Welcome to the Sweetheart's Suite! I hope you enjoy your stay, I'm just so proud of my design!
It's important to remember this hotel is strictly 18+ mdni! This show is not family friendly, folks!
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Room 310(b.b) Room 124(ouabh) (room being serviced)
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We maintain a few easy-to-follow ground rules here at Sweetheart Suite, all we ask is that you treat others with respect, including the writer(hi).
Bullying/discriminating of any kind is not sweetheart behavior, take that ish elsewhere!
Okay, fine, I'll stop talking nonsense... come back for another taste!
disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or any referenced plot lines. These stories are mine though and I do not consent to them being reused or copied.
spiderman brand new day and the importance of care. mj not loving peter due to not knowing him, but still caring about him enough to invite him up, to draw him, to send frank to watch him, to give him advice and be concerned. ned not remembering what spiderman means to him, but trying to find him anyway to thank him. frank worrying about this kid who is determined to save everybody he possibly could. peter caring about jean grey, taking a bullet for her despite almost all his interactions with her being antagonistic, because she exists, and she deserves so much better. jean crying over peter getting shot, because he was kind and promised to be there for her and made good on that promise immediately, even though she ended up there because of him. new york and their care for spidey.
peter parker and his care for everybody- his family, his friends, people he has never met, people who have continually tried to hurt him.
spiderman: brand new day and the importance of care of any kind.
summary: you've been observing your neighbor peter ever since he moved in 4 years ago. hes quiet. smart. painfully nice. oh and hes also spiderman- not that you were going to let on that you knew. not until the noises of a man in pain next door got too much for you to ignore.
warnings/tags: porn w some plot, brand new day era peter!, spoilers equivalent to watching the trailer, smut (oral f receiving, being tied webbed up, rough sex, very much dom! mean! peter, multiple orgasms, squirting, bruising, aftercare) neighbors to something
a/n: zendaya pls dont fight me for this
masterlist // join the taglist
You were stretched out on the couch in a pair of old shorts and a hoodie that you couldn't remember where it'd came from. The TV murmured some mindless afternoon show you weren’t really watching. Outside, Queens hummed its usual Sunday quiet—distant traffic, a dog barking two streets over, the low thrum of the city that never fully slept.
Then the noise hit.
A sharp, wet crack followed by something heavy slamming into a wall hard enough to rattle the shared plaster between your apartments. Glass shattered. A low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to any human throat bled through the wall, half-growl, half-pain.
You were on your feet before the last echo died.
Four years of living next to Peter Parker had taught you the difference between him being clumsy and him being in trouble. You barely knew him after all this time living next to each other. You knew that you liked him. Knew that when you'd both come home late at night— meeting in the shared hallway— you always noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand as he opened his apartment door.
You knew about the man behind the mask.
You didn’t bother knocking. The knob turned under your palm and the door swung open on a scene that made your stomach drop.
Webbing.
It coated everything. Thick, glistening strands stretched from ceiling to floor, across the kitchen counters, over the cracked television, wrapping the furniture like a cocoon spun by something frantic and enormous. The air was heavy with that sharp, organic scent of fresh silk and something darker underneath—sweat, adrenaline, the copper edge of blood.
Peter was on the far side of the living room, collapsed against the wall. His hands frantically covered his ears, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern. The familiar blue-and-red suit was shredded across his torso, torn open like something had clawed its way out from the inside. More webbing leaked from his wrists in uncontrolled pulses, sticking to the floor, the walls, his own skin. His fingers flexed and the strands thickened, twitching like living things.
“Peter—”
His head snapped toward you so fast it was almost inhuman.
The eyes that met yours weren’t fully his anymore.
The whites had darkened, pupils blown wide. When he spoke, his voice was rough, layered, like two people trying to use the same throat.
“Stay back.”
You didn’t.
You stepped carefully over a thick strand of webbing that still quivered on the floor. “What- What's happening to you?”
A humorless laugh scraped out of him. One hand mover to press against his temple, webbing still dripping from his wrist in lazy, involuntary strands. “Should've heard you come in. Everything is so fucking loud.”
His gaze flicked over you—hooded, assessing, too sharp. Something hungry and not entirely human lived behind those eyes now. You watched him fight it, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.
“You knew,” he said quietly. Not a question. “About the suit. And you didn't say anything? How long?”
“Long enough.” You kept your voice steady even as another thick strand of webbing shot from his wrist and slapped wetly against the wall beside your head. “Saw you swinging back into your place one night when I couldn't sleep. I never said anything because you clearly needed the secret. But this? This is different.”
Peter pushed off the wall. The movement was too fluid, too many joints working in ways human joints shouldn’t. He stopped a few feet from you, chest rising and falling hard. The torn suit hung off him, exposing pale skin.
“I don't know what's happening,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Instincts. Hunger. Everything feels… louder. Stronger. I almost put my fist through the wall earlier because the neighbor’s music was too much. And the webbing—” He lifted his hand— more silk poured out, wrapping around his own forearm in tight, pulsing coils. “I can’t stop it. It’s like my body is rewriting the rules without asking me first.”
You took another step closer. The air between you felt charged, thick with the scent of him.
“Then let me help,” you said. “You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed, the reflective sheen catching the light. For a second the man you knew was still there—the awkward, brilliant, exhausting friend who’d spent years pretending he was just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. Then something deeper stirred, and the look he gave you turned heavier, more intent.
“You barely know me. You shouldn’t be this close,” he warned, but he didn’t move away. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. And right now every instinct I’ve got is telling me to—”
He cut himself off, throat working.
Peter moved.
Not the familiar, slightly awkward steps you’d watched from afar for years. This was something else entirely—low, fluid, predatory. He circled you in a slow arc, bare feet silent on the web-slick floor, head tilted just a fraction too far. Those dark, reflective eyes never left your face. The torn suit clung to him in ruined strips, and every step made fresh silk drip from his wrists in lazy, glistening threads that stuck to the hardwood like living things.
“Get out.”
The words came out layered, rough, almost a snarl. He stopped a few feet away, shoulders rolling like he was fighting the urge to drop lower. “I’m serious. Walk out that door right now.”
You stayed exactly where you were.
“I’m not scared of you.”
A sharp, humorless sound left his throat. He stepped closer. The air between you thickened with the scent of him. His nostrils flared once, deliberate.
“Liar.”
Another step. He was inside your space now, close enough that you could see every vein, every scar, every time one of his muscles twitched. When he spoke again, the voice was quieter, meaner.
“I can feel it. Your heart’s hammering. Pulse jumping right there—” His eyes dropped to the side of your throat. “And that smell.” He inhaled again, slower this time, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re getting wet. Standing in the middle of my apartment like a defiant brat while I turn into a monster. You’re fucking dripping for it.”
Heat flooded your face. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The longer he circled, the worse it got—every predatory shift of his body, every dark glance, every warning he threw at you only made the ache between your legs sharper.
Peter’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t a smile.
“Look at you. So much time of being the careful, quiet neighbor and the second I start turning into something that wants to eat you, your body decides it’s the hottest thing it’s ever seen.” He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted over your ear. “You’re not scared of me. You’re desperate for me. That’s so fucking pathetic. And so fucking hot.”
You swallowed. “I still want you. Not just this— the real you.”
The admission landed heavy between you.
For half a second the familiar Peter flickered back into his eyes—the one who you could hear through the walls tinkering away at two in the morning. Then the arachnid thing surged again and his expression went sharp, almost cruel.
“You want this?” He gestured at himself with a web-slick hand—the torn suit, the dark eyes, the silk still pulsing from his wrists in uncontrolled strands. “You want this version of me that looks at you and only sees prey? That wants to wrap you up and keep you?”
He took another step. You backed up on instinct and your shoulders hit the wall. He didn’t give you space. One hand planted beside your head. The other hovered near your hip, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab.
“I can smell how bad you want it,” he murmured, voice dropping into something filthy and low. “Your cunt’s practically begging. All that wetness just sitting there, waiting for something dangerous to notice. And I’m noticing, sweetheart. I’m noticing real fucking hard.”
His free hand finally settled at your waist, not quite gripping, just resting there with dangerous weight.
“I’m trying,” he said, and for a moment the struggle was clear in his face—jaw clenched, eyes flickering between human and something darker. “I’m trying so hard not to take what you’re offering. Because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And you—” His gaze dragged down your body, lingering openly between your legs. “You’re standing here like you want me to fail.”
He leaned in until his mouth was almost against yours, breath hot, voice pure filth.
“So tell me again you’re not scared. Tell me while your thighs are pressing together and your pulse is screaming for me to pin you to this wall and find out just how wet you can get for the monster next door.”
The webbing under his hand pulsed once, tightening against the plaster.
Peter’s control was slipping by the second.
And he was still right there, waiting to see if you’d push him over the edge.
“I’m not scared of you.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. The words had barely left your mouth before thick, warm webbing shot from both his wrists. It hit the wall on either side of your head with a wet slap, then snapped tight around your wrists, pinning them high and wide. The silk was hot, almost feverish, and it contracted once—deliberate—pulling your arms taut until your shoulders burned.
He stepped in close, chest nearly brushing yours, and tipped your chin up with two sticky fingers.
“Say it again.”
“Nope.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Still not scared.”
Something dark and delighted flickered across his face. Then his hands dropped to the waistband of your sweatpants. He didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just ripped. The fabric gave like paper under that unnatural strength, the sound loud and final in the quiet apartment. Cool air hit your bare thighs. Your underwear was left behind—plain, nothing special—except for the very obvious dark, soaked patch right in the center.
Peter went still.
Then he laughed. Low, mean, almost delighted.
“Jesus Christ.” He dragged two fingers slowly over the wet spot, pressing just hard enough to feel how the fabric clung. “Look at that. You’re soaked through. Standing here being a lying brat, telling me you’re not scared while your cunt is making a mess of itself.”
He rubbed again, slower, watching your face as the damp cotton dragged over your clit. “This isn’t the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man anymore, sweetheart. This is the version that will treat you like the prey you are. And you’re dripping for it like a desperate little bug.”
His voice cracked for half a second. The mean edge faltered. His eyes flashed back to those rich browns you always got yourself lost in.
“Fuck—I’m sorry. You should still leave. I mean it. I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can—”
The arachnid thing surged back. His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric, tracing the outline of your folds through the thin cotton.
“But you won’t leave, will you? You’re standing here getting wetter every time I open my mouth. Look at you. Thighs already shaking and I haven’t even touched skin yet.”
You felt it happen—the sharp, helpless clench deep inside you, the fresh rush of wetness that soaked through the fabric under his fingers. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.
Peter’s eyes went completely black.
“Oh,” he breathed. “You liked that?”
He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost a fall. Both hands hooked into the sides of your underwear. One sharp pull and the fabric tore straight down the middle, the ruined scraps falling to the floor. Cool air hit your bare, dripping cunt. For one heartbeat he just stared, chest heaving, silk still leaking from his wrists and sticking to your thighs.
Then the last thread of control snapped with an almost audible crack.
A low, animal sound ripped out of him. He shoved your thighs apart with both hands, gripped hard enough to bruise, and buried his face between your legs like a man starving. There was no careful exploration, no soft start. His tongue dragged flat and filthy from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, greedy stroke, and the sound he made against you was pure hunger.
“Fuck—taste that,” he growled into your folds, voice muffled and wrecked. “So fucking wet. Dripping down my chin already.” He licked again, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you just to feel how easily you opened for him. “Gonna eat this pretty cunt until you forget how to speak. Until the only thing you can do is come on my tongue while I decide whether to keep you or ruin you.”
His mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, no mercy, while two sticky fingers pushed into you without warning and curled. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter as your body jerked.
Peter Parker was gone.
What was left between your thighs only wanted to devour.
He ate you like he’d been starving for days—tongue flat and relentless, dragging over every sensitive inch before pushing deep inside you just to fuck you with it. The wet heat of his mouth sealed over your cunt completely, and the sounds that filled the apartment were filthy and constant— the soft, slick noise of his tongue working you open, the wet suck each time he pulled back just enough to breathe, the low, broken groans that vibrated straight against your clit.
Two fingers joined almost immediately, thick enough that it made the stretch burn in the best way. He curled them hard against that spot that made your vision white out and sucked your clit between his lips at the same time, the combination brutal and perfect. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head. The webbing around your wrists pulsed tighter every time your body jerked. He didn’t give you any time to breathe—just kept going, tongue fucking into you in deep, greedy strokes while his fingers worked faster, wetter, the slick sounds of it getting louder the more you dripped for him.
“That’s it,” he growled against your folds, voice rough and muffled. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking close I can taste it.”
The pressure built in waves. First a sharp, coiling heat low in your belly, then a deeper ache that made your hips try to roll against his face even as he held you open. He chased every tiny shift, adjusting the angle of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers, until the only thing you could do was take it. Your cunt clenched around him. A broken sound tore out of your throat. The second the orgasm hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted, a hard, pulsing rush of wetness that hit his mouth and chin and dripped down his throat in messy streaks. He didn’t pull back. He just groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept licking through it, messy and greedy, chasing every drop until your legs were shaking and you were whimpering from the overstimulation.
When the last tremor left you, Peter finally leaned back on his heels.
Your release was dripping off his chin, shining on his lips, streaking down his neck. He looked at the mess you’d made of him and laughed—low, mean, delighted.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then licked that clean too. “You just fucking squirted on me. Look at that. One little push and you made a mess all over my face.” His eyes were almost pure black now, pupils blown wide with hunger and amusement. “I’ve heard you, you know. Through the wall. Late at night when you think no one’s listening. The soft little sounds you make when you’re getting yourself off alone in your apartment. Always wondered what it would take to make you get loud. Turns out all it took was me on my knees with my tongue in your cunt.”
He stood in one fluid motion. The remaining scraps of the suit came off with two sharp rips—fabric tearing like it was nothing. Then he was naked in front of you, cock hard and heavy between his legs, the head already shiny with precum. Every muscle in his body looked coiled and ready.
He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.
Why would he?
One sticky hand closed around your waist, the other around the back of your neck. He ripped you off the wall, your wrists aching at their release and spun you, marched you the few steps to the webbed kitchen counter, and bent you over it hard enough that your chest hit the cool surface with a soft grunt. Your cheek pressed to the webs, sticking you in place. Your ass was up, completely exposed, still dripping from the orgasm he’d forced out of you.
Peter stepped in behind you. The thick, hot length of his cock dragged through the mess between your thighs, slow and deliberate, smearing your own wetness up and down your folds.
“Look at this,” he murmured, voice pure filth. One hand spread you open so he could watch the way his cock slid through your slick. “So fucking wet. You came all over my face and your cunt’s still greedy for more. Is this what you wanted when you walked in here? To get bent over my counter like a little toy? Is this what you think about in bed?”
He leaned over your back, mouth near your ear, the head of his cock catching on your entrance with every slow roll of his hips.
“I can feel how bad you want it. You’re dripping down my cock. Such a messy, desperate little thing.” A soft, mean laugh brushed your skin. “I’m gonna fuck you until you squirt again. Until the only thing you can do is take it and thank me for not webbing you to the ceiling while I do it. And you’re gonna love every second of it, aren’t you?”
The blunt head of him pressed against you, not quite pushing in, just resting there—hot, heavy, promising.
Peter’s voice dropped even lower, rough with the last scraps of the man fighting the hunger.
“Tell me you still want this.”
“I want you.”
The words were barely out of your mouth before Peter drove into you in one hard, unbroken thrust.
The stretch was brutal—thick and sudden and so deep it punched the air from your lungs. Your cheek stuck against the webbed laminate as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just breathing, just feeling the way your cunt clenched around him like it was trying to keep him.
Then he moved.
He fucked you hard and fast, hips snapping forward with a force that made the counter creak under you. Every thrust was deep, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment. His hands locked around your hips hard enough that you already knew there would be bruises tomorrow—dark fingerprints where his fingers dug into soft flesh and held you exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck—look at you,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Taking it like you were made for this. I didn’t even think you could handle getting fucked this hard.” Another sharp snap of his hips drove a broken sound out of your throat. “But you’re dripping down my cock every time I bury it in you. So fucking greedy.”
You hadn’t known either. The pace was almost too much—too deep, too fast, the stretch burning in the best way with every drag of his cock. His blunt head kissing your cervix with every thrust. Your body still hadn’t fully come down from the last orgasm and already the pressure was coiling again, sharp and overwhelming. Peter didn’t slow. He just kept slamming into you, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair and pull your head back so he could watch your face.
“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re gonna squirt on my cock this time, aren’t you?” His voice dropped into something filthy and delighted. “I can already feel you getting tighter. Do it. Make a mess of me again.”
The second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your cunt locked down around him as you squirted again, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and thighs and dripped onto the floor between your feet. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and fucked you through it, chasing every flutter and clench until your legs were shaking and you were gasping against the counter.
Strong hands hauled you up and carried you the few steps to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions and pulled you with him in the same motion, settling you over his lap so you straddled him. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his hips. Before you could even try to find your balance he planted both hands on your waist and started fucking up into you.
There was no pretense that you were in control.
Peter used you like a toy, lifting you just enough to drop you back down onto his cock while he thrust up to meet every fall. The angle was devastatingly deep. Every upward snap of his hips forced a wet, broken sound out of you. His grip never eased. Fresh bruises bloomed under his fingers as he held you exactly where he wanted and took what he needed.
“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. “Sitting on my cock like a perfect little fucktoy. Can’t even move unless I let you.” He thrust up harder, watching the way your body took every inch. “You’re so wet it’s running down my balls. Still gushing for me like you can’t help it. Such a messy, desperate thing.”
One hand left your hip to wrap lightly around your throat—while the other kept you steady for the relentless pace of his hips. The look in his eyes was pure predator.
Peter’s grip on your hips never eased. He kept fucking up into you in deep, relentless strokes, using your body exactly the way he wanted while his voice stayed low and filthy against your ear.
“That’s it—take it. Look at how easy you open up for me. Sitting on my cock like you were made to get used.” Another hard thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat. “You’re shaking again. I can feel it. That pretty cunt’s about to soak me one more time, isn’t it? Go on. Squirt on me again. Make a mess while I fuck you through it.”
The pressure built too fast, too sharp. Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips. Every upward snap of his cock dragged over that perfect spot until the only thing you could do was just take it. When it hit, it hit hard—your whole body locking up as you squirted around him for the third time, a hot, pulsing rush that soaked his cock and the skin of his stomach. Peter groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt and kept thrusting through it, chasing every flutter and clench.
“Fuck—yes. Just like that. So fucking messy for me.”
His rhythm finally stuttered. The mean edge in his voice cracked into something rawer as his hips snapped up once, twice more, burying himself as deep as he could go. A low, guttural sound tore out of him when he came—hot, thick pulses spilling into you. He held you down through every spurt, grinding up into the mess he’d made of you until the last tremor left him.
Your strength gave out all at once.
You collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressing to the damp skin of his shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks. His cock twitched inside you one last time. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was the two of you trying to breathe.
Then the change happened.
You felt it in the way his hands loosened. The bruising grip softened into something almost careful. When you managed to lift your head, his eyes were no longer that dark, reflective black. The familiar warm brown was fully back—wide, stunned, and filling fast with horror as the full weight of what he’d done settled over him.
Peter stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.
His gaze dropped to the dark fingerprint shaped bruises already developing across your hips and thighs, to the torn scraps of clothing on the floor, to the mess of webbing and come and your own release still slick between your bodies. A shaky breath left him.
“Oh my god.”
His voice was his own again—quiet, wrecked, and already cracking with guilt.
“I—what did I just do to you?”
Peter’s hands were careful now.
He eased out of you slowly, like he was afraid even that small movement might hurt. A soft, broken sound left him at the loss of heat, but he didn’t linger on it. Instead he reached for the nearest blanket—one of the soft ones from the back of his couch—and wrapped it around both of you, tucking the edges in so your bare skin was shielded from the cool air. His arms slid under your thighs and back without asking. He lifted you like you weighed nothing.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your hair. “Just hold on to me.”
He carried you out of his apartment and the few steps across the hall to yours. The door was still unlocked from earlier. Inside, the quiet of your place felt almost surreal after everything. Peter walked straight to your bedroom and lowered you onto the bed with a gentleness that made your throat tight. He pulled the covers up over your still-trembling body, then brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the backs of his fingers.
“I’m going to take care of a few things next door,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
You nodded, too wrung out to speak. The door clicked shut behind him.
For a little while you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, body heavy and aching in places that hadn’t hurt an hour ago. The bruises on your hips already throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Between your legs you were sore and slick and still faintly pulsing with aftershocks. Your mind kept drifting—back to the way he’d looked at you when the black had first flooded his eyes, the mean, hungry things he’d said, the way he’d used your body like it belonged to him. And then the moment those eyes had cleared and pure horror had replaced the hunger.
You could hear him through the shared wall. The soft scrape of furniture being moved. Water running. The quiet, almost frantic sounds of someone trying to clean up evidence of something they couldn’t quite believe had happened.
When the door to your apartment opened again, Peter stepped inside carrying a small bag and wearing only a pair of soft gray sweatpants. His chest and shoulders were still bare, sweat dripped down and cooled along his muscles. He set the bag down and came straight to the bed, kneeling beside it so his face was level with yours.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay? You’re… you’re covered in me. And I want to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere I can’t see.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into your bathroom. The sound of water filling the tub was steady and soft. A few minutes later he returned, scooped you up again—blanket and all—and carried you into the steam-filled room.
The water was perfect, just on the edge of too warm. Peter eased you down into it first, then stepped out of his sweatpants and climbed in behind you. The tub wasn’t really big enough for two, but he made it work, stretching his legs on either side of yours and gently pulling you back until your spine rested against his chest. His arms came around your waist, loose and careful, like he was still afraid of holding too tight.
For a long moment he didn’t speak. He just reached for the washcloth, wet it, and began slowly cleaning the dried mess from your skin—your thighs, your stomach, the places where his hands had left marks. Every touch was deliberate. Tender.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper against the side of your neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I lost control. Completely. And I hurt you. I can see the bruises already and I… I hate that I did that.” His forehead pressed to your shoulder. “But I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just let me take care of you for a little while, okay?”
The water stayed warm around you both. Peter kept the washcloth moving in slow, careful strokes—down your arms, across your collarbones, along the tender insides of your thighs where the evidence of everything they’d done still lingered. He never rushed. Every pass of the cloth felt like an apology and a promise at the same time.
When he finally set it aside, he reached for the shampoo instead. Gentle fingers worked it through your hair, massaging your scalp with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. He rinsed it just as carefully, cupping water in his palm so none of it ran into your face. Then his arms slid back around your waist and he simply held you, chest rising and falling against your spine.
“It’s been getting worse for weeks,” he said eventually, voice low against the side of your neck. “The webs I can’t control. The strength that comes out of nowhere. The way every sound and smell is suddenly too much. But the instincts… those are the scariest part. There’s this constant pull to claim things. To protect. To take. And it’s getting harder to tell where the spider ends and I begin.”
His thumb traced absent circles against your stomach under the water.
“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he admitted, quieter now. “Longer than I probably should’ve. Four years of living next door, not saying anything to you because frankly— I'm an idiot. And this… whatever’s happening to me… it made all of that louder. Like the part of me that already wanted you suddenly had permission to stop being careful about it.”
You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his profile. Steam curled around both of you.
“I’ve liked you too,” you said softly. “For a while now.”
Peter went still behind you. Then a shaky breath left him, warm against your damp skin. One hand lifted to brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked. The question was barely more than a whisper. “After everything I just did… after what I might keep becoming… are you scared?”
You shifted carefully in the water until you could look at him properly. His eyes were so clear again—familiar brown, open and uncertain and so painfully human. You reached up and rested your palm against his cheek.
“No,” you said, and meant every word. “I’m not scared of you. I’m here. For all of it. Whatever this turns into, I’m not going anywhere. We'll figure this out together.”
Something in his expression cracked open—relief and wonder and leftover guilt all tangled together. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, before guiding you back against his chest. His arms settled around you again, secure without being tight.
The water lapped gently at your skin. The bathroom was quiet and warm and safe. Peter’s heartbeat was steady under your ear. You let your eyes drift closed, the last of the tension finally leaving your body as the heat and the solid presence of him pulled you under.
You started to doze off right there in the bath, wrapped in his arms, at peace.
Bruh idk if angst is even the correct term. I wanna read something gut wrenching. Idk what it says about my psyche but I lowk love a hurt!reader trope. I’m a winter soldier girl to my core so you know I love dark fics.
But I still want Peter in character yk? Like I don’t necessarily want him to become like the villain or whatever. Something about this movie yall… without spoiling it, it’s definitely darker because he’s grown up… but he’s also such a yearner. Like I want to see that captured but full of angst. Still HEA tho… Hurt/eventual comfort, if you will.
This is me begging for your Peter Parker angst recommendations!! (please please pleaaaaseeee)
Just saw the movie for the second time and nothing… NOTHING has given me the same high. (I love all fanfic authors this isn’t me making judgements or anything).
I’m talking angst that HURTS. I’m talking pain!! Happily ever after but they EARN IT!!!
does nobody want to write excruciating angst anymore? i keep trying to find angst only to end up with “hurt/comfort” “happy ending”. WHAT ABOUT “no comfort”, and “no happy ending”?? people don’t want to write peak anymore. and yall keep tagging it angst when its full on smut.. its like nobody wants to write angst these days
SUMMARY. You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?
WORD COUNT. 17.5K
WARNINGS. college au, lowk enemies to lovers, enemies-with-benefits but with like so many feelings, MDNI, both reader and bucky are toxic, extremely messy, they hurt each other repeatedly, sometimes deliberately, verbal degradation, jealousy, possessiveness, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, romanogers on the side (i like them together, sue me), intoxication, caretaking, reader gets sick (hangover, a fever), acts of service as love language, smut, brat taming, unprotected pnv, oral (f receiving), fingering, public-ish sex (bar bathroom, an alley), public risk, pussy pronouns, pussy slapping, pussy inspection, slight overstim, slight edging, choking, nipple tugging, hair tugging, hate-fucking, dom!bucky, mean!bucky, no use of y/n.
NOTES. that was long. no, seriously, please read the warnings before you interact. these guys are messy. college students acting like college students, and who better to tell you than someone who got fucked over so many times in college? heh.
I am incapable of not ending on a happy note, so there’s obviously a happy ending. Like I’ve truly tried my best to actually redeem them both, but if you don’t like it… please don’t complain 😭
Inspired by this fic by @smorgaswhored ! thank you 🥹
READ ON AO3
Steve and Natasha are dating, which is fine. Great, even. They're stupidly perfect together. What's decidedly not fine is Bucky Barnes tagging along everywhere like some sort of gorgeous, infuriating barnacle you can't scrape off.
The man is a menace. A complete and utter disaster of a human being who somehow manages to fail half his classes while looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He doesn't give a single flying fuck about his GPA, shows up to lectures hungover more often than not, has this way of smirking at you that makes your blood pressure spike in more ways than one.
Three days ago, everything changed. And by changed, you mean you fucked him in a club bathroom like some kind of feral animal in heat, and now you're sitting here trying to pretend it never happened while your pussy has the audacity to clench at the memory.
It went down like this. Steve and Nat had dragged you both to that overcrowded club downtown, sticky floors and watered-down drinks that cost twenty dollars. You'd volunteered to be the designated driver because you're a good friend, responsible, the kind of person who thinks ahead. What you didn't know — because why the fuck would you, since you and Bucky barely exchange civil words — was that he'd made the same decision.
So there you were. Stone-cold sober, watching Nat and Steve get progressively more handsy on the dance floor while nursing the same Coke you'd been working on for an hour. You were contemplating faking a family emergency just to escape when you noticed some guy sidling up to you at the bar.
He was fine. Decent smile, nice enough jawline, generically attractive. And you were bored, so you smiled back. Laughed at his mediocre joke. Let him lean in close enough that you could smell his cologne, woody and expensive that did absolutely nothing for you.
What you didn't notice, what you were too focused on Mr. Mediocre to catch, was Bucky watching from across the bar, jaw doing that tense thing it does when he's pissed, fingers drumming against his beer bottle.
The guy's hand landed on your lower back, and that's when Bucky materialized beside you like some kind of vengeful spirit. "We need to go."
You turned to look at him, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his we, when you caught the look on his face. "Excuse me?"
"Steve's sick. We're leaving."
The guy next to you raised his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the tension, and Bucky's gaze slid to him with something that might have been a smile if smiles could draw blood.
"Bucky —" But he was gripping your elbow, steering you away from the bar, toward the bathroom hallway, and you were too stunned to resist.
The second you were out of earshot from the main crowd, you yanked your arm free. "What the actual fuck is your problem?"
"My problem?" He laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "My problem is you throwing yourself at some random dickhead when you're supposed to be here with us."
"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone, you absolute asshole. I was having a conversation. You know, that thing normal people do?"
"Looked like more than a conversation to me."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to people." Your voice was getting louder, going shrill. "And Steve's not fucking sick, so what's the real issue here? Mad I'm not paying attention to you?"
Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat his next words. "You're such a fucking brat."
"And you're a mean drunk. As usual."
"I'm not drunk."
"What? Then why the hell am I not drinking?" The words came out with frustration that had been building. "This whole time I could've been getting shitfaced instead of playing babysitter to —"
"I'm not taking care of your ass," Bucky cut in. His chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then snapping back up like he was fighting himself.
"Fuck off, Barnes."
You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but near him and the confusing mess of anger and heat that seemed to tangle in your stomach whenever you fought.
The bathroom was one of those single-occupancy ones with a lock on the door and a mirror that had seen better days. It was blessedly empty. You braced your hands on the sink and took a breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.
The door flew open behind you. Bucky filled the frame, broad shoulders and wild eyes, and before you could tell him to get out, to leave you the fuck alone, he was inside with the lock clicking home behind him.
"What are you —"
His mouth crashed into yours, and every coherent thought evaporated. The kiss was mean, biting, aggressive, tasting like the anger that had been simmering between you for months, since the first time you met maybe. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour your mouth properly, and you heard yourself moan before you could stop it.
"Shut up," he growled against your lips. You wanted to argue, push him away and knee him in the balls for being such a presumptuous prick, but his other hand was sliding up your thigh, shoving your skirt up around your hips.
"You're such an asshole," you did manage to gasp out when he moved to your neck, teeth scraping over your jugular.
"Yeah?" His fingers found the edge of your underwear, you felt him smirking against your skin. "Is that why you're soaked?"
God, you wished he was wrong, but your pussy had apparently missed the memo about hating him, embarrassingly wet and dripping down your thighs already. His thick fingers made filthy, wet squelching sounds as they slid through your slick folds, spreading your juices everywhere. "Bucky —"
"That's right. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your knees nearly buckled. "Let everyone in this shitty club know who's making you feel this good."
You bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet out of pure spite, but he crooked his fingers just right and a whimper escaped before you could stop it. He was good at this, unfairly good. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, and you could feel yourself getting close already, wound too tight from months of unresolved tension.
"Look at you," he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice even as his words stayed cruel. "So fucking desperate. How long have you been thinking about this, huh? How long have you been getting yourself off to the thought of me?"
"Fuck you," you spat. Spat might've been an exaggeration for it came out breathy and weak.
"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget that asshole's name. Forget your own name."
He pulled his fingers out. Before you could protest the loss, he was spinning you around and bending you over the sink. Your palms slapped against the porcelain, as you felt him behind, the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass through his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle alone made you wetter.
"You want this?" Voice rough, he tugged your hair to make you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you want this."
"Yes." It came out as a hiss. "Now stop talking and fuck me already."
"Needy little thing." Bucky shoved his thick cock inside you in one brutal thrust, stretching your open around his girth until you were gasping and clawing at the sink. Nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. He was big, bigger than you'd let yourself imagine in the privacy of your own room. The burn of it mixed with pleasure, had you gasping. "Tight," he gritted out, pupils blown so wide and face slack with pleasure as he gripped your hips, and thrusted into your weeping cunt. "Jesus Christ, you're squeezing me so fucking tight." Brutal, punishing strokes had you scrambling for purchase on the sink. Each thrust pushed you forward, and you had to brace yourself to keep from smacking into the mirror, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every snap.
"This what you wanted?" he panted, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up to wrap around your throat. "Wanted me to ruin this greedy little cunt?"
"Yes — fuck — yes —"
"Who's making you feel good? Say it."
"You — Bucky — oh my god —" The bathroom filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock pistoning in and out of you, and your moans that you couldn't control anymore. He felt incredible, impossibly good
"That's it, fuck." His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin. "Take it."
You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. His cock was dragging against your walls, thick and perfect, so much you were babbling now, words falling out of your mouth, uncontrolled. "Please — please — I need —"
"You need to cum?" His laugh was mean. "Look at you, begging so pretty for me. Such a good girl when you're getting fucked stupid." The hand on your hip slid around to your clit, pressing down hard, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, clamping down around him so hard you felt him stagger.
"Fuck — fuck —" He pounded into you through it, chasing his own release, getting sloppy, losing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna make you drip with my cum."
True to his word, he buried himself deep and came with a groan that you felt vibrate through your whole body. You could feel him pulsing inside you, spilling hot and thick, triggering another smaller aftershock that left you trembling. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, cock still buried inside you.
Reality started creeping back in. The uncomfortable reality that you'd just fucked Bucky Barnes in a club bathroom, smeared makeup and all. He pulled out slowly, his cum immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, creamy trail down your thigh. You felt him watching it, possessive. "This is never happening again," you said, trying to inject some steel into your voice even though your legs felt like jelly.
Through the smudged mirror, you could see his expression, something like disappointment or hurt taking over his features, but it was gone so fast you couldn't be sure. "Yeah. Never again."
When you turned to face him, his face was carefully blank. Expecting a fight or at least some sarcastic comment, you stared at him, but he just looked at you with those blue eyes that gave nothing away. "Seriously? You agree?"
He shrugged, already tucking himself back into his jeans with an insulting efficiency. "You said it, not me. But yeah, probably a bad idea."
It shouldn't have stung. You were the one who said it first. But how quickly he agreed, how easily he dismissed what had just happened, made your chest feel tight.
Of course he agreed. He hated you just as much as you hated him. This was just... what? Hate sex? Getting it out of your systems? It didn't mean anything. "Right. Bad idea," you echoed, trying to fix your skirt with shaking hands.
He watched you struggle with your appearance for a moment, then reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so at odds with everything that had just happened that you froze. "You good?" his voice was soft.
"Fine."
"Okay." He unlocked the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Wait like five minutes before you come out. Don't want anyone getting ideas."
Now, he’s sitting right in front of you, hands flying over his phone, not one look to your face.
Nat's grip on your wrist is unrelenting, dragging you down the hallway toward Steve and Bucky's dorm like you're a toddler being hauled to the dentist.
"I don't know why I have to be here," you complain, but she's not listening. She never listens when she's on a mission. And tonight's mission involves you third-wheeling while she and Steve do whatever disgustingly domestic couple activity they have planned.
"You've been holed up in your room for two days and it's getting weird," Nat says, not breaking stride. "Besides, we're just watching a movie. It's not a big deal."
It shouldn't be a big deal. You've done this a thousand times before. You've crashed at their place, sprawled across their furniture, stolen their snacks. But that was before. Before you knew what Bucky looked like when he came, how his cum felt like dripping down your thighs. Before everything got weird and complicated in ways you're desperately trying to un-complicate.
Steve opens the door, and you scan the room behind him automatically. The couch is empty. The kitchen is empty. No dark-haired asshole anywhere in sight. There's an annoying twist happening inside you.
"Class ran late," Steve says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He texted like twenty minutes ago. Should be back soon."
You settle onto the couch and try to figure out why you're irritated. There's a prickling sensation under your skin, this restless energy that has nowhere to go. It doesn't make sense. Usually when Bucky's not around, it's a relief. A chance to breathe without his smirking presence taking up all the oxygen in the room. Since when do you care if he's here or not?
Since never. You don't care. You're just... noticing. That's all.
Nat and Steve are doing that thing where they're technically watching the movie but mostly just existing in each other's space. It's sweet. It's nauseating. It's making you feel like a massive third wheel, which is exactly what you told Nat would happen.
An hour creeps by. The movie's some action thing with explosions you're not paying attention to. You're checking your phone every thirty seconds like a psycho, which is ridiculous because you don't even text him, the chat is nonexistent.
The door finally opens and Bucky looks like shit. Like he's been awake for seventy-two hours straight and spent most of that time getting hit by a truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. His usual sharp energy has been replaced by something dull and heavy.
"You good, man?" Steve asks, pausing the movie.
"Fine." Bucky's voice is rough. His eyes sweep the room and land on you for half a second before skittering away. "Long day. Gonna crash."
"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want —"
"Not hungry." He disappears into his room, door clicking shut with a finality. Steve and Nat exchange a look, shrug and go back to the movie. But you can't focus now, can't stop thinking about the way he couldn't quite look at you.
Before, he'd have said something. Some stupid comment designed to get under your skin, to start a fight, to make you snap at him. Before, he was always here, always present, finding new and creative ways to piss you off. Now he's not. It's wrong somehow. Off-balance.
You last another fifteen minutes before you can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," you mutter, standing abruptly.
The hallway to Bucky's room is short. The actual bathroom is to the left, and you don't care. You turn right and knock on his door before you can talk yourself out of it.
"Go away, Steve."
"It's not Steve."
Silence keeps you company before his voice comes. "What do you want?"
Without waiting for permission, you push the door open. Bucky's sitting on his bed, still fully dressed, looking up when you enter. His face slips for a fraction of a second, a raw, unguarded edge breaking through before he shuts it down like it never happened. "Can't you read a room? I said I was tired."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks. That why you're here? Give me a wellness check?" His voice comes out sharp, waking your frustration that was simmering beneath.
"No, I'm here because you've been acting weird and I want to know why."
He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "I'm acting weird? That's rich coming from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." He stands up, and you realize how small his room feels with both of you in it. "Seriously, go back to the movie. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."
"Whatever this is? You're the one who's been avoiding me."
"I haven't been avoiding shit. I've had class and practice and a fucking life that doesn't revolve around you."
"Oh, so now I'm being self-centered? That's hilarious, Barnes, really. Because last I checked, you're the one who can't go five minutes without being a condescending asshole."
"And you can't go five minutes without starting a fight. What do you want from me? You said never again. I agreed. So what the fuck are you doing in my room?"
He's inside your bubble, closer, and you don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer that makes sense except for the truth, which is that you missed fighting with him. Missed the way he looks at you like you're the most infuriating person on the planet. Missed him, which is insane, stupid and absolutely cannot be true. "I don't know — I just... you weren't here and then you were and you looked like hell and I —"
"You what? Cared? Don't waste your energy. The only good thing about me is my dick, right?"
Oh. He's pissed about that. About how you treated him in the bathroom, one round of messy sex and immediately shutting down anything else.
"I didn't —"
"Yeah, you did." He's so close that you can smell him, the sweat of a hard day. "And you know what? You're right. That's all this is. All it's ever gonna be. So if you're here for round two, say it. But don't pretend it's anything else."
Your heartbeat stutters, starts hitting too fast, like it’s trying to climb out through your ribs. "Fuck you."
"That an offer?"
"You're such a prick."
"And you're a fucking brat who can't figure out what she wants." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "So let me make it simple for you. You want me to fuck you again? Is that what this little tantrum is about?"
Slapping him would make sense. Turning around, walking out, cutting him off completely. But your pussy is getting wet, he can probably see it in your eyes, the way you're leaning into him despite yourself. "That's not true." It sounds weak even to your own ears. "Your dick's not the only good thing about you."
His fingers press in harder, thumb digging into the skin just beneath your chin. "No? Then what else?"
"I don't know... your mouth?" It's a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble that could blow up in your face. But his eyes darken, a dangerous smile curving his lips.
"My mouth," he repeats it syllable by syllable. "Wanna know what my mouth can do besides piss you off?"
Before you can answer, he's kissing you. More urgent, more hurried than the bathroom, but not any less filthier. His mouth moves over yours and then deeper, testing how far he can go before you pull away. The drag of his tongue lingers, presses, coaxes your mouth open wider until you’re reacting before you can think about it. A sound slips out, caught somewhere between your throat and his mouth, swallowed almost as soon as it happens. "Get on the bed."
"You can't —"
"I said get on the bed." The command goes straight to your cunt. "Unless you want Steve and Nat to hear me make you scream."
That gets you moving, climbing onto his bed, him immediately on trail, caging you in with his body. Hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. "These are cute," he says, fingers hooking into your underwear. Light pink with a little bow. "Be a shame to ruin them."
"Don't —"
He yanks them down your legs and dangles them in front of your face before shoving them into his pocket. "Too late."
"You're —"
His hand sliding between your thighs cuts you off, thick fingers spreading your soaked lips wide open, putting your dripping cunt on full display for him. He spits directly onto your exposed cunt, the warm, thick glob of saliva landing with a wet splat right on your swollen clit. He rubs it in, smearing the spit all over your slick folds until it mixes with your own juices and drips down your ass. Holding your pussy lips open even wider with both thumbs, his fingers dig into the soft flesh so nothing is hidden. He spits again, this time aiming straight into your twitching hole, watching the spit disappear inside you. "Look at this needy little pussy. Already soaked and I've barely touched her."
Humiliation and arousal both flood your system as he's inspecting you like you're something he owns, thumb dragging through your slick folds, smearing your juices everywhere before circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm and whine. "Bucky —"
"Shh. Let me look at what's mine."
His??
"It's not—"
"Whose cum was dripping out of this cunt two days ago?" He slides two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, a moan slipping out, teeth clamping tight to pull it back. "Who fucked you so good you could barely walk straight?"
"That doesn't mean — oh fuck —"
"It does." Broad, rough fingers pump into you faster, your slick juices coating his knuckles and dripping down to his palm. "Got my cum all in this greedy pussy and you loved it. Loved being full of me. Bet you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting yourself off to the memory of my dick splitting you open."
What's worse is that he's not wrong. You have been thinking about it. Every night since it happened, fingers between your legs, trying to recreate the feeling of him inside you. "You're delusional," you lie through your teeth, and he laughs like he's caught you in it.
"Am I?" His fingers curl inside your walls, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Then why are you clenching around my fingers like you're trying to keep me inside you? Why's this pussy begging for more?"
Bucky pulls his fingers out abruptly, a filthy wet sound echoing as a whimper slips past your lips in the wake of the loss. Bringing them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he licks them clean, sucking every drop of your slick off with a groan. "Taste so fuckin' good."
Without wasting another breath, he moves down your body, shoving your thighs apart roughly and settling between them, mouth sealing over your throbbing clit like he's starving for it. Nothing is gentle about this. Calloused fingers dig into your thighs, holding you spread obscenely wide while his tongue works your clit in ruthless, sloppy circles, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. "Oh my god—"
"Let me hear how much you love my mouth. Thought it was only good for pissing you off?" The words against your cunt are muffled, but the vibration of it makes you writhe under him.
"Shut up and — fuck — keep doing that —"
He slides his tongue deep inside you, fucking your dripping hole with it in long, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. You forget how to breathe. Forget your own name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to push two fingers back inside you. The combination of his tongue and fingers has you climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Such a messy girl," he says, pulling back to look at you. His chin is wet with your arousal, the sight of it making your pussy clench around his fingers. "Making a mess all over my face. Getting my sheets wet. Think they can hear you whimpering in here?"
"Bucky, please —"
"Please what? Use your words."
"Make me cum, you asshole —"
"Nope, ask nicely." A sharp smack lands straight to your swollen clit, the sting shooting straight up your spine, making your pussy clench hard around nothing.
"Please, Bucky. Make me cum." The words leave you in record speed, the need for release much more than the desire to keep your self-respect.
"Since you asked so nicely." His mouth goes back to your clit, sucking, while his fingers work inside you. You come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around his head. The squeeze doesn't do anything to him, he continues his attack on your weeping hole, until you're pushing at his shoulders.
Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still think the only good thing about me is my dick?"
You're still trying to remember how to form words, whole body feeling like jelly. There's a suspicious wet spot spreading beneath you on his sheets. "You're still an asshole."
"Mhmm, but I just made you come so hard you nearly broke my jaw with your thighs. So, be nice." The finger which was buried inside your cunt, still slick with your release, taps your nose once.
He's hard, painfully so, you can see that. You almost say 'fuck me', beg him to put his dick in you and make you forget your own name again. But then reality creeps back in. Steve and Nat are just down the hall, more than that, you two are supposed to hate each other, and this was supposed to be never again.
"This can't keep happening." Sitting up, you try to fix your skirt even though your underwear is currently in his pocket.
"Right. This again."
If you didn't know him better, you'd think his face was neutral. Unfortunately for both of you, you do know him better. "I'm serious. This was — this was the last time."
"You said that two days ago."
"Well, I mean it now."
For a second too long, he stares at you, an expression you can't read this time. Hurt or anger or frustration or all three. "Fine," he finally says. "Last time. Got it."
"I'm serious, Barnes. We can't — I don't want —"
"I said fine." He stands up, adjusting himself in his jeans. "You should probably get back out there before they notice you've been gone for twenty minutes."
On shaky legs, you stand, very aware that you're not wearing underwear and that your hair probably looks like a disaster. At the door, you pause. "Bucky—"
"It's fine. Really. We're good." His back is to you.
Nothing about this feels good at all. You slip out of his room and head to the actual bathroom, taking a minute to clean yourself up and try to put yourself back together. When you look in the mirror, your lips are swollen, eyes too bright, and you look like exactly what you are — someone who just got eaten out within an inch of her life.
This was the last time. It has to be. Even if some traitorous part of you is already wondering when the next never again will happen.
Bucky Barnes never ignores you. He might annoy you to death, but ignoring you was beyond him. That is, until now.
The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso. There's a crack in the table that keeps catching your pen, your notes are all haphazard, the result of you not paying enough attention in class. But none of that matters because Bucky is sitting across from you and acting like you don't exist.
Before, he'd make a show of it, intentionally looking past you, making little comments to Steve that were clearly designed to get a rise out of you. This is different. He's genuinely not paying attention. Eyes on his textbook, highlighter moving across the page in steady strokes, completely absorbed in whatever bullshit he's supposed to be learning.
It's infuriating.
Steve and Nat are comparing notes, discussing, you're supposed to be doing the same but you can't focus. Because Bucky's right there, close enough to touch, and he might as well be on another planet.
You stretch your leg out under the table, let your foot bump against his calf. Nothing. No reaction. He just shifts slightly and keeps reading.
Fine. Maybe that was too subtle.
You lean forward to grab your coffee, making sure to press your shoulder against his. He's warm, you can smell that soap he uses, the one that's been haunting you for days. He glances up, shifts to give you more room and goes back to his reading.
What the actual fuck.
"Can you pass me that?" you ask, pointing to his highlighter even though you have three of your own sitting right in front of you.
He hands it over without looking at you.
There's a pressure building in your chest, hot and uncomfortable, anger or something much worse. You click the highlighter open and close, open and close, the sound obnoxiously loud, out of place.
Bucky doesn't say anything. Again.
You highlight a random sentence in your notes. Then another. You're not even reading what you're marking. Neon yellow drags across the page while you watch him from the corner of your eye. But he's a statue. A really attractive statue that ate you out yesterday and is now acting like it never happened.
At this worst possible moment, you also remember what his mouth felt like between your legs, the filthy things he said, how he pocketed your underwear like some kind of trophy. Fuck him for being able to compartmentalize like this. Fuck him for sitting there looking all studious and put-together while you're falling apart.
'Accidentally', you knock your notebook off the table. With a soft thud, it lands on his foot. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a breath that looks like it's taking considerable effort, and leans down to pick it up. When he hands it back, his expression is carefully neutral.
"Thanks." The word is saccharine.
"Mhmm." That's it. That's all you get. Not even a proper word.
You last another five minutes before you physically can't take it anymore. You nudge his leg again, harder this time, and he finally looks at you. Exhaustion in his eyes makes an ugly twist in your gut.
"You done?" His words are simple. Calm, even. But they land like a slap, and suddenly you're furious. Furious at him for being so unaffected, at yourself for caring, at this entire fucked-up situation that you can't seem to escape.
"Yeah. I'm done."
It's been fifteen minutes and Bucky hasn't even acknowledged that you exist.
The bar is crowded, loud, and you're three drinks deep, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The tall, dark haired, decent smile guy, has been buying you drinks.
His name is Mike or something with an M. You're just nodding while you scan the room. You spotted Bucky the second you walked in, sitting at a high-top with some guys from his team, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
He hasn't looked at you once. Not when you walked in, not when M-name put his hand on your lower back, not when you threw your head back laughing at something that definitely wasn't that funny.
You don't care. Why would you care? He made it perfectly clear at the coffee shop that he's done with whatever game you two have been playing, agreeing oh-so readily that it was a mistake.
The alcohol makes this easier somehow, looser. That's how you let the guy pull you towards the mass of bodies near the speakers, when he says something about dancing. The music is too loud, bass thumping in your chest. His hands land on your hips, chest to chest. You press back against him, definitely more grinding than dancing.
Over his shoulder, you can see Bucky. Still at his table, still not looking.
Fuck him.
You roll your hips, let this random guy's hands wander, and pretend you're having the time of your life. The guy's mouth is at your neck, saying something you can't hear over the music, hands sliding too low but you don't stop him.
Three songs. That's how long you last before you can't take it anymore.
You extract yourself from his hands, with a smile and an excuse about needing another drink, and make a beeline for Bucky's table. His friends scatter like they can sense the incoming storm. Then it's just the two of you. "Having fun?" you ask.
Bucky takes a long pull from his beer. "Could ask you the same thing."
"I am, actually. Matt's a great dancer."
"It's Mark, actually. And that wasn't dancing."
You lean against the table, invading his space. "Oh, so you were watching? Thought you were too busy brooding over here to notice."
"Hard to miss when you're putting on a show."
"I'm not —" You cut yourself off, force a breath. "Why do you even care?"
"I don't." He clearly doesn't, what with you storming over here to make a point. But his knuckles are white around the bottle and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw that makes you look closer.
"Liar."
"Go back to your date." His voice is so cold it actually makes you flinch. "I'm sure he's missing you."
"What's your problem?" The words come out loud, but the music swallows most of it. "You've been acting like I don't exist. Like nothing happened."
"You said it couldn't happen again. I'm respecting that."
"By ignoring me completely? By acting like we're strangers?"
"What do you want from me?" He finally looks at you, a burn in his eyes. "You want me to what, pine after you? Beg you to change your mind? You made your choice. Multiple times, actually."
"You agreed!"
"What the fuck was I supposed to say? No, I won't respect your boundaries? Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, worn down. "Go dance with Mark. Go home with him. Do whatever you want. Just stop —"
"Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to do something about it."
The bass of the music has nothing on your heart, you can feel it in your throat. You do want him to do something. To fight for this, whatever this is, to care as much as you’re suddenly realizing you do.
Reckless with alcohol and frustration, the words get past you. "Maybe I want you to —"
He sets his beer down with a force. "Well I'm not going to. So go find someone who will."
The dismissal stings, the casual way you're written off, like you're an inconvenience he's tired of dealing with. You're drunk enough that your filter is nonexistent, angry enough that you don't care about the consequences. "You know what? Fuck you, Barnes. I was trying to —"
"Trying to what? Start another fight so we can fuck about it later? I'm not playing that game anymore."
"I'm not —" But you are. You came over here specifically to get a rise out of him, to make him react. "God, you're such a —"
"Watch it," he warns, but you're too far gone to stop now.
"Or what? You'll ignore me harder? Give me the silent treatment? Real mature, Bucky. Really —" His hand shoots out and catches your nipple through your flimsy top, pinching hard enough to make you gasp. Right there in the middle of the bar, where anyone could see.
"Mind your manners," his words are quiet, only to your ears, but there's nothing quiet about the look in his eyes.
The pain mixing with pleasure makes your brain go numb. The shock of him touching you after days of ignoring, shoots straight to your cunt. The way he's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole definitely helps. "Or what?" The words come out breathy, challenging.
His other hand comes up to your mouth, calloused fingers pressing against your lips, pulling your lower lip down, even as you try not to give in. "You really wanna find out?"
When your mouth opens — to say what, you're not sure, — his fingers slip inside. The taste of salt and skin floods your senses. And because you're you, because you can't help yourself, you bite down. Hard enough to make a point.
Saliva smeared fingers pull out, only to hold your cheeks, smushed together. "That's it. We're leaving."
"'m — ngh — n’goin’ any — wheh —"
Bucky doesn't let you finish your pathetic excuse of a sentence, he's pulling you through the crowd, fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. You could fight him, dig in your heels and make a scene. But you do what lost causes do best, follow him.
He drags you out a side door into an alley that smells like garbage and stale beer. The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music. It's just the two of you in the dim light from a flickering streetlamp.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice is rough, angry, and he's backing you up against the brick wall.
"Takes one to know one."
"Can't go five minutes without running your mouth. Can't follow a single fucking boundary you set yourself. What am I supposed to do with you?"
His hand slides under your skirt, where you're already wet. You've been wet since he pinched your nipple in the bar, maybe since you saw him sitting there looking miserable.
"This what you wanted?" His hand yanks your soaked panties aside so his thick fingers can drag through your dripping folds. "Wanted me to lose my shit? To stop being nice?"
"You're never nice," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.
"No, I'm not." He curls them viciously, battering that spongy spot inside you while his thumb grinds rough circles over your swollen clit. "I'm the guy who can't stay away from you even though I know I should. I'm the guy who gets hard every time you look at me like you hate me, who's so fucked up over you I can't think straight."
The confession should probably mean something, but you're too busy trying not to collapse as he fucks you with his fingers. Fast and rough, his thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. "Bucky — please —"
"Please what? You want my cock?" He's grinding his rock-hard bulge against your thigh so you can feel every thick inch straining against his jeans. "Want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see?"
"Yes —"
"No." He emphasizes the word with a particularly brutal thrust of his fingers. "Bad girls don't get cock."
"That's not fair —"
"Life's not fair, darling'." His fingers are pistoning into you, three thick digits stretching your pussy open, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet alley. "You cum on my fingers or not at all."
Whimpering, you're chasing your orgasm, feeling his hard length against your hip, but he's not giving you what you want. Won't give you what you need. "C'mon," he murmurs, almost gentle despite the way he's finger-fucking you. "Let me feel it. Let me feel this greedy pussy cum for me."
It crashes over you sudden and intense, your cunt clamping down hard around his fingers, gushing slick all over his hand as your legs shake. He works you through it, fingers gentling as you breathe hard against each other.
After the post orgasmic haze, you realise you you just let him finger you outside a bar. He just made you cum, now he's pulling his hand away and putting distance between you like he can't stand to be close anymore. "Bucky —"
"Go home." He won't look at you. "Go home and sleep it off."
"I'm not drunk."
"Then you've got no excuse for acting like this." His eyes finally meet yours, the look in them makes your chest ache. "We're done with this. Whatever this is, we're done." Walking away into the bar, he leaves you standing in the alley his fingerprints bruised into your skin.
The first thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The second thing is that you're not in your bed. The third thing, the thing that makes your eyes snap open in pure panic, is that you're in his bed.
Bucky's bed. The same bed where he'd eaten you out two days ago, where you'd gripped his sheets and fallen apart on his tongue. The same room you'd stormed into and started a fight that ended with his hand between your legs. The mattress is firmer than yours, and there's this indent in the pillow that smells like him.
You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room spins, a pounding in your skull that suggests last night was a terrible series of decisions. You're wearing a t-shirt. Not yours though. Grey and soft from too many washes, hits mid-thigh, it's his.
Your jeans are folded on his desk chair. Your top, the black one with the low cut, is there too, along with your bra. Which means you're bare under his shirt, which means —
The door opens and Bucky walks in holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a mug of what smells like coffee. He's already dressed in a jeans and a Henley, that looks ridiculously hot on him. Hair is slightly damp like he just showered, looking way too put together for whatever the fuck happened last night.
"Did we—" You can't even finish the sentence, mortification crawling up your throat. "Did we fuck?"
Bucky laughs, a sound you realise you've grown to miss these past few days. "We've fucked before," he says, setting the ibuprofen on the nightstand. "But no. Not last night."
The relief is immediate and confusing. "Then why am I wearing your shirt?"
"You don't remember?" His words are soft, so soft so as to not spook the skittish animal — you.
"No?"
Something flickers across his face as he sighs, too quick to read. Could be frustration or concern or maybe just exhaustion with your bullshit. He sits on the edge of the bed, which feels weirdly intimate considering you're barely dressed, and runs a hand through his hair. "After the alley, you went back to the bar. Did a few more shots with Nat. Then you puked in the bathroom, I had to change your clothes because you'd gotten it all over yourself."
Oh god. Oh god. You want to sink through the mattress, disappear into the floor and maybe cease existing entirely. He had to change you. He had to see you messy and puking, had to strip off your clothes and put you to bed like you're some kind of disaster he's responsible for. Your voice is small when you ask, "why didn't Nat help me? You didn't have to do that."
"Nat was in the exact same condition as you." He hands you the coffee, your fingers brushing his when you take it. "Steve took care of her."
The parallel. Steve and Nat. You and Bucky. Like you're couples, like this is normal, like taking care of each other when you're shitfaced drunk is just what you do. Except you and Bucky aren't anything. You're just two people who can't stop fucking each other in semi-public places and then insisting it'll never happen again.
Panic starts crawling up your spine. This is too intimate and domestic.
"You can shower before you go," Bucky says, standing up. "I'll get you some clothes to wear home. Your stuff from last night is probably beyond saving."
He's being nice. That's what's so disorienting about this whole thing. He's being genuinely nice to you, and you don't know how to process it. Where's the smirk? Where's the condescending remark? Where's the Bucky who makes you want to simultaneously punch him and jump his bones? This version, the one who brought you coffee and pills and is offering you his shower, is uncharted territory. "Thanks." The word feels awkward in your mouth.
Bucky nods, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You sit there, holding the coffee mug and trying to organize your thoughts into something that makes sense. The coffee is exactly how you take it, meaning he's been paying attention. This is somehow worse than you thought.
The shower helps. There's something grounding about standing under the hot water, washing off last night's mistakes with his soap and shampoo. You're now going to smell like him all day, which is just another thing to add to the list of problems you're actively ignoring.
When you come out, there's a stack of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants with a drawstring, another t-shirt, a pair of boxers. Which you're definitely not going to wear. A lie to keep yourself sane.
The walk home is a blur. You spend the rest of the day aggressively not thinking about any of it. His hands steady while he dressed you when you were too drunk to manage it, the coffee fixed exactly how you take it, the way he didn't just drop you off, even though he could've. You wouldn't blame him.
By evening, the guilt sets in. You need to return his clothes. That's what a decent human being would do. Definitely not because you want to see him, not because you can't stop replaying the morning in your head.
You fold the sweatpants and t-shirt neatly, walk to his dorm with a stomach full of nervous energy. The boxers you're keeping, because returning used underwear is a level of awkward you're not prepared to handle. That's what you tell yourself now, what you'll tell him if he asks.
He answers on the second knock, surprise in his eyes.
"Hey," you hold out the clothes. "Wanted to return these."
"Could've kept them." But he takes them. There's this moment where you're both just standing, not knowing what to say.
He looks good. He always looks good, but right now he's in joggers and an old t-shirt, barefoot and relaxed, something you rarely see in him. Your stupid brain is reminding you of all the ways you know what's under those clothes, all the ways he's made you fall apart.
Bucky does what you're not expecting, he leans in slowly, giving you time to see it coming, time to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath before it happens.
No, not again. You turn your head at the last second, his mouth missing yours, catches your cheek instead, the contact soft and wrong all at once. He goes still, not sure of what he just touched. "We can't do this anymore." The words taste like ash on your tongue.
His expression is carefully blank as he pulls back. "Right."
"I'm serious, Bucky." You're talking fast, words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Last night was — this morning was — we need to stop. This whole thing, whatever it is, it needs to stop."
"Okay."
"No offense, you're a great lay —" God, could you sound more like an asshole? "— but this is getting too complicated. And I just think it's better if we —"
"I said okay." His voice is flat, face carefully set, not to give anything away. The problem is, you don't want him to just agree. You want him to fight you on it, to argue, to do literally anything other than just accept it. But he's standing there looking at you with those blue eyes that give nothing away, and you're realizing that maybe he's relieved. Maybe he's been looking for an exit and you just handed him one.
The insecurity, the pain in your chest, doesn't reflect on your words. "Okay. So we're good?"
"Yeah. We're good."
There's nothing left to say after that. Walking away feels wrong, even though it was you who'd suggested it.
The truth you're not ready to admit, the one that's been building since that first bathroom encounter is that Bucky's not really that much of an asshole. Or maybe he is, but you're starting to not find it annoying. You like the way he challenges you, pushes back, doesn't let you get away with your bullshit. You like the quiet moments too, the coffee this morning, the way he took care of you when you were a disaster, how he looks at you sometimes like you're more than just someone to fight with.
You can handle hating him. You can even handle wanting him. What you can't handle is this other thing, this softer thing that's taking root in your chest and making everything more complicated than it needs to be.
So yeah. It has to stop. It has to. Even if you're already missing him, and he's only been gone from your sight for thirty seconds.
The thing about trying not to think about someone is that the harder you try, the more they invade every corner of your brain like some kind of parasitic thought you can't evict. It's been three days since you handed back Bucky's clothes, since you told him it was over, did the mature, responsible thing and ended whatever fucked-up situationship you'd stumbled into.
It's also three days of failing spectacularly at not thinking about him.
You see him everywhere. In the guy at the coffee shop who orders black coffee, the way Bucky takes. In the dark-haired stranger at the crosswalk whose shoulders are just a little too broad. In every fucking corner you turn, there he is.
Except he's not. He's never actually there.
Fourth afternoon you end up at Steve's dorm. Not on purpose — well, maybe a little on purpose. Nat wanted to pick up some textbook Steve borrowed, and you tagged along. With a thin, embarrassing hope inside your ribs that thinks Bucky would be there on the couch like always, smirking at you over his laptop.
He's not.
Steve's alone, doing dishes in his hideous yellow rubber gloves, and he barely looks up when you walk in. "Bucky's at practice," he says, like you asked. Like it's written all over your face that you're looking for him.
"Cool," you aim for casual and land near manic. "I wasn't — I didn't ask."
Steve gives you a look that says he's not buying it, but he's nice enough not to call you out.
The next day, you hit the cafe where you do study group. Your regular table is empty. The corner booth where Bucky always sits, is occupied by some freshman with headphones the size of dinner plates. You order your latte and sit in the wrong seat. Everything feels off-kilter.
Your phone sits on the table in front of you. You've opened his contact approximately sixty-seven times in the last three days. His name just sitting there, never texted him, never called. The message thread between you is completely blank, just a white screen full of possibility and cowardice.
What would you even say? Hey, remember when I said we should stop? Yeah, about that. Or maybe: I think I made a mistake. Or the truth, which is something closer to: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me crazy and I don't know what to do.
Your thumb hovers over his name. You close the app. Open it again. Close it.
Next night you end up at the bar. Same one where he fingered you in the alley, where you drank too much and ended up in his bed wearing his shirt. The bar is busy, some kind of hockey watch party that you don't care about. You scan the crowd automatically. Looking for dark hair and blue eyes.
He's not here either.
You end up doing a shot with some girls from your class. They're nice alright, but you're barely listening to what they're saying. An exam, about a professor's office hours. Your brain is white noise and static, all Bucky all the time, and you hate it. Hate that he's taken up residence in your head without paying rent, and that you can't seem to function like a normal person anymore.
The group chat is the worst part. Steve posts a meme about a professor. Nat responds with crying-laughing emojis. Bucky texts back with 'lmao'. Your thumb swipes his text, ready to reply, or react. But what use is it?
He's alive. He's fine. He's out there somewhere living his life like nothing happened, like you didn't happen, while you're spiraling in this pathetic tornado of your own making.
What do you say to someone you pushed away? What do you say when you're realising that maybe you made the biggest mistake of your life?
Next morning, Nat corners you in your dorm room.
She uses the key you gave her for emergencies. You're still in bed even though it's almost eleven, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito. She takes one look at you before sighing, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Okay. We're talking about it."
"Talking about what?"
"Don't play dumb. You've been weird. You're not eating, you're not sleeping —"
"I'm sleeping fine."
"— and you've been moping. So we're talking about it."
You could deny it, brush her off, change the subject, keep pretending everything's fine. But you're so tired of pretending, and it's Nat. Maybe if you say it out loud, it'll make more sense. "I slept with Bucky."
There's not an ounce of surprise in her face, she doesn't even blink. "I know."
"What? How —"
"Please. You two have been eye-fucking each other for months. It was only a matter of time. How many times?"
"Does it matter?"
"Humour me."
You count in your head. The bathroom at the club. His room when he ate you out. The alley. "Three. Ish."
"Ish?"
"It's complicated."
"It always is with you two. So what happened? Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"
You spill all of it. Nat listens without interrupting. By the time you're done, you feel wrung out and empty. "I told him it was too complicated. That we needed to stop. And he just... agreed. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."
"Did you want him to disagree?"
The question you don't know the answer to, or rather, gaslighting yourself into not knowing the answer. "I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."
"Babe." Nat reaches over and squeezes your hand. "Why did you tell him to stop?"
"It was getting messy. Because we were supposed to hate each other and instead we were —" The words gets caught in your throat.
"Instead you were what?"
"I don't know. Something else."
"Like what?"
You close your eyes, and try to find the words for this feeling that's been building in your chest for weeks. "He knows how I like my coffee. When I was drunk and disgusting, he took care of me. He gave me his clothes. He's an asshole but he's also... he's not. He's funny and smart when he's not trying to piss me off, and the way he looks at me sometimes —"
"You like him." Three words you were not ready to hear.
"No. I don't — we hate each other. We fight constantly. He drives me crazy."
"Yeah, because you like him." Nat says it gently, like she's explaining something obvious to a child. "You like him, and it scares you, so you pushed him away before he could hurt you."
"That's not —"
But it is. The realization hits you like cold water. You like Bucky Barnes. Not just his dick — though, that too —, but him. The way he challenges you, the way he sees through your bullshit, the way he makes you feel alive in a way nothing else does. You like him, and you sent him away. "Oh my god. I'm so stupid."
"Little bit, yeah."
"What do I do?"
"Tell him."
"I can't just — he agreed it was a mistake. He was probably relieved when I ended it. He hasn't tried to contact me once in three days, Nat. Not once."
"Because you told him it was over. What's he supposed to do, ignore your boundaries?"
She's right. Of course. You set the boundary, and he respected it, he even said so. Now you're mad at him for doing exactly what you asked.
Your phone is in your hand before you fully decide to grab it. You don't let yourself think this time, thinking is what got you into this mess. It rings, and rings, and rings.
After more ringing and more nothing, you're ready to give up, and he picks up. "What?" His voice is rough, annoyed, your courage almost failing you.
"I need to talk to you."
There's silence first, sigh second, and then, "I'm busy."
"It's important."
"I said I'm busy."
"Bucky, please."
Another pause, longer. You can hear noise in the background. Voices, music maybe. He's somewhere, anywhere but talking to you. "Fine," he finally says. "Library. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."
"Okay. Yeah. I'll be —"
He hangs up before you can finish.
Bucky is ten minutes late.
Not that you're counting.
Eleven minutes now.
You picked a table in the back corner, the one behind the stacks where people go to make out or cry during midterms. Private enough for this conversation, whatever this conversation is going to be. Your hands are shaking, like you're some kind of nervous wreck, which you are.
Twelve minutes.
Maybe he's not coming. Maybe this was his way of telling you to fuck off without actually saying the words. You pull out your phone, pull up his contact for the thousandth time, and that's when you see him.
He looks wrong. There's no better word to describe him right now. Bucky always carries himself like he owns whatever space he's in, loose, confident and just arrogant enough to be annoying. But right now he's tense, shoulders up near his ears, and he won't quite look at you as he drops into the chair across from you.
"Hey." Your voice comes out too soft.
"Hey." That's it. That's all you get. He's looking at the table, at his hands, at anything that isn't you. There's this wall between you that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were busy being annoyed to fully notice it.
"Thanks for meeting me," you try again.
He shrugs.
This is going great. Really stellar. You've had more productive conversations with your houseplant.
"I wanted to talk about — about what happened. About what I said."
"It's fine." His voice is flat, bored almost. "You were right. It was getting complicated."
"No, I wasn't right. I was —" You take a breath, try to organize the thoughts that have been ping-ponging around your skull for four days. "I was scared. And I said things I didn't mean because I didn't know how to —"
"Don't." The word cuts through your rambling, sharp enough that you stop mid-sentence.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this." He's finally looking at you now, his eyes cold in a way you've never seen. "Don't come here and try to rewrite what happened. You said you didn't want this. I respected that. We're done."
"But I do want —"
"Want what? To fuck again? Is that what this is?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Because if you're just looking for a booty call, you could've just sent a text."
The casual cruelty of it makes you flinch, you try to hold yourself together. "That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Okay, here it is. The moment you've been building toward, the confession you practiced in your mirror this morning like some kind of lunatic. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I like you." The words feel clumsy and inadequate. "I know I said it was just sex, and I know I pushed you away, but I was wrong. I like you, Bucky. I want to — I don't know what I want, but I want to try. To see if this could be something."
The silence that follows is excruciating. He's just staring at you, face completely blank, you can't read anything even if you try so hard.
"You're confused," he says finally.
"I'm not —"
"Yeah, you are. You're confusing good sex with feelings. It happens."
"Don't tell me what I'm feeling." There's an edge creeping into your voice now, frustration bleeding through. "I know the difference between —"
"Do you?" He leans forward, there's a meanness in his smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like buyer's remorse. You ended things, realized you miss getting fucked, and now you're trying to make it into something it's not."
"That's not fair."
"No? Then explain it to me. Explain how four days ago you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now suddenly you're catching feelings."
"Because I was scared, okay? I was scared because it was starting to feel like more than just sex, and I didn't know how to handle that, so I —"
"So you ended it. Which was the right call."
You're getting angry now, the frustration boiling over. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like an asshole. Like you don't —" You take a breath. "You took care of me. When I was drunk and disgusting, you took care of me. You made my coffee the way I like it. You gave me your clothes. That wasn't nothing."
"That was basic human decency. Don't make it into more than it was."
"I'm not —"
"You are." He stands up, the sudden movement making you jerk back. "You're making up a story in your head where this was something it wasn't. We fucked. It was good. It's over. That's it."
"Bucky —"
"I don't like you that way." Each word lands on you like a physical blow, bruising your skin. "I liked fucking you. That's not the same thing."
Sitting feels wrong now, feels too vulnerable, too small compared to him, you stand too. "I don't believe you."
"I don't care what you believe."
"Then why did you take care of me? Why did you —"
"Because I'm not a complete monster. Leaving you to choke on your own vomit seemed like a dick move. Don't romanticize it."
You're too close now, in his space, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Under all that, there’s a raw, painful part of him he’s trying to hide behind cruelty. "You're lying."
"I'm really not."
"Then why are you so angry?"
"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."
Without giving yourself time to think it through, you reach for him. Your palm lands against his chest, warm through the fabric, fingers curling like you can hold him there, keep him from slipping out of this moment. It comes out of you all at once, that need to make him stay, to make him understand what this is doing to you. You push up on your toes, closing the distance, tugging him closer as you go for his mouth like it might fix something, like it might make this real in a way words haven’t managed to.
He turns his face away, just a quiet shift, a small angle of his head at the last second. Your lips miss his mouth, drag across his cheek instead.
The contact is wrong. You feel it immediately, the way your mouth presses into skin that isn’t answering, isn’t meeting you halfway. Your hand is fisted in his shirt. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, steady, unchanged, like this isn’t cracking anything open for him the way it is for you. The rejection is clean, absolute, leaving a sharp burn behind your eyes you can’t blink away fast enough.
"I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was. That's all it's ever going to be. So if you're looking for feelings, if you're looking for some kind of relationship, you're barking up the wrong tree."
"No — no — you're —" You choke on your own words, trying to get the word 'lying' out, but you cannot.
"I'm not. You're just too caught up in your own bullshit to see it. You want the truth? You're too much drama. Too much back and forth, too much hot and cold. I don't have the energy for it. The sex was good, great even, but dealing with you? With all your shit? Not worth it."
Each word is a knife, precise, designed to cut you, gut you, you feel yourself bleeding out right there in the library.
"Fuck you." Your voice cracks on the words.
"Yeah, that's about all you're good for."
Whether you want them or not, the tears flow. But you're not going to cry in front of him and give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You just won't. Grabbing your bag, you run. Past the stacks and the reference desk, you don't stop until you're outside in the cold air that bites at your wet cheeks.
What use is knowing you like him when he doesn't like you back? When he never did? When all those moments you thought meant something were just your imagination filling in blanks that were never there to begin with?
You were stupid to come here. Stupid to think he felt the same way, to think you were anything more than a convenient fuck.
He wasn't respecting your boundaries. He was relieved when you ended it. The anger, the coldness, the cruelty, that was all him, telling you the truth. That was him showing you exactly what you meant to him.
Nothing.
You meant absolutely nothing.
Heartbreak is supposed to be metaphorical. That's what you always thought, anyway. Just a turn of phrase people use to describe feeling sad. But it turns out your body doesn't know the difference between metaphorical and literal, and it's staging a full-scale revolt against the fact that Bucky Barnes doesn't want you.
Day one, you can't eat. Your roommate makes you toast. It sits on your desk going cold and hard while you stare at the ceiling. Your stomach feels like someone filled it with concrete, and the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes your throat close up.
Nat texts. You don't answer. She texts again. You turn your phone face down and watch the light bleeding around the edges when it buzzes.
Sleep doesn't come. You lie there in the dark, and your brain plays the library scene on repeat like some kind of sadistic highlight reel. Too much drama. Not worth it. That's about all you're good for. The words have teeth, and they're chewing through your chest cavity, making a home in the empty space where your self-respect used to be.
Day two, your head starts pounding. It's this dull, persistent ache that sits right behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take two ibuprofen and they sit in your empty stomach like rocks. Everything hurts. Your muscles, your joints, your skin when the blanket touches it, everything. You tell yourself it's just tension. Just stress manifesting physically. Just your body being dramatic because apparently you are, according to Bucky, too much of everything.
The crying comes in waves. You know how in the movies, a single tear rolls down your cheek? Yeah, it's not that. This is ugly, snotty, hiccupping, making your eyes swell up so bad you can barely open them. You cry so hard you throw up, and then you cry about that. The whole thing is so pathetic you almost laugh.
Throat feels you swallowed glass. Every time you try to drink water it's a special kind of torture. You've got a fever. Skin too hot, too cold at the same time, thoughts getting fuzzy, everything feels like burning.
Nat comes by. You pretend you're asleep. She leaves soup outside your door that you don't touch.
You're not heartbroken, you tell yourself. You're just sick. Getting sick right after emotional trauma is just a coincidence. People get colds all the time. This has nothing to do with the fact that you put yourself out there and got eviscerated for your trouble, nothing to do with the fact that you cried your eyes out.
The room swims when you open your eyes. Everything's blurry and soft, like someone smeared Vaseline on your corneas. You try to blink, the ceiling fan is on, rotating slow because you're freezing even though you're pretty sure you're burning up. There's your hot water bottle on the nightstand, the one shaped like a box that Nat got you as a joke. There's your water glass. There's Bucky.
There's Bucky?
Sitting in your desk chair like he belongs there, you must be hallucinating, delirious with fever because there's no way he's actually here, in your room, looking at you with something that might be concern if you didn't know better.
You reach out without thinking, hand stretching toward him like you could touch him if you tried. Your fingers are shaking. Everything's shaking. "Hey," you mumble, voice sounding like someone beat you up for days. "You're not real."
He leans forward, and dream-Bucky looks tired. Worried. Nothing like the cold, cruel version from the library. "What do you want?" Dream-Bucky asks, his voice soft. Softer than he's ever used with you, softer than you knew he could be.
"Not fair," you slur, coherent sentences are beyond you right now. "S'not fair of you to haunt my dreams."
"It's not a dream, baby."
Baby. He's never called you that. Not even when he was inside you, not even in the heat of the moment. You almost laugh, but it comes out as a cough that rattles your chest.
"Sure isn't," you speak when the coughing stops. "Dream-Bucky would hate me too. Just like real Bucky. Can't even have nice hallucinations."
You think dream-Bucky says something else, but the words blur together and you're already sliding back under, into the dark where nothing hurts quite as bad.
Hours later — could be three, could be ten, time is meaningless when you're this sick — you surface again. The room is dimmer now. Your mouth tastes like death, and your whole body aches like you got repeatedly hit.
And dream-Bucky is still there.
Still in your desk chair, but now he's got his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, hasn't realised you're awake yet. It's nice watching him, even if it's just a dream. He looks tired. "Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to dream of you."
Your voice brings him to your room again, head snapping up, relief plastered on his face. "You're not dreaming."
He reaches out, hand cupping your face, palm cool against your too-hot skin. Real. Definitely not a fever dream. "You've still got a temperature."
You jerk back from his touch like it burns. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Nat told Steve you were sick —"
"Why the fuck do you care?"
Bucky flinches, like the words hit him physically. "Can we not do this right now?" he asks, tiredness in his voice prominent.
The audacity of this man, flinching like you hurt him and not the other way around. "Yeah, of course. Get out."
"I just want to help you. You're in no shape to take care of yourself."
"Better me than you. So get out." You try to sit up and the room tilts sideways.
"I'm sorry. Please let me help you." His words are pleading, an act, you think.
You're upright now, barely, using the wall for support. "Sorry for what? For saying I'm just a good fuck? For telling me I'm too much drama? For —"
"For everything. I'm sorry for everything." There's hurt in his eyes, but you're too angry to care about right now.
"I don't fucking care, Bucky. Get out."
His jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize. "No. I'm not doing this push and pull again."
"Oh, that's great. Because I'm just pushing you. There's no pull whatsoever."
He stands up, takes a step toward you. "Please. Let me just take care of you, help you, and then I'll be gone if that's what you want."
"What are you gonna possibly do that I can't do myself?"
"I made broth." He gestures toward your desk where there's a thermos you didn't notice before. "I'll heat it up. It's supposed to help with the cold. I also got aspirin for the fever, and some throat lozenges, and —"
"Fine. Leave that here." You swing your legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand, the floor immediately rushes up to meet you.
Bucky catches you, though you wish he didn't. His hands are on your arms, steadying you, you're too dizzy to push him away. "Did I say you can touch me?" you snap when the world stops spinning.
"Please. I just didn't want you to fall."
The irony is not lost on you. Didn't want you to fall. The audacity of that statement when he's the one who made you fall in the first place — metaphorically, emotionally, completely. Now he's worried about the literal fall? Fuck him. Fuck him for every mixed signal, every cruel word, every moment he made you think you might mean something.
You're too weak to fight his hands on you, the touch burns, even if you're the one running hot now. "You know," you say, and you hate how shaky your voice sounds, "I can't really fuck you right now. Since — you know — I'm sick and all."
The embrace of his touch leaves you like you'd slapped him, hands dropping to his sides. "That's not — I didn't come here for that."
"No? Then why are you here?" You're shuffling toward the bathroom because you desperately need to pee and also need to get away from him. "Come to finish the job? Make sure I'm completely destroyed?"
"I came because I was worried about you."
"Well, don't be. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You can barely stand."
"Not your problem." You make it to the bathroom and shut the door in his face, leaning against it, legs shaking.
Through the door, you can hear him moving around. The sound of your microwave running. Cabinet doors opening and closing. He's still here, still in your space, you don't have the energy to keep fighting him.
You finally emerge, teeth brushed, face washed, feeling slightly more human. The smell hits you first, however slight they may be. Savory and warm that makes your stomach remember it exists. Bucky's set up your desk like a sick station: the bowl of broth with a spoon, aspirin, a fresh glass of water, those throat lozenges he mentioned. "Sit," he says, gesturing to your bed.
"I'm not a dog."
"Please sit down before you fall down."
You sit, mostly because standing is taking more effort than you have to give. He gently moves the bowl to sit in front of you.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat something."
"I said I'm not —"
"When's the last time you ate?" His voice is gentle but firm, and it pisses you off how much he sounds like he actually cares. If you didn't know what he's capable of, you'd trust this act.
"Doesn't matter." Truth is, you can't remember. Day before yesterday, maybe? Time is soup.
"It matters. Drink the broth."
"You're not my mother."
"No, I'm the guy who made you soup at four in the morning because I've been losing my mind worrying about you. So please, for the love of god, just drink the fucking broth. "The words come out sharp, frustrated.
You don't point out that he has no right to lose his mind worrying about you, and take the bowl mostly to shut him up. It tastes even better than it smells, rich and salty with actual vegetables and herbs you can't identify. Your stomach wakes up properly, growling, and before you know it you're halfway through the bowl.
Bucky sits back in the desk chair, watching you with what looks like relief.
"Happy now?" you ask between bites, because you can't let him think this means anything.
"Getting there."
You want to throw the bowl at his head and scream at him for showing up here, for being nice to you, for confusing everything when you were just starting to build up the walls you need to survive this. You want to ask him why he said all those horrible things if he was just going to show up at your door with homemade soup like some kind of reformed asshole.
But you're so tired. Tired of fighting, of hurting, of not understanding what he wants from you.
After the soup, your body decides it's had enough excitement for one day. Bucky helps you back to bed, his hand on your elbow, steadying you even though you don't ask for it. The sheets are cool against your fever-warm skin, and you're asleep before you can tell him to leave.
When you wake up, the room is bright with morning light. Your head feels clearer, the fever-fog lifted enough that you can think in actual sentences instead of fragmented thoughts. The chair where Bucky sat is empty.
Of course it is. He came, he did his good deed, checked the 'take care of sick girl' box off his list, and now he's gone. Probably relieved to escape before you woke up and made things awkward again. The thermos is still on your desk, the bowl washed and sitting in your dish rack. The whole thing feels like something you might have dreamed except for the physical evidence that he was here.
You sit up slowly, testing your body's response. Better. Definitely better than yesterday. Your throat doesn't feel like shredded glass anymore, the headache has downgraded from horrible to a dull throb. Progress.
Thing is, you can still feel where his hand was on your face. The ghost of his touch like a brand, and you're pathetic enough to wish it was still there. To wish he was still here, sitting in that stupid chair, looking at you like you're worth worrying about.
You're reaching for your phone, to do what, you don't know, maybe check the time, maybe torture yourself by looking at his contact, when your door opens.
Bucky walks in carrying another bowl, and you just stare at him. He's wearing different clothes than last night, so he definitely left and came back, which means this is intentional. A choice he's making. "Sorry. I went to my dorm to make this. You didn't have enough ingredients here."
You continue staring. Your brain is trying to process the fact that he left to make you soup. That he came back. That he's here, in your room, in the morning light, and he doesn't look like he's planning to run.
He sets the soup on your desk and crosses the room quickly, crouching beside your bed. "Are you feeling better?"
Words seem beyond you right now. You're too busy cataloging the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at you like he's afraid you might shatter.
"Hey." His voice softens, warmth seeping through. "I'm gonna check for fever, okay? Is that alright?"
He's asking you permission to touch you. You want to trust this. The gentleness, the care, the softness he's showing you. But soft can turn sharp so quickly. You learned that in the library.
"People usually do that with a thermometer." Your voice is still rough but functional.
"I'm a college student. I don't own a thermometer." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, and you feel an answering pull in your own lips before you remember you're supposed to be mad at him, supposed to be protecting yourself.
When you nod, his hand comes to your forehead, gentle, soft. His palm is cool, and you fight the urge to lean into it. "Better. Still warm, but better."
The shower helps. Standing under hot water, letting it beat against your sore muscles, washing away two days of sick-sweat and misery. You take your time because the steam feels good, and also because you're half-convinced that when you come out, Bucky will be gone. This is a fever dream. An elaborate hallucination. He's not really here making you soup and checking your temperature and asking permission to touch you.
But when you open the bathroom door, wrapped in your towel, he's still there, still sitting in your chair. Very much real. You really should've brought a change of clothes inside.
His eyes drop to the floor immediately, color creeping up his neck. "Uh. Uhm. I'll go — I'll step out. While you — you know — change."
The awkwardness is almost funny. This is the same guy who's been inside you, seen you fall apart on his tongue, who's had his hands all over your body. Now he can't look at you in a towel?
"Dude, you've seen me naked before. You don't have to be this awkward."
The memories hit you both at the same time, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. All the ways he's touched you, all the sounds you've made for him, all the times you've been bare and vulnerable.
Maybe it's defiance or maybe you're just tired of this dance, but you reach for the edge of your towel and start to unwrap it. Bucky crosses the room in three strides, hand catching yours. "No."
You're backed against the wall. He's close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the specks of gray in his blue eyes. "Yeah, sorry." The words tasted bitter in you head, tastes bitter when they come out too. "Forgot you can't keep it in your pants with me. That's all I'm good for, right?"
"Stop." His hand moves to your waist. His other hand catches both of yours, pins them gently above your head, no force in them. You could break free if you wanted. Except you don't want to.
"Bucky, what the fuck —" You twist against him, pushing at his hold, more stubborn than urgent, trying to get free more out of principle than actual desire to escape.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. Monumentally." His words are earnest, desperate.
Your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. He's so close, and he smells like coffee and that stupid soap he uses. This is too much, confusing, reminiscent of all the times you've been in this position, pinned, wanting and completely at his mercy.
"I was horrible to you that day," he continues. "In the library. I haven't been able to sleep since I fucked up."
You stop squirming inside his touch. Stop breathing, maybe. Because he's looking at you like you matter, like hurting you actually hurt him. "Then why did you — You don't get to simply apologize and be done with this."
"You know you're confusing, right?" He sighs as he says it, almost a fond exasperation. His thumb is tracing circles on your waist through the towel, probably without him realizing.
"What?"
"Baby, you fucking confuse me. All the fucking time."
Baby again. He keeps saying it like it's natural, like it belongs in his mouth when he's talking to you.
You're still very aware that you're in a towel. That his hand is on your waist, warm through the terry cloth, your hands still above your head, however light his hold is. "You know, if you don't want to see me naked, maybe don't put me in this position. The towel's gonna slide off my tits any second now."
He drops your hands like they burned him, steps back, putting distance between you that feels wrong now that it's there. "Sorry," he mutters.
You want to tell him to stop apologizing. Or maybe apologize more. Or maybe come back and put his hands on you again because the absence of his touch feels like a loss. Your thoughts are tangled up in themselves, a mess of want, hurt, anger and confusion that you can't sort through.
"I liked you." The words burst out of him like he's been holding them in too long. "Fuck it— I like you. I've liked you since the very start. Since Nat and Steve started dating. No, even before that."
Hope starts building in your chest, easing the pain, soothing the hurt, which is dangerous, which you can't afford right now.
"I saw you in class one day and I've liked you ever since." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can organize them. You've never seen him like this. Bucky doesn't ramble. "That's how Steve got to know Nat, actually. Because Nat's your friend. I talked about you all the time to Steve and that's how Steve got to know Nat."
Wait.
"And then you're this firecracker who can't shut up, and we got off on the wrong foot —"
"What?" Your brain is trying to rewrite history, slot this new information into the narrative you've been carrying around forever.
"I didn't mean to pick a fight with you that day." He runs his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to pour coffee over your notes, I was — I was nervous. And we've been butting heads ever since, and it's my fault because I had this huge crush on you and I poured coffee all over your fucking notes. How dumb is that?"
The coffee incident. You remember it, the way your carefully highlighted notes had turned into a brown-stained disaster. You'd snapped at him, and he'd fired back instead of apologizing. That was the start of it. The first battle in a war you thought he wanted to fight. But he's saying it was an accident. An accident born from nerves, from liking you, from being so focused on trying to impress you that he'd fucked it up spectacularly.
You think about all the fights since then, all the barbed comments and intentional provocations. You'd convinced yourself he hated you when, this whole time, he was just trying to get your attention the only way he knew how.
"Ever since then, you've not let me know peace." He's pacing now, and you're still standing against the wall in your towel like an idiot. "I just wanted to get to know you, and then we started annoying each other, and I started liking it because it was kinda our thing. Our love language, you know?"
Love language. Like fighting with you was how he showed affection, like every argument was actually him trying to be close to you.
"And then we — uh — had sex that day," he continues, "and you told me it wasn't happening again. I was crushed. Then it happens again, and you say the same thing."
"You agreed," you point out, because that part still stings.
"What was I supposed to say? No, I love you so much, please don't break my heart? I thought if I could just have you in whatever way you'd let me, that would be enough. Even if it was killing me."
Love. He said love. Did he notice? His face doesn't change, like the word slipped out without him registering it, and you're standing here holding this piece of information in your chest, this fragile thing, while he's still walking back and forth like standing at one place could kill him.
"And then that night," he says, and his voice gets quieter. "The night you got drunk."
"What about it?"
"You told me you liked me."
Suddenly, the room starts spinning, like you're both drunk and hungover at the same time. "What?"
"We — uhh — I — I fingered you in that alley, and then we went inside, you got drunk, and you told me you liked me. Said you'd been thinking about me, that you couldn't stop thinking about me."
No, no, no. You don't remember that. You remember drinking, remember Bucky's hands on you in the alley, remember waking up in his bed. But confessing your feelings? That's a blank space in your memory. "I don't — I don't remember that."
"I know." He stops pacing, looks at you with what might be sadness. "The next morning, you didn't remember anything. Asked if we'd fucked like the idea horrified you. And I realized you had no idea what you'd said to me."
Oh god. Oh god, the morning after. You'd been so mortified, so convinced it was just another mistake, and he'd been hoping. He'd been carrying your drunken confession around like a promise, and you hadn't even known.
"I thought maybe — I don't know what I thought. That maybe on some level you meant it, even drunk. So I was hopeful. And then that evening, you came to return my clothes, and when I tried to —"
The way you'd turned your face, the way you'd said he was a great lay but it was too complicated. Fuck.
"You pulled away, said I was — I was — Like that's all I was to you."
The hurt in his voice is tangible, the way he couldn't even repeat your words, and you're realizing how many ways you've wounded each other without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to, because hurting him felt safer than being vulnerable.
"That fucking destroyed me," he admits. "I'd just heard you say you liked me, and then hours later you're reducing me to a dick. So when you showed up at the library saying you liked me, I — I panicked. I thought you were confused, or trying to spare my feelings, or that you'd just had some realization about missing the sex. I couldn't go through that again. Couldn't let myself hope and then watch you take it back."
It's all clicking into place now. The cruelty in the library wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he cared too much, because you'd hurt him first, even if you didn't know you were doing it.
"So you decided to hurt me first," you say.
The pain in his face is visible, pulling at your heartstrings even though he was the one that hurt you. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That wasn't fair at all. I thought I was protecting myself, because I couldn't bear to be hurt like that again."
He's pacing like a caged animal now, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. His hands are running through his hair, tugging at the ends, and he's still talking, apologizing, explaining, words tumbling out in this stream of consciousness that you can barely keep up with.
"Bucky," you call, but he's not listening.
"— and I just kept fucking it up, kept saying the wrong thing, kept pushing you away when all I wanted —"
"Bucky."
"— and in the library I was such a dick, I can't believe I said those things to you, I can't —"
You step into his path, hands on his chest, and physically push him backward until his the back of his knees hit your bed and he sits. The look of surprise on his face would be funny if this whole situation wasn't so fragile, so precarious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening between you.
This position — him on your bed, you between his legs — feels intimate, maybe even more than those three times. His hands come to your hips automatically, looking up at you with eyes that are red-rimmed and devastated, pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. The hug is tight, almost desperate, you can feel him shaking. "I'm sorry." His voice is muffled against the towel. "Please don't leave me."
His words pry you open from the inside. This is Bucky Barnes, the guy who struts through life, who never asks for anything, who'd rather die than show weakness. And he's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored, like the thought of you leaving is unbearable.
Your hands find his hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark strands. You've had your hands in his hair before, have pulled it while he was between your legs, gripped it while he fucked you. But this is gentle, tender, you offering comfort instead of taking pleasure.
There's wetness seeping through your towel. At first you think it's just water from your shower-damp skin, but then you feel his shoulders hitch, feel the way he's breathing in these controlled inhales like he's trying not to fall apart completely.
He's crying.
Bucky is crying, face pressed against your stomach, arms locked around you like you might disappear.
The realization hits you at the same moment you feel wetness on your hand. Your hand that's still in his hair, your own tears dripping onto your fingers. When did you start crying? You didn't notice, too focused on him, on the way he's holding you, on the impossible fact that this is happening.
You're both crying. Two people who've spent months hurting each other, finally breaking down.
"You hurt me." The words need to be said, need to exist in the space between you, even if he's not ready to hear it again. "What you said in the library — it hurt me so much I got physically sick."
His arms tighten against you, pulling you closer. "I'm so fucking sorry." The words are desperate, broken. "I will never hurt you. Ever again. I said those things and I couldn't breathe afterward — hurting you hurt me too, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."
Baby. This time it doesn't make you bristle or question. "I thought you hated me," you whisper. "I thought I was nothing to you."
He pulls back enough to look up at you, face wrecked, tears tracking down his cheeks, eyes swollen. Beautiful, broken and completely open in a way you've never seen. "You're everything to me. You've been everything to me for so long, and I've been too scared to say it. Too scared you'd walk away."
One of his hands leaves your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing away your tears even as his own keep falling. The gentleness of it makes you want to sob. How many times has he touched your face? But never like this. Never with this kind of reverence.
"I'm not walking away. I'm right here." You mirror his movement, your hand on his cheek.
"You're right here," he repeats, like he can't quite believe it.
You're both a mess. Crying, shaking, holding onto each other, towel soaked through with tears. You're pretty sure you look like a disaster, and Bucky's face is blotchy, eyes red. But none of it matters.
None of it matters because he's looking at you like you hung the moon. "I love you." This time there's no mistaking it for a slip. "I'm in love with you. I don't even know how long. I love the way you argue with me. I love how you never back down. I love that you called me out on my bullshit from day one. I love —"
You kiss him. Soft, tentative almost, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing is forming between you. His lips are salty with tears, so are yours, and you can feel him trembling as he kisses you back. He's pulling you closer while trying to be gentle about it. The towel is probably going to fall, but you can't bring yourself to care. This kiss feels like a promise. Like an apology, a confession and a beginning all wrapped into one.
Breathing hard, you pull back. His forehead drops to rest against your stomach again, his breath hot against your skin through the damp towel. "Say it back," he whispers. "Please. I need to hear you say it."
Maybe it's too soon, maybe you should make him work for it, make him prove he means all these pretty words he's saying. Maybe the smart thing would be to guard your heart a little longer, keep some walls up just in case.
But you're so tired of being smart, of protecting yourself, of pretending you don't feel what you feel. "I love you too." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I love you even though you're an idiot. I love you even though you hurt me. I love you even though — maybe because — you drive me completely insane."
His whole body sags with relief, like he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. "Thank god," he breathes.
No more pretending this is just physical when it's been emotional from the start.
He kisses your stomach through the towel, pulling you down onto the bed with him. You land in a tangle of limbs as he wraps himself around you like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.
He's quiet for a second, looking at you with those devastated blue eyes, "I'll never hurt you like that again." Unadorned, nothing poetic or flowery about the words.
You're a realist even now, even in this moment. "You can't promise that. People hurt each other. It happens."
His hand caresses your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Not like that. I'll never speak to you like that again, never make you feel like you're nothing to me. I promise. I promise, baby."
There's a desperate sincerity in his voice that makes you believe him. Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe it's the same thing. "Okay," you whisper.
"Okay?"
"I believe you."
His exhale is shaky, relieved, and he pulls you closer, the towel finally giving up its fight to stay in place and gaping open at the side.
"I'm gonna fuck this up sometimes," he says. "Probably a lot. I'm gonna say the wrong thing or do something stupid because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to handle feelings."
"Yeah, probably. I'll fuck up too. I'll push you away when I get scared. I'll pick fights because it's easier than being vulnerable." You're tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt, random swirls and shapes that don't mean anything.
"So we're both disasters."
"Seems like it."
His laugh is quiet, almost surprised, like he didn't expect to be laughing right now. "At least we're disasters together."
Together.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, slip underneath to touch warm skin, the need to feel him solid beneath your hands, maybe to tell yourself this is real. "Tell me something."
"Anything."
"That first day. When you spilled coffee on my notes. What were you actually trying to do?"
He groans, the vibration of it you feel against your cheek. "I was trying to ask you out. Had this whole speech planned. Then I got nervous and forgot I was holding coffee and — yeah. Disaster from the start."
"What was the speech?"
"Absolutely not. That's going to my grave."
"C'mon."
"Nope. Some secrets stay buried. All you need to know is I'd been watching you for weeks like a creep. Knew your coffee order, knew what corner of the library you liked, knew your schedule."
"That's actually kind of creepy."
His hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle against your scalp. "I know. I'm not proud. But then you yelled at me about the coffee and you were so pissed and so pretty, and I just... kept trying to talk to you. Even if it meant fighting with you."
You think about all those fights. The debate that got so heated the TA had to separate you. The time you fought about nothing at all, just because you could, because it meant you got to be in each other's space.
"I liked fighting with you," you admit.
"I know. I could tell."
"It was the only time you paid attention to me."
"Baby, I was always paying attention to you." His voice gets more serious. "Every single second you were in a room, I knew exactly where you were, who you were talking to, if you were smiling. I was so far gone for you it was pathetic."
All this time you thought he barely noticed you except to annoy you, he was cataloguing your every movement.
"The club. That first night. You got so mad. Was it — was it about that guy?"
There's no shame in his words. "I wanted to punch him, wanted to drag you away and tell him you were mine even though I had no right. I was jealous, pissed off and I followed you to the bathroom to yell at you about it."
"And then we fucked instead."
"Best decision of my life. Fuck, it was incredible. But, after that I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't pretend I just wanted to annoy you. I was addicted."
You lift your head to look at him, there's a softness in his expression that makes him look vulnerable.
"Every time you said it was the last time, I died a little," he continues. "But I kept coming back for more because having you for a moment was better than not having you at all."
The words hurt in the best way. You did the same thing, kept saying never again while knowing you'd end up right back in his orbit. "I'm sorry," you say.
"For what?"
"For pushing you away. For not seeing it sooner. For — For making you think you were nothing to me."
"Hey." He sits up, brings you with him so you're straddling his lap, towel falling away completely now but neither of you caring enough to correct it. His hands cup your face, making you look at him. "We both fucked up. We both hurt each other. But we're here now, right? We're figuring it out."
"Yeah. We're here."
His lips brush yours, and you think about all the ways you've kissed before. It's nothing like before, it's a kiss that means something beyond want, that says I'm sorry and I love you and I'm not going anywhere.
There's a specific kind of torture in wanting someone you think you can't have. You'd lived in it for months — watching Bucky, fighting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, all while convinced it meant nothing. Convinced you were nothing to him beyond a convenient release. The torture was in the wanting, in the knowing it could never be more, the way your heart skipped when he walked in a room even as you told yourself you hated him.
You'd gotten good at that torture, had made a home in it, learned to navigate the ache of unrequited feelings dressed up as animosity.
Now it's gone. This is having Bucky, knowing he wants you back.
He is lying next to you now, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Your towel is somewhere on the floor. You're still sick, still running a fever, but he's here. He stayed.
He's going to keep staying, you realize. Through the sickness, fights and the moments when you both fuck up.
It won't be easy. You're both too stubborn, too quick to anger, too used to hurting each other to suddenly become soft and gentle all the time. There will be fights. Real ones, not the foreplay kind. And there will be days when you drive each other crazy, and there will probably be moments when you wonder if this was a mistake.
But then he'll make you coffee exactly how you like it. Or you'll catch him watching you like you're precious. Or you'll patch him up after a game, or you'll fight about something stupid and end up laughing instead of crying.
His fingers are tracing patterns on your bare shoulder and you think about how touch can mean so many different things. All the times he's touched you in anger, in desperation, in hunger. And now this. Gentle, aimless touching, just because he can, because you're his and he's yours.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.
"How we got here."
"Long fucking journey."
"Worth it?"
"Every second of it."
The torture of wanting someone you can't have is finally over. The torture of having someone you could lose is just beginning.
But as Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head, as his breathing evens out and his heartbeat steadies under your ear, you think maybe this is the kind of torture you can live with.
Maybe this is the kind of torture that's actually called love.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. first time writing smth where both of them are this toxic, please go easy on me! thank you for reading!
OH YOU MADE ME CRY WITH 'FOR FAR TOO LONG' 😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢 i love them sm
Yall are so sweet I cannot thank you enough for all the love!! I was lowkey so scared to start writing again and I worried no one would care but all the comments and messages are so encouraging🥹🥲
I’m older than you and I’ve never had love or luck with dating. Your work “For Far Too Long” really spoke to me and made me feel seen and less alone. Thank you for sharing it! I hope you know how talented you are.
That’s exactly what I write for! I always hope that there’s someone out there who will connect and resonate with what I pour into my work both on here and in my novel. It means so much to me to hear feedback like this💕💕
That story really felt more like a diary entry than anything. Like a little place for me to write my daydreams of what I wish I could find in the world. I rarely admit that I wish I didn’t have to be as hyper independent, but I love writing characters who battle with the same issue. I understand what it feels like to be stuck and feel like you’re disconnected from the people you meet. You are not alone and I hope this page feels like a safe space for you and others.
Sending positive thoughts your way. There’s nothing wrong with wishing for love and I hope you continue to believe in it even if the world can feel daunting.💕🤞
Summary: As it turns out, you can’t outrun a monster in his own home. You can, however, learn to question whether he was ever a monster at all.
Word Count: 17.7k
Warnings: real big emotions and confrontations; secrecy in a relationship; lots of panic/anxiety/fear/insecurities; weapons (guns, knife); minor injury (cut); references to criminal activity and violence; Bucky is possessive and protective and in love; emotional manipulation (perceived/debated)
Author’s Note: Here we are my lovelies, the second part to His Name Was Never Just Bucky. Honestly, I’m so relieved it’s finally done and I can return to other projects. This took me so incredibly long, but it’s rewarding to have it completed and I’m so proud I didn’t end up abandoning it like so many other things before. I truly hope you enjoy where I took the story ♡
Masterlist | part one
This was probably the worst decision you have ever made.
But, hell, now you officially jumped without a parachute, the ledge is gone, the air is passing by quickly, and your only hope is that you’ll somehow learn how to fly on the way down and you’ll be able to land on your feet.
The hallway outside has lost its symmetry, as you have lost your sanity, and now nothing seems to make sense anymore. Everything seems longer and crueler, your panic stretching the hallways into a long, suffocating throat. Each of your hectic footsteps makes you feel too exposed in this big mansion, they seem to echo your exact coordinates throughout the floors. Every hallway hears you, the walls themselves are turning their heads.
You take the first turn on instinct, then another, and another, trying to remember the route, trying to retrace the thread that brought you here, but your terror and all that bottled-up panic smashes sequence, steals direction, leaves you with nothing but speed because you know that if you stop, you’re done.
Your feel your heart everywhere. In your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes, beating against your teeth.
You blow past a side table where a cluster of pale lilies sits, blooming so aggressively, looking so wrong and even ugly in the corner of your eye, you have to take another turn.
You’re no longer thinking, you’re just running.
Your chest is a hollow chamber and all you hear is your own pants when you pass a maid who startles and calls something you don’t catch. You pass a window tall as a church promise and for one insane second consider throwing yourself through it.
Somewhere behind you, from the office, you hear a loud crash. His voice follows. His voice. It sounds so much more blood-curdling now.
He’s calling your name. Loud and baffled and then sharper. He doesn’t sound angry yet, but definitely alarmed in a way that makes every warning bell inside you turn rabid. Because there is something uniquely petrifying about hearing alarm in the voice of a man like him. It means you have disrupted the script. It means he does not understand. It means he is coming.
You run harder, every nerve in your body overflowing with adrenaline.
But, as expected, the house doesn’t simply spit you out. Corridors feed into corridors, archways into alcoves, burnished halls into rooms you have never seen, and every choice you make seems to slide you deeper into the belly of the place instead of toward freedom.
With a ragged and desperate breath, you shove through one swinging door expecting another passage, and stumble instead into a kitchen vast enough to feed a wedding. There is all this gleaming steel and those butcher-block islands and hanging copper, bright under the lights in a way that feels grotesque after the dim severity of the office.
It is wrong, all wrong, too open and yet somehow still a trap, because there is no front hall here, no visible exit, only counters and cabinets and startled staff, and you realize with a sick plunge of your stomach, that you have run yourself into a dead end dressed as luxury.
This is bad, this is so bad.
You stop abruptly, spinning around helplessly. The breath tears in and out of you like it is trying to escape without the rest of your body. The halls behind you are full of pounding footsteps, and you know it’s just one single set, but you also know it’s him.
He’s advancing and you can’t keep escaping.
A woman near the far counter goes still with a mixing bowl in her hands. Another man freezes by the sink with his hands in water. No one speaks. No one moves. The whole room seems to hold itself in suspension around your panic, everyone watching without watching, and then from somewhere behind you in the corridor comes Bucky’s voice sounds again, practically yelling your name—no confusion left now, only alertness, apprehension; and it punches you in the gut. It rings through you, through the kitchen, through the bright metal and tile and silence, and you know it has all been for nothing.
But before there is anything you can do, before the ground can open a portal for you to fall through, Bucky appears in the kitchen doorway, looking like an avalanche with a name. A big name. A dangerous name. A name that will be the end of you.
He doesn’t look raging in the obvious way, but he’s lost a bit of control. And for the man that he is, you don’t know how to survive it. And this intensity with which he came thundering after you is so extremely frightening because it looks expensive on him, tailored to fit, like one of his suits, like one of his watches, like all the impeccable and dangerous things he wears so naturally you once mistook them for elegance instead of that blaring warning sign they actually are.
Why just have you been so stupid, my god.
He’s totally got you wrapped around his finger—and dick, as embarrassing and daunting as it is—or you would have maybe been able to open your eyes for a second, you idiot.
But now they are open, wide, wide open, and you see him. You see him as the man he is. But maybe it’s a little too late now.
He stops the moment he sees you pressed half-backward against the dark island, sees the way your hands have come up slightly as if your body has decided on defense without consulting you, sees the wet shine gathering in your eyes, the terror you are no longer managing to powder over, and something happens to his face that is so brief and so devastating, but all you can do is stare at him so you see that clean strike of realization.
He doesn’t look confused anymore, and it makes him even more menacing.
He knows. He knows that you know. And he probably knows what he’s going to do to you now but you don’t know if you want to know that.
The air seems to cinch around you, seems to wrap itself around your throat, and squeezes. You can’t breathe. You don’t try to.
Bucky—James, your mind insists now with a sick recoil, James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, biggest crime boss in the city—does not look away from you when he tilts his face to the staff. That, more than anything, makes your blood run strange. His attention stays fixed on you with a steadiness so absolute it feels like a physical thing, a hand at the back of your neck, while his voice turns toward everyone else in the room and comes out low and unquestionable. “Everyone out.”
His command is dropped into the kitchen and nobody argues. The immediate obedience of his people makes you visibly shudder.
A woman near the stove sets down a towel with trembling fingers. The man by the sink lowers his eyes and moves. Another staff member glances at you once with a quick look that seems almost guilty, almost pitying, and you feel the pulse of it pounding all around you, everywhere inside you.
Nobody looks at you too long, nobody does anything besides leaving the fucking room. They won’t meet your fear and they won’t step between it and the source. Nobody here belongs to themselves enough to choose you over him. But it’s clear that they don’t. They’re his people for a reason. Nobody here will be on your side, whatever happens.
A door swings. The kitchen empties in a matter of seconds, everyone slipping out with the furtive speed of people evacuating a room where something dangerous has just unsheathed itself. They leave with the scene in their eyes. They leave you with him. And the silence after the last one goes is so sudden it roars.
You take another step back and only feel the unhelpfully solid press of marble against your spine. There is nowhere else to go unless you want to climb onto the counter like a cornered animal, and for one hysterical beat of a second, the idea does not even seem ridiculous.
You keep your eyes on him because looking away feels somehow more chilling, but your gaze is frantic within that line of sight, darting to the side entrance, to the swinging service door, to the corridor beyond him, to windows that suddenly seem decorative rather than useful, to every possible seam in the room where escape might be hiding in miniature.
There is none. The whole kitchen gleams at you with pitiless order that’s just full of steel and stone and copper, knives in their block and pots all around.
He notices you looking, but you can’t care; all you have to care about is the distance between you and him, the distance between you and anything that might become escape if panic suddenly grew wings.
Could you run past him? Maybe, if he were anyone else. Maybe, if this were some ordinary man with ordinary reflexes and an ordinary body and an ordinary life.
But he is none of those things. You’re in this damn situation because he’s none of those things.
He fills the doorway without even trying. He stands there in the collectedness of his dark clothes and encroaching presence, looking at you as if he can hear your thoughts tripping over each other and your fear has turned you transparent.
His shadow has finally caught up to his skin and you now realize how dark it is.
Even if you got around him, where would you go? The front hall might as well be on another continent. Every corridor in this house has already left you stranded. There is no map in your mind now, only panic. No way out.
The knowledge gathers in your chest until it hurts. Behind your eyes, heat stings. Your throat tightens around a lump and only something choked leaves your lips.
And Bucky sees all of it. You keep trying to shrink back from him because his very outline has now become a threat, and it doesn’t make your situation better, but he already knows, so you don’t have to pretend anymore.
And his face alters. It’s as if the floor has given way under him. As if he had stepped expecting hard tiles and found air.
He does not advance. That should help. It does not. He stays where he is, one hand dropping slowly from the doorframe to his side, as if he understands that any sudden movement from him might send you straight through the nearest pane of glass.
There is a fervor to him now that feels different from the one you knew in bed, at dinner, in the soft-lit luxury of his attention. It has made you feel protected, loved, worshipped.
But there is no feeling of that anymore, none of that, because now it’s stripped of adornment, revealed as what it perhaps always was beneath all that heat and gentleness. It’s focus. Pure and frightening focus.
His eyes are on you in that unwavering, devastating way of his, but the expression in them is nothing easy. There is something dark in there, something grim and braced, something that knows a door has just slammed shut and is already calculating what can still be salvaged from the wreckage.
His mouth is set. His jaw is hard enough to cast shadows. He looks, absurdly, heartbreakingly, like a man who has been struck and is refusing to touch the bruise. But he stands, and he’s still so tall, much taller than you thought he could become, and he is not the man you thought you knew.
He stands there with his hands visible, shoulders squared but not aggressive, and the intensity in him is bridled.
His stare does not feel like a threat in the crude sense, but it’s so full of attention, too much attention, because total attention from a man like him is its own species of fear.
“Sweetheart.”
His voice has changed. It is calm but only in pretense. It is soft, technically, but not the way it was before. Before, his softness had warmth in it, a hand held out in the dark.
But this is lower. Straighter. It has gone cool around the edges. It’s not vicious or unkind in any sense, but your body clocks it instantly. It’s almost formal in its restraint, as though he’s speaking across the lip of something that’s close to breaking and he’s trying not to widen the crack.
And that nickname makes you want to let the tears fall. Whatever he tries to achieve by calling you that, it doesn’t work. It’s just torture how familiar he tries to make it sound.
His gaze falls in fast snaps over your face, your posture, your trembling hands. “This looks bad,” he concedes roughly. His throat works once before he continues. “I know it does. But it isn’t what you think it is.”
The words land in you and do nothing. They just sink. Sit there.
He studies your face, sees he has not reached you at all. “What did you see, baby? What has you—” He breaks off with a crack, shakes his head slowly, and lets out a shuddering breath, eyes still on you. “Tell me what you saw.”
What answer could you possibly give him?
That you are looking at his mouth and thinking of all the times it softened around your name, and your own mind keeps turning traitor and overlaying that tenderness with headlines, with whispers, with ravening rumor?
That the same voice which once coaxed and soothed now sounds capable of making rooms empty and men obey and whole situations forgotten? That the current version of his voice is a masterclass in control and it terrifies you to no end?
That his hands are hanging open at his sides, looking so damn human and ordinary, as though they’ve never done anything wrong?
Which is a lie, you now know, a lie that runs deep and leaves you scarred, because all you can think is that these bare hands are the same hands you’ve had under your chin, lifting your face to his, tucking hair behind your ear, buttoning you up against the cold, and you’ve had them gripping you tight in the dark, moving inside you until you couldn't breathe, wrecking you in the best way possible.
These hands were your favorite things.
But looking at them now, you picture what they are doing when you aren’t around. Doing the dirty work, the ugly work, the unspeakable work, hidden back in the blacked-out corners of a life he kept under lock and key.
Your throat feels too dry to talk and you stay quiet, letting the stillness in the room ripen, letting your lack of words and the fear in your eyes speak for themselves.
A hard, hollow tension knots his face, makes his jaw grind, and look as solid as a piece of rock. His hands ball into fists and when your eyes snap to them immediately, your body already flinching, he flexes them, but it seems forced. There is an almost brute rigidity to his throat, a silent scream of dread choked down only barely.
“What do you know?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
The question is gentle in shape and brutal in substance. It makes your stomach turn. Because it sounds like a test. It sounds like inventory. It sounds like the kind of thing a ruthless man would ask before deciding what to do with the damage.
You let your fingers grip the edge of the counter. You can’t answer him. All you can do is try to breathe. All you can do is stare at the exit behind him, and his body standing between it.
He draws in a slow breath, lets it out. “Look at me, Y/n. Please.”
You didn’t know some part of you would still obey, but you notice too late. Maybe it’s better this way. Your eyes lift fully to his.
And you can actually see the way he has lost his grip. It’s right there in his eyes. If you were to describe it you’d say it looks distraught. As if he’s lost, his entire biography that’s been neatly written on paper now ripped away and he can’t find the next line.
Judging by the way you act and look at him, he knows you know something, he just doesn't know what, and the mystery is eating him alive. Just for one disorienting second he doesn’t look that much like this untouchable figure from all those disturbing rumors, but rather like a simple man who knows that if he tries to force his way out of this, he’s just confirming your worst fears about him.
“My name,” he starts with a little hesitance. The gravelly low timbre of his voice makes you shudder, “is James Buchanan Barnes.”
Something in your face gives you away.
You feel it the moment it happens. Some tiny involuntary flinch. Some helpless widening.
Because something crosses his expression, his throat bobs hard enough to show that everything inside him is suddenly in pieces.
He sees that the name is not new to you. He sees that you are already standing several steps ahead of where he hoped this conversation was.
He goes very still.
“You knew that already,” he acknowledges, and it almost hurts how he tries to sound calm about it all.
Your mouth is dry. Your whole body feels like a struck match. You let out a pitiful small breath.
He takes one careful step forward, and it’s not really a step, not even truly an advance, but you recoil so sharply, you ram your whole body against the wall of marble behind you. Your back stings, but your eyes sting more.
His face changes with your reaction, something like pain flashing through the severe framework of him before he reins it back in.
“How?” he asks, and he’s no longer trying for calm. He ducks his head, pleading eyes on you, and he speaks with a wounded quiet. “Sweetheart, how did you find out?”
Your throat works around the answer. “Your tags.” It comes out so faint it is almost nothing, just a shaking breath that accidentally caught a few letters on the way out.
For a second he shuts his eyes. For just one cut of time.
His head tips back the slightest amount, and he deflates. A breath of air leaves him in a hitching, rattling shudder, like he’s finally run out of things to hold onto.
He looks back at you and seems briefly at a loss. James Buchanan Barnes, man of closed doors and fixed outcomes, with no ready sentence in his hands.
It is strange and unnerving and it makes you talk more, bracing for him to yell and threaten and turn cold.
“And,” you whisper, voice wobbling and blundering around in your mouth, “there was a gun.“
You want to explain, want to urge that you didn’t mean to find it, didn’t mean to come across anything at all. You want him to know you would like to dump your eyes in a container of white paint so your vision is a blank canvas and you can color it with other pictures, but it’s too late, and your words already seem to break across him, differently.
He does not move at first. He almost flinches, but catches it halfway, as if his body forgot for a moment to be disciplined.
His eyes stay on you, and all that’s in there are things you’ve never seen in him before. Or in anyone, really. It is a stricken grief, resulting from the way every new piece of your fear is arriving inside him one by one and finding purchase.
He looks at you like he can see the exact route your mind took from one discovery to the next, and hates every mile of it.
“Baby, I—” he croaks, having to pause. Instead, he starts toward you again, even slower this time, palms open a little, perhaps meaning only to soothe, perhaps meaning only to be nearer, but simply more trepidation triggers in you before thought can intervene. “Please listen to me—”
Your gaze snags on the knife block.
The sleek black handles. The bright clean suggestion of defense. It’s without thought that you run to grab one.
It is graceless and frantic and you don’t brandish it like someone brave in a film. You don’t know how to do this well enough for that and you don’t have the nerve to think about it.
Your hand shakes around the handle almost immediately, and you pull it close to your chest, because fighting this vile man would be ludicrous considering who he is and who you are, knife or not, but you use it to protect yourself with the mere fact of holding something sharp. Hopeful that this thing will keep your horror from spilling out of your body altogether.
The blade catches the light and makes it meaner. You hate that you have done this. You hate more that you had to.
Bucky stops dead.
The whole room seems to stop with him.
His eyes go first to the knife, then back to your face, and what crosses his expression then is so nakedly agonizing it is difficult to bear.
Because he sees that you are not trying to threaten him, unlike how someone in danger might.
You are not foolish enough to think a kitchen knife turns you into his equal. You are holding it because your body needs one small fiction to survive on—the fiction that you are not entirely empty-handed in a room with a man who could ruin you if he chose to. The fiction that you still belong, in some tiny harrowed way, to yourself.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice cracks clean through the middle of the word.
You have never heard that happen to him before. Never heard his composure split like badly fired glass.
His stare stays locked on yours, but now there is no distance in it, no coolness, no stranger’s cadence. Just a visceral, human ache. “Hey,” he says again, softer, but it sounds so incredibly heavy. It’s the way you’d talk to someone who’s just woken up from a nightmare and doesn't know where they are yet. “I’m— I’m not going to hurt you.”
Your grip tightens. The knife trembles visibly. “Don’t come closer.”
He stops breathing for half a beat and nods slowly.
“Okay.” The word is a single rasp. “I won’t.” He swallows. You see the muscle move hard in his throat. “I won’t come any closer.”
You cannot stop shaking, no matter how hard you try, because a man with his power shouldn’t see you be so obviously afraid, but there is nothing you can do.
“Please believe me, sweetheart, when I say that I never intended to hurt you,” he swears, and there is no command in him now, none of that cold-sounding authority from a moment ago when he emptied the room with few syllables.
This is worse, in its own way. This undone version of him, this man trying to hold himself very still because the sight of you recoiling has clearly perturbed something structural inside him. “I have a thousand sins on my head, and it’s no use to claim otherwise now,” he speaks with a vulnerability in his tone that washes past you. “I’ve done a lot of things I can’t take back, but hurting you was never on the table. Okay? It was never even a possibility. You were supposed to be the only thing I didn’t ruin,” he ends with a lacerated wince.
You stare at him and have no idea how you can understand anything at all.
The knife handle bites into your palm. Your chest rises and falls too fast. The kitchen is suddenly too loud with all that humming of the refrigerator, the lights, the distant bloodstream of the mansion; and in the center of it all he stands facing you with that wrecked look in his eyes, as if your fear is not merely inconvenient to him but unbearable, and he’d rather be struck than watched this way by you.
And in a world that wasn't currently collapsing, maybe you’d actually care, maybe you’d actually notice how he would take a bullet to the chest just to stop you from flinching, but all you can think is that you are standing in the house of James Buchanan Barnes, with a knife against your own ribs as much as against him, and the man looking at you like heartbreak has found him at last is still the same man the city says should never be underestimated.
It’s so silent all of a sudden that the kitchen seems to be held in a trance. It feels as if there is a vacuum pressing against the walls and now the molecules of the room are terrified to touch the mess of what’s happening.
The last bit of help you could have possibly still leaned on due to your desperation has vanished, echoes of footsteps now pull back into the depths of this mansion.
The overheads feel hostile, throwing down a flat glare that skims over the stainless steel and floorboards with an inert eye.
And centered in that manufactured peace is him.
James Buchanan Barnes.
The name has already erupted once inside your chest, but it keeps echoing, reverberating through your bones in smaller aftershocks. It feels strange to attach it to the man standing in front of you, when his hands have mapped every part of you—right to the most intimate ones—you’ve come to recognize his voice even in half-sleep and his laugh once wound through the cage of your ribs, vibrating against the bone until you couldn't tell its rhythm from your own heartbeat.
It feels like a wronged ownership. It feels like a glitch, an error in the logic of the world, but who are you to find a way out of it. Surrounded by him, in a mansion that is now suddenly as big as the world itself.
But you see it now. And god, it’s so painfully clear. So agonizingly obvious.
You were delusional, you know that. It’s what hurts so terribly bad. You know exactly how this looks to anyone else. After all, this all started with you dating a guy for over a month and not even knowing his actual, legal name. But when you’re used to being nobody, a little bit of hyper-focused attention feels like a drug. He looked at you as if you were the only person in the room, and you would get this tight, anxious knot in your throat, thinking don’t ruin this. Asking for a last name or a background check felt like a quick way to feel high-maintenance, and you didn’t want to give him a reason to feel uncomfortable and walk away.
It was a habit born of pure insecurity, being so grateful for the crumbs of love that you don’t dare ask who’s baking the bread. He must have picked up on that on day one. He must have realized right away that as long as he kept making you feel special, you’d keep your mouth shut and let him stay hidden.
He used your loneliness, your blind spots. You were so desperately hoping to be seen, that you fell for the most obvious trap. And it’s your own fault, really. But it still makes you feel completely hollow, like someone scooped the air right out of your lungs with a cold spoon.
Now you have to live with the shame of that mistake.
Your jaw aches from clenching it, trying to swallow down the urge to throw up right there on the kitchen floor.
His presence alone seems to pull at the corners of the ceiling, dragging it down to squash you like a grape. He anchors the room to his foundation, consumes it with all he has, and tracks you with a pinpoint focus that has you shivering and sweating, because his gaze is treating the harsh thudding of your pulse as more vital than the massive, blood-stained kingdom currently cooling its heels on the other side of the door.
The roar in your ears turns outwards, seemingly engulfing the whole room with your panicked pulse. Your vision narrows down until the room stops spinning, and for the first time, you actually feel the air in the kitchen
And in the quiet, your awareness gives you the alarm that there is still something jarringly chilling resting just above your heart. It takes you a moment to realize it’s something physical. There is a weight there that now suddenly feels so deeply misplaced.
Your hand moves on its own, your fingers lifting toward your throat to find the source of that cold, sinister pressure.
The tips of your fingers brush pearls.
And for a moment, you stay frozen there, grazing the smooth curve of one luminous bead where the necklace drapes across your throat.
It once made you smile, had your shoulders drop in ease when you made contact with this present of Bucky. But it no longer feels like a present at all, it feels like a bribe, a hook, a trap because its ultimate purpose surely wasn’t meant as a gift but rather to restrict your freedom and keep you bound to him.
This necklace, these shiny pearls, they aren’t about you. Honestly, you don’t think anything is about you. It never was. It’s just a reflection of what he wants you to be, confining you in his version of your identity.
He manipulated you and stole you and wanted to make you believe you’re the luckiest damn girl in the world.
And you had been. But now you’re just the stupidest.
And you keep on being, because your mind just continues jumping back to the evening he gave it to you, how it felt so soft and intimate, something chosen carefully and fastened around your neck with that glint of pride that lived in Bucky’s eyes. And you want to cry and break down at the way he stood there in front of you so awkwardly with the luxurious velvet box in his hand like it was something far more serious than jewelry. The way his voice had gone rough when he said he saw them and thought of you.
And now, sitting against your collarbone all cold, these are no longer gems, but tiny hooks sinking deeper into your skin, reminding you with every little sting, that you walked into this prison willingly.
You let James Buchanan Barnes clasp it around your neck. The man whose name crawls across newspapers like a stain. The man whose stories carry blood and conspiracies and savagery in their wake.
Somehow you manage to close your fingers around the strand despite of their shakiness.
Across the kitchen, Bucky’s gaze drops to your hand the moment it moves.
The necklace feels impossibly smooth beneath your touch, each pearl round and shining like a row of innocent little moons.
A gift.
From a man you didn’t know.
Or maybe a man you knew too well, just not in the way the world did.
Your throat feels hot suddenly and you know it's the cursed pearls burning holes there, pressing into your pulse with every overwhelmed beat of your heart.
You cannot stand it.
Your fingers curl harder.
Bucky's gaze snaps up to your face, then quickly back to your hands, and then he goes still. But still in the way of an animal that sensed the crack of a branch in the forest. Every line of him tightens in subtle increments, his shoulders locking, his breathing halting so abruptly you see the pause ruffle through his chest.
He knows what your heart doesn’t yet.
His attention sharpens and his eyes grow wide. It almost seems like he’s about to move toward you.
“Hey—” he starts softly, though the word is unfinished, frail, fearing the direction your thoughts are taking.
But your brain is no longer interested in choosing to make decisions carefully.
The necklace feels oppressive, every inch of it tied to a truth you did not have when he first placed it there, and so you can’t think or react any differently.
Your hand jerks in one swift motion just as Bucky releases a desperate choking sound.
The strand snaps free from your neck with a sharp little noise, like a thread breaking under too much strain, and now the pearls explode outward from your hand and scatter across the kitchen floor like a sudden spill of tiny white stars. They strike the tile with a bright, haphazard clatter that echoes far too loudly in the empty room.
tik—tik—tik—tik—
Some bounce high, ricocheting against cabinet legs. Others roll wildly across the floor, spinning in spasmodic circles before coming to a stop beneath stainless steel counters and chair legs.
The sound fills the kitchen in poignant, crystalline bursts.
A rain of little impacts.
A beautiful mess.
For a second you don’t even breathe.
You just stare at them—those small, perfect pearls—rolling farther and farther away from each other, punctuating the heartbreak in the air.
Across from you, Bucky doesn’t move. Something is breaking across his face. His breath leaves him in a soft, stunned exhale, and all he can do is stare with his eyes unguarded. It startles you.
He takes a step back. Not a deliberate one. More like his body forgot the floor was there. His boot slides half a pace behind him as though the sound of those pearls hitting the tile physically pushed him away from you.
His mouth parts.
For a moment he looks like he cannot quite process what he just witnessed.
His eyes—those confident, storm-colored eyes that usually hold such controlled intensity—have widened in a way you have never seen before. It doesn’t seem to look like anger, or anything like it.
It looks like hurt. Pure, unhidden hurt.
His gaze falls to the floor, tracking the scattered pearls skittering across the kitchen tiles, watching them roll away from where you stand with that look in his eyes that says he never wished to see them destroyed.
Then his eyes return to you. Slowly. And the expression there is devastating.
Because it is not rage.
It is not even disappointment.
It is heartbreak so unexpected and unfiltered it seems to hollow his chest from the inside.
His jaw tightens as if he tries to speak, but no words come immediately. The muscles along his throat move with a hard swallow, his chest rising and falling once in a slow, unsteady breath.
You realize then that he is looking at your bare throat.
The place where the necklace used to rest, and he stares at the place with sullen eyes.
Then his eyes lift again, meeting yours, and they are still wide, still aching.
For the first time since you’ve known him, Bucky Barnes looks like a man who has just watched something precious fall apart in his hands and realized too late that he cannot gather the pieces fast enough to put it back together.
And in the bright, echoing kitchen, the last pearl finishes rolling.
Tick.
Then silence returns, and your dread turns harrowing and now Bucky doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, which is such a small, irrational thing to notice in the middle of your terror and yet your mind notices it anyway, because this is a man who has always seemed like a structure that was built out of conviction, who has been a straight line for you to follow in your world of scribbles, a man who enters every room as though the room had the good sense to expect him, and now he stands before you with your fear pointed at him in the shape of a kitchen knife and looks, inarguably, like he has been shoved off-script and dropped into the crack that formed in his foundation and now he is walled in by the very bricks he laid.
His eyes stay on your face, then the knife, then your face again, careful, heartbroken, alert in that frighteningly intense way of his, and you feel yourself shiver as he is tracking every tremor in your fingers, every drag of your breath, every microscopic shift in your balance in case you bolt again or collapse or cut yourself by accident on the trembling edge of your own panic.
“What you think you know about me,” he starts, and his voice is lower now, roughened at the seams, “what you’ve heard… what people say, it isn’t the whole truth. It isn’t even most of it.”
You barely hear the words. They hit the air and fall uselessly to the floor. Because what else would a man like him say, standing in a cathedral-sized kitchen in a house full of people who obey him before he finishes speaking, after you found the gun and the tags and the name that can turn a city’s rumor mill rabid by itself?
No matter what he says, no matter that he looks so unbelievably shattered—the shape of him is wrong now. That is what your body keeps insisting on. Wrong in the doorway, wrong under these lights, wrong with that caution and that gentleness still trying to live in his face as if it is genuine. You cannot make him fit into one meaning anymore. He is split down the middle in your mind—tender and terrible, gentle and catastrophic—and the fracture is making noise inside you.
He takes a breath, slow, as if he is trying not to startle you even with the sound of his lungs working. “I know how this looks.”
A cough breaks in your throat, or maybe it's a huff or a wet laugh, or whatever, but it hurts coming up and out of your throat. Your hand shakes so badly the knife glints in nervous little flashes. “You used me.”
The sentence leaves you wheezy and small and much too true-feeling inside your own head. But they are out, and you take a whimpering breath, and two tears fall. They don’t arrive elegantly, and they sure as hell don’t spill subtly. They feel hot and you feel humiliated and betrayed, so deeply betrayed, and you hate that they are coming in front of him, giving him the satisfaction because your body is not able to choose a fight, to give you steel and armor and an exit and a miracle. All it can provide you with is dread and tears, and a terribly shaking kitchen knife in your unpractical hands. Your whole body has become an argument against calm and there is nothing you can do.
His face changes so sharply it is almost like watching a flame twist drastically in wind.
“No,” he gets out quickly, and his voice trips over itself. It is denial stripped to the bone. Pure and cruel because he’s genuinely the greatest actor on earth. “No,” he chokes out again, softer and somehow more desperate. “No, no, I— It's not— I never—” He swallows, the line of his throat moving hard. He looks like he is about to walk barefoot through broken glass without letting you see the blood. “You matter to me. You— God, shit, that doesn’t even come close to—”
“Stop,” you whimper while a fresh tear slips down. You shake your head because the words feel obscene now, feel almost insulting in their tenderness, like someone laying roses on a crime scene.
“I’m not pretending.”
“Stop.”
His jaw flexes. He looks toward the ceiling for half a second, and it seems like he is trying to gather language before it deserts him entirely, and when his gaze comes back to you there is something naked in it, something grim and pleading and painfully real. He seems to grope for something that keeps him standing.
“I wanted to tell you,” he despairs, voice scratchy. “I was going to.”
You stare at him through your blurred vision. Every instinct in you rejects the sentence on impact. It sounds nonsensical. The knife quivers against your chest with each breath you are somehow able to take, but they are shuddering.
“When?” you choke out. “After what? After I was stupid enough? After I—”
“No.” He takes a step before remembering himself and stopping immediately, hands opening at his sides. “No. When it was safe.”
The word safe almost makes you laugh, except there is nothing funny left in you.
He hears how deranged it sounds in this room, and grief moves across his face in one dark, swift shadow. “Listen to me,” he presses, and his voice cracks, stripped of that expensive control he wears so well. “I know this life is ugly from the outside. I know what my name sounds like to people. I know what kind of stories get told. I knew if I handed you all of it too soon, all at once, you’d run before you ever had the chance to know what was real.”
Your tears keep coming and you don’t have it in you to wipe them away. You fear your heart won’t ever be able to unclench again after this day. If you even make it out of here. “So you thought you’d just let me” —fall in love first— “into your life the way you did?”
He closes his eyes, and you know the sentence hit exactly where it meant to. When he looks at you again there is nothing smooth or seamless about him, and you have never seen him this way. Because you have never really known him. He is no longer buttoned-up and bulletproof. He honestly looks about ready to be hit in the heart one final, fatal time. “I thought I would give you time,” he supplicates quietly, voice husky. “I thought I would let you know me before the rest of it ruined everything.” The breath that follows his words sounds full of sorrow and a deeply seated regret. “Which it seems like it has.”
Yes, it has. Yes, he ruined it. But would you have felt any other way if you found out another way? In another setting, maybe while you were tangled in the sheets together, or while he was holding your hands? You don’t know because it didn’t happen that way and you found out the way you did and now the world is upside down and all wrong-angled, and your mind is spinning in a room with no corners, completely unanchored by a lie you never saw coming, or maybe you have, because a guy like him couldn’t ever want a girl like you, and perhaps first and foremost you’re just mad at yourself.
Your throat has gone tight with crying, with fear, with the dizzying effort of keeping your body upright when your whole nervous system is trying to flee in eight directions at once. He sees you struggling and looks halfway to moving again, then stops himself so hard the restraint shows all over him.
“I’m a patient man,” he keeps going, and you just want to run past him, out of this hell. You don’t hear how there is no pride in his voice, no menace, just a worn sort of honesty, as if this is the one truth he can still offer without it breaking on impact. “I would have waited. As long as I needed to. I was waiting for the right moment, for when you felt safe with me, for when I knew you wouldn’t hear my name and only hear every lie this city tells itself at night.” His voice lowers further. “For when you loved me enough to at least stay in the room while I explained.”
You blink at him as if he has said something in a language your body no longer speaks.
And then, because this nightmare apparently still has room to worsen, he says, very softly, “Because I love you.”
All you can do is stare at this stranger, and it feels like you are looking at him through a broken window.
It is not the first time he has said it, not at all, and you had loved how he had no shame in telling you, how he pressed those very words into your skin night after night, even this early into your relationship.
Gosh, you had cherished it, fallen deeper for him because of it, and now you know it's all been part of his manipulation. So what else should it be now. But at the same time—why should he still be saying it? How can he still say that? How can he say that now, after all of this, after you know who he is, after the room has filled with the bomb of revelation? What kind of man says I love you while being the very thing you are trying to escape from?
You don’t understand him. You have no clue about who this man is and it is making your hands sweat around the handle. You don’t understand how his eyes can look this shattered, how his voice can sound this human, how his face can hold this much pain and still belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
The knife is still trembling against your chest. Your arm aches from holding it so tightly. The tears keep slipping down no matter how furiously you blink. He stands there with grief in his eyes and power in every line of his body, and both things are true at once, and both things are hurting worse because no single version of him will stay still long enough to be hated cleanly.
“I was going to ease you into it,” he explains achingly, as if confession has broken loose now and cannot be coaxed back in. “Slowly. Over time. I was going to tell you what I could, when I could, and let you decide what to do with it piece by piece. I was never going to throw you into the deep end and watch you drown in it.” His throat works. “Y/n, I’m so fucking sorry you had to find out like this.”
But you are not really listening anymore. Or rather, you hear every word and none of them settle. They clatter against your panic and bounce off immediately only to land in a repressed corner of your mind.
Because maybe he means them. Maybe that is the tragedy of it. Maybe he means every single inconceivable word. But meaning them does not open the door. Meaning them does not make this house less of a trap or his name less of a threat or your pulse any less palpitating in your throat. Meaning them does not undo the gun, the tags, the scathingly smooth way everyone in this place disappears when he tells them to. Meaning them does not turn James Buchanan Barnes back into only Bucky, back into the man whose shirt you wanted to pull on because it smelled like him.
All you need now is a way out.
You don’t want justice, or answers, or even the damn truth. You just want a way out of this. You want to get the hell away from him and everything that smells and looks like him. And the room starts reorganizing itself around that instinct. The service door behind him. The hallway to the left. The distance to the far counter. Whether he is standing on the balls of his feet or flat. Whether the island might slow him for a second. Whether dropping the knife would help or harm you. Whether there is any point at all in planning when this is his house, his kingdom, his maze, and you are just a girl crying in the center of it with shaking hands and nowhere good to go.
He sees your eyes move and something in his face folds inward with understanding, with woe, with the excruciating knowledge that while he is pouring his heart out in rough little pieces, all you are doing is looking for exits. He looks completely emptied out, as if his ribs had been pried open and the only soft part of him had been torn away.
“Baby—” And now he just sounds pleading. But he doesn’t get the chance to keep on going with his drama.
The kitchen ignites with noise before you even understand what you are hearing. There was just you with your messy breathing and Bucky standing a few feet away with that awfully gutted look on his face and then the door slams open so hard the plaster cracks and the sound ricochets against your nervous system.
A crowd of men comes flooding through the opening, like a breach in a dam, so fast and threatening and all of them primed for dirtier work than anyone should ever have to do. The floor shudders under their hard slam of boots. Nobody hesitates and nobody asks questions. They all just move on some sick instinct, weapons out and raised in the space of a single heartbeat.
And now all of them are pointed at you.
The sound that hitches in your throat is not at all dignified or brave. You wish you could stare at the end of your life with at least a small sense of bravery, but it doesn’t seem like it. Every weapon these uniformed men hold is fixed on your ribs, your throat, your eyes, and the paring knife you are gripping feels pathetic. It is a useless piece of household metal against a wall of black iron, against men who don’t care that you are small and fearful.
Even so, your knuckles go numb around the handle from how hard you are gripping it. Your fingers lock up, your skin flashing from freezing cold to scorching hot while your heart thrashes against your ribs.
You think, irrationally, that this is how it happens then. There is no big speech, no lightning strike from the sky. It is just going to happen here on the linoleum, next to a bowl of apples on the counter, and a row of clean water glasses that are catching the light of the kitchen while strangers decide to put bullets in you.
Bucky pivots.
It happens so quickly it feels supernatural, like a weather change, like the room altering under the weight of him. He steps in front of you without quite blocking you, but enough that every single man in that doorway seems to remember all at once who exactly they have just disobeyed.
His expression does not merely harden; it shears. Whatever softness had remained in his face a moment ago is gone so completely it is frightening, scraped away until all that remains is authority in its most lethal form.
You feel fused to the counter behind you. You wish you would be.
He fixes his stare on his men and his eyes become glacial, pale and freezing, incandescent with a fury that somehow feels far more menacing than an outburst. He speaks, and the volume is so low that the room has to go completely breathless to catch it.
“Guns down.”
The response isn’t fast enough. No one moves quickly enough. One of the guards hesitates—just a fraction, just long enough to die for it in any other circumstance—and Bucky’s gaze lands on him so heavily, it’s as if he is deciding where to leave the body.
“I said,” he repeats, and his voice comes out with a rough friction, stripped of any emotion except the promise to do harm, “if any one of you ever points a weapon at my girl again, I’ll put you in the ground myself and make sure nobody bothers digging you back up. Do you understand me?”
His words are deadly. It doesn’t even sound like he’s acting at all, he just sounds absolutely lethal. He talks as though he has already buried people before and wouldn’t think twice about doing it again.
Around you, the momentum of the raid falters. The guards look genuinely unnerved, expressions switching so quickly between shame, panic, and obedience in ugly little flashes. Guns lower and now point toward the floorboards. A muted apology gets muttered into the silence and some of them take a step back. But it is too late, far too late, because the last thread inside you has already snapped, and your body no longer cares about reason.
You run.
There is no time for anything else; you simply hurl yourself at the nearest gap in the room, toward the delusive hope of open space, of slipping between bodies, of somehow becoming smoke, becoming speed, becoming anything but this cornered and shaking thing inside your own skin.
You aim for the narrow corridor between Bucky and the island counter, convinced by sheer panic that if you can just get past him this once, just this once, the house might cleft and let you go. Your shoulder twists, your breath catches, your feet slip against tile and then catch again, and the world blurs into motion and noise and the blood-bright animal need to escape.
But Bucky is faster.
His arms hook around your waist in one brutal, seamless movement, and it yanks you backward before you’ve even made it past his shoulder. Suddenly you are no longer running, your feet lose the air, leaving you floating for half a heartbeat, before you are driven hard into the breadth and heat of his chest.
The cry you let out this time actually tears your throat. You thrash on instinct, your body fighting him with the full deranged force of your mind freaking out, and somewhere in that struggle your hand jerks.
The knife you have been using as a means of senseless protection, hits resistance. It slides cleanly, sinking into skin and it makes you gasp sharply, your lungs suddenly jamming. It’s not your skin.
The blade has opened a shallow red line across his forearm.
And that’s gotta be it. You’re now totally and completely fucked.
The knife drops from your hand and clatters to the floor.
For one aghast second you stare at the bead of red welling against his skin, bright as a neon sign, and horror crashes through you so adamantly it almost eclipses your fear.
But Bucky does not let go. He does not even flinch properly or draw back his arms. His wounded arm stiffens only enough to keep you from pitching forward, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pinning now so much as containing, as if he is trying to physically keep something from breaking apart right there in his grip.
He seemingly is completely blind to his own bleeding skin, as if the knife you were holding was never a danger to his life and only a threat to yours. Even with his blood on the floorboards, his only instinct is to pull you deeper into his chest.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he calls, and the transformation in his voice makes your head spin, because the man who just threatened death into a roomful of armed soldiers is gone again, folded away, leaving only this hoarse, pleading tenderness that feels almost more agonizing. His mouth is at your temple, right at your hairline, his breath gasping against your skin. “Baby, baby, stop. Please—please, don’t do this, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
You fight him anyway because your body refuses to do anything else. Your hands shove uselessly at his chest, your shoulders wrench, your whole body convulses with the effort of getting free. But he is built like a locked gate, and every single push only burns through the last of your energy. Tears pour hot and shamefully down your face. Your lungs burn. The room swims at the edges. Somewhere nearby, boots shuffle, and Bucky snarls over your head without releasing you.
“Out.”
It is one word, but every person in the kitchen obeys it instantly. You hear the kitchen staff backing away, hear the door open and shut, feel the room empty until there is no one left but you and him and the sound of your own sobbing.
Bucky’s hold eases just a fraction, softening the pressure so you can actually draw in air even if inhaling right now feels like swallowing water. He presses his cheek against your hair for one heavy second, and when he speaks again his voice is breaking in places you have never heard it break before.
“Listen to me,” he murmurs, each word roughened by strain, by remorse, by something that sounds so heartbreakingly sincere you almost hate him for it. “Hear me out, sweetheart, please. I got you. I got you. Nobody’s gonna touch you, nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you. I won’t! I would never. You hear me? You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word is a total deformity. It is so grotesque in this moment you could probably laugh, except it comes out as a broken cry instead.
You feel the way his body tenses around the sound, how it seems to travel straight through him with his heart as the target. He bows his head, his lips brushing your temple by accident or desperation, you cannot tell which.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and now there is nothing controlled left in him, no command, no careful poise, only a man fraying in real time. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. I wanted you to know, doll, I did, just—not like this. Fuck, not like this. You mean everything to me. You gotta believe that. You are everything.”
You shake your head against his chest, small and uncoordinated, feeling spent. You do not know whether you are denying him, begging him, or simply coming apart. His shirt is damp beneath your face now, whether from your tears or the sweat chilled over your skin or the blood from his arm, whatever it is, it feels symbolic somehow—one more blurred line in a night made of them.
“I wasn’t gonna let anybody hurt you,” he whispers, and even that seems to drag through his throat, hitting the walls of it. “Nobody would ever be able to hurt you. Especially me, my love, especially me! I swear to God.” His forehead grinds into yours until you can taste the heat of his skin. “I’m still the same guy who kissed you this morning. I don't care if I’m a monster to the rest of the world, but not to you, sweetheart, please not to you. I would never—god, I would cut my own hands off before I ever used them to hurt you. You have to believe me, darling, please!”
But your body no longer knows the language of swearing, or soothing, or reason. Your muscles don’t translate his pleading into safety. Your body only knows that he is stronger than you, and that the arms holding you are the same arms that can dismantle a life without raising his pulse. The palm mapped so carefully across the curve of your head is the exact same hand that commands a firing squad, directs the local precincts, and seals fates with a slight tilt of his chin.
Every touch from him now delivers a repulsive duality—a rescue that feels like an arrest, a stroke that resembles a chokehold, an overwhelming affection that wears the exact outline of a cell.
You can feel how easy this is for him, how negligible his effort is in keeping you contained even while he tries his best to appear harmless. That insulting fact finally starves out the last bit of resistance left in your veins. Your nervous system runs out of fuel, leaving your body to go completely toothless against his chest, without actually surrendering or any returning trust. Your body is simply done.
Your fingers drop their useless leverage against his chest, your joints go limp and your knees refuse to carry your weight anymore.
You sag in his hold all at once. The sobs keep coming, but weaker now, thinning out, scraping instead of breaking. Bucky feels the change immediately. His grip loosens just enough to become support instead of restraint, his palm rubbing between your shoulder blades in one of those soothing motions you used to love so much and it makes your chest ache with a fresh wave of grief.
“That’s it,” he coos, though his voice sounds completely mangled by the words. “That’s it, honey. I know. I know.”
You don’t know what he means by that. You’re not sure he does either. Perhaps he simply recognizes that your stamina has bottomed out, that even the sharpest panic has its boundaries, and that the rush of survival instincts always burns hot and fast, leaving behind this full-body collapse.
He holds your dead weight upright anyway. He keeps murmuring into your hair but it doesn’t glue your broken pieces back together or erase the reality of what he is, what this fortress hides, and what you stumbled into. His sliced arm stays locked around your waist. You can feel the sticky warmth of his blood soaking through your clothes. It is startlingly human, and it should probably make him look less like a monster, the simple fact that he can bleed. But it makes every detail about your situation so real and dreadful.
When your body finally ceases its rebellion entirely, it isn't an act of submission. It is pure depletion.
And Bucky, keeping you pinned against the wall of his chest, seems to grasp that exhaustion better than anyone else could. His lungs expand and contract in uneven hitching motions. He drops his chin heavily onto the crown of your head. He closes you in not like a conqueror taking a prize but like a man trying, too late, to keep a catastrophe from widening under his hands.
Beyond the kitchen threshold, the entire estate drops into a dead, listening sort of silence, as if the plaster and timber have cocked an ear to the room.
He keeps holding you as if you are something he has no right to touch anymore and still cannot seem to make himself release, and it’s crazy that even like this, even with your body rigid from all the things you have learned too quickly and too late, he is still somehow heartbreakingly careful, his hand spread wide and warm between your shoulder blades, his hold immovable but never bruising, his mouth close to your temple as though he cannot bear to put distance between you if distance means losing you for good.
It is all just so utterly confusing because this is not entirely what you had expected would happen.
“The way you looked at me,” he continues, and his voice comes out rough as gravel dragged through water, ruined by restraint, by panic, by the sheer effort of trying not to frighten you further with the depth of what is in him. He does not sound like the man in the hallway, not like the man who commands rooms into silence with a glance, not like the man whose name can make other people blanch and step backward and say yes, sir, with their pulse all up in their throats. He sounds flayed open. He sounds like the sight of your fear has gone into him like shrapnel and lodged somewhere vital. “The way you looked at me in there—” He stops, breathes in shallowly, like he has run straight into a blade and is trying not to lean on it harder. “Christ. I’ve taken bullets that didn’t hit like that. To have you look at me like I’m something you need to survive.”
Your face is turned into his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive dark fabric of his shirt, and still your whole body is listening against your will, because his voice is all around you now, low and urgent and splintering in places that make something cold move through you.
His hand slides back up the back of your head, not forcing, only cradling, his fingers threading carefully into your hair as though the gesture itself aches. When he speaks again, there is something almost disbelieving in him, some stunned grief that does not seem feigned, cannot possibly be feigned for this long without becoming madness.
“If I could do it over, I would do every goddamn thing different,” he breathes brokenhearted. “Every part of it. I would tell you sooner. I’d tell you cleaner. Shit, I should’ve just told you. I should’ve given it to you straight before it got this messy and before you had to figure it out by yourself and piece me together out of all the worst parts with nobody there to shield you. I would have died before I let it happen like this. I swear.” He swallows hard enough that you feel it where your cheek presses near his sternum.
The kitchen is too bright and everything is stinging so harshly with those clean counters, the severe gleam of copper pans above the island, the neat little arrangement of knives in their block where one slot is now empty, the overhead lights turning everything brutally visible.
There is nowhere for your agony to hide. It shivers right out in the open, lives in the tightness of your lungs and the salt on your mouth, and the fact that every soft word from him only makes the unreality of this more baffling. Because he sounds sincere. He sounds devastated. He sounds like a man speaking over the body of something precious he helped kill.
He says all of this like he’s offering you his throat, while all around you the evidence of his power still glints and twinkles from every glazed surface, every distant footstep, every forced silence in a house built to keep his secrets and carry out his will.
He is talking with all the gentleness he has. He is nearly breaking with it. And still, inside you, fear sits and it pants and it is unconvinced, because love does not make a cage less locked simply because the hands closing it are shaking.
You make a small sound then—not a word, not even close, just some thin and wrecked little fracture of breath—and he tightens around you reflexively, then instantly checks himself, as if terrified you will read force into even that involuntary movement.
His next words come faster, crowding each other, not panicked exactly but pressed by urgency, by the sense that you are slipping through his hands even while he is still physically holding you.
“I know what I am.” He breaks off again, and this time you feel the tremor that runs through him. “I know what kind of man I’ve been, what people say about me, what they’re right about. I know exactly what it looks like from where you’re standing.” His voice goes raw. “But, darling, I never meant for you to be afraid of me. This was never supposed to happen.”
The words enter you but you just don’t know where to store them. There is something so naked in the way he says them that your mind keeps tripping over it, keeps trying and failing to fit it beside the other truth—the guns, the guards, the coldness in his authority, the name that belongs in whispers, the empire standing tall all around you in all its obedience. Or maybe it’s just loyalty. Respect? What even is it?
It’s hard to acknowledge that he still sounds like himself. James or Bucky, the man who kissed sleep into your skin and tucked blankets around your legs and pressed absent-minded kisses to your shoulder while reading beside you in bed still exists inside this other, larger, more terrible man. He has not vanished cleanly enough to make your fear simple. You give a small whimper.
“I was selfish,” he rasps, and now the confession lands without defense. “That’s the truth. I was selfish as hell. Because I wanted you anyway. I wanted you even knowing I should’ve stayed away from you. I know I should’ve left you out of all this. A girl like you deserves something clean and safe, and I’m neither of those things. I knew that. Fuck, I knew that. And it’s been killing me. I let myself have you and it’s been so fucking selfish.”
His breath hitches around the last word, and the grief in it is so unexpectedly torturous it almost makes you nauseous. His forehead lowers for a second against your hair, and he scarily looks so weary, suddenly too full of feeling to carry it elegantly.
“Because you are...” He exhales a broken laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever. “Christ, sweetheart, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You couldn’t ever imagine what you walking into my life did to it.”
Your eyes squeeze shut and fresh tears slip out anyway. Somewhere inside you, some tired and furious part wants to scream at him for speaking like this now, for laying tenderness over terror as if one can cancel the other out, as if love—even if it is love, even if it is real and not just another instrument in his alluring hands—can unmake what you know. But before you can push any of that into sound, he keeps going, quieter, the words drawn so close to your skin they seem less spoken than confessed into it.
“If you want to go,” he states, and there is a pause before it, the kind that tells you the sentence is costing him blood, “I’ll let you go.”
Your breath snags. You don’t trust it nor believe it instantly, but even imagining the words coming out of him feels like a tectonic event, a mountain bowing. He does not release you yet, but his body changes with the promise, some iron set inside him going rigid with the effort of saying it and meaning it.
“I will,” he says, with more force now, as if he knows you don’t believe him and cannot bear that either. “If that’s what you want, I will. I’m not gonna keep you somewhere you don’t wanna be. I’m not gonna turn into that for you. But, baby—” and here his voice gives way altogether, drops into something so human and stripped down it hardly seems to belong to the same man who froze a room full of armed guards with one look, “—I am begging you not to make that choice before you hear me. I am begging you. Stay this one night, give me one chance to explain it all to you, to answer every possible question you could have. One chance to do this right, even if I already did it all wrong.”
Begging. The word would sound absurd from almost any other man. From him, it sounds cataclysmic. His hand shakes at the back of your head before steadying, his chest rises too sharply under your cheek, and he continues speaking as if silence might kill him.
“I love you too much to let this be the end of it if there’s anything I can do to stop it,” he croaks. “Too much to let you walk out of here thinking none of it was real. It was real. Every second of it was real. Me wanting you, loving you, worrying about you, making room for you in my life in ways I never made room for anybody—none of that was a lie. The only lie was thinking I could hold both worlds apart long enough to protect you from what I am. That was the lie. That was my arrogance. My mistake.”
The mansion remains hushed in that eerie, cathedral-like way that comes after a disturbance, as if everyone occupying this huge mansion is pretending not to hear the aftershocks.
But here in the kitchen, everything feels narrowed to his voice and your breathing and the blood drying on his forearm and the fact that he is speaking to you like a man on his knees, even if he is still standing, even if his arms are still around you, even if his kind of desperation does not know how to unclench fully.
There is a daunting sincerity in him now, not because it is soft but because it is not. Because it is fierce. Because even his tenderness carries the shape of obsession, of decision, of something chosen with his whole irreversible heart.
What can you possible answer here. What can you possibly think.
“I’ll do whatever I have to do.” He sounds so full of conviction. Technically, the words are quiet, but there is a hard core somewhere in his tone, and it glows fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe again. To prove this to you. To earn back one inch of your trust. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care what you ask for, I don’t care what I have to lay down at your feet. I’ll do it. I will.” He takes a beat and the next words are so low you almost miss them. “I know I don’t deserve another chance and you have all the best reasons to run, but I’m asking for it anyway, Y/n.“
At that, finally, he leans back just enough to look at you. It’s not much, but the hand at the back of your head can guide your face up with painful gentleness, giving you every opening to pull away if you need to, though you are too wrung out now to do much except tremble.
His eyes find yours and stay there, and the sight of his face nearly brings you to your knees all over again. There is no coldness in him. No cruelty. No mockery. Only a kind of bereft intensity, a ravaged devotion, and beneath it the severe understanding that he is seeing himself reflected in your fear and cannot survive the image.
The whole fact of how broken he sounds starts to mess with your head. It cracks the armor of your panic, if only just a little bit. You’re trying to hate him. Because, honestly, you want to. You want the fear to be this insurmountable wall between you, but his voice keeps crumbling pieces of it.
The worst part is that you can’t just flick a switch and stop loving the guy you were tangled up with this morning. You fell for him so fast, so completely, because his version of happy felt like the safest place on earth. But with all those shocking revelations, that same love feels like a trapdoor that just dropped you into a cellar, and you are so angry at your own heart for still wanting him to hold you.
Underneath the exhaustion, there is a nauseating doubt starting to rot everything you remember about the last few weeks, and you really don’t need your mind going that far, but it does. You start wondering if you ever actually loved him, or if you were just hooked on the way he looked at you.
He treated you like you were the only important thing in the world, and you just hung off that affection, soaking up the protective way he took care of you. Even though he’s standing here right now, bleeding and hollowed out, swearing that every single touch was real, how can you ever be sure? Every memory you have is suddenly poisoned by the thought that it was just a beautifully built illusion, and the whole thing makes you feel completely seasick.
It’s just too much to handle all at once. Your brain is trying to hold two completely different men in the same space—the gentle guy who tucked the blankets around your feet in the dark, and the boss who froze a kitchen full of killers with one word. They are both real. They are both right here in front of you, and the fact that he isn't a cartoon villain makes it a hundred times worse.
If he were just a monster, you could run. But he’s a monster who tells you he loves you with this gut-wrenching, unyielding honesty, and looking at his ruined face, all your willpower just turns to mush.
“I should have asked more questions,” you whisper, and still, your voice breaks, the words tumbling out of you like loose gravel. You aren’t trying to be eloquent anymore, you are just trying to get the noise out of your head before it chokes you. “From the start, I— When you wouldn’t tell me things. I— I don't know, I was scared, I guess.”
Your fingers tighten into the expensive wool of his lapels just to keep your knees from giving out. Letting this mob boss know about your fears is probably a bad idea. But your life consists of you making bad decisions and so your mouth keeps opening. “I think I just liked the way you were to me too much to risk messing it up.”
The words drag themselves out of you like they do not want to be born, like each one has to force its way through the knot in your throat and the salt on your tongue and the simple, mind-numbing fact that nothing in you knows where to place anything anymore—not him, not yourself, not the last weeks, not the hands that held you so tenderly and the empire those same hands command with a flick of the wrist.
Bucky’s gaze is piercing as he looks down at you, listening with his breath visibly held.
“But I— I still don’t understand. I think.“ Your voice comes thin at first, scraped nearly transparent by crying, but it sharpens on pain the way a blade sharpens on a whetstone. “I just— I saw this gun, and—,” you blur out, the memory making your heart do that awful stutter against your ribs again while Bucky nearly flinches. His eyes go wide, pupils shrinking until they look like two dark pinpricks. “It was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I was just— you told me to grab a shirt of yours but I couldn’t reach up your wardrobe and so I was just going to go grab the shirt you've been wearing, but your jacket was there and then it just fell out. And I— I completely lost my mind because I realized I didn’t actually know anything about you, and I’ve been so stupid, and I’m really not good at this. I'm not good at talking things out or figuring out the right things to say. It’s just— this is so much to take in.”
Bucky´s chest hitches, a rough, dry stutter or air that sounds like he just took a fist to the solar plexus. His face looks almost unrecognizable with the pain plastered on it. You feel his hands tremble against you and he slowly takes them away, putting himself at a small distance to perhaps give you some space. His palms stay open, as do his eyes. He looks entirely unhinged by the clumsiness of his own life seeping into yours.
How could anyone understand how a man can kiss your forehead like a saint and still have blood and fear braided into his name. It’s so hard to understand how someone can look at you the way he is looking at you now—like you are both miracle and mortal wound—and still have lied, still have omitted, still have arranged the world around you so skillfully that you walked through it unknowing, barefoot and bright-hearted, straight into the center of his hidden life.
You do not understand what parts were real and what parts were merely curated, and worst of all, there is a terrible little splinter of you that already suspects the answer is not clean enough to save you. That some unbearable amount of it was real.
Your mouth trembles and you know that he can see it.
“You lied to me,” you sob, and although you mean for it to, it doesn’t sound like a weapon you’re throwing at him. It just sounds sad. “You made it so easy. I didn’t even think about it. I just— I just woke up every day and trusted the way you looked at me. And the whole time, I didn’t even know you.”
You look down at his chest so you can stop having to meet those devastatingly sunken eyes. “You let me fall in love with you not knowing who you were.” Your sentence has a shape now, the grief in you finally managing to find a spine. But you still can’t make your words sound all that accusing. Because you got yourself into this situation. You’re supposed to be furious at yourself first.
You haven’t used the word love before. You just dropped it, being the first time it cleared your teeth and the timing of it feels completely disastrous.
And Bucky suddenly undergoes a drastic freeze, as if his nervous system has been struck by lightning. He seems to tip back just a tiny bit but stays in your orbit. He stares down at you, his mouth parted, his chest stalling on an intake of air that he forgets to let back out.
The fact that you love him—and that you are saying it right now, while covered with dread and shivering nearly against his chest—seems to completely break his brain.
There is a dark heat flooding his face, his jaw tight enough to snap a tooth. He looks agonizingly vulnerable like this, the dangerous mob boss utterly gutted by four letters. His fingers twitch where they are now hovering near your neck, desperately wanting to bury themselves in your hair and pull you back into his skin, but he forces his hands down to his sides, his knuckles trembling against his tailored trousers.
“You…,” he starts, eyes burning with a starved intensity that makes the air in the kitchen feel boiling hot. He swallows loudly, taking a moment, staring out into some space behind you, and switching focus back to you. “Don’t call yourself stupid,” he goes on, voice dropping into a rasp that shakes with the failure of his own arrogance. “None of what you told me and none of what you felt makes you stupid.”
His face leans closer to yours and somehow you only shrink back a tiny bit, not really at all. You can feel the wavering rhythm of his breath against your lips. He looks thoroughly undone by his own greed, stuck in the realization that he won the only thing he ever wanted, right at the exact moment he stopped being the man who holds you in the dark and turned into the reason you’re afraid of the dark.
“The love was real,” he sounds so convinced. His face is breaking, but his voice is not. He knows what he is saying. “Every single second of it was real. I am the one who ruined it. But what I feel, and what we have, that isn’t a lie. I swear to you on my life, it was never a lie.” His eyes close briefly, and it looks like he is losing his footing somewhere internal. “I know how it feels from where you’re standing. But I wasn’t playing some game with you. I wasn’t trying to—” He drags a hand over his face, and for an instant he looks older than you have ever seen him, not in years but in burden, in wear. “I wanted more time. That was my sin in it. I wanted time. I wanted to tell you in a way that didn’t make you look at me like this.”
Like this.
The phrase feels unkind. Because yes—there it is again, the damn nucleus of the whole thing. The way your eyes have changed on him. The way he has noticed every flicker of fear in you as if each one were a cut and he keeps taking your terror not as an insult to his pride but as an injury to something much more private and much more vulnerable. And that, more than any fake excuse could have, is so hard to process. 
Because men who only know cruelty do not usually grieve like this over being feared by the woman they supposedly love. Men who are only monstrous do not usually look half-unmade by it.
You don’t want that thought, you honestly don’t, but it does arrive.
Because he has not hurt you. He hasn’t done a single thing to hurt you, and that makes him so much more complicated at the exact moment you most need him to stay simple.
He has had a thousand opportunities by now to become the thing you are bracing against. In the hallway. In the office. In the kitchen. When you ran. When you fought. When you took the knife. When you cut him. At every turn, there has been room for rage, for punishment, for the kind of retaliatory violence your frightened mind keeps expecting from a man like him, and instead he has done nothing but hold himself on a brutal leash, speak softly, plead, bleed, look at you as if your fear is the one thing in this world he has no defenses against.
And it makes you weaker.
Because fear is easier when it is clean. Outrage is easier when there are no counterweights. But now your thoughts begin to buckle under the strain of contradiction, and you feel yourself growing tired in some deeper way, not merely from running or crying or panic, but from the effort of sustaining one total version of him against the evidence of another.
The story you are trying to tell yourself—that he is simply bad, simply dangerous, simply false—keeps snagging on the memory of his hands shaking when he begged, on the way he threw his men out for aiming guns at you, on the heartache in his face now, open and unarmored and miserable with not knowing how to reach you.
None of it erases anything, how could it this fast, but still it matters, and still some fatal hope flares.
Your lungs are burning. You become dimly aware that your body is leaning, not exactly by choice, but because exhaustion is making choices for you now. The kitchen feels too bright and too far away at the same time. Your fingers feel chilled, your knees unreliable, your heart still overworked from all that horror. Even your anger is beginning to lose its clean edges, dissolving into something wetter and more helpless.
“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, and there is no strength in it at all.
The sentence is barely more than breath, but it changes him instantly, makes his misery seem softer, as if your confusion pains him almost as much as your fear did. His gaze searches your face carefully, greedily, looking for any sign that you have not vanished completely from him.
“You don’t have to know right now,” he comforts, and this time his voice is gentler still, worn down to the most tender parts of his body. “You don’t have to decide anything this second. I know I dropped all of this on you in the worst possible way. I know you’re overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed. The word is so pitifully insufficient you want to cry some more, but the sound catches and turns to another shivery exhale instead.
Overwhelmed is a rainstorm. A bad day. A missed train. This is seismic. This is having the floor beneath your life cleave open and discovering it was built over a fault line all along.
Still, you know what he means.
Because beneath all the fear, and the betrayal and the urgent need to flee, there is now also this leaden, disorienting fatigue, this collapse of certainty.
You cannot keep all your alarms ringing at once forever. The body is not made for it. At some point even terror begins to sag under its own weight, and in that sagging comes the most dangerous thing of all. Maybe not trust or forgiveness yet, but confusion. A human confusion. The realization that if he truly meant to destroy you, perhaps he would have done it already. That if cruelty were the point, he has passed up too many easy chances. That whatever else he is—and God, he is still intimidating, still hidden, still a man with too much power and too many locked rooms in his life—his feelings for you do not look counterfeit. They look catastrophic. They look real enough to have ruined him too.
He had every opportunity to end this argument with force, not even making his hands dirty in a physical sense. But he didn’t, and that roughened sincerity that seems so deeply wounded keeps gnawing at all the things you thought you found out about this man, the stereotype you made him out to be. It makes a guilty stone drop into your belly and land with damaging intentions.
And you do not know what to do with all this honesty and realness, when real arrives dressed as the very thing you were trying to escape.
But you have to acknowledge that your lack of strength is not the only reason why you have stopped fighting him, stopped trying to get away.
Bucky seems to read some fragment of this in your face, because he does not press harder. He does not crowd you with arguments. He simply stays where he is, close enough for warmth, far enough now that his care has space to breathe. His injured arm hangs at his side, blood drying in a dark seam along his skin, ignored. His other hand lifts as if to touch your cheek, then stops halfway and falls again when he sees the flicker in your eyes. That tiny restraint breaks something in you all over again.
“I know I lied by not telling you,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’m not asking you to call it something prettier. I’m just telling you it wasn’t because you meant nothing. It was because you meant too goddamn much, and I was trying to find a way to bring you closer without making you run.”
The honesty of it is so ugly, so naked, so free of self-congratulation that it feels like he just threw a wet sandbag right at your chest, knocking every scrap of air straight out of your lungs. It’s not an excuse, not quite. More like the shape of the selfishness itself, held out in his own hands for you to look at. He wanted you. He kept you. He delayed the truth because he was afraid the truth would cost him the one bright thing he had allowed himself to love. There is no innocence in that. But there is something crushingly human.
Your eyes burn again and your grip on your own certainty loosens another inch.
You hate that, too, because, damnit, it would be easier to stand here shaking and loathing him if he would just become less tender and less heartbreakingly earnest in his regret. But he stays persistently, ruinously genuine, and all at once you feel not only afraid, not only betrayed, but emptied out by the effort of trying to hold every contradiction at once. He is a bad man. He may also love you. He lied. He is also hurting. He hid things from you. He is also standing here looking like your fear is flaying him alive. None of these truths cancels the others. They just crowd together until your thoughts feel waterlogged, too swollen to separate.
So all that is left is the simplest truth again.
You really are overwhelmed.
You are so overwhelmed that language itself seems too heavy to lift.
Your breathing has started to slowly settle in increments, like a storm reluctantly retreating from a coastline it battered too long. It feels like there are bruises left behind in your lungs, but it no longer aches with each inhale.
Your fear has ebbed enough to make you think again, to make you see again, to make you look at him not as the single monstrous shape your panic tried to build, but as the complicated, human contradiction standing in front of you now.
His shoulders are still too tight, drawn up, and perhaps trying to seem smaller. He keeps his hands visible and loose at his sides to perhaps avoid startling you. The cut along his forearm has darkened into a narrow seam of red, drying in flaking lines against his skin and remaining completely ignored by the man attached to it.
His focus hasn’t left your face. And in that focus, there is not an ounce of triumph. Rather, the opposite. There is only pain. Such a grave torment that lives in the corners of his mouth, the prominent crease between his brows, in the cautious way he keeps tracking your movements as though you still might shove him away and try bolting for the door again.
You swallow and feel the ballast of everything press back down on your chest.
“I—” you start, timidly, using every last scrap of your bravery. You don’t meet his eyes, staring at the floor beside him. “I’ve seen them.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, small but a little bit more poised now, like glass that hasn’t shattered but still remembers the impact. “I've seen the news, and the headlines. All the stories about you.”
The words suspend themselves in the space between you.
Bucky takes a moment to answer. His gaze drifts downward, just briefly, as if the floor might offer him something easier to look at than the defenselessness sitting in your eyes. The vulnerable questions there. When he exhales it is long and tired, and it sounds like all the versions of himself he has spent years outrunning are catching up to him anyway.
“Yeah,” he mutters out breathily. But a little flat. There is no denial in it or some sort of excuse. He drags a hand across the back of his neck, his jaw flexing slightly before he speaks again. “I figured you probably had.” He takes a shivering breath, his whole chest lifting. “They’re not all lies.”
You hold your breath, but don’t step back, don’t let fear take its seat at the forefront of your mind again.
He lifts his eyes back to yours then, and the seriousness in them deepens, intensifying into something resolute.
“I’m not gonna stand here and tell you I’m a good man,” he says. The words come slowly, and his eyes are searching yours while he talks. He is placing them carefully like he’s building something honest out of wreckage. “I’m not.”
Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you still keep your feet grounded and meet his eyes.
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things most people wouldn’t forgive if they knew the full story.” His voice lowers slightly. His eyes are full of sorrow. Despite the things he’s saying he unexpectedly doesn’t look threatening at all and it makes something startle abruptly in your chest. “And yeah, I’ll probably keep doing some of those things.” He doesn’t force anything into his tone that maybe should be there. He´s not saying those things with pride or arrogance or even threat. He has just accepted the callous contours that make his life the way it is. “But not for the reasons people think.”
His eyes soften then, slightly. And it makes you realize that they’ve actually been soft all along.
“I do what I do because there are people in this world who deserve protection. People who don’t have the power to protect themselves.” His gaze holds yours a little more firmly now. “And sometimes the only way to keep those people safe is to be the guy willing to do the ugly work.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’d do just about anything to protect you, Y/n. Even if it’s me you want protection from.”
The kitchen feels very still.
You don’t know what to say to that. You’re not even sure there is something to say. The statement isn’t a justification so much as a window, and looking through it leaves you with more thoughts to sort through and you’ve already gone through so many. But you hear him. You really do.
And he seems to notice that you’re listening now—maybe not agreeing, not forgiving, but truly listening, hearing him out—and some small measure of relief loosens the tension in his shoulders.
He doesn’t move a single muscle, standing before you like a brick wall, his legs pinned wide on the kitchen tiles, his frame perfectly still except for the anxious heave of his chest. His arms are hanging at his side, and shit, your gaze just has to focus on that bloody trail on his forearm. Because right, you’ve cut James Buchanan Barnes through his expensive suit enough to make him bleed. The redness runs from his wrist to his knuckles and you see some dots on the floor. The fabric of his suit is soaking it up, turning a dark wet black around the tear.
He still doesn’t glance down at it. He’s still so entirely anchored to your face, his broad shoulders squared as if he’s trying to shield you from the very room he owns. The survival instinct that had you clawing at the air drops away and now there is a sudden freezing emptiness in your head. And in that blank space, something takes place.
You look at the knife on the linoleum, then at the wet red tracking down his arm, and your stomach completely plummets through the ground. The panic you felt earlier didn’t protect you, it turned you clumsy and ignorant.
“Oh, no,” you choke out, gaze fixed on his arm, your words hacking up from your chest miserably. “Bucky, I— Your arm, I— I didn’t mean— This is my fault, I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” he cuts in, his voice lowering into a rough, immediate hush that clips the words right out of your mouth. “Hey, no, sweetheart. No.” He steps back into your space and his huge palms come up, traveling slowly until they map themselves carefully across your jawline.
His fingers are trembling and the pressure is incredibly light. His skin is warm, smelling of that same familiar soap from upstairs, and his thumbs softly brush the wet tear tracks off your cheekbones, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. He doesn’t even spare a glance at his forearm.
“You don’t ever apologize to me for that,” he whispers hoarsely, his chest hitching against yours as he tries to get his breathing normal. There is so much regret in his voice, it is too much for your heart to handle. “You were scared out of your mind and I did that to you. That?” He tilts his arm toward you, indicating that he is talking about the cut. “That is nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.” The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but the expression is gentler and definitely much more somber than humorous. “I’ve taken hits that should’ve put me in the ground, and none of them touched me.”
You shake your head in his palms. “But, I—”
“Doll,” he shushes, his arms keeping your chin locked, but not firm at all. His gaze is drilling into yours and it feels like he’s bleeding more from the inside and not the outside. “That little scratch hurts a hell of a lot less than watching you run from me.”
Your hands slowly stop trying to find leverage against his chest. The heat of his palms against your jaw feels like a grounding force, something so familiar but also completely new. It’s not entirely unpleasant in its newness.
You look up into his eyes, seeing the complete lack of the monster he just unleashed on his guards, and you can’t help but feel a little unmoored.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” you admit breathily, your voice cracking as your forehead drops forward to rest against his tie.
Bucky lets out a long, ragged exhale, his chin resting against the top of your head as his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into a hold that feels firm but unforced.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now, darling,” he eases, his words spoken with a splintered scrape into your hair. “You don’t have to decide anything today, or tomorrow, or next week. Take all the time you need. Turn it over in your head. Think about everything you saw, everything I am. And whatever you choose to do—if you want to pack your bags, and disappear, if you never want to see my face again—I will let you go. I will make sure you are safe, and I will support whatever choice you make. I swear it.”
He pulls back just an inch, his thumbs gently guiding your face up again so he can look straight into your eyes. There is something desperately begging in his stare, but he keeps his posture completely still, refusing to pressure you.
“But please.“ His knuckles tremble slightly against your cheek. “Just stay the night. Don't run out now while this is all still so new. Stay until morning. As soon as the sun’s up, the car is yours,” he promises sorrowfully, his thumbs catching the last of the dampness on your cheek. “If you want to leave, you leave. You can walk out of here and never look back, and I won’t follow you. I won’t look for you. If that’s what it takes to make you feel safe, I’ll let you go.”
He stops, his jaw clamping tight for a second, a sharp, jumbled hitch in his ribs breaking his breathing.
“But god, I hope you don't,” he shoves the words past the tightness in his throat, his eyes wide and burning into yours so achingly. “I will spend every single day of my life doing whatever it takes to fix this. I’ll earn back an inch of your trust at a time. I’ll show you the rest of me—the real parts—if you just give me the chance to try. I want you to love me again. I want that more than anything.”
He hitches his weight just a fraction closer, his large hands still framing your jaw with agonizingly slow caution.
“But just stay this single night,” he pleads with a strain in his voice, his forehead dropping down to rest lightly against yours. “Just stay until morning. Let me get you out of this kitchen, and you can just sleep. That’s all. Just tonight.”
You stare at the dark red crusting on his wool cuff, then look into that heavy, broken-down look in his eyes. Trying to picture next week or even tomorrow feels like watching a knotted ball of wire and not finding out where to start untying it.
But right now, your muscles are just running on empty, completely flattened and powerless from feeling all that panic. You let out one long shudder of air, asking your awareness for any reasons why you should still try to get the hell away from this guy, and come up with nothing yet. It’s all too fresh to truly give this some thought and right now all you want to do is curl up in those silky sheets and sleep it all off.
You give him a small nod. “Okay. Okay, Bucky, I’ll stay the night.”
Bucky’s shoulders drop with a massive, rattling relief. He doesn't say anything else, he just tucks your head back under his chin, his big arms closing around you to carry your weight out of the quiet kitchen, leaving the knife and the blood behind on the floorboards.
You don’t know what comes when the sun is up. You don’t know what loving a man like him means. You don’t know if the life he lives can ever exist beside the life you thought you wanted.
You don’t know if trust can grow again from the cracked ground beneath your feet, and considering your decision making skills, you shouldn’t let your heart handle things anymore.
But, frighteningly and also not all that much surprisingly after all, when you imagine leaving now—truly leaving, turning your back on him and walking out of this mansion forever—the image doesn’t bring relief.
It brings something bleak.
Because for all the discoveries of tonight and all that fear, all that shock, and the trust that has been abruptly broken, there is a bullheaded part of you that understands something you can’t yet put into words for him to hear.
You could run from this house.
You could run from his name.
But you are not sure you could run from him.
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple”
- Oscar Wilde
A/n: Looking at the word count now, I honestly probably could’ve turned this into a mini series but because this whole thing is essentially one long scene, splitting it up even more just didn’t feel right to me. So I guess I just have to admit that this became an unexpectedly long two-parter lmao.
As always, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this continuation, if it gave you hope, or even if you expected something different to happen. I always enjoy hearing your interpretations and feelings after reading ♡
I also wanted to gently address something else. I’ve received a few critical comments regarding certain reactions, choices, and dynamics in the story, and I truly hope this second part helped answer some questions or at least offered a little more perspective. If it didn’t, that’s completely okay too.
What I want you to know, I genuinely do appreciate helpful criticism, especially when it comes to my writing itself, because I’m always trying to improve and become better at what I do. Constructive feedback that gives me something to work with is always welcome and appreciated. But if something in the story simply wasn’t for you, or you personally disliked a choice I made, then sometimes it’s okay to just move on from it instead of tearing it apart. And if you do choose to criticize something, I just ask that you do it kindly. We’re still a community here, and there’s no reason to be harsh or blunt. Talk to me like a human being.
I put a lot of time, emotion, and effort into these stories, not to be told this makes no sense or this is weird without any real conversation behind it. Sometimes I don’t think through every single detail deeply because at the end of the day, this is still fiction born from messy little ideas in my head, written for comfort, entertainment, and emotion—not perfection!
Still, thank you to everyone who continues to boost me and my work and helped me stay motivated to finish this part ♡
And if you enjoyed my work, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi ♡
Summary: Steve assigns a mission to you and the Bucky, knowing full well you don’t get along. You don’t know why, but one day Bucky decided he couldn't stand you anymore, and it’s been a battle since. What you didn’t expect was for Stark’s tech to give out on a mission to one of the coldest regions on the planet. Or for the stereo system to be the last straw.
Words: 11.9k (I did this instead of work on my novel)
Warnings/Tags: No use of Y/N. Not canon compliant in the slightest. 40s inspired outfits and music (I did lots of research for this one but I’m sorry if it’s historically inaccurate). Mean!Bucky, but also soft!Bucky. Enemies-to-lovers but really, they’re idiots. Lots of pining. Forced proximity. Lack of communication because do we really think he knows how? Reader has abandonment issues. Reader is described to use a curled hairstyle briefly. Reader has an engineering background, but I don’t so it’s not perfect. The pictures above are not meant to describe reader. Age gap (he’s 106…). Symptoms of hypothermia. Hurt/comfort. Major groveling. Angst, always HEA. if I missed anything lmk.
Proofread by me... and only me lol. masterlist in pinned
PRIOR
It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else.
Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating.
Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there?
Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together.
The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave.
Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out.
And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand.
₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·
PRESENT
Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering.
“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once.
“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?
“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion.
But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.
You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall.
“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.”
You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him.
You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark.
Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for.
You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.
Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal.
Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.
You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission.
But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders.
You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?”
But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable.
That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.”
The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently.
The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question.
“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.
“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you.
He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.”
It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet.
Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet.
Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.
“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine.
“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.”
“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge.
Fine then.
You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees.
“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place.
“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation.
His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”
Okay, ouch, but fair.
“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person.
You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany.
“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”
“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”
“Well you might as well have–”
“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.
Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth.
“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!”
“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength.
“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires.
“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew.
Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this.
Small victories.
You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.”
Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring.
Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit.
After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear.
Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve?
You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck.
You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear.
You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door.
“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond.
“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.”
It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in.
“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”
With her.
With her?
You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain.
Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite.
Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you.
You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest.
“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.”
His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?”
You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.
He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.”
Right.
Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.
Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.
“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent.
The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy.
When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better.
He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening.
“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out.
“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–”
“That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”
You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry.
He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you.
You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff.
So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much.
“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing.
He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing.
Your eyes widened, was he…?
“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?” He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.
“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering?
As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature.
You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.
A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder.
What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good.
He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.”
He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.
“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing.
“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”
You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either.
He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled.
And there it was.
You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.
Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged.
The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name.
By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing.
You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away.
“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument.
You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie.
When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.
“Bucky–”
“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move.
“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”
“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant.
He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—
“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE.
You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–”
He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly.
“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”
“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.”
You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”
“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin.
You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth.
Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth.
An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.
But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.
The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern.
Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just.
You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…
“Okay, come here.”
His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead.
“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours.
“Are you not…?”
He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you.
He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere.
His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain.
You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back.
What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture.
You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question…
“…Why?”
You were asleep before you could hear his response.
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The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light.
The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome.
So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms.
You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–
You stood, took several steps back.
That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy.
You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver.
One more time.
You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…
Little more to the left.
Angle, and–
Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system.
Rock… country… rap… pop…
“What are you doing?”
His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching.
You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was.
You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.”
Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said.
You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least.
You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood.
“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment.
You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”
He growled your name, but it was too late.
The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers.
You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.
You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–
Until the music stopped completely.
You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you.
Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.
But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong?
You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door.
But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it.
You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go.
You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for.
It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.
“Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you.
“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?”
“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.”
You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will.
“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.
“Because you go and do shit like this!”
“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”
“You remind me of the 40s!”
His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place?
You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra.
“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”
“What are you–”
“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–”
You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything.
The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.
Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved.
“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”
“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger.
“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!”
“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–”
“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!”
“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.
It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns.
But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks.
“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst.
“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them.
“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha.
She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.
You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.”
You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight.
When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day.
The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen. What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?”
You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention?
She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…”
You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.
Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.”
“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more.
“Maybe you need a distraction?”
“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”
“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother.
But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”
“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’
She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory.
You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble.
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“You wanna talk about it?”
Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress.
He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record.
Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get?
There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.”
Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.”
Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest.
Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all.
And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked.
Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.”
Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.”
He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it.
When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.”
“Did you try to make it right?” He asked.
“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.”
“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”
Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.”
Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”
“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement.
And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.”
Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”
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In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you.
You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor.
You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers.
Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner.
It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.
You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.
You cleared your throat, “Yes?”
There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”
Oh. Straight to the point.
You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.
But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them.
You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard.
And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”
“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”
“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction.
You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?”
The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet.
You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–”
“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.”
What?
You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words.
But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”
“I walk in a room, and you leave–”
“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant.
But he couldn’t possibly–
“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.”
Oh.
But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”
“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.”
Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels.
“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.”
You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words.
He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…”
Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…”
He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.”
That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was…
You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!”
He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–”
But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you, and you knew better than to get your hopes up.
He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head.
You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–”
You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt.
And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.
Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this.
The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into.
And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.”
note: this is my first time posting in a long time, and also my longest fic so far! I haven't gotten to write creatively for a long time (fuck you college) so this was honestly a challenge. I hope everyone enjoyed it. And if not, it will improve as I get back into the swing of things lol
I cannot say thank you enough for the amount of love on my first work IN 3 YEARS! I was so anxious that I worked so hard and this was going to flop. Thank you guys! Remember to follow for more coming this week! ❤️❤️
Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
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It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
Please remember to repost and support your creators!
Inspired by the ultimate cozy game, the Bucky Writers Association is excited to bring you the ultimate cozy collab!
After suddenly finding himself the owner of a new (admittedly decrepit) farm located in the quiet recesses of Pelican Town, Bucky Barnes has to face his toughest challenge yet: growing parsnips.
Oh! And of course, falling in love.
warnings: minors do not interact. be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption.
“Selfish Appetite”- @tw1sters
「 Lewis 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Mayor!Reader
You’ve always had one rule: never date your residents — and it’s been easy — until Bucky shows up with his steady hands and deep blue eyes, making you question everything you’ve built and everything you’ve sought to protect.
“Pour Decisions” - @blowingbarnes
「 Gus 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Bartender!Bucky
Tony Stark’s saloon runs on good liquor, better music, and one rule: don’t cause trouble. Bucky finds it one hell of a rule to follow when you get your claws out. To everyone, you're harmless — sweet, attentive, and just so nice. To him, you're a problem he keeps coming back to.
“You make loving fun!” - @superbassbuck
「 Haley 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic.
Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.
“Fertiliz-her” - @pinksplace
「 Demetrius」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Scientist!Reader
Bucky gives you free range of his farm and all the plants and wildlife it includes. You give Bucky fertilizer and any scientific insights you find. Tit for tat. Seems simple enough, but as the days pass, you can’t seem to escape each-other’s orbit. It’s like nature is literally pushing you together, but that would be crazy… wouldn’t it?
“Reap What You Sow” - @epiphanyrogers
「 Shane 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
bucky barnes moved to the valley looking for peace. you’ve been here your whole life and never known it. one impulsive night proves you have chemistry. every day since proves you’re fundamentally incompatible. or at least, that’s how it looks when anyone’s watching. the problem is what happens when they’re not.
“Hex Appeal” - @artficlly
「 Rasmodius 」 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ Witch!Reader
You must obtain the power of forest magic to decipher this message
the farmer claims he doesn’t need your help, but he always ends up in your clinic one way or another. this time, a particularly bad fall in the mines is the reason he’s laid out on your examination table, and as the valley’s only doctor, it’s your job to make him feel better no matter what.
thank you @/artficlly for the gorgeous Bucky sprite!!!!
Stardew fence divider by @/softandsleepyboy
there are no dates for posting. each writer will post their fic whenever they are ready, and the masterlist will be updated as such. all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.
Summary: Steve assigns a mission to you and the Bucky, knowing full well you don’t get along. You don’t know why, but one day Bucky decided he couldn't stand you anymore, and it’s been a battle since. What you didn’t expect was for Stark’s tech to give out on a mission to one of the coldest regions on the planet. Or for the stereo system to be the last straw.
Words: 11.9k (I did this instead of work on my novel)
Warnings/Tags: No use of Y/N. Not canon compliant in the slightest. 40s inspired outfits and music (I did lots of research for this one but I’m sorry if it’s historically inaccurate). Mean!Bucky, but also soft!Bucky. Enemies-to-lovers but really, they’re idiots. Lots of pining. Forced proximity. Lack of communication because do we really think he knows how? Reader has abandonment issues. Reader is described to use a curled hairstyle briefly. Reader has an engineering background, but I don’t so it’s not perfect. The pictures above are not meant to describe reader. Age gap (he’s 106…). Symptoms of hypothermia. Hurt/comfort. Major groveling. Angst, always HEA. if I missed anything lmk.
Proofread by me... and only me lol. masterlist in pinned
PRIOR
It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else.
Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating.
Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there?
Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together.
The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave.
Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out.
And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand.
₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·
PRESENT
Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering.
“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once.
“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?
“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion.
But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.
You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall.
“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.”
You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him.
You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark.
Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with.
It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for.
You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.
Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal.
Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.
You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission.
But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders.
You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?”
But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable.
That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.”
The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently.
The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question.
“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.
“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you.
He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.”
It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet.
Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet.
Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.
“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine.
“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.”
“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge.
Fine then.
You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees.
“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place.
“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation.
His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”
Okay, ouch, but fair.
“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person.
You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany.
“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”
“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”
“Well you might as well have–”
“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.
Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth.
“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!”
“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength.
“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires.
“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew.
Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this.
Small victories.
You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.”
Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring.
Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit.
After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear.
Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve?
You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck.
You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear.
You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door.
“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond.
“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.”
It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in.
“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”
With her.
With her?
You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain.
Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite.
Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you.
You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest.
“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.”
His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?”
You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.
He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.”
Right.
Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.
Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.
“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent.
The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy.
When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better.
He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening.
“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out.
“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–”
“That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”
You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry.
He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you.
You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff.
So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much.
“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing.
He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing.
Your eyes widened, was he…?
“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?” He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.
“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering?
As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature.
You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.
A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder.
What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good.
He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.”
He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.
“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing.
“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”
You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either.
He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled.
And there it was.
You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.
Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged.
The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name.
By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing.
You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away.
“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument.
You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie.
When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.
“Bucky–”
“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move.
“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”
“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant.
He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—
“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE.
You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–”
He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly.
“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”
“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.”
You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”
“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin.
You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth.
Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth.
An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.
But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.
The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern.
Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just.
You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…
“Okay, come here.”
His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead.
“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours.
“Are you not…?”
He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you.
He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere.
His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain.
You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back.
What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture.
You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question…
“…Why?”
You were asleep before you could hear his response.
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The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light.
The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome.
So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms.
You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–
You stood, took several steps back.
That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy.
You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver.
One more time.
You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…
Little more to the left.
Angle, and–
Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system.
Rock… country… rap… pop…
“What are you doing?”
His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching.
You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was.
You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.”
Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said.
You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least.
You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood.
“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment.
You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”
He growled your name, but it was too late.
The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers.
You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.
You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–
Until the music stopped completely.
You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you.
Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.
But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong?
You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door.
But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it.
You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go.
You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for.
It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.
“Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you.
“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?”
“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.”
You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will.
“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.
“Because you go and do shit like this!”
“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”
“You remind me of the 40s!”
His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place?
You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra.
“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”
“What are you–”
“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–”
You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything.
The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.
Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved.
“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”
“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger.
“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!”
“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–”
“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!”
“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.
It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns.
But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks.
“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst.
“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them.
“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha.
She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.
You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.”
You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight.
When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day.
The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen. What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?”
You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention?
She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…”
You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.
Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.”
“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more.
“Maybe you need a distraction?”
“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”
“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother.
But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”
“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’
She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory.
You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble.
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“You wanna talk about it?”
Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress.
He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record.
Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get?
There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.”
Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.”
Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest.
Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all.
And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked.
Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.”
Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.”
He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it.
When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.”
“Did you try to make it right?” He asked.
“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.”
“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”
Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.”
Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”
“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement.
And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.”
Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”
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In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you.
You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor.
You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers.
Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner.
It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.
You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.
You cleared your throat, “Yes?”
There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”
Oh. Straight to the point.
You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.
But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them.
You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard.
And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”
“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”
“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction.
You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?”
The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet.
You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–”
“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.”
What?
You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words.
But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”
“I walk in a room, and you leave–”
“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant.
But he couldn’t possibly–
“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.”
Oh.
But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”
“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.”
Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels.
“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.”
You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words.
He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…”
Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…”
He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.”
That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was…
You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!”
He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–”
But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you, and you knew better than to get your hopes up.
He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head.
You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–”
You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt.
And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.
Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this.
The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into.
And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.”
note: this is my first time posting in a long time, and also my longest fic so far! I haven't gotten to write creatively for a long time (fuck you college) so this was honestly a challenge. I hope everyone enjoyed it. And if not, it will improve as I get back into the swing of things lol
PSA: I love angst, probably more than any other genre. I will occasionally write heavy themes. My characters will be irrational at times to set themselves up for character development (in other words, I love to make him work for it). Warnings are given on each work, you are responsible for your media consumption. Take care of yourselves. <3
MDNI!
𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 ˎˊ˗
fluff: 𝜗֍𝜚 smut: ♱ angst: ❆ fav: ღ
「 𝑜𝑛𝑒-𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑠: ☆」
You Remind Me of the 40s ❆𝜗֍𝜚 - enemies to lovers on a stranded mission. Outbursts and confessions. Clean.
For Far Too Long ❆ ♱ - roommates to lovers with a hyper independent reader who doesn’t know how to let anyone do anything for her and a Bucky who is determined to take care of her.
