped pacing. Turned. Saw you. And you smiled. Smug. Glowing. Infuriating.
His nostrils flared. “You—”
“Me,” you said, cocking your head. “The ‘bitch’ in question. Please, go on. I love fan mail.”
“Do you try to be insufferable,” he growled, “or is that just a natural talent?”
You gasped, mock-offended. “Why, Barnes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re obsessed with me.”
He pointed at you. “You put a knife to my throat!”
“You put your hand on mine,” you said, still grinning. “I thought we were playing.”
Alexei stood up now, arms crossed, beard twitching. “I do not approve of violence unless it is mutual, respectful, or in sanctioned combat—preferably against Nazis.”
Yelena popped a chip in her mouth. “Or bad exes.”
“Or him,” Ava added, jerking her thumb at Walker.
“Excuse me?” Walker said, offended. “I was literally just standing here.”
“I’m just saying,” Ava muttered, “you look punchable.”
Meanwhile, Bob—still terrified—whispered, “Do we need to… call someone? Like HR?”
You were still staring at Bucky, your smirk razor sharp. “I didn’t even go for the jugular,” you added, chip between your fingers. “Should I have?”
Bucky’s jaw was locked so tight it looked like he was going to break his own teeth. He stepped toward you—dangerously close—and leaned down, voice low enough to chill bone.
“You really want to see what happens when I stop holding back?”
You tilted your head, lips parting in the softest smile.
“Yes,” you said. “I do.”
BOB ACTUALLY FAINTED.Bob slumped sideways, half sliding off the couch like a fainting goat in a tactical vest. His head lolled against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut as he murmured something unintelligible that might’ve been a prayer. Or a death rattle.
“BOB?!” you yelped, already scrambling to catch him before he hit the floor.
Your whole vibe shifted in an instant—from feral gremlin to panicked older sibling with a protective streak the size of Asgard.
“Oh, my god—Bob?! Hey, hey, don’t you dare pass out on me, sunshine.” You cradled his head like he was made of glass, gently tapping his cheek. “Wake up. Come on. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’m here. Shhh.”
Yelena, from across the room: “He’s rebooting.”
Walker leaned in, squinting. “Should we get like—uh, water? Salt? Exorcist?”
“I swear to god,” you snapped, eyes blazing as you whipped your head toward Bucky, “if he doesn’t wake up in ten seconds I’m shoving your vibranium arm up your emotionally constipated ass.”
Bucky blinked. “My fault?! He passed out because you—you—teleported in like a damn banshee and started running your mouth!”
“Oh no, no no no,” you said, finger in his face, still cradling Bob like a sleepy kitten. “Don’t you DARE try to pin this on me. You’re the one who came in here radiating murder! You slammed a table. You screamed. You scared my baby.”
“Baby?!”
“Yes, Barnes. MY baby. Not yours. Not ours. Mine.”
Alexei, from the background, solemnly nodded. “She has claimed him. It is law now.”
“You yelled,” you continued, full-on mom rage now. “You yelled and Bob immediately shut down like a Windows 98 laptop in a thunderstorm. That’s not dramatic. That’s trauma.”
“I didn’t even touch him!”
“Yeah, well, your aura did!”
Bob stirred weakly, blinking up at you with the slow confusion of someone waking up after anesthesia.
“Wh-what… happened…?” he mumbled.
“Oh, sweetie,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You saw raw unfiltered heterosexual conflict. It was too much.”
Walker blinked. “Why’s she treating him like a Victorian woman recovering from a fever?”
“Because Bob,” you hissed, “has never raised his voice. Or his fist. Or hurt anyone. Unlike you, Buck-o, who storms into every room like it owes you money.”
Bucky stared at you. Fuming. Flushed. Entire body tense in a way that made the room feel ten degrees hotter.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Should I have walked in calmly after you tried to slit my throat earlier?”
“It was a conjured blade! It barely even had weight!”
“IT GLOWED!”
“So do I when I’m mad! Are you scared of me too?!”
“Yes!” Bob croaked weakly from your lap.
Ava covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Yelena was openly filming now. Walker had pulled up popcorn from somewhere like this was Thursday night drama on live TV.
You stood up slowly, gently setting Bob back on the couch like royalty.
Then you squared up to Bucky again. Face to face. Eye to eye. Breathing hard.
“You owe him an apology.”
“I owe you a—”
“No, no. Don’t even. Apologize. To. Bob.”
Bucky looked like someone had just asked him to punch a puppy. His mouth opened. Closed. Reopened. He stared at Bob, who stared back like a kicked bunny.
“…Sorry?” Bucky grunted.
Bob gave a thumbs up. Then passed out again.
And that was it. That was your breaking point.
You inhaled sharply, stood tall, turned to Bucky—and smiled. Oh, not a nice smile. The kind of smile that came with homicidal intent, the kind you gave people right before throwing hands, flipping tables, or setting their house on fire with your mind.
Bucky looked at you like he could already hear the incoming war drum.
“Don’t,” he warned.
You didn’t even respond.
You punched him.
Hard.
Clean. Right hook. Square to the jaw.
It made a solid crack sound. That perfectly satisfying movie-punch sound. His head actually snapped to the side.
The room went feral.
“OH MY GOD—” Bob murmured mid-faint.
“YOOOOO,” yelled Yelena, who dropped her phone but was already scrambling to hit record again.
“ZAS!” Alexei shouted, absolutely delighted.
“YESSS,” Ava whispered like it was the climax of a soap opera.
Walker gasped like a southern belle at a brunch fight. “Did she just—”
“Yes, she did,” Ava muttered. “Iconic.”
Bucky slowly turned his head back toward you, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was turned on or concussed.
And you?
You just shrugged.
“That’s for scaring Bob.”
He opened his mouth like he was gonna say something snarky—but too late.
Your hand was already glowing green. A shimmer of chaos energy wrapped around your fingers, licking at the edges of your suit as you crouched down, wrapped an arm under Bob’s knees, and hoisted him bridal-style like he weighed nothing.
“You don't deserve to breathe the same air as my baby,” you muttered.
And with that—
POOF.
Gone. Just like that.
Left behind was a puff of green light and a bunch of emotionally unstable adults who looked like they’d just witnessed the season finale of the messiest relationship in existence.
“…I’ll kill her,” Bucky said under his breath, still touching his jaw.
Yelena choked on her popcorn. “You’re gonna what now?”
Alexei pointed sternly. “You deserved that punch. Also—apologize better next time.”
“She glows when she’s mad,” Bucky muttered again, still dazed. “It’s… not fair.”
Ava glanced at Yelena. “Wanna lock them in a supply closet later?”
“God, yes.”
“HELP!” you shrieked, storming through the automatic doors of the compound’s medical wing like the gates of hell had flung open behind you. “HELP, PLEASE, MY BABY FAINTED, I THINK HE’S DYING!”
Bob Reynolds—six foot two, elite Thunderbolt operative, and literal human marshmallow—was slumped like a tragic sack of potatoes across your shoulders, one arm dangling limply down your back, the other flopping against your hip every time you jogged a step. His glasses were askew. His hair was in disarray. And you looked like a mother raccoon dragging her emotionally fragile child to the vet.
A nurse dropped her tablet. A doctor nearly tripped over a gurney. Chaos bloomed.
“Ma’am—uh—what happened?!” one of them gasped, rushing toward you.
“He fainted!” you cried. “Barnes scared the hell out of him and he fainted! Like actually lost consciousness! Like swoon style! And now he won’t wake up!”
“Is he injured—was there trauma—?”
“YES,” you said, wide-eyed. “EMOTIONAL trauma! He saw his teammates fighting and his nervous system just said no thanks and now he’s DEAD.”
“He’s… he’s breathing,” a medic said gently, placing two fingers at Bob’s neck while you crouched to let his weight slide off your back. You immediately cradled his head like he was a newborn angel who’d been smacked by sin.
“HE’S FRAGILE,” you snapped. “Don’t touch him like that, you’ll bruise his soul.”
Bob groaned softly, blinking once.
You gasped like he’d just come back from the brink.
“Bob! Oh thank god—hi! Can you hear me? Blink twice if you recognize me. Blink once if you want me to punch Bucky again.”
“...what happened?” he murmured.
“You passed out from stress, sweetheart,” you cooed, brushing his bangs back with shaking hands. “Which is totally valid. Honestly, same. But I carried you here because you are precious cargo, and now you are banned from ever hearing emotionally charged arguments again.”
A nurse stifled a laugh. One of the doctors whispered to another, “Is she okay?”
You turned to them, eyes burning.
“I am NOT okay,” you hissed. “That was Barnes’s fault. I told him not to yell. I told him Bob’s nervous system is like a fainting goat on a rollercoaster. And what did he do? Walked in like a drama queen with a vendetta and a jawline and now my cinnamon roll of a teammate is in a goddamn coma!”
“He’s awake now—”
“That’s not the point!”
Bob gave a small thumbs up, still horizontal on the cot, eyes half-closed. “She’s not wrong…”
You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his like he was your baby bird.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” you whispered dramatically. “You scared me half to death. You are my emotional support introvert and I can’t lose you. You’re the only normal one on this team.”
He blinked, dazed. “…Ava’s normal.”
“She’s phasing through walls on purpose to avoid Walker’s playlist, Bob. That’s not stable.”
Another nurse walked in. “Hey, someone said there was a—”
“He’s fine now,” the first doctor sighed. “She just needed to panic dramatically for a few minutes.”
“I’m still panicking,” you muttered, grabbing a blanket to tuck around Bob like he was freezing to death. “Bucky traumatized him. Again.”
Bob whispered, “...did you punch him?”
“Oh, honey.” You kissed his forehead like a war widow. “Of course I did.”
You don’t mean to look like someone’s mom.
Okay, that’s a lie. You absolutely mean to.
The tactical harness is half-buckled over your hoodie as you chase Bob around the room with a protein bar in one hand and a sealed serum injector in the other. He’s dodging you with the agility of someone who’s fully trained in combat scenarios but has the emotional age of a kindergartener when it comes to shots and breakfast.
“Bob,” you warn, voice tight but full of affection. “If you don’t hold still, I swear to god I will sedate you and carry your ass onto the Quinjet in a papoose.”
“I hate needles,” he groans, ducking behind the couch.
“You’ve been SHOT before!”
“I was unconscious for that!”
You huff. Dramatically. The way a tired mother might when she’s already had three cups of coffee and not a single one did the job. You mutter a spell under your breath—just a tiny one—and the serum injector floats, slamming itself gently into his upper arm.
Bob yelps. “Hey!”
You pop the protein bar into his mouth before he can whine more. “That’s for stamina. And to shut you up.”
He chews grumpily, cheeks puffed like a cartoon chipmunk. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing down the chaos. He lets you, grumbling something unintelligible through the granola. You pretend not to hear it.
Across the room, Bucky watches with a scowl sharp enough to cut titanium.
“You gonna do that for everyone on this mission?” he asks, arms crossed.
“Nope,” you say brightly, fixing the collar on Bob’s jacket. “Just my favorite.”
Bucky scoffs under his breath, but you see it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of something beneath the surface. He hasn’t spoken to you since the fight. Since the dagger. Since the words you regret and the ones you don’t. And frankly, you’re not ready to rip that scab off just yet.
This morning isn’t about him.
This morning is about Bob, and Yelena, and Ava, and the rest of the team being sent off on a mission you’re not cleared for. Something dimensional. Temporal. Dangerous, probably. But Val insisted. Said they were the only ones who could do it.
You? You’re “still on cooldown,” apparently.
Read: emotionally unstable.
You kiss two fingers and tap them to Bob’s forehead. “No touching weird glowing objects. No speaking to old women with no eyes. No dramatic sacrifices unless you’re being watched by at least two cameras so I can go viral.”
He gives a crooked smile. “You’ll miss me?”
“I’ll cry exactly once if you die. Twice if you forget to bring back snacks.”
You help him strap on the last piece of gear, fingers lingering at the shoulder just a little too long. Like if you hold him together tightly enough, he won’t come back broken.
And then—he’s gone. Off to the jet. Yelena waves. Ava nods. Walker and Red Guardian are already arguing about socks or strategy or both.
The room empties.
You’re left standing in the middle of it, hands on your hips, magic curling at your fingertips like it knows something you don’t.
Beside you, Bucky speaks, low and gruff. “You really think they’ll be okay?”
You don’t look at him. You just whisper, almost to yourself—
“They better be.”
You always forget how quiet it is out here.
The trees murmur softly around you, their summer leaves catching the light in pale flickers as the wind rustles through the branches. The river moves slow, steady. It glides past the edge of the dock with lazy purpose, carving its way through the grass like it’s got nowhere to be but here. It smells like earth and water and peace.
It’s unnatural. Too soft. Too still.
You’re sitting cross-legged at the edge of the wooden dock, hands idle in your lap, chin tucked toward your chest. There’s a fishing rod resting beside you—not that you’re using it. You just like the illusion of a task. Something to explain why you’re here. Something harmless. Normal.
Like you didn’t nearly stab your teammate to death a few days ago. Like you’re not still vibrating with leftover magic under your skin, the kind that crackles too loud in silence. Like you’re not haunted.
You reach down and skim your fingers along the river’s surface. The water’s warm—sun-heated, soft—and it doesn’t flinch when you touch it. That always surprises you. For all the things you’ve broken, the chaos you carry, nature never seems to mind you.
Unlike people. Unlike Bucky. You suck in a breath and tip your head back to the sky.
The clouds are fat and slow-moving. Lazy. Blissfully unaware. The kind of sky that should be seen from a picnic blanket or a hammock or maybe a child’s drawing. You want to hate it for being beautiful. But you don’t. You’re too tired for bitterness today.
This was his house, after all. Tony’s.
You glance behind you toward the rustic, lake-view cabin. It’s still exactly how he left it. The same red roof. The same old porch swing. The same scattered junk in the shed that looks like it shouldn’t be legal or safe. Morgan’s old crayon drawings still decorate the kitchen fridge, faded but defiant. You never asked Pepper for permission to come here. You didn’t have to. She told you once—quietly, and without ceremony—that the lake house was always open for you.
He wanted you to have somewhere to come back to. You curl your knees to your chest, resting your chin there. God, you miss him.
You miss the sound of his voice when it softens for you. You miss the way he’d flick you on the forehead when you got too moody, and then immediately bribe you with fancy lab snacks. You miss the way he’d look at your magic—not with fear, not with awe, but with curiosity. Like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not a threat to contain.
No one else ever looked at you like that. Not even Bucky. Not even now.
You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. It’s stupid. It’s been years. Tony’s been gone longer than he was in your life. And yet, this house feels more like home than anywhere else you’ve lived. More than the Tower. More than the SHIELD bunkers. More than your own childhood bed, which hasn’t existed for a long time now.
It’s because he believed in you.
Even when you didn’t.
You rub at your face, feeling the crusted edges of the healing bruise along your cheekbone. You haven’t done magic since you got here. Haven’t summoned a single blade. You came to this place to breathe. To remember. To not destroy anything.
You wonder if Tony would laugh at all of this. Probably. He’d say something ridiculous like “I always knew Barnes would be the reason you’d snap. Should’ve let me shoot him in the knee back in ’16.”
You smile at that. Just a little. “Miss you, old man,” you whisper.
And for a second—for a breath—you almost think you hear him. Not words. Not a ghost. Just a spark. A flicker in the air. Like the arc reactor still humming through the fabric of the world.
The mission had been simple.
In and out. Grab the relic. No fighting, no magic, no “accidental” body counts. The directive had been clear: retrieve the object, contain it, don’t touch it. So of course, the moment they got back to the Tower, all five of them stood around the thing like it was the last bottle of vodka in Siberia.
It sat dead center on the briefing room table—short, squat, and sealed with a black wax emblem none of them recognized. The bottle was glass, thick and oddly shaped, like something that belonged in a medieval apothecary or a vampire’s liquor cabinet. And inside it?
A deep red fluid. Thick. Slow-moving. Almost… alive.
"Why is it glowing?" Yelena asked flatly, propping her chin on her fist as she squinted at it. “It wasn’t glowing before.”
“It’s not glowing,” John Walker said, arms crossed. “It’s… resonating.”
“That’s worse,” Ava muttered from across the room.
“I think it’s cool,” Alexei said, looming far too close to it. “Very dramatic. Makes a statement.”
“You want to make a statement?” Ava snapped, flinging her hands in his direction. “How about ‘Don’t store interdimensional biohazards on a kitchen table’? Or maybe ‘Let’s call a sorcerer before we accidentally melt into puddles’?”
“It’s not melting anyone,” Walker scoffed. “We didn’t even open it. It’s sealed.”
“Yeah? Well maybe we shouldn’t be breathing near it either.”
“Oh my god,” Yelena groaned. “Can we not do this for once? We got the creepy demon juice, we’re back in one piece, let’s just—I don’t know—wait for Val?”
“Sure,” Ava said coolly. “Let’s all wait. And if one of us starts speaking in ancient tongues or turns into a pigeon, I’ll say ‘I told you so’ through gritted teeth.”
“Guys,” Bob piped up, timid and wide-eyed, “maybe we should move it to a containment unit?”
They all ignored him.
A beat passed. The tension simmered.
And then, like fate herself decided to screw subtlety, Ava threw her arms up in frustration—just as Walker leaned forward to say something else stupid—and someone’s elbow clipped the bottle.
It wobbled. Wobbled again. And fell. The moment it hit the floor, it didn’t shatter like glass.
It burst. A pulse shot out like a heartbeat—silent, red, heavy—and then thick, crimson smoke curled up from the remnants, slithering into the air like it had a mind of its own. The room filled with it instantly—sweet-smelling, cloying, oddly warm—and then it was everywhere.
Ava choked. “What the hell did you do?!”
“I DIDN’T TOUCH IT—”
“YES YOU DID, I SAW YOUR STUPID ARM—”
“EVERYBODY SHUT UP—”
Too late.
The smoke coiled tighter, circling them like a serpent, and then—, Val walked in.
The automatic door hissed open just as the red cloud finished swirling and vanished into thin air like it had never existed.
Val paused. Took one step into the room. Brows furrowed. “...What the fuck?”
No one answered. Not at first.
There was just silence. Stillness. The room looked the same. The table was wet with the remains of the fluid, the bottle pieces scattered like shattered candy. There was no fire. No screaming. No alarms.
And yet. Something was… off.
Val’s heels clicked as she walked further in, eyes narrowed.
“Okay,” she said slowly, taking in their expressions—or lack thereof. “Who broke it?”
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Just wide, blank eyes staring back at her.
Bob blinked first. Then, he sneezed.
It was a very high-pitched sneeze.
You didn’t speak to each other at first.
The elevator thrummed gently beneath your boots, a soft mechanical hum that did little to settle your nerves. You stood on opposite sides of the lift, backs to the walls, arms crossed like shields. The kind of stance people take when they’re trying very hard not to punch each other again.
The silence dragged.
Bucky was the first to break it, voice low and rough. “You think she’s exaggerating?”
You raised an eyebrow without looking at him. “It’s Val.”
He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. He looked… worse for wear. Tired. Bruise healing along his jaw. A tiny scratch just beneath his ear that you didn’t want to stare at, but your eyes kept flicking to anyway.
“She sent twenty-seven texts in five minutes,” he muttered. “She doesn’t do that.”
You nodded slowly. “Which means it’s either interdimensional, magical, or something’s exploded.”
“Or all three,” Bucky said darkly.
The elevator pinged. Floor 44.
You shifted your weight, tugging your sleeves down over your wrists, trying not to fidget. You hadn’t spoken since the lake house. Since the fight. Since you’d stabbed him in a training room full of witnesses. And now you were here—reunited by shared emergency, standing side by side in uncomfortable silence like the world hadn’t tilted three inches to the left the last time you were in the same room.
Another beat passed. Bucky cleared his throat. “I, uh—was gonna text. After…”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He fell quiet again.
The elevator slowed as it reached Floor 47—restricted access, Val’s designated “oh-no-no-no” floor where emergencies were dealt with before they spilled into the public. You turned toward the doors, fingers tingling with restrained magic, muscles tensed.
Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. “You ready?”
“Not even a little.”
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. And your breath caught in your throat.
You blinked once. Twice. There, in the middle of the hallway, was Val.
She looked like she'd been through a war. Hair disheveled, one heel missing, shirt untucked, and a stain on her blazer that looked suspiciously like applesauce. In her arms was something squirming. No—someone.
A baby.
A small, squishy, extremely furious baby with way-too-familiar dark hair and an itty-bitty SHIELD onesie.
You blinked again.
“Don’t say a word,” Val snapped, eyes bloodshot. “Just… come inside.”
You and Bucky exchanged a look.
Then, slowly—cautiously—you stepped into the madness. And chaos met you like a tidal wave.
You hadn’t even crossed the threshold before your instincts started screaming. Magic—thick and wild—still clung to the air like smoke after a fire. It buzzed faintly against your skin, prickling at the fine hairs on your arms as you stepped deeper into the hallway. Bucky followed close behind, one hand near the knife strapped to his thigh, the other flexing like he was itching to punch the unknown square in the face.
The lights in the corridor flickered ominously, and you had to sidestep what appeared to be a trail of goldfish crackers leading directly into the main conference room. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.
Val stood just inside the doorway, her face an exhausted masterpiece of rage and disbelief. Her dark hair was pulled back into a half-undone ponytail, her mascara was smudged, and she held what looked like a baby in her arms—fat-cheeked, glaring, with a tuft of auburn hair and a scowl that, disturbingly, reminded you of John Walker.
You stopped short. Bucky nearly bumped into you. Val didn’t give either of you time to process.
“Come in,” she said, voice hoarse and tight with a fraying edge of hysteria. “Close the damn door behind you.”
Your boots clicked against the tile as you obeyed. Bucky muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but it sounded like a prayer. The moment the doors sealed shut behind you, a new sound filled the air—high-pitched, chaotic, overlapping.
Crying. Arguing. Giggling. Something heavy crashing to the floor. You turned the corner and froze. All logic stopped.
Five small figures occupied the room like gremlins unleashed from hell itself. One of them—Alexei, you assumed—was trying to climb the window blinds using only his teeth and a wildly ineffective pair of toddler arms. Another, unmistakably Ava, sat cross-legged under the conference table, surrounded by floating pieces of dismantled tech, tiny face screwed up in furious concentration.
Yelena was in a corner, stabbing a juice box with the savagery of someone trying to commit war crimes through a straw.
And in the center of it all, surrounded by a small pile of blankets, was Bob. Tiny. Round.
Wearing one of those ridiculous “I’m the future” shirts that someone must have dug out of a Stark Industries drawer.
He saw you and his entire face lit up like a sunrise.
“Mama!”
You blinked. Bucky swore under his breath, spinning on his heel like he was about to hit the emergency elevator button and vanish from this plane of existence. You grabbed the back of his jacket before he could escape.
Val rubbed at her temples and muttered, “I told you not to touch the bottle. But noooo, someone had to argue about proximity spells and elemental containment and—well, now we have baby assassins, congratulations.”
You stepped forward on unsteady feet, crouching slowly as Bob toddled toward you with his arms outstretched. He tripped once, recovered, and barrelled into you like a chubby missile, wrapping his tiny arms around your neck.
“Mama,” he mumbled again, this time softer, more tired. “You came.” Your throat closed.
You wrapped your arms around his tiny frame, magic flaring silently under your skin as you scanned him for injuries. Nothing broken. No magical burns. Just… small. Vulnerable. And looking at you like you were the only safe thing in the world.
Bucky crouched beside you, eyes flicking over Bob and then around the room like he was still waiting for the real threat to reveal itself. “They’re all like this?”
“All of them,” Val said, sounding like she needed a drink, a nap, and possibly a new career.
You stood up, lifting Bob easily in your arms. He curled against you instantly, one thumb in his mouth, the other hand tangled in the collar of your shirt.
“This is temporary, right?” Bucky asked warily.
Val didn’t answer right away. She just exhaled slowly, like she was bracing herself for an explosion that hadn’t happened yet.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We’ve got two sorcerers on a call, one is crying, and the other just said something about ‘age-locked soul regression’ and hung up.”
Bucky ran a hand down his face. You just stared at Val.
“So what you’re saying,” you said flatly, “is that you called me back from my grief vacation to run a daycare full of mini war criminals, and you don’t even know how long this lasts.”
Val smiled grimly. “Welcome home.”
Val checked her watch like she wasn’t surrounded by chaos. Like there weren’t juice stains soaking into Stark Tower’s designer rugs or an unconscious Red Guardian face-first on the floor after trying to body slam a beanbag chair. She smoothed her blazer, adjusted the one-heeled shoe still attached to her foot, and—while you cradled a drowsy toddler Bob on your hip and Bucky stared blankly at the wall like his soul had just left his body—said the words that would forever haunt your dreams:
“Well. I gotta go.”
You blinked. Bucky blinked.
Val clapped her hands once, as if trying to shake off crumbs. “I’ve got a crisis call with a coven in Prague, and then there’s a press situation brewing with the UN. Something about unauthorized dimension-hopping and a minor possessed goat.” She waved vaguely toward the ceiling. “Anyway. This—” she gestured broadly at the pint-sized chaos, “—is officially not my problem anymore.”
“Val,” you said slowly, adjusting Bob’s weight in your arms as he yawned and drooled on your shoulder, “you cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” she replied, already moving toward the exit. “Pepper said not to disturb her unless something was on fire or bleeding, and technically no one is bleeding right now, so.”
“Yelena bit Walker,” Bucky said flatly, arms crossed.
“Baby Yelena,” you clarified. “Bit baby Walker.”
“She also cursed in Russian,” Bucky added. “Twice.”
Val waved that off like it was paperwork. “You’ve both handled worse. I have faith in you. You're a natural leader.”
“You left a literal god in a diaper and called it leadership,” you muttered.
“Correct,” she said cheerfully, already halfway out the door. “And hey—think of it as team-building. Trauma bonding. Therapeutic domestic immersion!”
The door hissed shut behind her before you could hurl something after her.
Silence fell. Well—not silence. There was still the sound of baby Ava stacking StarkPads like building blocks, the rhythmic creaking of toddler Alexei trying to bounce off the walls again, and a very soft, very suspicious splorch noise coming from somewhere behind the couch.
You sighed. Loudly. Bucky exhaled beside you and rubbed a hand down his face, voice low and tired. “What the hell do we do now?”
You looked down at Bob, who had his thumb in his mouth and his other hand tangled in your hair. His eyes were already fluttering shut. He looked so peaceful. So innocent. So unaware of the raging dumpster fire surrounding you.
You adjusted him against your chest and said, “First? We find juice boxes. Then? We pray.”
Bucky nodded, slow and solemn. And for the first time all day, he actually looked at you. Not just a glance. Not a glare. A real look. Soft. Quiet. Maybe even… apologetic. But there wasn’t time for that now.
Because baby Yelena had disappeared. And the emergency sprinklers just turned on.
There is a kind of silence that comes right before everything explodes. A charged, fleeting moment where the universe holds its breath.
And then—
The crying starts.
It begins with Bob. Just a soft whimper, barely a sound, muffled against your chest as he stirs from his nap. He’s warm, flushed, eyes still bleary, but the instant he realizes he’s not in your arms anymore—just lying beside you on a pillow—his mouth opens in a slow, terrible wail that rises like a storm cloud and does not stop.
You reach for him instantly, but you’re too late.
He sets off Ava.
Her screech is sharper. Meaner. Like glass shattering on tile. She’s standing in the middle of the room with her fists clenched, bottom lip trembling, tears welling like twin tidal waves. One second she’s fine. The next she’s full banshee. She throws her spoon. It explodes against the wall.
Alexei joins in before he even knows why. He hears the sound, sees the distress, and promptly throws himself on the ground, legs kicking, wailing like someone just stepped on his dreams. He rolls over, bumps into a cushion, and starts yelling louder.
And Yelena—sweet, violent, unpredictable Yelena—stands up from the laundry basket she was using as a fort, looks around at the descending bedlam, and starts crying out of pure spite.
It’s deafening.
You scramble across the room on your knees, arms outstretched, magic sparking helplessly at your fingertips as you try to gather them. Bob first—his arms are already reaching for you. You scoop him up, kiss his forehead, shush him, bounce gently. He does not care. He screams louder.
“Where is Bucky?” you growl, trying to untangle yourself from Bob’s sticky grip.
“Right here!” he barks from the hallway, rushing back in, hair a mess and his shirt inside-out. Yelena is clinging to the front of him like a spider monkey, her face mashed against his collarbone, screaming directly into his soul.
He looks wild-eyed. Rattled. Afraid.
You want to laugh. You don’t. You don’t have the air to laugh.
“Help me!” you shout, trying to levitate a bottle of formula while Bob beats his tiny fists against your chest and Ava levitates a couch cushion with intent to murder.
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” Bucky yells, trying to detach Yelena without getting bitten.
“You’ve fought HYDRA death squads, Barnes, just PUT THE BABY DOWN—”
“She’s got my hair—”
“I DON’T CARE—”
A loud thud cuts you off. You whirl around.
Alexei launched himself off the back of the couch and landed flat on his stomach, wailing like a siren. He doesn’t seem hurt. Just… upset. And wet. He’s crying with his whole body, fists pounding the ground like it personally offended him.
Bucky finally peels Yelena off his shoulder and deposits her into the playpen. She immediately tries to scale the mesh wall like she’s in baby prison.
“WE NEED A PLAN,” he pants, hands braced on his knees.
“I NEED SIX PAIRS OF ARMS AND A DAMN EXORCIST,” you snap, trying to keep Bob from kicking his bottle out of your hand.
The noise crescendos. Crying. Screaming. Something electronic explodes in the corner, sparks shooting out from under the TV. You don’t care anymore. You’re soaked. You’re sticky. You’re seconds away from crying with them.
And then—
Silence.
Just for a second. Just long enough for you and Bucky to lock eyes across the battlefield.
You’re both breathing hard. Wide-eyed. Disheveled. You with Bob on your hip and dried applesauce in your hair. Him with baby sock prints on his shirt and Yelena’s pacifier tucked behind his ear like a grenade.
“This,” you breathe, “is hell.”
He nods. Grim. “Actual hell.”
Then someone starts crying again. And the moment shatters.
You were one scream away from combusting.
The lights were flickering. The tower’s temperature regulation had failed—again—and somewhere in the hallway, a fire alarm was going off that no one could reach because it was twelve feet in the air. Ava had levitated two coffee mugs and was currently banging them together like ritual drums. Alexei was naked. You didn’t know when or how, but he’d shed every piece of clothing and was sprinting through the living room like a glittery gremlin on a sugar high. Walker was sobbing into a pile of couch cushions like the world had personally betrayed him. Yelena was sharpening crayons. Sharpening. Crayons.
And Bob, your sweet little Bob, was wrapped around your leg like a weighted anchor, wide-eyed and sniffling, clutching the hem of your shirt like it was a holy relic.
Your eye twitched. Your jaw clenched.
And then, very quietly, you snapped.
Magic flared like a shockwave from your fingertips. Not out of rage, not yet—but out of sheer, unhinged desperation. You waved one hand through the air with a sharp, sweeping motion, and with a flick of your wrist, the living room shifted.
The floor shimmered, glowed, and transformed.
The couch cushions floated gently into the air and reassembled themselves into a playpen fortress, complete with safety barriers, tiny blankets, and soft lights that pulsed like stars. A calming scent of lavender and cocoa drifted through the room. The broken coffee mugs reformed into glowing orbs that danced mid-air, swirling like baby mobiles. The fire alarm shut off. Alexei’s clothes reappeared on his body mid-run, and he skidded to a halt, confused but delighted.
Every child went still.
Ava’s mouth fell open in awe. The mugs dropped to the floor with a soft clink as her eyes tracked the lights like they were fairy spirits. Yelena—tiny, lethal Yelena—sat down cross-legged on the spot, crayons forgotten in her lap. Even Walker, snotty and red-faced, blinked up in wonder.
And Bob?
Bob was glowing.
Not literally—but in the way toddlers do when something lights up their whole world. His eyes sparkled as he stared at you, face round and amazed, mouth opening in a joyful little gasp.
“More!” he chirped, grabbing your hand. “Mama! More pretty!”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Something in your chest eased. Warmed.
With a softer motion, you conjured a gentle snowfall. It wasn’t cold—just glittering illusion, falling like sugar from the ceiling. Bob reached for the flakes with both hands, giggling in delight, and Ava squealed, chasing them across the carpet.
Alexei threw himself into a pile of conjured pillows with a triumphant yell. Yelena tried to catch a flake on her tongue and grumbled in Russian when it disappeared.
Bucky appeared in the doorway, stunned silent.
He took in the scene—five tiny Thunderbolts sitting peacefully in a glowing, enchanted wonderland, laughter echoing like music—and blinked slowly like his brain had blue-screened.
“What the hell,” he muttered.
“I snapped,” you said, breathless, still holding Bob close. “Magically. Domestically. Emotionally.”
He walked forward slowly, dodging a floating duck-shaped spark of light. “You turned this into a preschool fantasy movie.”
“I saved our lives.”
Bob giggled again, clapping tiny hands against your cheeks and leaning into your chest. “You did magic,” he whispered proudly. “You magic mama.”
You felt your heart split clean down the middle.
Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know if I’m terrified or impressed.”
“Both,” you replied, brushing a curl from Bob’s forehead. “Be both.”
You made the fatal mistake of blinking.
One moment—peace. Quiet giggles. Sparkly fake snow drifting through the air. You were a goddess among toddlers, a mother of dragons with a halo of glitter and cocoa-scented calm. Bob was nestled in your lap, playing with a soft conjured rabbit. Bucky was cautiously sipping cold coffee while keeping one eye on Ava, who had finally stopped trying to rewrite Stark protocols with finger paint.
But peace, as you were learning, was a trap.
Because the second you turned to conjure a new blanket for Walker—who was beginning to sniffle again with the kind of pout that threatened to erupt—the room descended into absolute anarchy.
It started with Alexei. Of course it was Alexei.
You didn’t see him do it, but you heard the crash. The unmistakable sound of a plastic bin full of LEGOs and emergency tools being upended onto the floor. You turned just in time to see his chubby little legs disappear into the hallway, a screwdriver in one hand, glitter still stuck to his forehead, screaming something that sounded vaguely like, “I BUILD NOW!”
And then Ava shrieked.
Not because she was scared—no, no. It was the shriek of competitive bloodlust. She took off after him like a heat-seeking missile, levitating the duck-shaped mobile and hurling it like a weapon.
“GET BACK HERE,” you shouted, scrambling to your feet, Bob tumbling against your chest like a startled kitten.
“Why is she flying?!” Bucky barked, pointing at Ava as she literally lifted off the ground for three seconds before crashing into a beanbag chair.
“I DON’T KNOW, BUCKY, MAYBE BECAUSE SHE’S MADE OF MAGIC AND SPITE.”
Yelena, meanwhile, took advantage of the chaos by climbing the bookshelf.
You didn’t know how she got up there. You didn’t want to know. One second she was scribbling ominous symbols on the wall in red crayon—yes, red, of course—and the next she was crouched like a tiny sniper on the fourth shelf, chewing on the binding of a S.H.I.E.L.D. training manual like it owed her money.
Walker had begun crying again.
Not just crying—screaming. Full-volume toddler meltdown. He crawled under the couch, sobbing “I WANT MY SHIELD” on repeat like a tiny brainwashed Winter Soldier, refusing to come out.
“Bucky,” you yelled, trying to teleport Bob’s toy out of Ava’s war path. “GET YELENA.”
“She’s got a knife!” he hissed back.
“What?!”
He ducked behind the couch, emerging moments later with Yelena wriggling under his arm, a makeshift dagger made from a broken spatula clutched in her tiny fist. She screamed something guttural and kicked him in the ribs.
“I hate this,” Bucky grunted, staggering.
“I told you we should’ve just faked our own deaths!”
Bob, still in your arms, was clapping. “Fun!”
You looked down at him, sweat on your brow, hair in your mouth, glitter somehow in your eyelid.
“Sweetheart,” you panted, “are you… enjoying this?”
He beamed, two teeth showing. “So much fun!”
You groaned and dropped back into the armchair as Yelena shrieked “FREEDOM!” and escaped Bucky’s grip like a feral badger. Walker was still sobbing under the couch. Ava was now levitating herself again. Alexei had returned and was trying to unscrew the floor vent.
Bucky leaned against the wall, disheveled and furious. “They’re going to kill us.”
“Not if I kill myself first,” you muttered.
A bottle flew past your head and exploded against the wall.
Bob clapped again. “Boom!”
It was Bucky’s idea.
You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve tackled him when he opened his mouth and said the now-infamous words: “Okay, who’s hungry?”
Because the second those words left his lips, all five children lost their collective baby minds.
“ME!!” Alexei screamed, punching the air like someone had offered him a fight instead of food.
“Ava hungee!!” Ava shrieked, arms flailing as she levitated a fork from across the room and nearly impaled a couch cushion.
“I wan’ 'ghetti!” Yelena shouted, her voice dangerously close to demonic pitch.
“I wan’ chikkie!” Walker sobbed, still under the couch but apparently motivated enough by processed meat to join the living.
And Bob—precious, sweet Bob, who had been clinging to your side like a sleepy koala—perked up with a sleepy little smile and said, “Nuggy time?”
Bucky looked at you.
You looked at him.
The kitchen door creaked open like the gates of hell.
You set Bob down in his little booster seat at the table and conjured another chair with magic for Yelena, who was already trying to climb onto the counter with one leg and no pants. Bucky was wrestling Walker out from under the couch with one arm while using the other to hold a frozen bag of peas to his forehead. Alexei kept yelling “HUNGEY HUNGEY HUNGEY” while trying to crawl into the fridge.
“Ava,” you said sharply, ducking as a spoon whizzed past your face, “you levitate one more utensil and I will enchant your applesauce to taste like toenails.”
She froze mid-levitate. The spoon dropped.
“Tha’ gross,” she muttered, pouting.
You started plating like your life depended on it—because it did. Bucky had dumped three boxes of frozen chicken nuggets onto a tray and tossed it in the oven while you used your powers to conjure fruit, toast, mini pancakes, and six bowls of mac and cheese.
Alexei was already trying to eat his with his hands.
“No hands! Use fork!” you said, guiding his chubby little fingers toward the utensil.
“Nooooo,” he whined, stuffing noodles into his mouth and onto his forehead. “Me big boy!!”
“Okay, big boy,” Bucky muttered, putting a juice box in front of him. “Try not to stab your brother with that straw.”
Yelena grabbed her plate, glared at her peas, and yeeted them over her shoulder like a war crime. “I wan’ 'ghetti!”
“I told you there’s no spaghetti!” you snapped, catching Bob’s juice before it spilled.
“I WAN’ SPAGHETTI!!” she screeched, slapping the table. Ava screamed in solidarity.
Walker had fallen asleep in his plate of chicken nuggets.
Bob, on the other hand, was being perfect. Bob ate slowly. Neatly. Like the tiny polite prince he was. He chewed each bite thoughtfully, his little feet swinging under the chair, hands slightly sticky but contained.
You wiped his mouth gently and smiled at him.
“Good boy,” you murmured.
“I eat good?” he asked.
“The best,” you whispered.
Then he knocked over his cup of juice with the most gentle swipe of his hand and looked genuinely surprised.
“Oopsie.”
“Of course,” you muttered.
Across the table, Bucky looked done. His hair was a mess. His shirt had a banana smear across the front. He was trying to convince Yelena to sit back down without losing a finger. His soul had left the building.
You handed him a fork with quiet pity.
“Welcome to the dark side,” you said, deadpan.
“I fought a Nazi assassin on a train once,” he muttered. “This is worse.”
Bucky's Side: The Boys’ Bath
Bucky Barnes had survived snipers, bombs, interdimensional threats, and the slow emotional death of Avengers press tours. But none of that—none of it—had prepared him for giving a bath to three superpowered toddlers in a room tiled like a war zone and soaked like a rainstorm.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself as he set the baby shampoo on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up and damp already. “We go in fast. No hesitation. No fear.”
He looked down into the tub where Bob, Alexei, and Walker sat, naked, slippery, and foaming.
Bob was the only one sitting still. Bucky could kiss him for that. The kid blinked up at him with big eyes, cheeks rosy from the warmth, clutching a rubber duck like it was sacred.
Walker was chewing on a loofah like it owed him money.
Alexei was trying to stand.
“NOPE,” Bucky barked, yanking him back down just as the kid tried to launch himself out of the tub like a glittery torpedo. “Sit. You’re wet, not aerodynamic.”
“But I fly!” Alexei squealed, giggling.
“You fly after you graduate potty training,” Bucky muttered.
Walker let out a yell and splashed so hard the shampoo bottle went flying. Bob blinked, looked down at his duck, then slowly and methodically bit its head.
Bucky was soaked from the waist down. He grabbed a cup, filled it with warm water, and tried to rinse Alexei’s hair while the kid twisted like an eel.
“You’re getting shampooed whether you like it or not, buddy.”
Alexei screeched in mock betrayal. “BUKY BAD!!!”
Bucky froze. “You—what did you just call me?”
“BUKY BAD MAN!”
Bob gasped. “No! Buky nice! Buky gib nuggies!”
“Damn right I did,” Bucky muttered, pressing a washcloth to his own soaked face. “I earned your loyalty, Bob.”
Walker dunked himself under water without warning and popped back up sputtering, spitting suds and yelling “I’M 'MURICA!!”
Bucky genuinely considered walking out and joining a monastery.
Your Side: The Girls’ Bath
In the other bathroom—smaller, quieter, but somehow more dangerous—you knelt by the edge of a clawfoot tub with Yelena and Ava seated like tiny empresses in a mountain of enchanted bubbles.
You had already reinforced the walls with a low-level barrier charm.
For safety.
For sanity.
“Okay, let’s keep hands to ourselves,” you said, gently running your fingers through Ava’s hair. “No throwing the soap this time.”
“She startit,” Ava muttered, pouting as you combed conditioner through her curls.
“I no!” Yelena snapped, slapping bubbles like she was interrogating them. “She touch me face!”
“You touched mine!” Ava shot back.
“Okay—enough,” you said firmly, placing a floating duck between them like a peace treaty. “Duck is neutral. You hurt the duck, you answer to me.”
Ava nodded solemnly. Yelena squinted like she was planning treason.
You conjured warm water and let it rinse gently over Ava’s head. She relaxed a little, eyes fluttering shut.
Yelena took the moment of distraction to summon a bubble the size of a basketball and smack it into her sister’s face.
Ava screamed. You caught her before she could retaliate with a water whip spell.
“Yelena!” you warned. “What did I just say?”
She crossed her arms. “Duck say nothing.”
You inhaled sharply. Counted to three. Didn’t hex anyone.
“You are both getting clean if I have to freeze time to do it.”
Ava hiccuped and curled closer to you. “I wan’ braid,” she whispered.
You smiled softly, brushing back her hair. “You got it, sweetheart.”
Yelena huffed. “I wan’ dagger.”
“Absolutely not.”
Back in the hallway…
Two bathroom doors opened at the same time.
You and Bucky stared at each other across the wet tile battlefield. You had Ava on your hip and Yelena wrapped in a towel like a burrito. He had Bob cradled like a baby koala and Alexei wrapped in four towels for containment. Walker was dragging a shampoo bottle by the nozzle like it was a trophy.
“Please tell me yours didn’t pee in the tub,” you said.
“I’ll tell you,” Bucky grunted, “when I find out which of them did.”
It had been your idea.
Beds—five of them—spread out in the Tower’s movie room like a makeshift camp, each one layered with thick comforters, soft pillows, and tiny stuffed animals that had magically appeared during the day when no one was looking. The overhead lights were dimmed, the air warm, and fairy lights—actual glowing enchantments—lined the ceiling, flickering like sleepy stars.
You sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, Bob curled up against your chest, his curly hair still damp from the bath and his thumb tucked halfway into his mouth. You cradled him gently, rubbing slow circles against his back.
The movie ended ten minutes ago. And yet—no one was asleep.
Alexei was bouncing from bed to bed like a caffeinated frog, yelling about monsters and bears and how he could defeat them all. Walker had declared war on the pillows, launching them across the room with toddler-like glee and zero aim. Yelena was spinning in slow circles, singing nonsense in Russian and holding a plastic spoon like a sword.
Ava sat quietly in her own bed, arms around her knees, eyes darting from one loud sibling to the next. She wasn’t scared. But she was overwhelmed. You could see it in the way she clutched her blanket tighter every time someone shouted too loud.
Bucky walked in then, holding three bottles and looking like a man on his final life.
“I bribed them,” he muttered, passing you one for Bob. “If they lay down, they get a story.”
“That’s not a bribe,” you said, adjusting Bob so he could sip. “That’s diplomacy.”
Yelena ran toward him and jumped into his arms without warning. He caught her with a grunt, her little limbs wrapping around him like a koala on caffeine.
“Story now!” she barked, thumping her tiny fist against his chest. “Bucky tell good one.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Bucky tells stories?”
“Only the epic kind,” he said gruffly, settling into the big beanbag chair with Yelena curled up in his lap, eyes wide and bright. “Also I’m her favorite now.”
“Bet,” you said, grinning, and kissed the top of Bob’s head.
Walker flopped onto the floor dramatically and yelled, “I wan’ da dragon story!”
“No, bear story!” Alexei shouted, diving under his blanket.
“C’n we have both?” Bob whispered against your collarbone.
Ava peeked out from her bed, voice so small it was barely a whisper. “I wan’ story, too…”
You smiled softly, opened your arms. “Wanna come here, sweetheart?”
She hesitated… then slowly crawled toward you, tucking herself against your side, her little fingers slipping into yours.
You looked across the sea of blankets and stuffed animals at Bucky.
“Ready, soldier?”
He nodded once. “Once upon a time…”
He told the first half.
A story about a brave little girl with golden hair and a mean left hook, who fought off shadow monsters with a spoon and never once cried—not even when she got lost in the woods. Yelena listened with rapt attention, eyes wide, fingers tangled in the hem of Bucky’s sleeve. Walker shouted every time the monsters showed up. Alexei demanded to know when the explosions started.
You watched him—Bucky, the grumpy, growly man who had once refused to hold a puppy on a mission—and your heart ached at the way he tucked a strand of hair behind Yelena’s ear like it was second nature.
Then it was your turn.
You told them about a little boy with curls like clouds and a laugh like thunder, who had a magic duck and a glowing compass that always pointed toward home. A boy who got scared sometimes, but always did the brave thing anyway. Bob’s eyes drifted shut halfway through, his breathing slow and warm against your chest.
Ava stayed quiet, listening. You glanced down to find her still holding your hand, her head on your arm, eyes fluttering closed.
When you finished, silence wrapped around the room like a blanket.
Alexei had passed out face-first into a stuffed tiger. Walker snored with a fist in the air like he’d fallen asleep mid-battle cry. Yelena’s grip on Bucky had loosened, her face soft and peaceful at last.
You didn’t move. Neither did Bucky.
Just a quiet glance exchanged across a battlefield that—for the first time all day—had gone still. He gave you a small smile.
“Not bad,” he murmured.
“You too,” you whispered. “Girl dad.”
His eyes softened. You reached over with your free hand, touched his arm.
“We’re gonna survive this, right?” you asked.
“…Eventually.”
Morning arrived in golden streaks across the curtains, slow and quiet, like the Tower itself was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. The fairy lights overhead had faded to a soft, amber glow. Someone’s lullaby playlist had stopped playing around 3 a.m., leaving only the gentle hum of the heater and the occasional squeak of a plush toy being rolled on in someone’s sleep.
You weren’t awake yet. Not fully.
Your mind stirred before your body did—floating somewhere between dream and waking, wrapped in heavy warmth and a surprisingly steady rhythm of breath that wasn’t your own. Your fingers twitched. Something shifted against your side.
You blinked. And then you froze.
Because your head? Was not on a pillow. It was on a shoulder.
A broad, warm, flannel-covered shoulder.
And your leg? Draped over someone else’s. There was an arm around your waist.
Your heart leapt into your throat as your gaze tilted up—slowly, hesitantly, horrifiedly—to meet the sleeping face of none other than James Buchanan Barnes.
His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, hair tousled from sleep, stubble thick across his jaw. One hand rested loosely on your side, metal fingers curled like he’d relaxed into it hours ago.
You screamed internally.
Before you could even react, a chorus of chaotic giggles rang through the room.
“Buki an’ mama cuddlin’!!” Bob squealed from his little bed, hands on his cheeks like this was the most romantic moment of his tiny life.
Yelena howled with laughter, rolling back and forth in her blanket pile.
Walker blinked at you both, frowned, then burst into inexplicable tears.
Ava watched from the corner, covering her mouth with both hands as her shoulders shook in quiet delight.
Bucky jolted awake with a grunt, arm tightening around you instinctively before his eyes flew open.
He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at your leg over his. Looked at the chaos around the room.
“Are you—” he started.
“I am not cuddling you,” you snapped, scrambling away so fast you kicked off your own blanket and nearly face-planted into Bob’s pile of duck plushies.
Bucky sat up like he’d been electrocuted. “I don’t cuddle people!”
“Same!!”
Walker sobbed louder. Alexei sat up out of nowhere, disheveled and somehow holding a bag of dry cereal. “Why mama yellin’?”
“I’M NOT YOUR MOM—”
Bob crawled into your lap mid-scream and patted your face gently. “You ‘n Buki had sleep snugs.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Covered your face with both hands. Bucky groaned and dropped his head against the couch behind him.
“Kill me,” he mumbled.
Yelena threw a pillow at him. “Cuddlerrrr,” she sang.
You peeked at him between your fingers. “You drooled on me.”
He didn’t even deny it. “You kicked me in your sleep.”
Bob gasped. “You kick Buki?!”
“Okay, okay, enough,” you muttered, pulling Bob close, cheeks burning. “Everyone up. Let’s get breakfast before I disintegrate into the floor.”
As the kids scrambled to their feet and chaos began its daily resurrection, you caught Bucky’s eye one more time.
He looked away first. And maybe—just maybe—you missed the warmth.
Just a little.
There were two kinds of mornings in the Tower: the usual half-chaotic shuffle of grown adults trying to act like responsible heroes… and then mornings like this—where five pint-sized mayhem goblins were running on toddler fuel, sticky fingers, and leftover glitter from the bath bubbles.
But today? Today felt… soft.
Warm sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Tower kitchen, casting golden rays across the floor where Bob was sitting cross-legged in his duck pajamas, humming to himself and gently rocking a bottle of syrup like it was a baby. Ava leaned against your leg quietly, watching everything with big eyes. Walker had already knocked over a chair and was using it to climb the counter. Yelena was sharpening crayons for no reason again. And Alexei was running laps around the island chanting “PAN-KAKE! PAN-KAKE!” like it was a war cry.
At the stove stood Bucky Barnes.
Flour on his cheek. Hair tied back in a low bun. Wearing a navy-blue apron that read “Kiss the Cook” (you did not question where he found it). One hand expertly flipping pancakes in a skillet, the other steadying the stack already plated next to him. His face was scrunched in deep, world-ending focus.
You leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.
“Never thought I’d see the Winter Soldier making bunny-shaped pancakes,” you said with a smirk.
“Never thought I’d be this close to snapping over a missing spatula,” he muttered, flipping one like a pro. “We all grow.”
“You’re… good at this,” you admitted.
He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Did you just compliment me?”
“I’ll deny it the moment you bring it up again.”
Yelena skidded into the room, nearly wiping out, then slammed her fists onto the counter. “Buki!! My pancake has no eyes!!”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“His face!! No eyes!! You forget eyes!!” she said, holding up a bunny pancake like it had been personally insulted.
You stepped in before Bucky short-circuited. “Let’s get some blueberries, yeah? Pancake eyes, coming right up.”
Bob clapped gently from the floor. “Buki is pancake man…”
Bucky exhaled, set another perfect circle on the stack, then crouched to look Bob in the eye.
“I am pancake man,” he said seriously. “Fear me.”
Bob giggled so hard he fell sideways into your leg.
Ava tugged on your shirt. “Can I have butter on mine?”
You scooped her up effortlessly, resting her on your hip. “Butter, syrup, and maybe a little whipped cream if we’re feeling wild.”
Walker climbed onto a stool with absolutely zero grace and yelled, “I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”
Alexei crashed into him. “NO! I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”
“Okay, okay—one Tower Stack coming up,” you said, motioning to Bucky.
He saluted with the spatula like it was a mission. “Ten-layer pancake incoming.”
Within minutes, plates were passed, juice was poured (carefully), and the kitchen fell into that rarest of states: peaceful chewing. You sat with Bob on your lap, Ava pressed against your side, watching them eat like it was a feast fit for baby kings and queens. Walker had syrup in his eyebrows. Yelena had somehow acquired a second fork. Alexei was stacking mini pancake pieces into what looked like a tank.
Bucky sat across from you, sipping coffee like a man who’d seen war and made peace with it.
You caught his eye.
And for one long, quiet second—you smiled at each other.
Like, really smiled.
Then Alexei sneezed into the syrup and Yelena started sword-fighting with forks and Bob whispered, “I love you, pan-kake…” and the moment passed.
But it happened.
And it was enough.
The world, for once, had gone gentle.
No glitter explosions. No screaming for pancakes. No enchanted utensils flying across the room. Just the soft murmur of little voices—Ava humming to herself in the corner as she scribbled stars with a blue crayon, Alexei grunting in concentration as he stacked blocks that kept collapsing, Yelena hissing at Walker because he tried to eat her bear—and beneath it all, the quiet, steady rhythm of Bob breathing against your chest.
He was out cold.
His curls were damp from the bath, cheeks flushed a sleepy rose. One of his hands was balled into your shirt like he thought you might disappear. The other was loosely gripping the tail of his beloved duck plush, already halfway down your lap.
You didn’t dare move.
Bucky was sitting beside you on the couch, arms resting on his thighs, head tilted just enough to watch Bob sleep without looking like he meant to. His metal fingers tapped once against his knee before going still again.
The Tower had never felt this quiet. Not even when it was empty.
You shifted slightly to get comfortable and winced when Bob stirred, letting out a soft baby sigh and curling closer to your heartbeat.
“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing a hand over his hair.
Bucky’s voice was low, just above a murmur. “He’s really out, huh?”
“Long day,” you said, glancing at the chaos still moving across the carpet. “They wore each other out.”
“They wore us out.”
You smiled, leaning back slightly, careful not to wake the sleeping warmth curled against you. “I’m starting to think we’re the ones being trained.”
Bucky huffed a soft laugh. It wasn’t sarcastic this time. It wasn’t bitter. Just... tired. Soft.
You looked over at him.
His eyes were still on Bob.
“You’re good with them,” you said before you could stop yourself.
He blinked. Turned his head slowly, like the compliment confused him.
“You think?”
“I know.” You shifted your gaze back down to Bob. “You made pancakes for six people before sunrise. That’s not ‘good,’ Barnes. That’s heroic.”
He smiled. A real one. Small. Hidden in the corner of his mouth. But there.
For a while, you sat in silence.
Ava brought you a drawing. She didn’t say anything, just placed it gently on your lap before scurrying away. It was a crayon portrait—lopsided and sweet. A stick figure with curly hair holding a tiny blue duck, another with a big metal arm. Both surrounded by stars.
Bucky glanced over your shoulder at it. “Is that supposed to be you and me?”
You nodded. “Apparently.”
He leaned closer, just for a second. Just long enough that your shoulders brushed.
Then—
Bob let out a long, dramatic sigh in his sleep, and you both froze.
“Don’t you dare wake him,” you whispered.
Bucky held up both hands, eyes wide. “I didn’t do anything—”
“You thought too loud.”
“Okay, that’s not a real thing—”
Bob stirred again.
You glared.
Bucky shut his mouth.
And for the next ten minutes, you just sat like that. Side by side. Breathing. Watching. Holding the soft, heavy weight of a sleeping child and somehow, maybe for the first time in a long time, not feeling like the world was on fire.
Just tired.
Just... home.
It happened fast.
One moment, you were sitting on the couch with Bob in your arms and a blanket over your knees, sipping tea while Yelena braided Ava’s hair and Alexei tried to convince Walker that glue was edible. The next, your comm buzzed to life—emergency alert, priority red. No time to argue. No time to prep. Just a look exchanged with Bucky and a whispered, “It’s quick, I promise.”
Bob had started to whimper the second you stood up.
Ava froze halfway through her braid.
“Mama?” she asked, barely audible.
“Just one hour, baby,” you whispered, brushing her cheek. “Be good for Bucky, okay?”
But Bob was already clinging to your shirt. “Nooo gooo,” he whined, voice cracking. “Stayyy here, mamaaa…”
You kissed the top of his head and passed him gently to Bucky, who caught him like someone handling fragile glass.
“I’ll be right back.”
And then you were gone.
The door shut.
The elevator hummed.
The silence cracked.
And five seconds later, all hell broke loose.
Bob began to sob, small hiccupy gasps as he buried his face in Bucky’s chest. Ava’s eyes welled up, and she clutched Yelena’s arm like she might disappear too. Alexei stomped his feet, yelling “NO FAIR!” over and over again like it was a battle cry. Walker threw himself backward onto the carpet and began to scream—not words, just primal, chaotic sadness.
Bucky stood frozen in the middle of it all, holding one trembling, snotty, heartbroken child and looking like he’d just been dropped into battle with no weapons.
“Okay, okay, hey,” he said, trying to bounce Bob gently while his metal arm rubbed slow, awkward circles on the boy’s back. “It’s fine. She’s coming back. You heard her. Just one hour.”
“Mama gone,” Bob whispered against his neck.
“No, no—she’s not gone, she’s just… busy.”
“GONNNNEEEEE,” Alexei wailed from the corner, throwing a block with the force of a javelin.
Yelena’s bottom lip quivered. “Mama always go ‘way,” she said, her tiny voice accusing. “We no want you.”
That one hit harder than Bucky wanted to admit.
He sank down onto the floor, Bob still attached to his chest, and reached his free arm out toward the girls.
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, eyes softening. “I’m not her. But I’m here. And I’m trying, okay? So… help me out, would ya?”
Ava came first—quiet, hesitant, sitting at his side but not touching. Then Yelena crawled into his lap, curling against his arm with a dramatic huff. Bob had gone quiet now, his face red and puffy, but his breathing slower.
Walker was still howling into the void.
“Kid,” Bucky called. “You good?”
A loud sniffle.
“…No.”
“Fair.”
Alexei marched over and kicked Bucky in the shin.
“OW—what was that for?!”
“You not mama.”
Bucky looked at the four of them—messy, snot-covered, half-dressed, grieving the sudden loss of the woman who had somehow become their whole world.
“I know I’m not mama,” he said softly. “But she trusted me to take care of you. So let’s just… wait together, yeah?”
Walker sniffed again, then crawled up into his lap without asking. Ava rested her cheek on his knee. Yelena reached up and patted his chin like it made her feel better.
And Bob—little Bob—looked up with tear-glassy eyes and whispered, “You stay ‘til she come back?”
Bucky blinked.
Nodded.
“Yeah, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”
Bucky had never been afraid of noise. Not really. Explosions, screams, the static hiss of war and metal and memory—it was all part of the rhythm he’d learned to move through like a shadow. But this kind of noise? This relentless, high-pitched, emotionally unstable cacophony? This was not battle. This was something far more dangerous.
This was five grieving toddlers, left in the temporary care of a man whose entire emotional toolkit could fit inside a shot glass.
It was only thirty minutes since you left, but it felt like years.
The living room looked like a battlefield. Yelena had overturned the toy chest and was now guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. Bob had cried so hard he’d vomited, then fallen asleep for ten minutes before waking up even more upset. Walker had locked himself in the hallway closet and was screaming about “being brave alone,” and Alexei had somehow shattered one of the tower’s unbreakable vases and was now spinning in slow, guilty circles whispering “uh-oh” like a broken record.
Ava hadn’t spoken in twenty-five minutes. She sat curled up in the corner with a blanket over her head like she was trying to disappear.
Bucky was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him as he cradled Bob again—too tightly maybe, too unsure. He was sweating. His hair clung to his temple. His vibranium hand was trembling.
He didn’t know what to do.
He wanted to fix it, but he wasn’t you.
“You not mama,” Yelena had said earlier, and that truth had landed like a knife under the ribs.
He was not you.
And he could feel that fact with every scream, every whimper, every pair of tear-streaked cheeks that looked past him like they were waiting for someone else. Someone better. Someone that made the monsters under the bed go quiet with just a smile.
“Come on, buddy,” he murmured to Bob, who was sobbing again, clutching at Bucky’s flannel shirt with his tiny fists. “I know, I know—she’ll be back soon. Just... breathe, okay?”
But Bob just cried harder. And Bucky cracked. His head dropped to the wall behind him, eyes squeezing shut. His voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do.”
He didn’t even know who he was talking to. Maybe the ceiling. Maybe the kid in his arms. Maybe you—if the universe had any mercy left in it.
Then the elevator dinged. And everything stopped.
Bob hiccuped. Alexei froze mid-spin. Even Yelena looked up from her pillow fortress like a wild animal catching the scent of home.
And then the doors slid open. You stepped out, windswept and tired, blood on your collar and soot in your hair—but whole, alive, there.
Bob screamed first. “MAMA!!”
And the floodgates burst. He scrambled out of Bucky’s arms like he’d just been released from prison and flung himself into your legs. Yelena was next, then Ava—silent tears this time, clutching your waist. Walker emerged from the closet and ran like he hadn’t been screaming betrayal five seconds ago. Alexei just collapsed in the hallway and sobbed into your ankle.
You dropped to your knees, arms wide, heart splitting in a million soft pieces.
“I’m here, babies, I’m here—I’m so sorry, I’m here.”
They piled onto you. Limbs, snot, sniffles, joy, heartbreak. Bob climbed up into your lap and tucked his face into your neck like he’d been underwater and could finally breathe again.
You held them all. Every single one. Then your eyes flicked up.
And found Bucky still on the floor, frozen in place, his chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. You stood slowly, carefully shifting Bob onto one hip and brushing Yelena’s curls back as you walked toward him.
You crouched. “Buck,” you said softly, your hand brushing his knee.
He didn’t look up. “I couldn’t calm him down. Any of them. I tried—I tried everything. And they just kept asking for you. Because I’m not you.”
His voice cracked, rough and low, choked by something that was too big to name. You took his hand—his metal one, the one that trembled—and pressed it gently into Bob’s back.
“Yeah,” you said. “You’re not me.”
His jaw clenched. “But they still love you.” He looked up then—really looked—and something in him broke.
Bob leaned forward sleepily, still sniffling, and pressed his little hand to Bucky’s cheek.
“Buki no cry,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “You ‘kay now. Mama here.”
And in that moment—cluttered, sticky, messy, real—Bucky exhaled. And maybe, just maybe, let go.
It started with a toy hammer. Of course it did.
You were in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming while cutting strawberries and pretending like your home hadn’t been taken over by an elite squad of emotionally volatile toddlers. It was unusually quiet for a few minutes—too quiet—and you should’ve known something was brewing. Something diabolical.
From the living room: a sudden shriek.
“IT’S MINE!!” Yelena bellowed, her tiny hands gripping a plastic, glittery hammer like it was Mjölnir itself.
“No it’s NOT!” Walker snapped, eyes blazing as he tugged on the other end. “You had it all day!!”
“YOU TOUCH, YOU DIE!” Yelena shrieked.
“YOU’RE NOT MY MOM!!”
Alexei appeared from behind the couch, eyes wide. “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” he chanted like a sports commentator.
Ava sat in the corner looking deeply stressed, clutching her stuffed cat to her chest. Bob was on the beanbag, crying—not because he was hurt, but because someone sat on the red one before he did, and that was apparently a federal offense in toddler law.
Bucky stood in the hallway holding a juice box, watching the chaos unfold like he was witnessing a small civil war.
And then? The hammer snapped in half. Silence.
Walker and Yelena froze, each holding a glitter-smeared piece of plastic, stunned by the consequences of their rage. Bob’s crying reached a new octave. Alexei gasped. Ava covered her eyes.
“...Uh oh,” Walker whispered.
And that’s when Bucky stepped in.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t throw the juice box.
He just walked—slow, calm, terrifying like a thundercloud rolling in—and crouched between the warring parties, looking each child dead in the eye like they were dangerous operatives.
“Do you know what I see right now?” he asked, voice low and steady.
Yelena crossed her arms, pouting. “A winner?”
Walker squinted. “A loser?”
Bob hiccuped from the beanbag. “...Daddy mad.”
Bucky raised one brow. “I see five very lucky little gremlins who are this close—” he held up two fingers, almost touching “—to spending the rest of the day in separate corners with NO pancakes tomorrow.”
Everyone gasped.
Ava let out a horrified whisper. “No pan-kakes?”
Bucky nodded, solemn. “Not even one blueberry.”
Alexei collapsed in the background. “Nooo… my soul…”
Walker dropped the broken hammer like it burned him. “I—I didn’t mean to!!”
“She broke it!!” Yelena yelled, pointing with all the fury of a betrayed Spartan.
“You both broke it,” Bucky snapped. “And you both need to fix it. Not with glue. With apologies.”
The room was dead quiet.
Then Bob sniffled. “Can I have the red seat now?”
Bucky turned slowly. “Bob. Do you want the red seat, or the high ground?”
Bob blinked. “...Both?”
“Reasonable,” Bucky muttered.
You peeked in from the kitchen, hands still full of strawberries. “What happened—?”
“Communism,” Bucky replied flatly. “They all think the hammer belongs to them.”
You blinked. “So… Yelena and Walker fought?”
“No. They trained for war.”
Yelena shuffled forward, face pink. “Sorry I yelled. I guess we can… share?”
Walker nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I sat on the red chair.”
Bob perked up. “You said it. Now get up.”
“BOB—”
“Okay,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. We’re instituting the Rotation Chart. Everyone gets the red seat for ten minutes. Timer’s on the table. Touch it before it dings, I swear to God—”
“Will we die?” Alexei whispered.
Bucky didn’t answer. Just glared.
You laughed from the kitchen. “Papa Barnes strikes again.”
And somehow, just like that, the living room began to settle. The hammer got placed in the “fix-it” bin. The red seat rotated. Pancakes were saved.
And Bucky? He finally took a seat.
One long breath in. One sip of juice box out.
The day had been long—block tower disasters, spilled juice, at least one suspicious crayon eaten. But night brought a softness to the tower. The overhead lights were dimmed to a warm golden glow, the air was cool with a hint of lavender from someone’s diffuser (Ava, probably), and every tiny toddler was wrapped in soft pajamas like miniature plush marshmallows.
“Okay, Bob,” you said as you handed him the toy DJ keyboard that lit up and made questionably high-energy noises. “You’re on aux.”
Bob’s face lit up like he’d just been handed the nuclear launch codes. He settled in the center of the living room, pressed a few random buttons, and the air was suddenly filled with electronic bubble pop sounds and a woman’s voice yelling, “LET GO LITTLE FRIENDS!”
“YESSS!” Yelena screamed, launching herself into a spin with arms wide, her pajama top flying up over her belly.
Ava did a tiny, shy shimmy in the corner, holding her stuffed cat like a dance partner. Walker was stomping in place like a Viking toddler at a rave, and Alexei? Alexei was doing the worm. Badly. Repeatedly. On the hardwood floor.
Bucky was standing frozen in the doorway.
“Are they… raving?”
“They’re expressing joy through movement,” you said, grinning as you flicked on the glow sticks you’d snuck out earlier. “Come on, Barnes. Don’t make me outdance you.”
“Challenge accepted.”
He stepped forward, took two glow sticks from your hand, cracked them open, and tucked them into his flannel pajama waistband like makeshift swords. And then—dead serious—he moonwalked.
The babies lost their minds.
“GO BUKI!!” Bob yelled, bashing buttons on his keyboard. “GOOOO!!”
“WOOOOOO!” Yelena howled, grabbing Ava and dragging her into a spinning circle of giggles.
Alexei jumped onto the couch. “I IS DJ NOW!!” he yelled and immediately fell off the other side.
You snorted so hard you nearly choked, one hand over your mouth as you joined them all on the floor, wiggling in place with Bob clinging to your back like a sloth.
Bucky twirled past you—twirled, boss—and pointed. “We need strobe lights.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re turning into a party dad.”
He didn’t deny it. Just grabbed Yelena by the hands and started hopping in a circle with her while she screamed-laughed. Ava danced near your feet, swaying her cat gently. Bob tapped your shoulder and whispered, “Mama… dance is love.”
You scooped him into your arms. “Yes it is, baby.”
Ten minutes in, Walker collapsed mid-wiggle, gasping. “I… need… juice box…”
Alexei fell asleep on the floor with a glow stick in each hand like he was guarding the gates of Baby Valhalla.
Yelena was lying on Bucky’s chest now, curled in a sleepy tangle, eyes half-lidded.
You looked around at the mess of glowing sticks, soft music still playing, and the warm weight of Bob in your arms.
Bucky caught your gaze. He smiled.
“You think they’ll remember this?” you asked quietly.
He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Maybe not the details. But the feeling? Yeah. I hope so.”
You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from Bob’s forehead as he yawned, melting against you.
“Dance is love,” you murmured.
Bucky’s voice was soft. “And so is this.”
The tower was quiet in that strange, heavy way—where the silence didn’t feel peaceful, but like the universe was holding its breath.
You were sitting on the edge of the playroom couch, a blanket draped across your lap, Bob nestled into your side. He was chewing on the tail of his stuffed duck, eyelids fluttering, but still awake. He didn’t know. None of them did. Not yet.
The letter from Val sat on the table in front of you, its contents burned into your brain:
Formula ready. Reversal confirmed. Administer at 0700. Side effects minimal. Memory retention = 0%.
You’d read it three times. Bucky had read it once, muttered something like “goddammit,” and walked off to fix Bob’s broken toy spaceship in the kitchen with shaking hands.
Now he was standing by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring out like the skyline held answers it had no right to give.
“They won’t remember us,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Bucky didn’t turn. “Yeah.”
“Not the dance parties. Not the pancakes. Not the bath times. Not…” Your voice caught, your eyes stinging. “Not the way Bob says ‘Mama’ like it means everything.”
His jaw flexed.
You glanced down at the boy curled into your side—his lashes long and fluttering, his fingers still gripped around the stuffed duck he insisted on bringing to every room. His chest rose and fell in that slow toddler rhythm, trusting the world around him to stay the same.
He’d woken up this morning and called Bucky Dada.
It hadn’t been a game. It hadn’t been a joke. He’d said it with a sleepy little smile and a stretch of his arms and then asked, “Where Mama go?”
Bucky had frozen. You had blinked. And the whole damn day had folded in on itself like a house of cards hit by wind.
“We knew it wouldn’t last,” Bucky finally said. His voice was tight. Rough. “They’re not really ours.”
“No,” you said. “But… they were. For a little while.”
He looked over his shoulder at you.
Not annoyed. Not detached. Just… broken.
And that’s what undid you.
You pressed your hand to Bob’s back, smoothing his hair. You could feel the tears coming, building behind your eyes, hot and heavy and helpless. “We have one night,” you whispered. “One more night before they forget.”
Bucky crossed the room in slow, quiet steps. He sat beside you, his arms resting on his knees, staring down at Bob like he was memorizing the curve of his cheek, the soft puff of his breath, the innocence they’d both been lucky enough to protect.
“They saved us, too,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was faraway. “Didn’t they?”
You nodded. “More than they’ll ever know.”
A beat of silence. Then a small voice piped up.
“Mama?”
You blinked, looking down as Bob blinked blearily, his tiny fingers reaching for your sleeve. You caught them in yours.
“I’m here, baby.”
He yawned. “Why you cryin’?”
You smiled through it. “I’m just… gonna miss something.”
He nodded sleepily like he understood, though you knew he couldn’t possibly. “Can I sleep wif you ‘n Dada?”
Bucky made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a laugh—or a sob—and scooped the boy gently into his arms. Bob curled against him like he always belonged there.
You stood slowly and followed them out of the playroom, down the quiet hall, past the nursery that was still strung up with glow sticks from last night’s dance party. One of them was still faintly glowing.
When you reached your room, you pulled back the covers and let Bob crawl into the middle, where he immediately sprawled out like a starfish. His duck tucked under one arm. His other hand found Bucky’s and held on tight. You climbed in beside them.
Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His arm wrapped around you both, pulling you in close, holding like he might break apart if he let go. You stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, wondering if tomorrow would feel like grief or just a different kind of empty.
Would they wake up scared in grown-up bodies? Would they blink and not know you? Would Bob look at Bucky and call him Mr. Barnes with that stupid sarcastic smirk again?
Would Yelena roll her eyes and call you dramatic instead of curling into your side during movies?
Would Walker complain about rules instead of juice?
Would Alexei stop begging you to help him build his block fortress?
Would Ava forget the way she tucked her tiny hand into yours, without ever saying a word?
Would they all forget how it felt to be this loved?
Would you?
You didn’t sleep much that night. But you held Bob. And Bucky held you. And for one last night… they were yours.
Morning came too fast.
The sunlight spilling through the windows felt wrong, like it had no right to be soft and warm when the weight in your chest was made of stone. You’d barely slept. Bucky hadn’t either. His arm was still around you when the tower lights began to flicker on. Bob was still curled between you both, his tiny fingers locked in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt like if he let go, he’d float away.
You stayed that way longer than you should have.
But eventually… it was time.
The babies were quiet during breakfast. No giggles, no complaints, no pancake-related crimes. Ava clutched her juice cup with both hands and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Yelena picked at her food with her fork upside down. Walker was practically vibrating in his seat, and Alexei had uncharacteristically asked, “Why today feel weird?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Bucky was silent beside you, eyes distant, jaw set. Then the door opened. Val.
Black suit. Tablet in hand. Gaze a little softer than usual. “Are they ready?” she asked.
No.
They weren’t. You weren’t. But this wasn’t about you. So you nodded.
The walk to the lab was slow. You carried Ava and held Bob’s hand. Bucky had Yelena on his hip and Walker clinging to his sleeve. Alexei walked between you, unusually quiet, dragging a teddy bear across the floor.
The lab was too bright. Too clean. Too final. The table was prepped. Six tiny syringes. Labeled. Ready.
“Once administered,” Val explained gently, “they’ll begin to age in accelerated time. Physically, they’ll be back to normal in under ten minutes. Mentally… it’ll be as if this week never happened.”
Bob’s grip tightened in your hand.
You crouched beside him, brushing his curls back, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll be right here the whole time.”
He blinked up at you. His bottom lip trembled. “But… but I don’t wanna be big.”
You froze. His voice was so small, so certain. You glanced at Bucky, whose whole body had gone rigid.
“I wanna stay,” Bob said, tears welling in his eyes. “I wanna stay wif you an’ Dada. We had pancakes. I like pancakes. I like dancin’. I like... cuddles.” His voice cracked. “I don’t wanna f'get…”
Oh God. You pulled him into your arms, sinking to your knees as he sobbed into your neck. “I’m sorry, baby. I know. I know…”
Bucky was beside you in an instant, kneeling, wrapping both of you in his arms.
Bob reached for him blindly, sobbing, “Don’t wanna lose you!”
And then Ava started to cry. And Yelena, from Bucky’s side, shouted, “No! We stay! We live here now!!”
“NO MORE GROWIN’,” Walker declared dramatically.
Val blinked. “Okay, I didn’t plan for this level of resistance—”
Alexei had thrown himself on the floor. “I will die like this!! In pajamas!!!”
It was chaos. Beautiful, heartbreaking chaos. And in the middle of it, you looked at Bucky.
His eyes were red. His hand was shaking as he touched Bob’s curls.
“Can’t we keep them?” he whispered, not to Val. Not even to you. Just to the world. “Just a little longer.”
You swallowed hard, brushing a tear from your cheek. “If we do… if we wait… they’ll remember this.”
He nodded slowly.
“And if we don’t…” you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.
Val sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We can delay. A few days. Maybe a week. But after that, the effects might… compound.”
You looked at your babies—all five of them. Crying, clinging, choosing love over logic.
And for now? That was enough. You kissed Bob’s forehead.
“Okay,” you whispered. “One more week.”
The van ride to the lakehouse should have been peaceful.
It was not.
Between the trail mix fight (Walker dumped raisins in Bob’s hair and called it “war”), Yelena screaming every time they passed a cow (“THAT ONE LOOKED AT ME WEIRD!”), and Alexei singing a cursed remix of Baby Shark at top volume, you and Bucky were already on the brink by the time you hit the dirt road.
Ava was the only one quiet—head pressed to the window, blinking up at the trees like they were whispering secrets just to her. You’d reached back from the passenger seat to gently rub her knee, and she’d leaned into your touch like a sleepy cat.
Bob had insisted on sitting beside Bucky, who was driving with the patience of a monk and the dead eyes of a man on his fifteenth round of “Are we there yet?”
“We live in New York,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did we think a six-hour road trip with five toddlers was a good idea again?”
You grinned, exhaustion tucked into the corners of your eyes. “Because we’re masochists who cry over bath time hugs.”
He side-eyed you. “Shut up.”
But when Bob giggled from the backseat and whispered, “Dada say bad word,” Bucky smirked and gave your hand a gentle squeeze on the console.
And then you pulled up to the lakehouse.
The second the van doors opened, chaos spilled out like confetti.
“WOAHHHH,” Alexei screamed, racing toward the dock like it personally offended him. “WE GOTS A RIVER???”
“It’s a lake,” you corrected.
He immediately tried to bellyflop into it. Bucky caught him mid-air like a linebacker.
Yelena ran around the yard in circles screaming “MINE MINE MINE” and refusing to explain what she was claiming. Ava curled into the porch swing, sighing like she’d lived a thousand lifetimes. Walker immediately made a sword out of a stick and challenged a tree to a duel.
And Bob? Bob tugged on your shirt and whispered, “Mama… can we live here forever?”
You crouched, brushing his curls back. “We’ve got a week, baby. We’ll make it feel like forever.”
Inside, the lakehouse was still just as Tony left it—warm wood floors, sunlight pouring through the windows, faint memories still caught in the walls. You caught your breath in the kitchen for a moment, fingers brushing over an old photograph on the fridge. Tony, grinning, sunglasses crooked. Your heart twinged.
“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, leaning beside you. “You okay?”
You nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. Just… feels like he should be here, y’know?”
“He’d like this,” Bucky murmured. “You. The chaos. The kids. The secondhand glitter on your face.”
You snorted, wiping a tear. “Shut up.”
He didn’t. Just leaned in, bumped your shoulder, and whispered, “Let’s give them the best week of their tiny little lives.”
And oh, Lord—you did.
The next days were pure, chaotic magic. You built pillow forts the size of small kingdoms. You baked cupcakes that looked like disaster but tasted like heaven. Ava finally spoke—not a whisper, but a full, soft sentence: “This place feels happy.” You almost cried on the spot.
Yelena learned how to skip rocks and declared herself Queen of the Shore. Walker tried to fish using only his hands. Alexei built a “campfire” out of leaves and made everyone sit around it and “share our truths.”
Bob? Bob followed you everywhere. His tiny feet slapping against the wooden floors, his voice calling “Mama!” a hundred times a day, his laughter echoing into the trees. He slept in your arms every night, curled up like a song.
And Bucky… God. Bucky was the glue. He held them when they cried. He played rough and gentle in equal measure. He let Yelena paint his face, wore a flower crown Alexei made him, and whispered stories to Bob until the boy drifted off mid-giggle.
Every night, after the kids were asleep, you and Bucky would sit on the dock—bare feet in the water, shoulders pressed together—and watch the stars.
“You ever think about…” you’d start, but never finish.
“Yeah,” he always said anyway.
The last night came too fast. Bob climbed into your lap as the sun set pink across the lake. His head tucked under your chin, his little fingers clutching your shirt.
“Tomorrow?” he whispered.
You swallowed. “Yeah, baby.”
His voice shook. “Will I still love you? When I’m big?”
You didn’t answer right away. You just hugged him tighter. Let the tears fall into his hair.
And whispered, “I think so, sweetheart. I think some love is too big to forget.”
The sun was setting slow and syrupy, pouring golden light across the lake like it was trying to hold the day in place. Everything felt slower that evening. Softer. Like even time was taking careful steps.
You had your arms wrapped around a wriggling Alexei, trying to wrestle a jelly stain off his cheek while Yelena screamed, “I get to wear the crown! I am photogenic!”
“YOU MEAN PHOTOGENIUS,” Walker bellowed, slipping on the porch stairs because his socks were too long.
Ava was sitting cross-legged in the grass, gently placing wildflowers into Bob’s curls as he sat still and proud, whispering, “Make me pretty, like Mama.”
You pressed your lips together against the wave of emotion rising in your throat. Bucky was fiddling with the camera stand, grumbling under his breath like an old man in the body of a reluctant dad. “Where’s the damn timer button—why is this blinking red? I swear to God, if this deletes everything—”
“You good, tech support?” you teased gently, coming up beside him.
He looked up at you, squinting against the orange glow. “Do I look like Stark?”
“No. You’re taller and moodier.”
He snorted. “And apparently the father of five gremlins.”
You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You knew what this was. You both did. One last photo. One last chance to catch the moment before it slipped through your fingers.
“Okay, munchkins!” you called out, rallying the crew. “Group picture time!”
“Group hug!” Alexei screamed.
“Group MURDER!” Yelena added, because she was feral and unstoppable.
“No one is dying in this photo!” Bucky barked.
You gathered them all onto the porch steps. Yelena on Bucky’s shoulders, Ava tucked under your arm, Bob standing between you with both your hands in his, Walker doing finger guns, and Alexei holding up a stick like it was a championship trophy.
Bucky set the timer, sprinted back, and scooped Bob up into his arms right as the camera clicked.
Snap.
The light froze all of it.
Messy curls, painted fingernails, pajama pants with little ducks on them. You. Bucky. Five little lives tucked into the safety of your arms. And behind you, the lake—still and golden—like it, too, was trying to hold on.
“WE ARE A FAMILY,” Bob declared afterward, clutching the photo print like it was sacred.
“You got jelly on it already,” Ava said quietly, but didn’t take it away.
And then came the part you hadn’t prepared for.
Bob’s tiny voice, lifting up with hope too big for his little lungs. “Mama? Papa? Can we dance now?”
You blinked. “W-what?”
“Dance!” Alexei shouted. “Like you do when you think we sleep!”
Yelena gasped. “I KNEW IT! I saw Mama spin!”
Ava whispered, “I saw Papa smile.”
“PLEASE?” Bob begged, holding your hand like it was the only anchor he had. “One more? One more dance?”
You looked at Bucky. He looked at you. And both of you—still holding hands from the photo—felt your chests squeeze with something too big to name.
But no. Not yet. Not yet.
Bucky crouched down. “How about we dance tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we be big again,” Bob whispered.
And that? That broke you.
You dropped to your knees and pulled him into your chest, hugging him like he might disappear. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “Okay. One more dance. Just… not yet. We’re not ready yet.”
None of you were. So you stayed on that porch a little longer, letting the stars come out. Letting the fireflies twirl. Letting the world wait.
Because tomorrow was already breathing down your neck. But tonight? Tonight, they were still yours.
The lake was still when you woke up.
No birdsong. No wind through the trees. Just a kind of sacred quiet that came before big things—storms, endings, or in this case, goodbyes. The sun hadn’t crested over the trees yet, but the sky was beginning to glow pale and gold, the kind of light that made everything look like it was made of memory.
You were already dressed.
Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. You’d laid awake most of the night, Bob curled against your side, his tiny breaths hitching now and then like even in dreams, he didn’t want to let go.
Now, as you stood by the kitchen sink with a chipped mug full of untouched coffee, you watched the soft shapes of the trees sway gently outside and thought, I’m not ready.
Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps creaked on the old wooden floor.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside you, his hand brushing yours. You didn’t pull away.
“How long do we have?” he asked, voice quiet, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.
“Val said to be in the lab before eight.” You didn’t look at the clock. You didn’t need to. You felt the time running out.
Bucky ran a hand through his hair and nodded, jaw tight. You knew he hadn’t slept either. He’d held Yelena like she was a piece of glass all night, humming lullabies you were pretty sure he didn’t know he remembered.
“Are they still asleep?” he asked.
“For now.”
A beat of silence.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.
You swallowed hard. “We don’t have to know. We just… do it anyway.”
And so you did.
You packed what little they’d brought. Pajamas. Crayons. A bag full of pinecones Alexei had declared were “important evidence.” Yelena’s crown. Ava’s music box. Bob’s duck.
The sun was higher now. The kitchen glowed like it was made of honey. And then you went upstairs.
The nursery was warm and dim, full of soft breathing and quiet dreams. Five little forms were curled up in makeshift beds, the floor covered in blankets and stuffed animals, limbs tangled together like they couldn’t sleep unless they knew the others were close.
You knelt beside Bob first.
He stirred as soon as your hand brushed his hair, eyes fluttering open. He blinked at you for a moment, then smiled sleepily and whispered, “Hi, Mama.”
Your heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the same breath.
“Hi, baby,” you whispered back. “Time to wake up.”
Downstairs was quiet chaos. Toast and juice, Ava sitting in your lap while Bucky tied Walker’s shoes and Alexei asked why everyone looked “like they cried in their pancakes.” Yelena refused to get dressed unless her crown was on straight. You and Bucky didn’t fight it. You let them win every battle today.
Because it was the last. The drive back to the lab was quiet. Too quiet.
Bucky’s knuckles were white on the wheel. Bob was dozing in your lap again, the duck clutched to his chest. You stared out the window, but you weren’t looking at anything.
The lab was waiting when you arrived. White floors. Bright lights. The same sterile calm. Val was there. She nodded gently. Didn’t speak.
The syringes were ready. Each child got their own room. Monitored. Clean. Clinical.
You and Bucky walked them in one by one. You kissed their foreheads. You held their hands.
Walker went first. Loud until the end, fist-bumping Bucky with a watery grin.
Then Yelena, who tried not to cry and failed, sobbing into Bucky’s chest and whispering, “Don’t let me go.”
Alexei gave you his pinecone, said, “So you don’t forget me.” You told him he was unforgettable.
Ava didn’t speak. Just clung to your shirt until the last possible second, then whispered, “Thank you for letting me be loved.”
And Bob… sweet Bob… looked up at you with tear-filled eyes and said, “Will it still be you… when I wake up?”
You kissed his knuckles. “Always.”
Then it happened.
The serum worked quickly. Their little bodies shimmered with a soft red glow, like time reversing itself in fast-forward. Their limbs stretched. Their faces matured. They blinked up at the bright ceiling, no longer toddlers.
Just soldiers. Adults. Confused.
They didn’t remember. They didn’t know.
And when they filed out into the hallway—grown, sharp, strong again—it was like someone had torn pages out of your book and left you with blank paper.
Bob passed you in the hall. He didn’t even glance. And that was the moment that broke you.
You stood there, back pressed to the cold lab wall, your hands trembling, heart cracked wide and raw. Bucky stood beside you, eyes fixed on the floor, jaw locked, like if he opened his mouth, something sacred might fall out.
No one spoke. No one could.
Later that evening, you returned to the lakehouse. Just the two of you. The rooms were quiet. The toys are untouched. You stepped out onto the porch, the same porch where you danced just the night before. It was empty now. No tiny footprints. No giggles. No bedtime stories.
Just you and Bucky. And silence. You sat down slowly, your hands in your lap, your heart still beating to the rhythm of laughter that was already fading.
“Do you think they’ll remember?” you asked.
He shook his head. “No. But I think… we will.”
You leaned into him. He let you.
And together, as the porch light flickered on, you watched the sun sink into the lake and said goodbye—not with words, but with the quiet ache of two people who had held something golden for just a moment…
Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.
Word Count: 6.8k
Previous Chapter
A few days later, she ventured back to the rocky beach. No yarn this time. No hooks or half-finished projects to keep her hands busy. Just a hope and a little cloth bag swinging from her fingers.
She wasn’t sure if he’d be there. Maybe it was foolish to assume he would. Still, she went at the same hour she used to, settling on her usual perch with her coat pulled tight against the biting wind, scanning the dark water. Listening. Waiting.
But the cove remained silent.
Eventually, she stood and approached the cave’s entrance, calling his name. Her voice echoed in the air and came back empty.
Too cold to stay longer, she placed the red satchel just beyond the reach of the tide -some strawberries and an apple inside- and cast one last glance toward the waves before heading back. Her breath misted in the air as she walked, disappointed.
----
He surfaced just after dusk. The swim back had taken longer than he meant, he’d been cautious, doubling back, scanning the seafloor for any glint of metal or other trail left behind. Paranoia, maybe. But the wrong eyes had once found him too easily. He couldn’t afford that again.
He breached near the cave, glancing around. The water was quiet.
But then, something.
A flick of red caught his eye near the rocks.
Slipping closer, body low and cautious, his gaze narrowed at the small cloth bag tucked safely out of the tide’s reach. It looked soft. A human object.
He drew near and the wind shifted, and her scent hit him like a blow. He closed his hand around the bag and held it to his chest for a moment.
She had come.
And he hadn’t been here.
Inside, he found strawberries. An apple. Simple things, but they felt more personal than any grand gesture.
He looked out toward the cliff, where the shape of her cottage would be lost in the gray distance.
She had come.
And he had stayed away too long.
----
The next day, she made her way back to the rocky beach, with a cloth mat tucked under one arm, and a small thermos in her bag just in case she decided to stay a while. The weather had turned kinder, no harsh wind, and the sun timidly peeking through the clouds.
She settled into her usual spot, brushing sand and tiny pebbles off the rock before setting the mat and sitting cross-legged, scanning the shoreline with cautious hope.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Less than five minutes had passed when she saw movement in the water. Between two moss-darkened rocks, he appeared. Gliding, carefully, with his upper half rising above the water like the sea was reluctant to let him go.
She smiled, lifting her hand in greeting. She could’ve sworn -just for a second- he smiled back. A flicker, there and gone.
He didn’t come any closer than the waterline, where the shallows lapped gently against the lower half of his body. Only his human half remained exposed, gleaming wet under the muted sun.
“You’re not joining me today?” she asked, tilting her head.
Behind him, a tendril coiled upward, curling once before swaying side to side, almost like a cat’s tail twitching at the end of its patience.
“Do you want me to?” he asked, almost casually. Almost.
She opened her mouth, about to joke, but something in his expression stopped her. The way he looked at her wasn't teasing. It was... careful. As though he was bracing for the answer.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, softer now.
He didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped, shifting his shoulders slightly like the water was colder than it really was.
“What’s with you?” she pressed, “Why are you all shy now?”
A pause, then a quiet, vulnerable murmur: “Maybe after seeing me like you… you forgot what I am.”
She frowned, and her teasing vanished like mist. “Oh. Bucky.” She leaned forward slightly. “Trust me. I could never forget what you are. That’s the version of you I met. The one I got used to watching from the rocks. The real you. Why would it be different now?”
“Because I want to touch you.”
“You’ve touched me before,” she said, carefully.
His jaw flexed. “Not how I want to.”
She arched an eyebrow, hiding a flicker of thrill. “And… how do you want to touch me?”
His expression didn’t change much, but something simmered beneath it, something old and raw and sincere. “As my kin do,” he said. “I stayed at your house as a human. I did things with you, helped, sat, and shared food. But… some things felt incomplete. I want to be familiar with you but… in my way.”
He glanced away, as if ashamed. “When I left, we hugged. I liked it. But it felt incomplete. I felt like something was missing. I want to be familiar with you, like I would be with someone of my own kind. But I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” she asked gently.
His tendrils stirred behind him again, slower now, uncertain.
“I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I recognize you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Recognize me?”
“My tendrils, when they sense you, your skin, your scent… the chemical taste of you in the air…” he paused. “It’s not just information. It’s a connection, and maybe I can get carried away trying to gasp all of it. I don’t know if that might scare you,”
“Would that familiarization entail something painful?” she asked gently.
His head jerked up. “No! never hurt.”
She didn’t move for a beat, her heart tripping in her chest. His uneasiness wasn’t from rejection or shame, it was fear of overwhelming instinct.
“It wouldn’t scare me,” she said, finally. “Not if it’s you.”
He stood still for a beat, with his chest rising and falling a little faster than usual, then seemed to gather himself, and finally began to come forward, slow and deliberate, like approaching a sacred place. His lower body emerged bit by bit from the water: slick black and blue limbs unfurled under him, glistening under the pale sun as he made his way up the damp sand toward her.
She waited, sitting cross-legged on the mat, looking at him calmly. When he was only a few feet away, she offered the gentlest greeting.
"Hi," she said, warmly.
He bit his lip, tensing his jaw for a split second before he lowered himself beside her. The movement was oddly elegant: tentacles settling around them both in wide, curling spirals. They stayed still at first, but the tips twitched, swaying ever so slightly, betraying the nerves he was trying to bury.
She watched them with open curiosity, then her gaze met his. His posture was still hesitant like he was holding himself back from bolting into the sea again.
"How does this work?" she asked softly, and there was no fear in her voice, just fascination. “The sensing. I want to understand.”
He swallowed. “I just… touch your skin and… feel you,” he said. “What you’re made of, what you feel like. You leave traces… your temperature, taste, all of it. It… lingers.”
A pause.
“Want me to touch you first?” she offered.
His breath caught briefly. His eyes dropped to her hand, then back again to her face. Finally, he gave the smallest nod.
Maybe that was better. Safer.
She reached out with care. Her fingers hovered for a breath before they made contact with the thick curve of one of his limbs. It was smooth and cold, the texture almost like satin soaked in seawater. Her hand glided slowly across the surface.
“So soft,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
He inhaled sharply. Not startled, but reactive. Like that small contact had sent something cascading through him he didn’t expect.
Encouraged, she let her hand trail lower, beneath the limb, until her palm met the underside, where two rows of suction cups twitched in anticipation.
“You said you sense with these?” she asked, meeting his gaze, searching for any sign she should stop.
He gave a short, curt nod. His whole body seemed tense with restraint now, like he was bracing against something internal.
She pressed her palm gently against the cups.
There was no immediate suction, just the delicate shifting of the muscle beneath, a subtle, almost shy pull against her skin. As if it were testing her shape.
And then two of the cups latched, gently, and released.
His breath caught audibly.
She didn’t move away.
"That tickled," she said with a soft laugh, watching the way the soft suckers twitched along the underside of his tentacle. Her voice broke the silence between them, but not the tension.
Encouraged by her reaction, he repeated the motion. The cluster of suction cups pulsed and flexed with deliberate care, touching her palm again, this time with full contact.
That brief, simple action was enough.
Her scent flooded him, clean skin, faint traces of citrus from her soap, or maybe the fruit she’d eaten that morning. Her warmth bled into his touch through the delicate skin of his limb. Her taste came next, something his kind would know as identity.
He shuddered.
The tentacle glided slowly, reverently, up her forearm under her sleeve, each cup engaging in turn, gripping lightly, then releasing. Some suctioned harder than others, tugging at her flesh in faint pulses like he could drag more information from each small patch of skin. Soft and strong, rhythmic and controlled… until it wasn’t.
He was too immersed, too hungry for input.
Her breath hitched and then came the sharp little yelp. “Hey!”
She startled, trying to pull her arm back, and the spell shattered.
He released her immediately, tucking the tentacle close to his body instinctively as it had bitten her. Which, in a way, it had.
She stared at her arm with wide eyes. A trail of faint marks dotted her forearm, already beginning to fade, but visible against the chill-raised skin.
“Well,” she said after a pause, half-laughing as she rubbed the marks with her free hand, “that felt like you were giving me a hickey.” She looked up at him with raised brows, clearly expecting a reaction. “There are better spots for those,” she added playfully.
The joke passed right through him. He didn’t respond.
Because he was horrified.
He stared at her arm with wide eyes. Her skin was marked. Marked. He knew human bodies didn’t change color as he did. If they did… it meant they were hurt. That they bruised, that they bled. His gut twisted.
“I-” he started, “I didn’t mean-”
“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, sensing the shift in him. Her smile dimmed, not out of fear, but because she could see how fast he’d retreated inward. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’ve had worse from kitchen cabinets and sneaky coffee tables. See? There is nothing, it went away.”
But he barely seemed to hear. He was pulling away, not physically, but mentally, and emotionally, curling into guilt like a wave withdrawing from the shore.
He hadn’t meant to be rough. He’d wanted, wanted her scent, to feel her, wanted to understand her in his way, as his kind did. And he’d gotten carried away.
Her hand reached out, gently circling his wrist, trying to calm him.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, he did.
“I’m okay. I promise.” Her voice softened. “Want to try again?”
She offered it like a gift, unafraid. But he didn’t reach for it. Didn’t reach for her. If anything, his body tensed in subtle retreat. Like he was already halfway back into the sea.
Her shoulders fell with a sigh.
So she reached out instead.
Her hand found his, cool and damp, curling her fingers gently around his palm. She gave it a squeeze.
“Hey,” she said, searching his gaze. “What happened to the grumpy sea cat that didn’t give a damn?”
His brow furrowed. “I’m not- What is a cat?”
That startled a laugh from her. “Nevermind.”
She waited a moment before lifting their joined hands a little. “Do I feel nervous to you? Afraid?”
He shook his head slowly. “No.”
“Then touch me again.”
His throat worked as he swallowed, parting his lips as if to argue, but the words never came.
“Another time,” he said at last.
“Bucky-”
“You don’t understand. I could get... lost in it.”
She tilted her head. “And what if I want to be found in it with you?”
That made his eyes snap to hers, startled.
You don’t have to be afraid for me. If anything happens, I’ll tell you to stop. But I trust you. And I know you want to do it again.”
“I do,” he admitted, almost in a whisper.
“Then do it,” she mumbled.
Still holding her hand, he shifted, and one tendril -thicker, darker near the base- slid across the sand and up beneath the hem of her sweater, gliding along the curve of her waist.
She gasped softly. “Oh. Okay. Someone feels adventurous.” A shiver trailed up her back. “And cold.”
His eyes fluttered closed, and his jaw slackened just slightly as the suckers latched onto her skin in a pattern that wasn’t random. There was intent behind each touch, drawn out, searching, collecting her. The tendril flexed and curled, dragging back and forth against her skin in a slow rhythm, and the motion made her breath stutter.
He tilted his head, parting his lips, brushing his tongue against the edge of a canine, like the sensation pulled something physical from him as it tasted like more than just her.
She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even think of pretending to be unaffected. Not when his face looked like that, concentrated, absorbed, straining for control even as his body acted with instinct.
Her thoughts weren’t where they should’ve been. Not for an innocent reunion. Not in the open. But the heat spreading in her cheeks -and lower- didn’t care much for propriety.
“S–so?” she managed to squeak, slightly higher than she intended.
He opened his eyes, slow and heavy-lidded, and there was something wild behind them now. Something ancient and hungry and confused by its own longing.
His voice came out husky. “You taste… beautiful.”
She blinked, and her heart fluttered hard in her chest. “That’s… not something I’ve ever been told before,” she said, trying for lightness, but her voice trembled a little.
The tendril still rested around her waist, unmoving now, its suckers gently released, one by one, leaving behind only the faintest impressions on her skin. His hand was still in hers, large and cool, his fingers twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to hold tighter or let go.
He seemed to catch himself then -like surfacing from a deep place- and slowly, with visible effort, pulled the limb back and curled it against his side.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, dropping his gaze again.
“You didn’t. It was... quite the experience"
His hand stayed in hers a moment longer, before slipping away slowly.
She adjusted her sweater with a small tug but didn’t move farther. Her eyes were still on him, curious and calm. Not flinching, or pulling away.
That didn’t help.
Or maybe it did, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was the low, aching thrum beneath his skin. A want that went beyond just touch. It crawled deeper, into instinct and memory, into everything he hadn’t let himself want for too long.
He swallowed hard, flickering his gaze down to her collar, her throat, the delicate rise and fall of her breath. His fingers twitched in his lap. The appendages at his back shifted and flexed in the sand as he tried to center himself, some curling, some spreading in frustration.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently.
He looked up at her. Her voice cut clean through the haze of want. He nodded, a little too quickly.
“I just…” He looked away, jaw tight. “I’m still feeling.”
She tilted her head, tucking her knees under her. “Do you always feel this much when you do that?”
He exhaled slowly. “No. With you...” His voice dropped even lower. “It’s like… everything I take in makes me want to take more.”
A breeze moved between them, cool and sharp against his damp skin.
She didn’t lean away.
“I guess I should take it as a compliment,” she said after a beat, smiling faintly. “But you don’t have to hold back so hard. I won’t break.”
“I don’t want to ruin what’s… gentle between us.”
She blinked, taken aback for a second. That sentence… something in the way he said it made her heart pinch.
“Well,” she murmured, “I don’t think you could.”
That made something inside him still.
One of his tentacles crept forward, slowly, cautious as a breath. It hovered just short of her knee, unsure. Testing. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But after a beat, he slowly lowered it again, laying the appendage on the sand beside her instead.
“Talk to me,” he said, his voice a little rough.
“About?”
He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting away again.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I can do that.”
So she did. About nothing at first. About how the tide had reached higher than usual last week. About the gull she saw stealing someone’s sandwich and flying off victoriously toward the cliffs. And then, with a little smile curving her lips, she added, “I had fun when you visited.”
“Fun?” His brow furrowed.
She laughed under her breath. “It was gratificating.”
He looked a little sheepish. “I misbehaved. You got angry.”
Right. That.
“I know you didn’t do that on purpose. You told me,” She said gently. “It was kind of fun, showing you bits of my life. And, I got to cut someone’s hair for the first time. That’s not something I expected.”
He scrunched his nose and lifted a hand to tug lightly on one of his damp strands, inspecting the ends. “Your hair doesn’t grow?”
She stifled a laugh. “Pfft, no, it does. But some people cut and style hair for you, as a job.”
He blinked, clearly processing that. “We don’t… not like that. We just cut it with knives. Or sharp stones. Or shells.”
“I figured,” she said with a playful squint. “Now that you mention knives…”
His shoulders went stiff. A flicker of tension ran through his body, echoed in the subtle twitch of his closest tentacle.
“Do your kin use tools?” she asked gently, careful not to let her curiosity sound like an interrogation. “I mean, clearly you do weapons, since-”
She pointed, just lightly, to the faint scar that still cut across his side.
His eyes followed her hand, then dropped away, the memory darkening his face for a moment.
“But I mean… other things. Normal things.”
He curled his fingers in the sand beside him, considering.
“We make things when needed,” he said finally. “Blades, spears. We shape coral into bowls, carve driftwood, and sometimes string things with seaweed threads. But we don’t keep much. The ocean takes back anything not used.”
She nodded slowly, picturing it. “So, survival tools. Things with purpose.”
“Yes.”
She glanced at him sideways. “Not even something pretty? Just for the sake of it?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “Sometimes the shells are shaped… nicely. We pass those to small ones. Or wear them on cords. But if it has no use, it is lost eventually.”
“So… not jewelry,” she said, tilting her head.
“There are some who wear what’s found on sunken ships,” he admitted. “Shiny metal. Stones. They wrap them around their necks or arms.”
“I take it you don’t?”
He gave a faint shake of his head. “Things like that bring attention.”
Her eyes slid pointedly to his left arm. “You have a tattoo, though.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
There was a beat of silence.
“Every adult male has one.”
Her brows lifted. “Like a rite of passage?”
“Something like that.” He shifted slightly, tracing a small groove in the sand with one clawed finger. “The ones who have ink marks are the ones who can mate.”
Oh.
“And you got it with age?”
He shook his head. “You bring proof of your strength. Something you hunted. A jest. You offer it to the witch, who marks the skin in proportion to what you did.”
Her brows lifted slightly, drifting her gaze again to the intricate ink covering his entire arm and curling over the round of his shoulder. “So… the bigger the mark, the bigger the feat?”
He inclined his head in a slow nod.
“So, is yours… the expected size?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
There was the briefest pause, then he tilted his head, and something unmistakably smug passed through his expression.
“They usually don’t pass the elbow,” he said, with a low voice edged with pride.
Her mouth parted slightly, then curved into a wry smile. “Well… I guess that makes you quite the catch.”
He blinked, then frowned faintly. “I’m not a-“
“It’s an expression,” she laughed softly. “A compliment.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “Then… thank you.”
Her gaze traced the ink over the dark whorls etched into the skin, part tribal, part something older, curling like tide patterns. Without thinking, she reached out and let her fingers hover just above it.
“Can I…?” she asked, already brushing the tips of her fingers lightly across the design.
His breath caught -just a fraction- but he didn’t move away.
Her touch was gentle, and slow, tracing the raised edges of the tattoo. The texture surprised her. Not just a visual pattern, but something tactile, layered.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
His eyes had gone half-lidded, but they never left her hand. His muscles clenched slightly under her fingers, not from discomfort, no. From restraint.
She followed a looping curve toward his shoulder, not knowing the path of her touch mimicked an old gesture, a courting touch, one that in his world meant intention. Interest. Trust. Desire, too.
“You’re… breathing differently,” she noticed aloud.
“You’re touching a mating mark,” he said quietly.
Her hand froze, mid-stroke.
“Oh.”
But he didn’t pull away. And she didn’t either.
“I didn’t mean- I just thought it just was-” she faltered.
“I know,” he said. “You didn’t know. Again.”
The moment stretched.
“Again?” she asked, already starting to withdraw.
“You… already gave your neck. And now your hand.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry, that sounds like I’m proposing to you and I don’t even know what it means.”
He looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. “It means something. But it’s not binding. Not unless… you keep doing it.”
She lowered her hand, resting it against her knee, with her heart thudding.
“I’ll try not to accidentally seduce you again, then.”
That earned her a real smile, small, but there.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.
She was still watching him out of the corner of her eye, unsure whether to laugh off his comment or run with it under her arm. But before she could say anything, he shifted, and his tentacle’s tips curled slowly against the sand like he was working something out in his head.
Then, softly “What do your kind do, when they want to bond?”
She turned fully toward him, blinking. “Bond? You mean like… relationships?”
He nodded. “Yes. That.”
She hummed, thoughtful. “It depends. Some people date, which is like… trying to figure out if you want to be with someone you met. Some stay friends and slowly become something more. Some just… fall in love and decide they want to stay together.”
“Fall,” he echoed. “You fall into it?”
She smiled at his puzzled frown. “It’s just a saying. It means you don’t always see it coming. One day, you look at someone and you know, oh. It’s them.”
He was quiet for a moment, still furrowing his brows.
“Is there… a mark? A ritual?”
She tilted her head, considering. “Sometimes. For us, it depends on the culture. A lot of people marry, which is kind of like a formal bond. There’s usually a ceremony, vows, rings, witnesses. You stand up in front of people and promise to stay together.”
He frowned slightly. “So others must see it happen?”
“Usually, yeah. Not always. Some do it alone or just sign a paper. But the idea’s the same, it’s a public choice. A promise.”
“A performance,” he murmured, half to himself.
She smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But it means something. At least, when it’s done for love.”
He nodded slowly. “So no mark on the body. No blood drawn. Just… rings?”
She lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Sometimes. On this one.”
His tentacles shifted in the sand again, subtle, like ripples beneath still water.
“And if someone touches you where the ring should go?” he asked.
She gave a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Then they might be flirting.”
That pulled a look from him, eyes slightly narrowed, confused, and intrigued.
“Still, it’s not the place of the ring, per se. It’s the way someone touches you that’s considered flirting.”
He huffed softly, not quite a laugh. “So many rules,” he murmured, flicking his gaze back to her hand as it moved.
She shrugged, with a little smile tugging at her mouth. “We’re more complicated than your people.”
He watched her for a long second, and the corner of his brow twitched, but he said nothing.
The silence stretched between them, loaded.
“Did you eat the fruit?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the quiet.
He gave a short nod. “Yes.”
“Slowly, or you just-”
“It didn’t make me feel bad after,” he cut in quickly, defensively, as if bracing for disapproval.
She suppressed a grin. “I wasn’t judging.”
He blinked, then looked away, as if embarrassed by the outburst.
A moment passed.
Then he looked back at her. Something was searching in his gaze, something almost... resolved. He straightened a little. “Have your bag. I’ll go get it.”
She waved a hand, casually. “It’s not necessary. You can give it to me another time.”
But he was already turning purposefully, without another word, and sliding back toward the water.
She watched him go, shaking her head. Alone again, she let out a slow breath, glanced around, and then lifted her sweater, peeking at the spot where his tendril had touched her. Her skin was unmarked.
When he returned, his hair was damp, clinging to the sides of his face, and water dripped in lazy trails down his naked chest. He held her bag twisted in both hands, wringing it out with care before offering it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, reaching out. But the moment her fingers curled around the strap, she felt it, the weight inside.
Curious, she began to open it, but his hand darted out. He caught her wrist, gently, closing his cool fingers around her flesh with enough pressure to pause her.
“Later,” he said, his voice a little lower now.
Her brows rose. “Uh…”
His gaze skittered away, as if unsure how to explain. “Open it at your house.”
She watched him for a beat, her smile slowly spreading. “Oh? Like a surprise?”
He nodded once, stiff, like admitting that made him vulnerable.
“Well, thank you,” she said, shifting the bag into her lap. “You didn’t have to give me anything.”
“You bought me clothes,” he said, flicking his eyes to hers and then down again. “And crunchy fish.”
She laughed softly. “It wasn’t necessary to reciprocate, Bucky. But… thank you again.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’ll look at it at home.”
He saw her shiver, her shoulders giving a subtle twitch beneath her coat. A small frown formed on his brow.
“Go home,” he said quietly.
She quirked a brow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
He shook his head once, firm. “You’re cold.”
“I can stay a little longer,” she said, brushing off his concern with a wave of her hand.
He shifted, and the ends of his tentacles curled slightly against the rocks as if unsettled. “You’ll get sick again,” he muttered. “You’re… weak.”
“Hey!” She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “That was harsh. I’m not going to get sick from a little chill. I get sick like any human, just my symptoms are just a little worse, that’s all.”
He looked away, clearly regretting his choice of words. “I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant.” Her tone softened. “Just… work on phrasing.”
He gave a slow nod. Then, quieter: “Tomorrow. You can come earlier when the sun’s higher.”
She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes with mock suspicion. “Tomorrow, huh? Is that an invitation?”
A flush crept over his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, brushing the rock beside him with the tip of his fingers. “You were going to come anyway,” he murmured, trying to deflect.
----
She stayed by the rocks longer than she should have, with her hands tucked into her sleeves and her breath visible in the cooling air. But eventually, the wind picked up. The light dimmed. And she still had things to take care of.
So she said goodbye with a soft smile and slung the cloth bag over her shoulder as she headed back up the path.
By the time she reached home, she shrugged out of her coat and carried the satchel straight to the table. Then, she untied the knot and opened it, expecting… she didn’t know what.
But not this.
Four large pearls, luminous and warm-toned, sat nestled together in the folds of the fabric. Their soft peach hue glowed even under the dim kitchen light, catching hints of pink and gold as they shifted.
They looked like they belonged to a museum. Or an auction house. But there they were, sitting in the bag she’d used for groceries and fruit as if he’d gathered them like wildflowers and thought she might like them.
She reached out, running the tip of her finger along one pearl. It was cool and impossibly smooth. Each one was unique in shape, imperfect in a way that made them more beautiful.
But that wasn’t all.
Beside them, nestled with just as much care, were two conch shells. They were smaller, polished by time and sea, their curved surfaces were silky smooth and speckled with tiny brown dots. She ran a thumb along the edge of one, marveling at its texture, and the delicate spiral.
The pearls were priceless, true treasures from the ocean’s depth, the kind collectors paid fortunes to acquire. And yet… he’d placed the conches right alongside them like equals, no less important, no less offered. And somehow, that made the whole gesture feel even more intimate.
She let out a slow breath, touched in a way she couldn’t quite explain. To him, these weren’t just beautiful objects. They were tokens. Offerings. Chosen and given with care.
And she’d felt the weight of them in her hands.
With a small smile, she closed the bag again and held it to her chest, and then, tucked the pearls and one of the conch shells beneath a loose wooden plank in the kitchen floor, the one Arthur had once called his “secret savings place,” back when the house was his.
She left the other shell on a table next to the window. She already had plans for it.
Still moved by his gift, she poured herself a generous mug of milk coffee, the kind she made when she needed comfort and focus, and sat down with her half-finished projects. There was a lot to do, but her hands refused to cooperate.
Her gaze kept drifting to the conch on the table.
And from there, it was a short trip back to the beach.
To the way his tendril had wrapped around her waist, snugly and deliberately. To the way his suckers had pulsed against her skin, curious, careful, sensing her like no one ever had. To the look on his face, with his parted lips and eyes fluttered shut like he’d been drinking in something sacred.
It should’ve unsettled her. Maybe it had, at first. But the longer she sat thinking about it, the more her skin remembered the touch, and the more honest she had to be with herself.
It had been... enticing.
And she found herself wondering. Wondering how it would feel to have more of him touching her like that. Exploring. Suckling. Moving across her body with the same gentle hunger he’d shown at her waist.
Before she even noticed, her breath had gone shallow, and her panties were damp with heat.
She buried her face in her hands.
Was that normal? -no- Was it even possible to…
She shook her head, trying to will the thoughts away.
Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe it was his way of bonding, the way his people expressed trust. Maybe the gift was just gratitude, for the clothes and the fried fish, as he said.
But still… the way he’d looked at her in the general store. The way his body had blocked hers, how he'd moved between her and everyone else. That hadn’t felt friendly. That had felt-
Something else.
Possessive. Protective.
And that gift itself. Not just pretty tokens. They were rare. Beautiful. And she didn’t think he would’ve given them to just anyone. Her cheeks burned as she leaned back in her chair, pressing her palms against them.
Great. Now she was a weirdo fantasizing about a tentacled man.
Then again... from his side, she was the strange one. The one with “too much missing,” as he’d once put it. Fragile. Loud. And yet he looked at her like she was something worth seeing.
----
He floated low in the deepest pool of his cave, with his arms slack at his sides, and the tentacles splayed and heavy beneath him, curling faintly with each rise and fall of the water. His stomach was full, he’d hunted well earlier, a large fish, but the satisfaction hadn’t lasted.
Because his hunger wasn’t the kind that food could satiate.
Touching her had been a mistake. He’d known it would be. Knew it from the first second her hand brushed his skin, from the moment her voice dipped soft and coaxing with trust. And yet he had reached for her anyway.
Now he was paying for it.
He gritted his teeth and let his head loll against the cave wall, fluttering his eyes shut as he worked himself with rough, efficient strokes below the surface. Just enough pressure to drag the ache out of his body. Just enough friction to keep her scent alive in his mind.
She was still on him.
Her texture, her warmth. Her sweet skin that made his suckers twitch with craving. The ghost of her waist under his limb, the pulse he’d felt just beneath her surface. That delicate sound she made -half laugh, half gasp- when he grazed her with his cups. The noise hadn’t left his ears since.
It shouldn’t be like this. Not with a human.
Never in all his years -before the captivity or after- had he even thought to crave one. He used to mock Steve for it. Mocked the others who dared to chase that kind of soft, forbidden bond with land-walkers. Foolish, he’d thought. Dangerous. Weak.
Now look at him. Hiding in a pool like a feral pup, panting into the dark and rutting into his own palm over a human woman.
His hand moved faster, almost angry.
He hissed low through his teeth as the heat pooled in his gut. She’d be so small under him. So warm. And her softness -stars, her softness- he could maneuver her like nothing, press her down or hold her still while he tasted every inch of her body.
She’d feel everything.
So tight around him, trying to take it.
Body clenching-
The groan that escaped him was low and guttural, muffled by the water as his body seized with release. Muscles clenched, tentacles recoiled, and for a moment he felt as though the world narrowed to that one blinding pulse of pleasure.
Then-
Shame followed, sharp and immediate. He curled tighter, with one arm thrown across his eyes, and his chest rising and falling unevenly.
What the hell was he doing? He looked at the evidence of his actions swirling in the water and scowled, dragging himself to another pool. The tide will take care of it later.
----
Days came and went, carried by tides and wind. He stayed away from the cave mouth longer and sank deeper into the depths after each visit with her. And yet, no matter how far he retreated, she remained. In his thoughts. In his skin. In the taste that memory alone couldn’t erase from his mind.
She still came to the shore. Not every day, but often enough. As the weather cooled, she stopped bringing her yarn and projects, no longer setting up camp near the rocks with her bag and her tools. She simply came to sit, to chat, to exist beside him. She never asked why he didn’t touch her with his limbs again. Spoke gently. Stayed within reach, but never crossed that invisible line he’d drawn.
He kept his distance. Not in presence -he still came to her when he could, especially when the sea turned rough and rains swept over the coast- but in touch. No more curling tentacles. No more suckers on her skin. Only his hands now, brief and careful and human. Safer.
It should have dulled his hunger. But somehow, it made it worse.
In her little home, he learned things he never knew he wanted to know. She showed him movies, flickering light and color and drama on a screen that made his eyes narrow and his questions pile up. She told him stories, short ones, with simple morals or whimsical endings. And then asked about his.
So he told her. The old ones. The dark ones. The ones with blood and hunger and truths too heavy for children.
When he took his human form, he let himself get closer. Sat beside her on the couch, sometimes so close their knees bumped and neither moved. He helped her with little tasks and always, always ended up brushing against her. A shoulder. A back. Fingers grazing as they reached for the same thing.
She never pulled away.
One afternoon, sleepier than he meant to be after eating a questionable amount of food, he let himself sink down beside her on the couch. She was warm and soft and calm in that way that made him forget he didn’t belong in places like this. When she gently offered her lap, patting it, he hesitated only a moment before curling in, resting his head just above her knees.
He breathed her familiar scent deeply and exhaled slowly against her thighs.
Her fingers found his hair, warm and soothing. She threaded them slowly through his locks like she had all the time in the world just to touch him. And he let her. Closed his eyes. Let the tension bleed from his limbs. He hadn’t realized how starved he was for that kind of contact, not just closeness, but care.
It was his undoing.
Because after that day, every time he visited, he found himself looking for reasons to be near her. To help with something, to lean in, to shift close enough that the offer might come again. And it did. Again and again, until there was no need for excuses. No more tentative asks. He would simply wait for her to sit, and then fit himself into the space she made for him, laying his head in her lap, letting the warmth of her body cradle him, and her fingers work through the strands of his hair until everything else faded.
But then spring came.
And his visits thinned.
They met on the beach again, like they had before, with the wide sky above them and the sound of waves between them. But something had shifted. With the change in season came back the distance, the restraint. He didn’t rest his head on her anymore. He didn’t reach for her unless it was necessary. As though winter had never happened.
She wasn’t foolish, she noticed the change immediately. The absence of contact, and the silences that stretched just a little too long. And it hurt. She debated bringing it up, asking outright what had changed. But the fear of making him retreat further kept the words sealed behind her lips.
