Night shift felt like a home you never knew you were missing. Sure, everyone was a clinically depressed vampire with a caffeine and nicotine addiction, but the unity of such a small group made you feel like you belonged. The way you moved around each other, shoulder to shoulder in the trenches—it was family.
You knew you really belonged the first Friday you walked in with two aluminum tins in your arms, one with fresh Hawaiian rolls and the other with chicken tetrazzini.
“Nurse Casserole,” made its way around the unit again, but this time it wasn’t said with teasing, it was with holy reverence.
When Jack came in and saw half of the shift with their mouths full, he stopped short, a little stunned, until you put a plate in his hands, a hearty serving and two rolls.
His gaze flicked over the room—everyone else had one roll.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You trying to ruin my figure?”
You shrugged. “You keep saving lives and I’ll keep feeding you.” you nudged him. “Besides, it’s a good figure.”
The corner of his mouth had kicked up, and that was that.
***
On the roof, during the nights when patients lulled in the rare moments, when the chaos eased and the city hummed quietly below, you and Jack found a rhythm.
Sometimes he’d talk about his time in the military, sometimes, very rarely, he talked about his wife.
How she hated Bath and Body Works perfumes and only liked Estée Lauder’s “Spellbound.” How she swore hated Italian food, but if Jack cooked it, she’d eat two plates. How she used to sing Broadway and swear she’d be the next American Idol, but she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.
He never said her name casually. It came out soft, like a word he still turned over in his mouth when no one was looking.
You shared your own moments that made you.
How Rush Creek had a population under a thousand and you could track gossip faster than a lap could turn troponins. How boys dreamed of college football scholarships and mostly ended up working the same jobs their fathers had. How half the girls married and had babies before their cap and gown were even put away. How you’d been the first in your family to go to college, and your parents still mailed you goody boxes like you were eighteen and away at dorms again.
Jack listened with that steady, focused expression he wore at the bedside, only softer. His shoulders loosened, his jaw unclenched, his eyes becoming less attending and more Jack.
You even confessed, face on fire, how when you were sixteen, you saw Burlesque, and you were convinced that your destiny was to be burlesque performer. How you’d stayed up with your friends all night and learned the Show Me How You Burlesque dance, and if you had one too many vodka raspberries, you could still do it perfectly.
Jack’s eyes had crinkled at the corners, his laugh warm.
The next night on the roof, he told you to call his cell, and when you did, your ringtone exploded to life.
So, get your ass up, show me how you burlesque!
You had gasped like he’d slapped you. “Jack Abbot!”
He didn’t even pretend to be sorry. “What?” he asked, utterly deadpan. “Seems on brand. My little nurse, a secret burlesque dancer.”
You swatted his arm, heat creeping up your neck as the song kept playing in his hand. “Change it. Right now.”
“Not a chance, honey.” His smile was easy, but there was something else under it, something small and private that made your heart stutter. “That one is staying forever.”
His smile made your chest feel tight. You didn’t know whether it was the crooked mini-smirk he gave the world, or the full, unguarded grin he only ever seemed to give you.
One night, when the sky was especially clear and the city glowed below, you’d asked, “What do you miss most about her?”
His eyes went distant, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the railing.
“Everything,” he murmured. “I miss everything about her.”
“That’s a cop-out answer.”
His mouth twitched but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, it is.”
You didn’t push, but you didn’t stop wondering either.
***
The shift had been chaotic as usual, alarms chirping, call lights blinking, attendings and nurses moving like a single frantic organism. You’d spent most of the evening hopping from one room to another, smiling and doing your best to make sure everyone was comfortable.
Room thirteen had received a psych patient during the shift and Jack had quietly taken most of the burden there. You’d only slipped in to do quick vitals and ask how the patient was.
You didn’t see the slack in the wrist cuff, not until the metal tray crashed down on the top of your skull.
The edge bit your scalp, white-hot, and you yelped, staggering backwards. Your heel caught the wires of the BP monitors, and you fell, your head cracking against the wall with enough force that it made the world flicker in and out.
You came back to yourself on the floor, one eye squeezed shut as warmth trickled down into your lashes. You tried to stand but your legs mutinied. So you crawled. One hand, then the other, dragging yourself toward the door as the patient thrashed and the restraint rang against the bedrail.
You shoved the door open and fumbled out into the hall, lifting a hand.
“Someone—” Your voice came out smaller than you intended, thin and strange. “I need…help.”
A passing nurse found you, immediately hauling you up off the floor, an arm around your shoulders as she guided you to the Hub.
“Help!” she hollered and conversations snapped off, heads turned.
For a moment, the whole Pitt seemed to inhale.
Jack’s tablet hit the desk as he hurried around, taking your weight from the nurse like it was instinct.
“Hey, hey,” he murmured, voice dropping to that low, steady register you’d heard a hundred times over trauma bays. “What happened?”
You moaned softly, trying to wipe your eye. “Psych patient in thirteen,” you said. “Slipped a wrist restraint.”
Jack’s jaw flexed and he looked over to a set of attendings. “Get security in thirteen, and a sedative on board.” He drew his attention back to you, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let me look at you, honey.”
Your expression scrunched as he gently prodded at your head, a soft whine escaping you.
“Sorry,” he murmured, and you could tell he meant it. “Scalp laceration. Doesn’t look too deep but you’ll need stitches.” His eyes flickered down your frame. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“I hit the back of my head when I fell,” you mumbled and he shifted around you, examining carefully.
“No break in the skin but you’ll have a nice goose-egg tomorrow though.” He came around and took a piece of gauze and some cleanser, gently wiping away the blood from your face. “There she is,” he murmured and you tried for a smile, but it bit off in a grimace.
“Parker, bupivacaine and a suture kit,” Jack called over his shoulder before helping you to your feet and steering you toward an empty exam room.
“I’m fine, Jack,” you protested, but your head lolled towards his shoulder.
“You’re getting stitches and a long night off,” he replied as he eased you onto the bed.
Parker appeared in the doorway with a syringe and a suture kit, setting it up on a tray for Jack before leaving.
He busied himself with a new pair of gloves before he shifted your hair out of the way and grabbed the syringe. He stepped between your legs, titling your head down. Your nose brushed the front of his scrubs, and you tried to ignore the scent of coffee and the expensive cologne he swore he didn’t wear.
“Big stick,” he warned gently, and he was a hair away when your hand shot out and grabbed his hip.
Jack froze.
His gaze dipped to your hand, then back to your face. “You get a good enough grip?”
You tried for a laugh, but it came out breathless. “Why? Gonna charge me for it?”
“If you’re expecting a show, absolutely.” He pulled the needle away from your scalp. “You okay?”
You inhaled and exhaled, leaning your head onto his stomach without meaning to. “…I have trypanophobia,” you muttered.
His laugh rumbled under your cheek. “A nurse with a phobia of needles. Haven’t heard that one before.”
You grumbled. “I’m wounded. Stop bullying me.”
“Well now,” he said, softer, his thumb tilting your chin up so your eyes met. “Can’t have you being bullied, now can we, honey?”
Something in his expression made your throat tighten; maybe it was the concern, the affection, or the hint of something you didn’t dare name.
“I’m right here,” he murmured. “It’ll be over before you know it, promise.” His thumb brushed your chin. “Okay?”
You made a grumpy noise, but nodded and lowered your head again.
Your nails dug into his skin as the needle went in, but you only felt it for a moment as the entire area went numb moments later.
Jack worked in silence and precision, suturing quick but skilled.
It was over quite literally before you knew it, and he was cleaning the blood away when he said, “I’m calling radiology and putting you in for an emergency CT.”
“Jack,” you groaned. “I’m fine.”
“You have a penetrating wound to the scalp, and you knocked your skull on the wall. You’re going,” he said.
“I don’t—”
“You’re going,” he repeated sternly and you sighed.
“Fine.”
And you really meant to go. You really, really did.
***
You’d been working diligently for at least an hour with a splitting headache when a shadow fell across your desk. You looked up, squinting.
“Doctor Abbot,” you greeted, trying for breezy and landing right on guilty. “Good evening so far?”
His expression could’ve curdled milk.
“Was good,” he said. “Right until I went to go check your CT results and found nothing there.”
You hummed, playing dumb. “System’s probably lagging.”
He huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, I asked the techs if they were. And you know what they said?”
“That radiology was incredibly backed up?” you offered weakly.
Jack‘s eyes were flinty. “That you never showed up to take your CT.”
You winced. “I…meant to go. Honest.”
“And meant to is not, ‘I did.’” He crossed his arms. “I told you to go up.”
You raised your nose in the air. “I got…busy. Patients and charts and all that.”
“Try again.”
His tone wasn’t harsh, but it certainly left no room for escape.
“Jack,” you started softly and he bent at the waist until you had nowhere else to look but at him.
You stared at each other for a moment, then you sighed. “I don’t like CTs. Or MRIs…or anything I have to be sucked into.”
“And the possibility of keeling over from a brain bleed is…better?”
You glared because if you didn’t, you’d cry. “If I was going to keel over, I’m sure it would’ve happened by now.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose and spun your chair around. “Up.”
“What?”
“Up. We’re going to radiology.”
You dug your heels into the floor. “No.”
He slowly drug his eyes to meet yours and he arched a brow, warning, “I’ll carry you over my shoulder if I have to. You aren’t the first I’ve carried. Won’t be the last.”
Heat crawled up your spine at the thought. Broad hands, solid shoulders. His hand gripping the back of your thigh, fingers digging—
“You wouldn’t dare,” you retorted, though you knew he was one hundred percent dead serious.
“Try me, honey.”
You glared at him before you stood up. “Fine. You damn tyrant,” you muttered and took a step, only to sway, and Jack’s arm settled around your waist as he led you to the elevator.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m such a dictator. Keeping my people from bleeding out in their skulls.”
“Meanie. Evil. Horrible.”
Jack’s laugh ghosted against your hair.
***
You laid on the table with your head in the cushion, staring up at the tube like it had personally wronged you.
“You okay in there?” the tech asked and you grimaced.
“Better if I wasn’t in a giant metal donut of doom,” you muttered.
“It’ll be over in just a moment,” Jack’s voice filled the speakers. “I’m right here with you.”
You inhaled and exhaled, closing your eyes as the table moved and the tube began to spin.
If felt like a million years in ten seconds and you opened your eyes, immediately snapping them shut again as the ring whirred around your head and the walls felt like they were inching closer.
Your heart kicked up, your chest tightened and you felt warmth bleed behind your lids. Your fingers twitched against your scrub bottoms, the desire to claw out overriding every instinct.
“I can’t do this,” you gasped, feeling your lungs lock. “I—I can’t.”
“You’re doing fine, honey,” Jack said. “Stay with me.”
“I can’t,” you choked. “Jack, I can’t—”
“Her heart rate is skyrocketing,” the tech told Jack. “She’s about to panic.”
Jack frowned and looked through the glass at you, the way your foot was jerking incessantly.
“You remember the other night when you asked me what I missed most about my wife?” he asked.
Your throat was tight but you managed a whisper of, “Y-yeah.”
“I told you everything, and you told me it was a cop-out answer,” he said. “It was, and it wasn’t. I do miss everything about her. I miss the way she cleaned my coffee cup when I told her to leave it alone. I miss the way she folded our towels because I can never get them right. I miss the way she’s ride the shopping cart to the car like a kid.”
He looked at you. “I miss everything.”
You felt your eyes warm for a different reason.
“But the one thing I miss the most are the mandalas she used to color for me.”
Jack’s tone grew softer.
“She’d color one everyday and stick it in my bag before I left for shift. Always some insane design. I joked I never had enough patience for something like that, but she told me my patience was holding scalpels and IVs. I miss finding them in my bag. I miss being six hours into a crappy shift and digging in my bag only to find one.”
He felt his throat work.
“I miss leaning against the kitchen counter and watching her color for me.”
Jack inhaled deeply, a grief he barely let show.
“That’s what I miss most about her.”
You laid still in the machine, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes and into your temples.
“And I’d give anything to reach into my bag and find one again,” he all but whispered.
Your foot stopped twitching, your heart rate calmed, and you laid still, imagining the scene of him watching his wife color at their kitchen table.
Maybe they laughed.
Maybe they talked about dinner plans and what they wanted to do that weekend.
By the time it was over, you were quiet, and Jack came in, helping you up.
You looked up at him, and he met your gaze.
“Quick as a flash,” he said softly. “Told you.”
You took his hand and squeezed it once.
Jack’s fingers curled around yours, and he held it like it was gold.
***
You stood in the coloring book section, staring at every book under the sun.
You chewed your lip.
Mandalas were everywhere.
Artsy, fartsy mandalas that you were absolutely not going to touch with a ten-foot pole.
Someone cleared their throat behind you, and you jumped a foot in the air, spinning to see an old woman there.
“They’re all coloring books, hon,” she said. “Pick one.”
“I’m trying,” you huffed. “I need something…specific.”
She tipped her head. “Anxiety?”
“Huh?”
She gestured to the books. “Coloring. Helps with anxiety.”
“Oh, no,” you said. “It’s, uh,” you frowned. “It’s complicated?”
Her posture said she had all day and you sighed.
“Okay, so, my boss is a widower and his wife used to color mandalas and put them in his bag, and he told me this and I wanted to…y’know, color…and…put one in his bag,” you mumbled the last part.
“You’re in love with him,” she said matter-of-factly.
Heat flooded your face. “Not…exactly.”
“Uh huh, and my bifocals are just for fashion.”
“He’s my boss,” you spluttered.
“Is he an ass?”
You thought of Jack on the roof, his stupid ringtone, his voice, his smile.
“No.”
She hummed. “He listen when you talk? Treat you like you have a brain and not a walking vagina?”
You nodded, albeit embarrassed.
“Then you could do worse, sweetheart,” she said simply. “And different. You’re not replacing the wife. You’re offering something new.”
You thought about it, and then looked back at the books, one catching your eye; you picked it up and grabbed a packet of color pencils.
“Your boss,” she said. “He like you back?”
You hugged the book to your chest. “I hope he does.”
“Mm. He older than you?”
You looked away bashfully. “By a bit.”
“Old men are stubborn,” she noted. “He’s got his way of doing things and you’ll never change a damn thing.” She elbowed you as she passed. “But I’ve seen some old dogs learn new tricks.”
You let out a soft laugh, and she tossed a glance over her shoulder.
“Good luck, hon.”
You stood there in the aisle, the weight of the book against your chest, and thought of Jack’s voice saying, “I’d give anything to find one again.”
***
Jack stepped inside his apartment and shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a second, his eyes closed. His bones ached in that particular way that only a full shift could achieve.
He hung his bag on the hook and was reaching to unzip it when he noticed the front pocket already half-open.
He frowned and started zipping when it caught. He unzipped it back, and pulled the pocket open, staring at the piece of paper folded and stuck inside.
He pulled it out and unfolded it carefully.
Roses, dozens of them, twisted across the sheet in climbing vines and layered petals, all colored with delicate strokes and patient shading. Deep reds and soft blushes, lush greens and yellows weaving it all together like a botanical garden.
A small note was written in the corner in your delicate, loopy handwriting.
“The mandalas were hers and yours. But maybe the flowers can be ours.”
Jack inhaled shakily, his throat closing, and he sat on the bench below the hooks, the paper shaking faintly in his hands. His ribs ached with the grief that clawed its way up, familiar and sharp, but it threaded with something else. Something softer. Newer. Something that scared him.
He thought of his wife at the old kitchen table in the house he couldn’t bear to live in after her, tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth as she colored the mandalas. He thought of your voice, shaking, though the CT speaker. Thought of you on the roof, eyes wide and earnest when you’d told him he made the hospital better.
His eyes burned.
He swallowed hard, blinking up toward the ceiling like it might help.
“Christ, honey,” he whispered, voice rough. “What are you doing to me?”
He looked back down at the flowers. You must’ve spent hours coloring the page with all the intricate blooms and stems and vines. He looked at your words—ours, you’d written. Not hers, not his, ours.
Not a demand to take what had once been theirs.
But by giving him something he could set beside what once was and what is.
What could be.
Jack sat there for a long moment, just breathing with it.
He could picture you bent over a table somewhere, colored pencils scattered, worrying over every line like the perfectionist you were. Wondering if it was too much, not enough, if you were crossing a line, or if he’d understand.
He stood slowly, his prosthetic ached against his leg. He carried the page into the kitchen and went to the fridge. One of his residents had given him a hideous magnet once, a bright red, anatomically questionable heart. He kept it because it’d made him laugh so hard he’d cried.
He pressed the drawing to the fridge door and set the magnet over it, adjusting it until it sat just right.
He stared at it for a long moment, then pressed his forehead to the metal, feeling the coolness against his warm skin, closing his eyes.
you're proactively planning your fertility like a responsible med student. dr. abbot, however, would greatly prefer you planned literally anything else.
pairing: jack abbot x angel reader
warnings: just a short lil drabble, fluff, anxiety and overthinking, age gap mentioned, reader is twenty something, reader is a med student, mentions of fertility, flirting in the workplace, implied sexual content, questionable reproductive proposals, basically just angel reader asking abbot to be her baby daddy
wc: 0.5k
“— and it’s not even like she means to do it, you know? Like she calls and it starts normal, totally normal, we’re talking about groceries or whatever, and then BAM, like clockwork, it’s ‘so how are your evaluations going’ and ‘have you thought about residency yet’ and I’m just sitting there like… yeah, mom, funny you mention it, I think about it all the time, constantly, obsessively, in a way that is probably not healthy for my long-term psychological stability.”
You cast a sidelong glance at Dr. Abbot, brows arched expectantly, silently imploring him to jump in and extinguish the slow, smoldering anxiety that has spontaneously combusted in your mind and body and soul.
He doesn’t bite.
Instead, he offers you his trademark stoic gaze, effectively deflating your balloon of expectation on impact.
“Your evaluations will be fine,” he says shortly. “You’ll match. Now type, please.”
“Sorry, charting, right. Doing that now,” you mumble, snapping dutifully back to the glowing screen like a golden retriever who briefly forgot what sit meant.
Your fingers move with genuine, industrious purpose for approximately three whole seconds before inevitably, you’re speaking again.
“But, then she mentions marriage and having children, multiple children, as if one isn’t intimidating enough, because why wouldn’t she? Perfect natural segue. And now all I can think about is this random fertility rabbit hole I fell into afterward. Which, by the way, was a lot. That was a lot of information. Like I’m literally sitting here as we speak, losing eggs by the second, practically fossilizing before your very eyes.”
You hear him release a short huff of air. Can picture him pressing his forefinger into the space between his browsz
“Kid, you’re — what, all of twenty-something?”
You wave a dismissive hand, not looking up. “Twenty-something with eggs dropping like New Year’s confetti at midnight. Tick tock.”
“You’re not even close to egg depletion,” he says dryly, nudging your chair slightly with his foot. “Trust your attending on this.”
You roll your eyes, immensely grateful he can’t see your face.
“Easy for you to say. Your biology lets you remain fertile until, like, the heat death of the universe.”
“Wasn’t aware you’d taken such a keen interest in my reproductive potential.”
You swivel around in your chair without warning, knees knocking lightly into the desk as you tip your chin up at him.
“Well, listen, I was actually thinking that if I hit a certain age and still have no romantic prospects, we could make a pact,” you muse. “You generously contribute your objectively excellent genetic blueprint, I carry the resulting small human. Voila, instant legacy preserved. It's a win-win.”
The words have barely left your lips when Abbot nearly sputters coffee all over his pressed white coat. His hand shoots up swiftly, coughing discreetly as his gaze flicks sharply, incredulously, up at you.
“Jesus — at least give me a heads-up before you proposition me for genetic samples,” he mutters under his breath, eyeing you cautiously now, like you’re a lab specimen who’s suddenly started speaking fluent Latin.
You gasp, pulling a hand to your chest. “Dr. Abbot, please — I was referring exclusively to a very professional sperm donation arrangement. Entirely above board, paperwork involved, sterile conditions, the whole thing.”
“Of course,” he drawls, skepticism coloring his voice. “Nothing questionable about that.”
“It’s all part of my incredibly thorough contingency plan. That I created last night,” you assure him, nodding fervently. “Proactive and forward-thinking, exactly the qualities you’re always nagging me to develop. See? I listen.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, fixing you with a stern, pensive look. “Face the screen.”
You obediently face the screen, fingers tapping out a half-hearted sentence once again, before your curiosity inevitably gets the best of you again, eyes flicking over your should to peer at him through lowered lashes.
“Not hearing a hard no,” you hum.
“It is a hard no,” he starts, leaning in to talk against your ear, “because If I decide to help you out with that particular problem, it’s going to be the old-fashioned way.”
He straightens smoothly, unbothered as he walks away, leaving your heart stumbling over itself in dizzy little circles.
summary: Now that the team knows you and Bucky are married, they learn very quickly about your strange marriage.
word count: 8.9k+
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: here is the long awaited part 2 to electric touch! (i hope i live up to the expectations😭)
i had a lot of fun writing this, it's a bunch of fun little scenarios of the team learning about your marriage - which is... unconventional to say the least
warnings/tags: takes place after thunderbolts*, domestic thunderbolts, bamf!reader, grumpy x sunshine (bucky is sunshine), reader is "brooding" and "cold", bucky is a lover boy, drinking alcohol, smut, slight sub!bucky, slight dom!reader, punishment, but not like punishment punishment, oral (f!receiving... and through the underwear), just the tip, a little bit of biting, slight switch!bucky & reader, bucky is a giver, unprotected piv, creampie, needy!bucky, yelena is a little shit
series masterlist
“If I find out who isn’t cleaning the lint out of the dryer, I will kill you,” you spoke, staring blankly at the team sitting in the common room.
John immediately raised his hands defensively. “Not me—I always clean it.”
Ava shrugged lazily. “I don’t do laundry here.”
Yelena glanced suspiciously toward Alexei. “Dad?”
Alexei frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “Dryer makes lint? I thought that was feature.”
Alexei grinned cheerfully. “Good motivator! I clean lint right now.”
“Thank you,” Bucky said dryly, shaking his head as Alexei rushed enthusiastically toward the laundry room. “At least someone listens around here.”
---
You walked quietly into the kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee without a word. Bucky glanced up from his seat at the counter, eyes lighting up slightly. "Morning, sweetheart."
You hummed noncommittally, sipping your coffee.
John groaned quietly. "Do you two ever stop flirting?"
You raised a brow at him, face blank. "We aren't flirting."
Yelena rolled her eyes dramatically. "Right. You just stare deeply into each other's souls every five seconds."
Bucky snorted softly. "That's not flirting. That's basic affection."
Ava sighed heavily. "I hate to see what you two actually think flirting is."
You exchanged a subtle, meaningful glance with Bucky. His lips curved faintly. "Trust me," you muttered dryly, looking back at Ava, "you haven't."
"Is threat or promise?" Alexei asked curiously from the table.
"Both," you replied flatly.
Bob smiled hesitantly. "I think it's nice."
Yelena waved him off. "You're too innocent for this, Bob."
Bucky stood casually, moving toward you and lightly touching your lower back. "Come on. Let's give them space."
John scowled. "See? Right there! Flirting."
You stared at him blankly. "Barnes touched my back. How scandalous."
Bucky shook his head slightly, guiding you toward the hall. As soon as you both were out of sight, he leaned in, voice low. "Wanna give them a real show?"
You smirked faintly, eyes glinting. "Absolutely."
"Perfect," he murmured softly, leaning in close. "Can't wait."
You gave him a small, dangerous smile. "They asked for it."
Bucky chuckled warmly. "We'll make them regret it."
You raised an eyebrow calmly. "Guaranteed."
---
The next morning, you walked calmly into the kitchen, wearing one of Bucky’s oversized shirts and shorts that barely peeked from beneath it. The team was already scattered around the kitchen, drinking coffee, half-awake.
Bucky immediately looked up from his coffee, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his lips. “Damn, sweetheart. You wear that better than I do.”
You didn’t reply verbally, instead stepping smoothly toward him, pressing your hand lightly to his chest. You leaned down, brushing your lips softly against his cheek before casually whispering, just loud enough for the others to hear, “missed you in bed.”
Bucky’s grin widened, his metal hand sliding slowly around your waist. “Sorry, doll. Early morning training.”
John nearly choked on his coffee. “Oh, come on!”
Yelena’s mouth twisted in clear disgust. “Really? It’s barely seven.”
You turned slowly, settling comfortably into Bucky’s lap. You reached casually for his coffee cup, taking a slow sip. “Problem?”
Ava shook her head irritably. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
You arched an eyebrow calmly. “This is flirting. Yesterday was not.”
Yelena sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We take it back. Stop.”
Alexei looked up curiously, clearly confused. “I see no issue. Couple seems happy.”
Bob smiled shyly. “It’s sweet.”
John gestured dramatically toward you both. “They’re being obnoxious!”
You took another slow sip from Bucky’s mug, eyes perfectly neutral. “You specifically requested clarification.”
Bucky squeezed your waist gently, smiling up at you affectionately. “Just giving the people what they want.”
“We definitely do not want,” Ava muttered flatly.
You leaned closer, whispering softly in Bucky’s ear, fully aware everyone could still hear. “Apparently, we’re making them uncomfortable.”
He chuckled quietly, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck. “They’ll live.”
Yelena groaned dramatically, standing abruptly. “Come on, Bob. Let’s go train. Far away.”
Bob glanced uncertainly at you both, following obediently. “Okay.”
John shook his head, leaving the kitchen quickly. “This is torture.”
Alexei remained seated, completely unbothered. “You two continue. I have popcorn.”
You rolled your eyes faintly, sliding smoothly from Bucky’s lap. “Show’s over.”
Bucky pouted dramatically. “Already?”
You shot him a pointed look. “Barnes.”
He smiled warmly, eyes crinkling. “Love you too, sweetheart.”
“Gross,” Ava muttered, finally stalking out after the others.
Bucky watched them leave, smiling faintly. “I think our work here is done.”
You hummed softly, taking another sip of his coffee. “For now.”
---
Someone—Alexei—suggested that the boys have a boys' night out while the girls stay in and “gossip.” You stared blankly at Yelena and Ava, a bottle of vodka and six shot glasses on the coffee table in front of all of you.
“Are we expecting guests?” you asked dryly, nodding toward the glasses.
Yelena smirked, pouring the first shots. “No. These are backups.”
Ava took hers, glancing at you. “Don’t look so excited.”
“I’m thrilled,” you replied flatly.
Yelena raised her glass. “To Barnes somehow convincing you to marry him.”
Ava raised hers as well. “A true miracle.”
You sighed, lifting your own glass. “Sure.”
Yelena downed hers instantly, eyeing you sharply afterward. “Okay. Start talking. When did this whole… you-and-Barnes thing happen?”
You shrugged lightly, sipping your vodka. “Years ago.”
Ava raised an eyebrow. “Where?”
“New York,” you replied blankly.
Yelena squinted suspiciously. “How?”
“We met. We dated. We got married.”
Ava stared at you, clearly unimpressed. “Incredible storytelling skills, Y/N.”
“Did he propose?” Yelena asked, pouring herself another shot.
“Yes.”
Ava groaned loudly. “Details, Y/N!”
You took another slow sip, voice neutral. “He got on one knee and asked.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes, slamming down another empty glass. “You’re impossible.”
---
At the bar, Alexei eagerly placed fresh drinks in front of John and Bucky and slid a soda toward Bob. “Now, Barnes—how did you and our scary friend fall in love?”
Bucky smiled softly, looking thoughtful. “It was gradual. She’s… different, you know? Quiet, guarded. Took a while before she let me see beneath that. Then it was like I couldn’t imagine a day without her.”
John stared at him skeptically. “You’re telling me the woman who threatens murder over lint traps won you over by being quiet?”
Bucky chuckled warmly. “Trust me, there’s a lot more under the surface.”
Alexei nodded enthusiastically. “How did you ask for marriage?”
Bucky’s smile turned warm, eyes brightening at the memory. “We went for a walk in Brooklyn. I took her to our favorite spot near the bridge, got down on one knee, told her how much she meant to me, and asked. She actually smiled.”
John snorted. “I don’t believe you.”
Bucky laughed, shaking his head fondly. “I swear, it happened.”
Bob smiled shyly. “That sounds romantic.”
“It was,” Bucky agreed softly. “She’s amazing.”
Alexei clapped loudly. “Barnes, you old softie! I like this story.”
John rolled his eyes. “I still don’t buy it.”
---
Back at the Watchtower, Yelena was pouring her fifth shot, eyes slightly glazed. Ava was sprawled comfortably on the couch, nursing her own drink. “Wedding,” Yelena slurred, pointing dramatically at you. “What about the wedding?”
You took a careful sip from your own glass, completely unaffected. “Lake. Upstate New York.”
Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Who was there?” Yelena demanded loudly.
“The Avengers,” you replied simply.
Ava stared blankly. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “And your dress?”
“Princess gown,” you deadpanned, voice perfectly even. “Big skirt, lots of sparkle.”
Ava snorted loudly, dissolving into giggles. “Yeah, right.”
Yelena laughed, shaking her head dramatically. “Now I know you’re lying.”
You calmly sipped your vodka again. “Believe whatever you want.”
Yelena pointed at you accusingly, swaying slightly. “You’re funny, Y/N. You pretend not to be, but you are.”
“Sure,” you said flatly.
Ava smiled lazily, slumped further on the couch. “Princess gown. That’s hilarious.”
Yelena nodded emphatically, pouring another shot shakily. “Almost got us there.”
You shrugged, voice dry. “Almost.”
---
“You too, huh?” Yelena asked, rubbing her forehead as she walked into the kitchen, seeing Walker with his head in his hands.
John groaned quietly. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Ava walked in after Yelena, looking half-dead. “I doubt anyone could.”
Bob glanced around hesitantly. “Did anyone else… hear things?”
Alexei nodded, completely unaffected. “Ah, yes. Barnes and Y/N were very active last night.”
John scowled deeply. “It was nonstop.”
Ava grimaced. “Very loud.”
Yelena sighed irritably, pouring herself coffee. “We need soundproofing. Immediately.”
At that moment, you walked casually into the kitchen, Bucky trailing just behind you. All eyes turned instantly, staring pointedly. You paused, eyebrow raising slowly. “What?”
Yelena narrowed her eyes accusingly. “You both had fun last night, I assume.”
You glanced at Bucky, confused. “What?”
John waved his hand irritably. “Don’t play dumb. We heard you two.”
Ava nodded firmly. “We heard everything.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed deeply. “Wait—what exactly did you hear?”
Alexei grinned widely, completely shameless. “Lots of grunting. Heavy breathing. Banging sounds.”
You stared blankly at them, slowly processing. Then, abruptly, you laughed—a sudden, genuine laugh that stunned everyone into silence.
John stared openly. “Did she just… laugh?”
Ava looked equally shocked. “That was terrifying.”
You shook your head, smiling faintly. “We weren’t having sex.”
Yelena looked skeptical. “Then what the hell were you doing?”
Bucky sighed deeply, rubbing his face tiredly. “She woke me up at 2 am because she couldn’t sleep. We rearranged the bedroom.”
Silence again. Then Alexei snorted loudly, clearly amused. “You move furniture at night instead of sex? Strange married life.”
Bob smiled shyly. “That’s kind of sweet.”
John shook his head irritably. “It’s still annoying.”
You shrugged lightly, pouring your coffee calmly. “Maybe next time we’ll actually have sex. See if you prefer that.”
John grimaced immediately. “No. Definitely not.”
Ava sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’d rather listen to the furniture.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Just warn us next time.”
You glanced toward him briefly, voice dry. “No promises.”
John sighed again, clearly resigned. “I hate it here.”
Alexei grinned broadly. “I love it here. Very exciting every day.”
---
You slipped quietly into the dark closet, pulling the door almost closed behind you, leaving just a thin sliver of light. Exactly five minutes later, the door opened again, and Bucky’s silhouette filled the frame. He stepped inside smoothly, shutting the door fully and sealing you both into darkness.
“You couldn’t pick somewhere a little roomier?” he murmured softly, hands finding your waist effortlessly.
“You’re complaining?” you replied evenly, sliding your fingers into his hair.
“Not at all,” he whispered against your lips, pulling you flush against him. “Just observing.”
You didn’t respond, capturing his mouth firmly instead. He pressed you carefully back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other slipping beneath your shirt. Your breathing deepened, mingling together in the tight, quiet space.
His lips moved down your neck, teeth gently grazing your skin. “How long do we have?”
“Fifteen minutes,” you whispered breathlessly.
Bucky smiled against your collarbone. “More than enough.”
Suddenly, bright light flooded the closet as the door swung open abruptly. “What the hell?” John demanded, recoiling dramatically at the sight of you both tangled together.
Bucky turned slowly, sighing irritably. “Walker.”
John stared incredulously. “Why are you—why are you in the cleaning closet?”
You pushed Bucky back slightly, straightening your clothes smoothly, face carefully blank. “Clearly, for the privacy.”
John shook his head, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s weird.”
You stepped forward calmly, brushing past him without another glance. “I’m done here anyway.”
John glanced back at Bucky, eyebrow raised skeptically. “Closet, Barnes? Really?”
Bucky just smirked slightly, adjusting his shirt. “It has its charm.”
John groaned loudly. “Disgusting.”
You walked away without looking back, irritation clear in every step.
---
Later that night, Bucky leaned comfortably against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee. Yelena glanced at him suspiciously. “Closet, Barnes?” she repeated, looking entirely unimpressed.
He chuckled softly. “She picks the locations. I just follow instructions.”
Ava raised an eyebrow. “You have instructions for this?”
Bucky shrugged, smirking faintly. “Once a week. Always in a different spot. She texts me exactly five minutes before—in code.”
Bob looked fascinated. “Why in code?”
“Because she’s paranoid,” Bucky replied easily. “And because she enjoys watching me struggle.”
Alexei laughed heartily. “Ah! Mystery and romance. Very good.”
John shook his head, still irritated. “I still don’t understand why a closet.”
Bucky sipped his coffee, smiling faintly. “Because she’s full of surprises.”
Yelena sighed deeply, rolling her eyes. “You two are ridiculous.”
Bucky just smiled quietly, eyes drifting toward the hall, already wondering where next week would take him.
---
You stood silently in front of the fridge, staring blankly at the empty shelf where your leftover slice of cheesecake had been sitting all day. You closed the fridge door, turned slowly, and moved toward the living room, where the team was sprawled out comfortably watching some pointless TV show. "Who ate it?" you asked flatly, stopping behind the couch.
Everyone turned simultaneously to look at you, blinking in confusion.
"Ate what?" Yelena asked carefully.
"My cheesecake," you said, eyes slowly scanning the room. "It was in the fridge."
John raised his hands immediately. "Not me. You scare me."
"Didn't touch it," Ava said, completely unconcerned.
Alexei shook his head innocently. "I learn lesson after dryer incident. No touching Y/N's things."
Bob shifted nervously, eyes wide. "I didn't even open the fridge today."
Your gaze settled on Bucky, who suddenly looked far too interested in the TV screen. "Barnes," you said slowly, voice dangerously calm. "Where's my cheesecake?"
You stepped around the couch slowly, eyes locked onto his face. "My cheesecake. The last slice. The one you watched me carefully wrap last night and say, and I quote, 'I'm saving this for tomorrow.'"
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Oh, uh… that cheesecake."
Your jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah. That cheesecake."
He smiled apologetically, attempting charm. "I didn't realize it was that important to you."
"Barnes," John said dryly, "you're digging your own grave."
Yelena nodded. "Just apologize and offer to buy more."
You tilted your head slightly, eyes still on Bucky. "It was important enough that I wrapped it carefully and said out loud that it was mine."
Bucky winced slightly. "Sorry, doll. Really."
You stared at him silently for a long moment, then turned on your heel and walked out without another word, leaving tense silence behind you.
Bucky groaned softly, dropping his head back against the couch. "Shit."
John shook his head solemnly. "Nice knowing you, man."
Alexei chuckled, amused. "Barnes, maybe sleep with eyes open tonight."
---
A few hours later, you were quietly sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling absently through your phone when the bedroom door opened slowly, revealing a cautious-looking Bucky.
You didn't look up.
He stepped quietly into the room, closing the door gently behind him. "Still mad?"
You didn't respond, gaze still fixed on your phone.
He moved slowly toward the bed, voice carefully gentle. "It really was an accident. I genuinely didn't realize you'd care that much."
Your eyes flicked briefly toward him, cool and unreadable. "You didn't think I'd care about something I deliberately set aside?"
He sighed softly, dropping down onto the edge of the bed beside you. "Okay, yeah, that was dumb. I'm sorry."
You stared at him for a long moment, clearly unimpressed. "Apology noted."
He reached out carefully, gently touching your knee. "I'll buy you another cheesecake."
You raised an eyebrow slowly. "You'll buy me two."
"Three," he offered immediately, lips quirking slightly.
You narrowed your eyes, still cool. "Four."
He chuckled softly, gently sliding his hand further up your thigh. "Fine. Four cheesecakes. Whatever you want."
You finally set your phone aside, watching him evenly. "And?"
He tilted his head, eyes amused. "And… what?"
You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto his. "Apologize properly."
He smiled faintly, leaning in to brush his lips softly against yours. "I'm very sorry," he murmured gently, slowly deepening the kiss.
His hand slid higher, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown, fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of your underwear. He shifted, lowering himself slightly, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, slow and deliberate.
Then he tried to tug your underwear down. Your hand shot out fast, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Leave them on," you said flatly.
He froze, head lifting slightly. "...What?"
You tilted your head, deadpan. "You want to apologize? Do it through fabric."
He blinked, mouth parting, and you watched the flush crawl up his neck like a slow burn. "...You're serious?" You stared at him. He swallowed. "Okay. Yeah. No, that’s... fair."
You leaned back against the pillows again, arms folding behind your head, gaze steady on him. "You shouldn't have eaten my cheesecake."
"I know," he mumbled, already kissing down your stomach. "Big mistake."
"Massive," you muttered.
He grinned against your skin. "You’re gonna hold this over me forever, aren’t you?"
"That was the last slice," you said darkly.
He nodded solemnly, hands spreading over your thighs, lifting them just slightly as he shifted between them. "I deserve this."
"Yeah," you muttered as he kissed the inside of your thigh. "You do."
He didn’t say anything else. Just pushed your legs wider, settled in, and started slow—open-mouthed kisses against the thin cotton, tongue pressing against the damp spot already forming. He groaned softly, fingers digging into your hips.
You exhaled sharply, eyes falling closed. "You’re not taking them off," you reminded, voice low.
His voice was muffled. "Wouldn’t dare."
His mouth worked over the fabric, patient, reverent, the friction maddening. You twitched beneath him, hips rolling slightly, and he just groaned again, hands holding you still.
"Fuck," you whispered, breath catching when his tongue circled deliberately over the same spot, again and again, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted through the fabric.
He pulled back just long enough to say, "You still mad at me?"
You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling. "...Yes."
He smirked. "Good." Then he ducked back down, licking harder.
You bit your lip, biting back a sound, hands twitching where they were clenched in the sheets.
He was grinning against you now. You could feel it—obnoxious, smug, and cocky. But his tongue moved with purpose, with desperation, with apology. "Four cheesecakes," he breathed, hot against you.
"Five," you rasped.
He nodded, lips dragging slow and filthy across the soaked cotton. "Five. And I’m never eating your shit again without asking."
His mouth stayed pressed to the soaked cotton, tongue flattening and dragging slow as molasses across your clit, so relentless it made your back arch involuntarily. He was determined—like a soldier on a mission. His fingers dug into your thighs, thumbs rubbing idle circles against the soft skin just to soothe, but nothing about his mouth was gentle.
“Mmmph,” he groaned into you, the sound fucking obscene. The vibrations shot through you, sharp as a knife edge. You bit your lip hard, eyes fluttering shut, chest rising faster.
When his teeth grazed just barely over the fabric, you hissed. “Bucky—”
He pulled back just enough to breathe, chin slick, lips shiny, pupils blown to hell. “Yeah, doll?”
You stared down at him, your voice flat. “You're not taking them off.”
He smirked, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Didn’t plan to. I’m just gettin’ creative.” Then he leaned in again, tongue flicking the edge of the wet patch like he was teasing a wound.
Your head thunked back against the headboard with a low growl. “Then stop fucking around.”
He chuckled. "Yes ma'am."
His mouth sealed to your cunt again, tongue pressing hard right through the fabric, and you gasped—hips jerking before his arms locked you in place. He sucked over your clit like he was starving, tongue moving under the barrier, trying to get every drop. You felt the heat surge deep in your core, coil tight and fast, snapping like a tripwire.
“Ah—fuck—” Your thighs twitched in his grip, toes curling, back arching as your orgasm punched through you without warning, hot and sharp and fast. “Jesus—”
He didn’t stop. He kept licking, kept grinding his mouth into you like he wanted to wring every last shudder out of your body. You slapped the headboard behind you, fingers scrabbling for anything to hold.
"Goddamn it, Bucky—"
He finally pulled back, panting, mouth wet and eyes wild. "Still mad at me?"
You blinked down at him, your voice dry. “I hate you.”
He grinned, dragging his tongue over his lower lip. “That’s fair.”
You shoved his shoulder. “Move.”
"Move where?"
“Off the floor, you idiot.”
Bucky let himself be manhandled up onto the bed, his expression smug. You straddled him, still in your underwear, still flushed and breathing heavy.
He leaned back on his elbows, eyes trailing over you with heat. “So… still five cheesecakes, right?”
You didn’t answer. Just shifted, sliding up his thighs until your soaked underwear brushed the thick line of his cock through his sweats. His breath hitched. “Ohhh,” he murmured, eyes dragging up to your face. “So that’s how we’re playing it.”
You ground down slow, dragging your cunt along the length of him with maddening friction. “You wanna apologize? Start here.”
Bucky groaned low, fingers gripping the sheets, jaw tight as you rolled your hips again—dragging yourself along him, the wet cotton of your underwear catching perfectly over his cock.
“Fuck, baby…” he muttered, hips lifting into you. “That’s not even fair…”
You shrugged, moving again. His cock twitched under you, hard and pulsing, and you just kept going, using him, teasing yourself, grinding down like you had all the time in the world.
His voice dropped, rough and coaxing. “C’mon. Just the tip.”
You paused, eyebrow lifting. “You think that line still works on me?”
He grinned. “We’re married. I don’t need lines. I just need you to move those pretty little panties to the side.”
You stared at him. He held your gaze, cocky but not pushy, like he knew you'd give in eventually. You exhaled, dragged your underwear to the side slowly, and sat back down—just enough to line him up, just enough that the head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance.
Bucky cursed under his breath, hands flying to your hips. “Shit. Just like that—don’t move yet—fuck.”
You shifted slightly, and the tip slipped in. You both inhaled sharply.
“Jesus, you’re warm,” he breathed, eyes fluttering half-shut. “Just let me—”
You tensed when he pushed an inch deeper. “Bucky—”
“I know,” he whispered, voice tight. “I know, just—fuck, just a little more.”
You felt the stretch as he eased in slow, inch by inch, until you were nearly full and your breath stuttered in your chest. “I said just the tip,” you muttered, nails digging into his chest.
He gave a sheepish, breathless laugh. “Baby, I’m sorry—I got greedy. You’re just—fuck, you’re so good.”
You opened your mouth to snap something, but then he bucked his hips up, slow and deep, and you gasped, thighs trembling. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured, hand sliding behind your neck to pull you down, lips brushing your jaw. “I’ll fuck you nice, yeah? Just let me—”
He surged up again, and your protest turned into a moan, your hands flying to his shoulders. “Fuck, Bucky—”
“Yeah,” he breathed, eyes blazing now. “That’s it, doll. That’s what I wanted. Been thinking about you all night.”
His hands gripped your thighs, guiding your movements as you started to ride him in earnest—slick, filthy sounds between you, the wet drag of your cunt around his cock making his head drop back with a groan.
You leaned forward, panting, chest brushing his. “You think this fixes it?”
“No,” he rasped, lifting his hips into you hard. “But it’s a start.”
You bit his shoulder, just enough to make him hiss. “You’re an asshole.”
Bucky grunted as your teeth sank in, low and sharp, and his hands clenched around your hips like he was holding back a groan.
"Yeah," he muttered, voice rough against your ear, "I know."
Then he flipped you. Fast. Smooth. Like he’d been thinking about it for a while. One moment you were on top, grinding down with full control, the next your back was pressed to the mattress and his weight settled over you, thick and hot and deep inside. His hands framed your face like he was scared you'd vanish if he blinked.
You blinked up at him.
His mouth was parted, breath ragged. "Let me."
You didn’t say anything. Just stared, waiting.
He leaned down, kissed your throat. "Gonna make it up to you, promise." His hips rolled into you slow, deep, like he was trying to learn every sound you made from the inside. He cursed under his breath.
"God—you're so fucking wet," he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. "Felt like heaven even before I was inside. Now it's—shit—"
You exhaled through your nose, fingers digging into his back. “You're stalling.”
That got a growl out of him. One of his hands slid down between your bodies—his vibranium one, cold at first, then warming quick from contact—pressing flat against your stomach as he fucked in deeper.
"Feel me right there?" he murmured, nose brushing yours. "Right where I belong."
"Talk less," you snapped.
He bit back a grin, lips dragging down your neck. "Yes ma'am."
And then he got serious. His rhythm changed—harder, slower, the kind that made your toes curl and your thighs twitch involuntarily. His human hand slid down your leg, hooking under your knee, pressing it up toward your chest.
You gasped when he hit deeper.
"There we go," he muttered, mouth grazing your collarbone. "Right there. That it?"
You didn't answer. Couldn't. Your nails dug into his shoulder and he moaned when you clenched around him.
His vibranium hand moved again—between you now—thumb dragging down to rub you slow, firm. Perfect pressure.
“Fuck—”
“Shh, I got you,” he breathed, kissing your cheek, your jaw, his thumb never stopping. “Let me take care of you, baby. Just let go for me, yeah?”
You hissed through your teeth when he thrust deeper, thumb circling faster.
“I can feel it,” he whispered, hips snapping, breath hot against your ear. “You’re close. Come for me. Right now. Please.”
Your breath caught. Your legs shook. You grabbed the back of his neck and arched hard against him—
“Fuck, Bucky—”
"That's it—fuck, that's it, there you go—"
You shattered beneath him, tight and pulsing, and he didn’t stop moving, just kept fucking into you with a low groan, arms shaking, trying not to come too soon.
His hips kept driving into you, deep and slow, your walls still fluttering around him in the aftermath of your orgasm. His breath stuttered against your neck, jaw clenched so tight you could feel the tension in every part of him.
“Fuck, baby—” he gasped, voice rough, almost pained. “You feel so good when you come… fuckin’ squeezing me like that, shit—”
You didn’t say anything, just slid your hand up to grip his hair and tugged hard.
Bucky groaned, eyes fluttering shut, his cock twitching deep inside you. “Please,” he rasped. “Let me make you come again. Wanna feel it again. Wanna feel you break on me.”
You dragged your nails down his back, slow and deliberate, and his hips stuttered. “You’re so fucking greedy,” you muttered.
He nodded against your throat, lips brushing the skin there. “Yeah. For you. Always.”
His vibranium hand slid back between your legs without hesitation, thumb finding your clit like he was born for it. The pressure was perfect—firm, relentless—and the real hand tightened on your thigh, holding it high, spreading you wider, deeper.
"That's it," he whispered, watching your face now, eyes desperate. "C’mon, doll. Give me another. Want it so bad—"
You grabbed his jaw, forced his gaze to stay locked on yours. "Make me," you ordered.
Bucky let out a strangled sound that was half-moan, half-growl, and then he was grinding into you harder, thumb never letting up, hips moving with exact, perfect control. "I will," he swore, voice shaking. "I'll fucking wreck you if you let me. I’ll make you come so hard you forget your own name. Please let me."
You didn't reply, just held his stare, teeth digging into your bottom lip when the pressure started to climb again. Fast. Too fast.
"God, you’re perfect," he groaned, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheekbone, your jaw. "So fucking perfect like this, underneath me, letting me take care of you—fuck—please come for me, baby, please—"
You gasped, head tipping back as your second orgasm slammed through you, sudden and brutal, making your whole body tense, your back arch up off the mattress.
Bucky’s eyes rolled back. “Oh, fuck—yes, yes, baby, just like that—goddamn—”
You were still pulsing around him when he finally let go, hips snapping hard one last time before he buried himself deep and groaned, loud and raw, like it was being torn out of him.
“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, voice breaking, whole body shaking as he came inside you, hands gripping you like he’d fall apart otherwise.
You were both breathless, sweat-slick and trembling, tangled together like the only thing anchoring either of you was the other.
He finally slumped over you, chest heaving, lips brushing your collarbone.
"Apology accepted?" he mumbled against your skin.
You didn’t answer.
He lifted his head slightly, blinking blearily down at you. "...Still mad?"
You grabbed his chin again, hard, and kissed him—slow, rough, deep. You bit his bottom lip on the way out, and he whimpered into your mouth. Then you exhaled and muttered against his mouth, “I’m thinking about it.”
Bucky grinned like he’d just won the goddamn lottery. “I can work with that.”
---
You stared into the kitchen cabinet, mentally checking off your list. Tea, honey, cough drops, ibuprofen…
Yelena leaned against the counter beside you, squinting suspiciously at the pile of items already gathered on the countertop. "Are you building a chemical bomb?" she asked dryly.
You slowly turned your head toward her, giving her an utterly blank look. Yelena met your gaze, unblinking. After a long pause, you finally spoke. "Barnes is sick," you said flatly.
Yelena blinked once, then snorted. "Sick? He sneezed. Like, twice."
"Three times," you corrected evenly. "And he coughed."
She raised an eyebrow skeptically. "It's called allergies."
You ignored her, calmly collecting your armful of tea, medicine, and honey. "He's sick."
Across the room, John glanced up from the couch. "Did Barnes actually get hurt or something?"
"No," Ava said blandly from her chair. "He has a slight sniffle. Now Y/N thinks he's dying."
"He's not dying," you replied calmly, pausing at the hallway. "He's sick. There's a difference."
Alexei chuckled loudly from his seat. "You take good care, Y/N. Barnes very delicate."
Bob smiled gently. "Should we check on him later?"
You stared blankly at him. "Absolutely not." With that, you vanished down the hallway, arms still full.
---
You nudged the bedroom door open carefully, stepping inside to find Bucky sitting on the bed, looking perfectly fine aside from slightly messy hair. He glanced up, eyebrows lifting at the pile of items you were carrying. "What's all this?"
"You're sick," you announced flatly, placing everything neatly on the bedside table.
Bucky blinked, clearly confused. "I coughed like twice, doll."
"Three times," you corrected again, placing your palm gently against his forehead. He smiled faintly, rolling his eyes, but leaned into your touch anyway.
"You feel a little warm," you murmured, carefully pulling your hand away.
He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm literally fine."
You gave him an unimpressed stare. "You're taking medicine. And drinking tea."
He smiled softly, clearly amused but deciding not to push it. "Fine."
You poured him a cup of tea, stirring honey into it calmly before handing it to him. Bucky took a sip, shaking his head with faint amusement. "You know," he began lightly, "you're kinda cute when you're fussing."
You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Drink your tea, Barnes."
He smiled warmly, leaning back comfortably against the pillows. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."
You sat carefully beside him, arms crossed, watching until he drank at least half the tea. After a long silence, he glanced at you with a slight smirk. "You gonna keep staring at me like that?"
"Yes," you replied evenly.
He chuckled softly, shaking his head again. "I'm really okay, doll."
You ignored him, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair off his forehead gently. "Just shut up and let me take care of you."
Bucky sighed, but his eyes softened. "Alright. But I'm really not that sick."
"Shut up," you repeated calmly.
He laughed quietly, but settled back further into the pillows, clearly deciding to humor you for now.
Satisfied, you reached over to the bedside table, calmly handing him two ibuprofen. He took them without protest, eyes crinkling in quiet amusement. "Anything else, nurse?" he teased gently.
You gave him another steady stare. "Sleep."
He chuckled softly, obediently closing his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."
You watched carefully until his breathing evened out, the tension in your shoulders finally easing slightly. Quietly, you reached out, carefully brushing your fingers along his cheek. "You're an idiot," you murmured softly.
He didn't respond, already drifting peacefully.
You sighed gently, settling back comfortably against the pillows beside him, silently watching over him anyway.
---
The kitchen was alive with quiet morning chaos. Yelena sat perched on the counter, lazily peeling an orange. Alexei and Bob were at the table, hunched over a puzzle like it was a high-level mission. John nursed a black coffee with an expression like he hated being alive, and Ava scrolled through her tablet, earbuds in.
You were standing near the stove, sipping from your mug and keeping mostly to yourself, as usual.
Bucky breezed in behind you, freshly showered, hair still a little damp. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured softly, “Love you, sweetheart.”
You didn’t look at him, just gave a neutral hum, calm and flat. “Don’t forget your knife. You left it on the bathroom sink.”
He smirked faintly, unfazed. “I got it.”
He gave your waist a soft squeeze and slipped out without another word. A beat of silence passed before Yelena narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger toward you dramatically. “You never say it back.” You didn’t respond, and just took another sip of your coffee. “No, seriously,” she said, sliding off the counter and walking closer. “He says it, like, all the time. And you just… ignore it. Or change the subject. Or give him directions about weapons.”
“Bucky knows how I feel,” you said flatly.
“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “You don’t say it back.”
Ava looked up from her tablet. “She’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘I love you.’”
Bob blinked slowly, clearly distressed. “You don’t love Bucky?”
“She does,” Alexei said cheerfully. “She just shows it by keeping him alive. Very romantic.”
John chuckled, voice dry. “I’m just impressed Barnes doesn’t seem to care.”
“Or notice,” Ava added, raising an eyebrow.
Yelena smirked suddenly, eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief. “Let’s make a bet.”
Everyone perked up immediately.
“Go on,” John said warily.
Yelena grinned, turning toward you. “You start acting like him. All clingy and affectionate. Tell him you love him, kiss him on the cheek, hold his hand, all that. We’ll see how long it takes before he notices you’re doing it on purpose.”
You stared at her blankly. “That’s stupid.”
“Which means you’re doing it,” she replied smugly. “Everyone in?”
Bob raised his hand nervously. “I think Bucky will be happy. He might cry.”
“Two days,” Ava said, stretching. “He notices in two days.”
“Five,” Alexei guessed. “He notices in five.”
John shook his head. “Nah, he doesn’t notice at all. Guy’s completely blind to affection. He’ll just think she’s finally caved.”
Yelena looked at you expectantly. “Well?”
You sighed, finished your coffee, and set the mug down. “Fine.”
Ava blinked. “Wait. Really?”
You shrugged, walking toward the hallway. “If I’m going to make all of you shut up, might as well commit.”
“Try smiling too!” Yelena called after you. “For extra shock value!”
You raised a hand behind you without turning around, a middle finger casually extended. The group collectively laughed. Bob looked equal parts excited and nervous. Alexei was already drawing a tally chart on the whiteboard for the bet.
John muttered into his coffee. “This is gonna be weird.”
Yelena just grinned wickedly. “This is gonna be fun.”
---
It was a few hours later, mid-afternoon, and the team was scattered throughout the Watchtower common area again—some half-working, some definitely not. You wandered in casually, phone in hand, and spotted Bucky at the kitchen island, assembling what looked like a very questionable sandwich.
You approached quietly, standing beside him. He glanced at you with a small smile, clearly not expecting much more than a grunt or maybe a snide comment. Instead, you reached up, cupped his face with both hands, and leaned in to press a soft, deliberate kiss to his cheek.
“I love you,” you said casually, voice light.
Bucky froze mid–bread placement. His eyes flicked toward you, brows pulled in slightly. “…You okay?”
“I’m great,” you replied smoothly, brushing your fingers across his jaw like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You look handsome today.”
He blinked. Hard. “…Okay,” he said slowly. “Thanks?”
You smiled—actually smiled—and gave his arm a light squeeze before walking off toward the couch without another word.
Across the room, Yelena choked on her water, coughing violently into her sleeve, John’s head whipped around like he’d just heard a gunshot, Ava paused mid-scroll, Bob audibly gasped, and Alexei muttered something about “strange wind today.”
Bucky watched you sit down, still looking faintly baffled. He shook it off, returning to his sandwich. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “She’s just in a weird mood.”
Behind him, Yelena was already marking one line under the Day 1 tally chart.
---
It was later that evening, just after dinner, and the team had migrated to the common room. Bucky was sprawled on the couch, legs up, lazily flipping through a worn paperback. You sat nearby, feet propped on the coffee table, arms crossed, as usual.
Ava was in the corner with her headphones. Bob and Alexei were locked in another intense round of chess, and John was pretending not to watch over their shoulders. Yelena was watching you with the intensity of a predator tracking prey.
You waited a few seconds before casually getting up and walking toward Bucky. He glanced up, half-expecting you to make some dry comment about his book or the state of his posture. Instead, you leaned over and gently tugged the book from his hands, closing it without a word. He sat up, confused, and before he could ask what you were doing, you slid right onto his lap.
Everyone froze.
Even Alexei abandoned his chessboard.
Bucky blinked, completely thrown off. “Uh… hi?”
You rested your arm around his shoulder, pressed a kiss to his temple, then said calmly, “Missed you today.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, like his brain was rebooting. “We were literally together for most of the afternoon.”
You shrugged. “Still.”
He stared at you, clearly processing. “Are you… feeling okay?”
“I’m perfect,” you replied, voice soft.
Then, just to twist the knife, you tangled your fingers with his and laced them together on his lap—just like he always does to you when he’s being annoying and affectionate. Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, head tilting. “…Okay, now I know something’s up.”
You blinked at him innocently. “I can’t love my husband?”
“I mean, yeah, but—” he cut off, squinting. “Since when do you say stuff like that?”
“Since now,” you said smoothly.
Yelena snorted from the armchair, trying—and failing—to disguise it as a cough. Ava slowly raised a single eyebrow. Bob was practically vibrating. Alexei whispered, “plot twist.”
Bucky looked between you and the rest of the room, clearly sensing something was going on but not quite sure what. “Right,” he muttered. “This is fine. Totally normal.”
You leaned in again, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “Love you, baby.”
Bucky stared at you like you had just declared war on gravity. “…I’m calling Sam,” he muttered.
You smiled faintly, settled back in his lap like you belonged there—which, to be fair, you did—and glanced toward Yelena.
She was holding up two fingers silently.
You gave her a barely-there smirk.
Let the games continue.
---
It was later that night. Most of the lights in the Watchtower had been dimmed, and the common area was washed in the soft blue glow of the TV no one was really watching. You were curled up next to Bucky on the couch—next to, not just near, which was already suspicious.
You let your head rest lightly on his shoulder, fingers brushing his knee in a slow rhythm, and then leaned in, lips brushing just below his ear. “You look tired, baby,” you said quietly. “You want me to wash your hair for you later?”
Bucky turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed.
You stared back, innocent. “I’m gonna take a shower,” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just dropped another bomb. You stood up, kissed his forehead, and walked out of the room without another word.
Bucky didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he stood up, stretched once, turned to face the rest of the room, and said, flatly, “okay. Who poisoned her?”
The team froze.
“Or brainwashed her,” he added, pointing. “Walker?”
John looked offended. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Then who’s trying to body-swap her?” Bucky continued, not missing a beat. “Because that—” he gestured down the hall where you’d just disappeared— “is not my wife.”
Alexei opened his mouth.
Bucky held up a hand. “Nope. I love her. I love her. I love every sarcastic, terrifying, emotionally unavailable part of her. I didn’t fall in love with someone who calls me baby and offers to wash my hair on a Wednesday night.”
Yelena clapped a hand over her mouth.
Ava cracked first. “Okay, okay—it was a bet!”
John groaned. “Goddammit, Ava.”
“I knew it,” Bucky said, exasperated but mostly amused, rubbing his face. “How long did you think it’d take me to notice?”
“Minimum was two days,” Yelena muttered.
“I said five,” Alexei chimed in proudly.
Bob raised his hand. “I said never. Sorry.”
Bucky held out his hand. “Pay up.”
“What?” John frowned.
“You all lost,” Bucky said, already deadpan and halfway to smirking. “I noticed before two days. And I know there was money involved.”
Yelena groaned but reached into her pocket. “Ugh, fine.”
One by one, they all handed him bills. Bob looked like he didn’t want to participate, but even he dug out a few crumpled notes. Bucky accepted the pile without flinching.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.
---
You were finishing brushing your teeth when you heard the soft knock—followed by the door cracking open.
Bucky stepped inside, holding a wad of folded bills in one hand. “I figured out the bet,” he said, calm as ever. “Apparently I’m very observant.” You raised a brow, clearly unbothered. He tossed the cash on the bathroom counter. “So I’m taking you to Coney Island tomorrow.”
You blinked.
His lips tugged up in a soft smile as he leaned casually against the doorframe. “And you’re not allowed to act weird and lovey the whole time, because that’s my thing. You just get to stand there looking scary while I win you plushies.”
You stared at him for a beat, then rolled your eyes. “Fine.”
He grinned. “Love you, sweetheart.”
You smirked slightly. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”
He winked. “Too late.”
---
The next morning, the team was gathered in the kitchen, half-asleep. Bucky strolled in like he hadn’t just robbed them all the night before, casually sliding his arm around your waist as you stood beside the fridge. “Morning,” he said brightly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You were wearing a dark green sundress. Soft, strappy, flowy. And silent. Every head turned. The room collectively froze.
John choked on his coffee. “Is that—?”
“—a dress?” Yelena finished, blinking rapidly.
You adjusted the strap without looking up. “Yeah. Problem?”
“No,” Ava said slowly. “It’s just… unexpected.”
“Looks good,” Bob offered kindly, eyes wide.
Alexei raised his mug. “Color of war. I approve.”
Bucky, grinning like he’d won the lottery, clapped his hands once. “Alright, team. While we—” he gestured between you and himself, “—are off having a very well-earned day at Coney Island, you are going to clean the tower.”
John immediately protested. “Wait, what?”
“Team bonding,” Bucky said cheerfully. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re serious?” Ava asked, eyebrows raised.
“Deadly.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “Walker, Bob, Alexei—kitchen duty. Dishwasher, floor, counters. Top to bottom.”
“Not fair,” John grumbled, grabbing a sponge.
“Yelena, Ava,” Bucky continued, turning to them with a smirk. “You’ve got windows. Inside and out.”
Yelena squinted. “All the windows?”
“Every single one,” you said blankly, sipping your coffee.
“Cool,” Ava muttered. “This is abuse.”
“You’ll live,” Bucky said, already guiding you toward the door. “Don’t forget the hallway floors!”
---
An hour later, Yelena and Ava were upstairs with a bucket of water and zero motivation, grumbling as they passed through the hallway. Eventually, Yelena slowed in front of your door. She looked around. “No one’s watching,” she said, grabbing the handle.
“We’re supposed to be cleaning,” Ava said halfheartedly, but followed her in anyway. What they found stopped them in their tracks. “...What the hell,” Ava whispered.
The room was soft. Soft. Candles on the shelves. Warm fairy lights draped above the bed. Throw pillows. A fuzzy blanket folded perfectly at the end of the mattress. It was like a Pinterest board collided with a bookstore in fall.
And the photos—there were dozens. On the desk, taped to the wall, propped on dressers. One of them caught Ava’s eye first.
It was a wedding photo.
You were in a massive princess-style gown. Glittering skirt. Sweetheart neckline. Hair done up. Bucky in a black tux, smiling down at you with the softest look imaginable.
Behind you both?
Every single Avenger.
Yelena squinted at it. “...That’s real.”
“I thought she was joking,” Ava whispered. “That night with the vodka. I thought she was messing with us.”
“Same,” Yelena muttered. “She said it with a straight face. I figured it was sarcasm.”
Ava leaned in closer. “She looks... happy.”
Yelena looked at her. “She looks terrifying.”
“That is her happy,” Ava clarified.
Another photo—smaller, older. You and Bucky in front of a bridge, clearly in Brooklyn. You’re sitting on the hood of a car, his arm around you, your hand in his.
“Okay,” Yelena said slowly. “Maybe they are gross and in love.”
Ava crossed her arms, glancing around the room again. “It’s weird.”
Yelena pointed at the bat-cat plush. “That’s new. Barnes must’ve caved at some carnival.”
John stuck his head in the doorway. “Barnes doesn’t spend twenty bucks on stuffed animals.”
Alexei ambled in behind him. “Looks handmade. Maybe he stole it?”
Bob picked it up carefully. “Glow-in-the-dark eyes. Cool.” He flipped the tag. “No price.”
“Great,” Yelena muttered. “Mystery doll.” Her gaze shifted to the sketches pinned above the desk. “And when did Y/N start a fashion line?”
Ava touched one of the mission-gear designs. “These are good.”
John lifted the sundress sketch. “That’s the one she wore this morning.”
Alexei whistled. “She makes her own combat suits and dresses? Multitasking queen.”
Bob set the plush down. “So… she sews in secret?”
“Explains the needles I keep finding,” Ava said.
Yelena tapped a separate drawing—sleek black tac-suit with red accents. “This would look sick on me.”
John smirked. “Ask nicely. Maybe she’ll let you borrow it—after she murders us for trespassing.”
Ava grabbed the plush again, squinting. “Something’s off. Bucky didn’t buy this.”
“Then who did?” Bob asked.
Alexei snapped his fingers. “Secret admirer!”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Barnes would’ve burned the tower down.”
Ava flipped the plush over. A tiny embroidered ‘PP’ sat under one wing. “Initials?”
“Pepper Potts?” Bob offered.
“Pepper sends Stark-tech, not plushies,” Yelena said.
John stepped back. “Whatever. Let’s bail before they get back.”
"Wait!" Yelena said, holding up a smudged notebook she'd grabbed from beside the desk. "This has more."
Ava narrowed her eyes. "Y/N’s sketchbook?"
Bob immediately looked nervous. "We probably shouldn’t—"
Yelena already had it open, flipping through. "Too late."
John crossed his arms. "What is it? More dresses?"
Yelena tilted the notebook to show the page. "That's me."
They all leaned in. Sure enough, a detailed sketch of Yelena in a tactical outfit took up the left page. Black vest, reinforced pants, sleek holsters, high boots. The right page had her in a fitted trench coat and wide-legged pants, stylish but still practical, with sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Notes were scribbled in the margins. Fabric types. Zipper placements. A few faint stars.
Ava leaned closer. "Wait. That's me."
The next set of pages showed Ava in two variations—one combat-ready with a reworked SHIELD-style jacket and lightweight gear, and the other in an oversized blazer and boots, holding a coffee cup with a scowl on her face. Both were captioned lightly in small, precise handwriting.
Ava: structured / minimalist. Mood: constantly annoyed.
John let out a soft laugh. "She got that right."
Yelena turned the page again. "Oh my God."
Bob blinked. "What?"
"Alexei," she said, holding it up. "In a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts."
Alexei grinned proudly. "Is good look. Classic."
The next page had him again, this time in reinforced armor, but with a faint note at the top: He’s gonna ignore the weight distribution anyway, so make it fun.
"She thinks I do not notice that note," Alexei said, squinting. "I do."
John reached over. "Let me see mine."
Yelena handed him the sketchbook. He raised an eyebrow at the drawing. "Okay… that’s me. Tactical, obviously. And this—" he pointed to the opposite page, "—is a hoodie and cargo pants?"
Ava peered over his shoulder. "With dog tags. And fingerless gloves. What are you, a streetwear catalog?" John rolled his eyes but kept flipping.
Bob found his own sketch and blinked. "Oh."
It was soft. Literally. A cable-knit cardigan, dark jeans, and boots with his hair swept back. He looked like a grad student. The caption read:
Bob: cozy nerd. Bookstore vibes. May cry if yelled at (true).
Ava smiled. "Okay, that’s accurate."
"There's one of each of us," Yelena said, still flipping. "She’s made outfits for all of us. Combat and civilian."
Alexei was nodding along, thoroughly impressed. "She is team mom. Team mom with knives."
Bob looked at the sketches taped to the wall again. "Some of these match the ones in the book."
Yelena paused on a new page. "Okay. This one’s blank, but it has my name at the top."
Ava leaned over. "‘Yelena – formal.’ She’s planning something."
John frowned. "Like what? A gala mission?"
"God, I hope not," Yelena muttered. "I’ll set something on fire."
Alexei was still examining the walls. "She never shows us this. All this time, she hides it like secret spy craft."
"Because she doesn’t want us in her business," Bob said quietly.
Yelena shut the notebook, careful now, and set it back exactly where she found it. "We should go."
"No shit," John muttered. He headed for the door.
Ava glanced around one more time. "The wedding dress wasn’t a joke."
They filed out, one by one, back into the hallway. Bob looked guilty, Alexei looked proud, and John looked vaguely stressed. Yelena closed the door behind them with a soft click.
John sighed. "Alright. We say nothing."
"Nothing," Ava agreed.
Bob nodded quickly. "Absolutely nothing."
Alexei shrugged. "I say she should make me suit for next barbecue."
Yelena elbowed him. "Shut up, Dad."
They started walking, quiet for a beat. Then Yelena muttered, "still not over the dress."
Ava shook her head. "I think I need a drink."
i've actually been writing a few other oneshots for this series- i've even wrote a oneshot about you and bucky first meeting (also a fix-it for civil war... it's also 20k+ words and will be split into two parts but that's besides the point)
anyways, i don't really know what to call the series/masterlist - should it just be electric touch or something else? on ao3 i have it listed as grumpy x sunshine as a placeholder, but i don't really like it. if you have any ideas, please, please, please let me know! and if you want to see any scenarios post/pre-thunderbolts you can send in an ask!
Synopsis You were supposed to keep Congressman Barnes on schedule, not fall for him. But one night, a little too much tequila and one drunk call turns months of tension into something neither of you can ignore—and Now Bucky knows, and he’s not nearly as professional about it as you expected. Suddenly, professionalism doesn’t stand a chance.
— Sippin’ on my Go Go Juice ! I'm just drinking to call someone, Ain't nobody safe when I'm a little bit drunk!
M. List | Request (Open but slow)
Your day started at 7:15 sharp, like it always did. A venti coffee in one hand, your leather-bound planner in the other, heels clicking against the marbled floors of the Capitol building. You’d memorized the layout within two weeks of working here—every shortcut, every hallway—but somehow your boss, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, still managed to get lost on his way back from committee meetings.
You weren’t sure if it was incompetence, or if he just liked calling you.
“Morning, doll,” came the familiar voice as soon as you stepped into his office. He was leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose like he hadn’t quite figured out the point of professional dress yet. The only thing put together about him was his smile—easy, charming, the kind that made voters melt and made you roll your eyes because you weren’t supposed to notice how annoyingly handsome he was.
“Congressman,” you replied crisply, setting his schedule and briefing folder on his desk. “You’ve got a meeting with the agriculture committee at nine, a press interview at eleven, and lunch with the defense lobbyists at one. Please, for once, read the packet before you go in.”
Bucky picked up the folder like it was a foreign object. “That’s what I have you for.”
“That’s not what you have me for,” you shot back without looking at him, flipping open your own notebook. “You hired me to keep your career from crashing and burning in its first year. Big difference.”
He chuckled, low and easy. “Pretty sure Sam hired you. Said I needed someone who actually knew what they were doing.”
You lifted your gaze, sharp and unimpressed, but there was a spark of pride there too. Because you did know what you were doing. You knew how to parse a thousand-page policy bill in an evening. You knew which reporters were worth talking to and which ones would eat a rookie Congressman alive. You knew how to spin his words into something palatable for the public.
And apparently, you also knew how to intimidate seasoned politicians twice your age.
It wasn’t intentional. You weren’t loud, or flashy, or even particularly aggressive. You were just… blunt. You didn’t waste time. People didn’t know how to handle a woman who could cut through red tape with a single raised brow.
Bucky, though—he never flinched. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he was dying to solve.
That was the problem.
You kept it professional. Always. Because there were rules—workplace conduct policies, HR trainings, the entire mess of your career on the line. It didn’t matter that he lingered sometimes after you’d finished explaining a policy, that his questions felt less about Congress and more about you. It didn’t matter that every time he called you into his office, you felt your chest tighten like you were walking into a battlefield you hadn’t prepared for.
It wasn’t your fault that he depended on you. That he trusted you in a way he didn’t trust anyone else here.
It wasn’t your fault that sometimes, late at night when you were alone with your notes, you wondered what would happen if you weren’t just his assistant.
But you shoved those thoughts down where they belonged.
Because you were sharp. You were focused. You were the woman who made everything in this office run smoothly.
And Congressman Barnes—Bucky—was just your boss.
Nothing more.
At least, that’s what you told yourself every single morning when you walked into his office and pretended that his smile didn’t unravel you.
Bucky Barnes had the charm down. That was the easy part. Smile, shake hands, slap a few backs — voters ate it up. But charm didn’t keep a Congressman from drowning in endless meetings, memos, and committee hearings. That’s where you came in.
“Barnes,” you said flatly, walking into his office with a fresh stack of notes. “You cannot show up to a foreign relations briefing and ask, ‘So, what’s the vibe here?’ That’s not a question.”
Bucky leaned back in his chair, lips tugging into a grin. “It was the vibe, though, wasn’t it?”
You closed your eyes for a beat, exhaling slowly through your nose like a teacher disciplining a very unruly student. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you haven’t quit.”
You ignored that, setting the packet down in front of him. The margins were marked in red, blue, yellow, green, and — just at the corner — a neat flourish of teal glitter ink.
Bucky squinted. “Okay… walk me through the rainbow, doll.”
“Again?” you sighed, sliding into the chair opposite him.
“Humor me.” He gestured lazily with his pen. “Helps me remember when you explain it.”
You tapped the first section with your finger. “Red is urgent. Non-negotiable. If you don’t read the red, you might accidentally declare war on someone.”
“Noted. Don’t start wars. Red.”
“Blue is public. Rallies, speeches, things you can’t wing.”
“I can wing things.”
You gave him a look so sharp he actually laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No winging the blue.”
“Yellow is what you need to keep in your head. Stats, talking points, things people will throw at you to test if you’re paying attention. Pink is unfinished business — bills you need to vote on, memos you need to sign, letters you need to respond to. Green—”
He smirked before you could finish. “That’s when you boss me around about eating lunch.”
“Not bossing. Reminding.”
“You literally wrote ‘eat your sandwich, punk’ yesterday.”
You shrugged. “And you ate it, didn’t you?”
His grin widened. “Touché.”
Finally, you tapped the teal glitter pen note at the bottom of the page. He glanced at it, already smiling like he knew what it was.
“That’s… just for you,” you muttered, gathering your planner like it suddenly required your full attention.
The truth was, it had started as a joke. The first week, you’d scrawled a sarcastic note in the margins of his folder — try not to make a fool of yourself this time — in teal glitter pen you’d borrowed from your best friend. He hadn’t stopped talking about it for three days.
So you’d kept doing it. Sometimes practical reminders (drink water before you pass out at the podium). Sometimes softer ones (you’re doing better than you think).
And it worked.
The color system, the banter, the little teal notes. Bit by bit, you watched him go from fumbling to finding his footing. He wouldn’t admit it, but he leaned on you more than he leaned on anyone else.
“Never thought I’d be taking orders from glitter pen,” Bucky mused now, running his thumb over your latest note.
“Never thought I’d be teaching a Congressman how to color code,” you shot back.
He chuckled, low and easy, before looking up at you. And that was the part you hated. The way he looked at you when the jokes faded, like you weren’t just his assistant. Like you were… something else.
But you shoved that thought down. Again. Always.
Because this was your job. And Congressman James Buchanan Barnes — Bucky — was just your boss.
Nothing more.
At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.
The first time you met James Buchanan Barnes, you weren’t impressed.
Sam had cornered you over coffee one Saturday morning, grinning like he had the world’s biggest secret.
“You trust me, right?” he’d asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Not when you start like that.”
He laughed. “Relax. It’s not bad. I just… got a buddy who could use someone like you.”
You raised a brow. “Someone like me?”
“Sharp. Organized. Scary when you want to be. C’mon, you’ve been running campaigns and nonprofits since college. You’re wasted where you are right now.”
“And this buddy of yours is…?”
“Bucky Barnes. New Congressman. Ex-soldier. Kinda rough around the edges, but he’s a good man.” Sam smirked, leaning in like he was telling you classified intel. “You’d be perfect for him. And he’d be perfect for you.”
You’d rolled your eyes at that. “I don’t do perfect for anyone, Wilson.”
“Just meet him. Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”
You hadn’t thanked Sam. Not out loud, anyway. But sometimes, watching Bucky stumble his way through bureaucracy like it was enemy territory, you thought maybe Sam had been right.
Because slowly — painfully, hilariously slowly — Bucky started leaning on you.
It began with little things. A question about the order of a committee hearing. A confused frown over a briefing packet. You’d sigh, explain it to him, and he’d listen with that stubborn crease in his brow like he hated needing the help but couldn’t deny how much it saved him.
Then came bigger things. His schedule, which you guarded like your life depended on it. The endless stream of reporters, lobbyists, and staffers who wanted a piece of him — all of whom you filtered with the precision of a surgeon.
Before long, you weren’t just his assistant. You were the engine keeping his office running.
And people noticed.
The other aides, the lobbyists, the politicians twice his age — they all knew not to push too hard when you were in the room. You had a way of cutting people down with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a clipped, “The Congressman is busy.”
Funny thing was, Bucky never flinched at that side of you. If anything, he found it entertaining.
“Scared that poor staffer half to death,” he teased one afternoon after you’d sent someone scrambling out of his office.
“They were wasting your time,” you replied, flipping through his schedule.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side, doll.”
“You already are,” you muttered without looking up, and he laughed like you’d told the funniest joke in the world.
The thing was, it wasn’t one-sided.
Because just as no one dared mess with Bucky when you were around, you realized no one dared mess with you when Bucky was around.
There was a day when a particularly smug lobbyist decided to get condescending with you, questioning your credentials right in front of him. You’d opened your mouth to respond, but Bucky beat you to it.
“She’s the reason I even understand half this job,” he’d said flatly, his voice low with warning. “So if you’ve got a problem with her, you’ve got a problem with me.”
The lobbyist hadn’t lasted more than two minutes after that.
From that day forward, people stopped trying to undermine you. Because if you were untouchable before, with Bucky at your back, you were untouchable squared.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you planning it, you and Bucky had become a duo.
Barnes and his assistant. A rookie Congressman and the quiet force who kept him alive in D.C.
Us against the world.
And it worked. Too well, maybe.
Because every time he smiled at you across his desk, every time he softened your sharp edges with some half-smirked tease, every time he made it clear you were his first call, his first choice — you had to remind yourself that this was a job.
Just a job.
Even if it didn’t feel like one anymore.
“Congressman Barnes is busy,” you said evenly, not bothering to glance up from your laptop.
The lobbyist hovering at the front desk gave you a polite, strained smile. “I only need five minutes of his time.”
“And I only need eight hours of sleep a night, but we don’t always get what we want,” you replied, clicking through your notes. “He’ll reach out if he’s interested.”
The man stammered, clearly not used to being brushed off so bluntly. You raised one brow just enough to send him retreating down the hall.
You didn’t even have to check if Bucky had overheard. You already knew.
Because when you pushed open the office door, he wasn’t buried in a packet, or on a call, or pacing like he sometimes did when nerves got to him.
He was asleep.
Head tilted back against his chair, arms crossed over his chest, tie loose, breathing deep and steady. The stubborn crease in his brow was gone.
You closed the door softly behind you, exhaling a long sigh.
“You’re supposed to be reading this,” you muttered under your breath, picking up the folder he’d abandoned.
For a split second, you considered nudging him awake, scolding him like the overgrown student he sometimes acted like. God knows he needed the push.
But then you looked at him again — peaceful, finally, in a way you almost never saw him.
And instead… you sat.
Pulling the folder onto your lap, you flipped through it yourself. You skimmed, highlighted, annotated, leaving yellow arrows for stats he needed to remember and pink marks on unfinished business you could leverage in meetings.
And in the corners, in the neat teal glitter ink he always noticed, you wrote him little reminders.
Don’t forget this — it’ll impress them if you bring it up. You’ll be fine. Breathe. Don’t say “what’s the vibe.”
You hummed to yourself as you worked, the soft scratch of pen filling the quiet room. When you finished, you slid the folder back onto his desk, right where he’d see it.
Beside it, you set a water bottle and a pack of granola bars you’d grabbed from the breakroom earlier.
Because yeah, he should’ve been working. But you knew he needed this.
And if anyone asked, you’d never admit how fondly you’d looked at him while he slept, or how natural it felt to cover for him in ways that weren’t in your job description.
Because in the world outside this office, you were sharp, strict, and untouchable.
But in here, in moments like this, you let yourself soften.
Just a little.
When you came back with your smoothie, you half-expected to find him still asleep.
Instead, Bucky was awake.
And not just awake — but sitting forward in his chair, packet in one hand, granola bar in the other, actually reading. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips moving faintly as he mouthed along with one of the notes you’d scribbled in teal ink at the edge of the page.
He looked… focused. Comfortable.
The water bottle was cracked open on his desk. The granola bar wrapper crinkled under his thumb. And right there, on top of the pages you’d marked, you caught a glimpse of your glittering handwriting: Stop making that face. You’ve got this.
For a moment, you froze in the doorway, warmth creeping up your chest. He never read those things — not unless you’d written on them. Somehow, your voice on paper was enough to make him pay attention. Enough to keep him grounded.
And maybe you shouldn’t have, but you liked that.
Clearing your throat sharply, you stepped inside.
Bucky glanced up, lips quirking like you’d caught him red-handed. “Busted.”
“You’re awake,” you said dryly, setting your smoothie on your desk.
“Thanks to you.” He held up the granola bar wrapper. “Breakfast in bed? You’re spoiling me, doll.”
You scoffed, grabbing the folder from his desk and flipping it open. “Don’t flatter yourself. That was self-preservation. If you pass out in a committee meeting, I’m the one who has to cover your ass.”
He smirked, leaning back lazily in his chair. “Pretty sure you already do that every day.”
“Because you can’t be trusted.”
“Or,” he countered smoothly, “because you like taking care of me.”
Your head snapped up, and he was grinning like a man who’d just found your tell.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, flipping a highlighted page toward him. “Yellow arrows mean remember. Try it sometime.”
Bucky leaned forward, tapping the teal ink at the corner. “And what about this one? ‘Don’t say what’s the vibe.’ That’s cruel. You’re censoring me.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
He chuckled, low and sleepy, running a thumb over your glitter pen note like it was something precious. “Can’t believe I’m out here fighting for freedom, and my assistant’s waging war against my personality.”
“Personality doesn’t win policy votes.”
“Maybe not,” he said, eyes glinting as they held yours, “but it sure as hell gets me through the day.”
Your chest tightened, the air between you sparking with something too sharp to be brushed off. For a beat too long, neither of you moved.
And then you clicked your pen, deliberately breaking the moment. “Back to work, Congressman.”
He smirked, but there was softness under it. “Yes, ma’am.”
By the time Friday night rolled around, you were wound so tight you thought you might actually snap.
The week had been brutal — back-to-back committee hearings, press calls that ran long, lobbyists who didn’t know the meaning of respect the schedule. And, of course, Bucky.
Bucky, with his lopsided grins and lazy banter. Bucky, with his glitter-marked packet clutched in his big hands like it was gospel. Bucky, who’d caught your eye mid-meeting more than once that week and smirked like the two of you were in on some private joke.
You’d gone home Friday evening exhausted but restless, the kind of buzzing energy in your chest that no amount of chamomile tea or spreadsheets could shake. Which was probably why you didn’t put up a fight when your best friend dragged you out to her apartment for a “girls’ night in.”
Slumber party meets bachelorette party, she’d texted, complete with fifteen exclamation marks. Pajamas mandatory.
You’d almost said no. Almost. But the thought of slipping into soft clothes, blasting music, and letting your guard down for one night? Too tempting.
So there you were, an hour later, standing in front of your bathroom mirror with music pulsing from your phone.
You’d pulled on a pair of satin pajama shorts and a long-sleeve sleep shirt that dipped just enough off one shoulder to feel a little indulgent. Your hair was down, loose around your shoulders instead of scraped into the tight bun you wore to the office. You’d even done your makeup — light, a little shimmer on your eyelids, gloss on your lips.
It was ridiculous. Who did their makeup for a slumber party?
You, apparently.
Maybe because somewhere in the back of your head, you wanted to remind yourself that you weren’t just the sharp, intimidating assistant people saw at work. You were still… you.
The party was already in full swing when you arrived.
Your best friend’s living room was a mess of blankets and pillows, string lights twinkling across the walls. Someone had set up a karaoke machine in the corner. The coffee table was covered in wine bottles, mixers, and half a dozen bags of chips.
“Finally!” your best friend squealed, pulling you into a hug. “Miss Congress finally joins the people.”
“I hate you,” you said flatly, even as you hugged her back.
She pulled away, eyeing your outfit with approval. “Oh, you came to play.”
“It’s pajamas.”
“With full makeup and your hair down. You don’t fool me.”
You rolled your eyes, but heat prickled at your cheeks. “Shut up.”
Two hours, three tequila shots, and one horrifying karaoke performance later, you were… not yourself.
Not the composed, controlled woman who ran an entire Congressman’s career with color-coded folders and sharp words.
Drunk you was soft. Giggly. The kind of person who laughed until your stomach hurt at the dumbest jokes, who sang off-key with your arms around your friends, who sprawled across a pile of blankets with flushed cheeks and a dopey grin.
“You’re so much cuter like this,” your best friend teased, shoving a glass of something fruity into your hand.
“Like what?” you asked, sipping.
“Like… not terrifying.”
“I’m not terrifying.”
“You literally made my cousin cry at Thanksgiving because he tried to argue about tax reform with you.”
You laughed, covering your mouth. “He was wrong!”
“God, you should just tell him already,” another friend piped up from across the room.
You blinked. “Tell who what?”
“Your boss. The hot one.”
Your heart lurched. “He’s not—”
“Oh, please,” your best friend groaned, tossing a pillow at you. “You think we don’t notice? You light up every time you say his name.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” three voices chorused at once.
You buried your face in the pillow, muffling a groan. “You guys are the worst.”
“Bet you won’t call him right now,” someone dared.
Your head shot up. “What? No. Absolutely not.”
“Do it!”
“Do it, do it, do it!”
Their chant filled the room, loud and relentless, and maybe it was the tequila or maybe it was the way your heart was already buzzing with his name — but somehow, your phone was in your hand.
Before you could second-guess yourself, your thumb was pressing his contact.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
And then his voice, low and familiar, slid through the speaker.
“Doll?”
Your heart stuttered. He always answered when you called. Always.
“Bucky,” you giggled, flopping back onto the pile of pillows. “Hi.”
There was a pause. “Are you—are you okay?”
You grinned, staring up at the string lights above. “Mmm, I’m greaaaat. Just… having fun.”
“You sound drunk.”
“I am drunk,” you admitted cheerfully, earning another round of giggles from your friends. “Don’t tell HR.”
A quiet chuckle rumbled through the line. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Something warm unfurled in your chest. You bit your lip, suddenly too full of everything you’d been holding back all these months.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
“I like you.” The words tumbled out, unfiltered, too fast to stop. “Like, really like you. You’re so—ugh, you’re so annoying sometimes, but you’re also… you. And you make this stupid job actually fun. And I think about you way too much, and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.”
The room went quiet around you, your friends frozen as you poured your heart out into the phone.
On the other end, Bucky was silent.
Your grin faltered. “You’re not saying anything.”
“...I’m just listening,” he said finally, his voice low.
“But do you—” Your throat tightened. “Do you not feel the same? Because that’s okay. You can say it. Just don’t… don’t be quiet.”
Still nothing.
And maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way your friends were staring wide-eyed at you, but you kept going.
“I just… I couldn’t keep it in anymore,” you whispered. “You mean so much to me, Bucky. More than I should let you. And tomorrow I’ll probably regret this, but right now? I just needed you to know.”
There was a sound on the other end — like he’d started to say something and then stopped.
“Bucky?” you murmured, your voice small.
Silence.
Your chest ached, heavy and sharp.
“Okay,” you said finally, swallowing hard. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna go now.”
You ended the call before he could answer, pressing the phone to your chest as your friends erupted into a chorus of gasps and squeals.
But you couldn’t hear them.
All you could hear was the silence on the other end of the line.
And all you could feel was the way your heart cracked just a little, wondering if maybe — just maybe — you’d just ruined everything.
The call should have ended when you blurted out that you liked him.
It should have ended when the silence stretched, sharp and unbearable, and your chest ached at his lack of response.
But it didn’t.
Because you stumbled off the pile of pillows and blankets, giggling as you clutched your phone to your ear, weaving your way down the hall to your best friend’s room. You shut the door behind you, the muffled sounds of music and laughter fading into the background.
“Bucky?” you whispered, flopping onto the bed.
“Still here,” came his quiet reply.
Your lips curved. “You always answer when I call.”
A pause. “Yeah. I do.”
You smiled, soft and loopy, rolling onto your stomach with the phone pressed close. “You’re so good to me. I don’t think you even know.”
He didn’t say anything, and maybe that should’ve stopped you. But the tequila in your veins loosened every filter you’d ever built, and once the words started, they wouldn’t stop.
“Wanna know something funny?” you asked, giggling before you even got it out. “The first time I realized I liked you was… god, it was so embarrassing. You were in your office, and you—” You laughed again, burying your face in the pillow. “You were so grumpy, like, full-on sulking because the committee briefing didn’t make sense. And I was explaining it for the tenth time, and you were just sitting there with that face—”
“What face?” His voice was low, rough.
“The one you make when you’re pretending you’re mad but you’re actually just confused,” you teased, dissolving into another fit of giggles. “And I remember thinking, ugh, why is this… annoyingly attractive? Like you were hot before, obviously, but that day it was… different. Like forced proximity or whatever they call it in those stupid romance books.”
Still, silence.
You didn’t notice. You were too busy rambling, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, as if telling him a secret.
“And then you started… trusting me. And letting me boss you around. And no one else does that, you know? No one else lets me just… be me. You don’t get scared off. You tease me instead. And I like it. Too much.”
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, cheeks aching from how much you were smiling.
“Do you know how rare that is?” you whispered. “To feel like someone sees you and isn’t… intimidated or annoyed? You just… you just see me.”
On the other end, Bucky was silent. Completely silent.
But he hadn’t hung up.
So you kept going.
“You make me feel safe,” you murmured. “Even when you’re being a pain in my ass. Especially then.” A soft laugh slipped out, the words tumbling in a slur. “God, I’m so screwed, huh?”
You yawned, the alcohol pulling you under. “Don’t tell anyone I said all that. ‘Cause tomorrow I’ll deny it. But right now… just needed you to know.”
The phone slipped against your cheek, your voice fading into a sleepy hum.
“Bucky?”
“I’m here,” he said quietly, almost reverently.
But you didn’t answer.
Your breathing had gone soft, even, your giggles dissolving into the steady rhythm of sleep.
On the other end of the line, Bucky sat in his dark apartment, phone pressed to his ear, heart pounding with every word you’d spilled.
And for the first time in a long time, James Buchanan Barnes didn’t know what the hell to do.
For a long moment, Bucky just sat there, phone pressed to his ear, listening to nothing but your soft, even breaths.
You’d fallen asleep.
And he was still stuck in the wreckage of everything you’d just said.
His pulse hammered in his throat, too fast, too loud, like he’d just walked out of a fight. Except the only thing that had hit him tonight was your voice, loose and unguarded, spilling secrets you’d never let slip sober.
You liked him.
You liked him.
He closed his eyes, raking a hand down his face. Jesus.
He should’ve said something — anything — but the words had jammed up in his throat. Because the truth? If he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what would come out.
And he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it before. About you.
The first day Sam shoved your résumé at him, Bucky hadn’t expected much. Another “handler,” someone to keep him on script. But then you’d walked in with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, and you hadn’t backed down, not even once. He’d pushed, tested, teased — and you’d pushed right back, color-coding his chaos into something manageable. You’d been impossible not to notice.
And now?
He leaned back on his couch, phone still in hand, staring at the ceiling like it might have the answers.
Across the room, a small box sat tucked on the shelf. He glanced at it, throat tight.
Inside were the teal-scribbled sticky notes you thought he’d tossed, the doodled reminders you stuck to his coffee cups, even the little thank-you card you’d slipped into his briefcase after his first speech. He kept them all. Every single one. He didn’t know when it started, this quiet collection, but it had grown without him meaning to — proof of just how much space you’d taken up in his life.
And now, after hearing you laugh about how “annoyingly attractive” he was, after hearing you whisper that he made you feel safe?
Fuck.
His chest ached with it, heavy and unfamiliar, like maybe he’d been holding his breath around you this whole time without realizing.
He wanted to call Sam, to demand what the hell he’d gotten him into. He wanted to call you back, to say something — anything — before morning came and you shoved all of this back into the box you’d built around yourself.
But instead, he sat there. Silent. Listening to you breathe.
Because the truth was simple and terrifying all at once:
He liked hearing your voice. He always had.
And tonight, you’d finally given him something he wasn’t sure he deserved — the proof that you felt the same.
Bucky got to the office early.
Earlier than usual. Earlier than he ever did, really.
Not because there was anything urgent — no meeting, no committee hearing, no press call — but because he couldn’t stay in his apartment one more second without climbing the damn walls.
He’d barely slept. He’d lain there, staring at the ceiling, your voice on repeat in his head. Giggly. Soft. Whispering confessions you’d probably never meant for him to hear.
And now, every time he closed his eyes, he pictured you. On his desk. On his lap. Your lips red and swollen from him kissing you so deep you’d forget his name — forget your own — until the only word on your tongue was his.
His hand twitched at the thought. His jaw clenched so tight it ached.
But none of that was professional. None of that was something he could act on.
So he sat at his desk, tie already loosened, sleeves rolled up, trying to focus on anything else — the papers you’d neatly stacked, the color-coded notes you’d left yesterday — but all he saw was teal glitter ink. All he heard was your laugh in his ear.
And then the door opened.
You should’ve called out.
That was the first thought in your head when you pulled into the staff lot, sunglasses plastered to your face, three Tylenol barely holding the migraine at bay.
But you couldn’t. Not when the Congressman depended on you. Not when your whole job was to keep him from crashing and burning.
So you pulled yourself together.
Wide-leg black trousers. Dark brown button-up, layered with your black quince sweater. Black heels you normally wore for confidence, today mostly to convince yourself you were still a functioning adult. Hair twisted into a French braid because there was no way in hell you were doing curls with the headache pounding behind your eyes.
Professional. Polished. Unshaken.
That was the mask.
And then you walked into the office and nearly turned right back around.
Because Bucky was already there.
He was at his desk, forearms braced on the wood, papers in hand — but his eyes lifted the second you stepped through the door.
And the way he looked at you—
It nearly knocked you flat.
His gaze dragged down your frame, lingering just a little too long on the hem of your sweater, the slope of your braid over your shoulder, your legs in those trousers. His hand flexed against the desk like he was holding himself back.
Your stomach swooped. Your throat went dry.
You cleared it quickly, holding up the day’s folder like a shield. “Good morning, Congressman.”
His jaw ticked. “Morning.”
The air between you was thick, charged, enough to make your pulse quicken.
He wanted to say something. You could feel it, heavy in the way he was watching you.
And god, if you knew what he was thinking — that he wanted you on his desk, on his lap, flushed and breathless under his mouth — you’d have bolted out the door.
But instead, you forced a steady smile, pushing his schedule onto the desk like you hadn’t just woken up from the world’s worst hangover and maybe-drunk-called your boss.
Okay, you told yourself. Maybe it wasn’t bad. Maybe it was fine.
You had no idea.
Because Bucky Barnes was sitting there fighting every instinct in his body not to drag you across the desk and kiss you until you forgot how to breathe.
You set the folder on his desk, lips pressed tight, trying to pretend you didn’t notice how his gaze lingered.
Bucky leaned back in his chair, lazy, casual — but his eyes tracked you like he was memorizing the way you moved.
“You braided your hair.”
Your hand twitched, self-conscious, as you smoothed the plait over your shoulder. “Congratulations, Congressman. You have eyes.”
He smirked. “Just saying. Usually you wear it down.”
“I overslept.” You grabbed a pen from your desk, flipping open your notepad. “Try not to make it weird.”
“Not making it weird,” he said smoothly. “Just observant. It suits you.”
You froze, just for a second, before scribbling something onto the page that wasn’t even a word. “Don’t you have a briefing to skim?”
His smile widened, slow and wolfish. “Already did.”
“You mean I already did,” you shot back, tapping the highlighted notes in front of him.
“Semantics.” He picked up the packet, flipping a page, eyes flicking to the teal scribble at the corner. “You write me love notes now?”
You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
He tapped the margin where your glitter pen had scrawled a directive in your neat hand: Don’t slouch. You look more confident when you sit up straight.
“That’s not—” you snapped, heat rushing to your face. “That’s not a love note. That’s me doing my job.”
Bucky leaned forward on his elbows, grin tugging at his lips. “Sure about that?”
You swallowed hard, pulse stuttering, and then slammed your pen down. “Do you want your coffee or not, Congressman?”
His chuckle followed you all the way to the door.
You fled to the front desk under the guise of picking up additional papers, clutching them to your chest like they might protect you from the strange electricity buzzing under your skin.
And that’s when your phone rang.
“Hey, party girl,” your best friend’s voice sing-songed through the line.
You groaned softly, ducking into the hallway for privacy. “Not today, please. My brain is still leaking out of my ears.”
She laughed. “So he didn’t say anything?”
You blinked. “Who?”
“Bucky.”
Your stomach dropped. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh my god, don’t tell me you don’t remember—”
“Remember what?”
She laughed so hard you wanted to throw your phone. “You called him last night, babe. Full-on drunk dial. Told him you liked him. Like, liked liked. You were giggling, rambling—god, it was adorable. I thought for sure he’d show up today and sweep you onto his desk.”
You stopped dead in the hallway, blood rushing in your ears. “No. No, no, no. Please tell me you’re messing with me.”
“I wish I was,” she said, still amused. “So? Did he say anything?”
Your chest tightened. Your mind flew back to his silence this morning, the smirks, the way he’d looked at you like he knew something you didn’t.
“…He didn’t say anything,” you whispered.
“Oh.” Her tone softened.
“Which means…” you muttered, panic rising in your throat. “He basically rejected me. Holy shit. He knows. He knows, and he didn’t say anything. He’s just… being nice.”
Your best friend sighed. “Babe—”
“Nope.” You cut her off, pressing your back to the wall. “Nope, I can’t. We’re drinking again tonight. My place. Bring tequila.”
She chuckled. “You’re insane.”
“I’m spiraling,” you corrected, voice high and tight.
“Same thing.”
You hung up, closing your eyes, wishing the ground would just swallow you whole.
Because if Bucky knew — really knew — and said nothing? Then you were screwed.
So screwed.
The problem wasn’t tequila.
The problem was you.
Every time you drank, you thought about him.
And every time you thought about him, you got stupid. Vulnerable. Reckless.
Nobody was safe when you were sipping on your so-called “go go juice.”
You’d proven it before — Carter Baizen, the smug Wall Street playboy you’d hooked up with in college, still had your number despite every attempt to block him. One drunk Friday, you’d called him at 2 a.m. with the brilliant line: “Should we hook up? For old time’s sake?” He’d actually said yes, because of course he had, and you’d spent the next week dodging his texts.
Then there was Mickey. A fling abroad in Greece who’d been all golden skin and white linen shirts and the kind of smile that made you forget your own name. Until he showed up in New York, uninvited, with a weird streak of possessiveness that turned charming into suffocating real quick. You’d drunk-called him once too, out of sheer boredom, and regretted it the next morning when he answered with: “I knew you’d come back to me.”
And don’t even get started on Blaine. Cute, yes. But egotistical as hell. He treated his reflection like it was his girlfriend. A late-night drunk text from you had only inflated his ego for weeks.
The crown jewel of embarrassment? Steve Kemp. A surgeon. Good-looking, charming, and very into his job — too into his job. The man could not stop talking about the human body. Muscles, veins, anatomy — it was like he wanted to narrate a biology lecture in bed. You’d had one too many drinks one night and left him a voicemail that slurred: “Shoulda we hook up?” And the man had actually left you a ten-minute message analyzing the pros and cons of sleeping together again.
It was bad. So bad.
And now?
Now you had added your boss — your Congressman boss — to the Hall of Fame of Drunk Mistakes.
Except this one hurt more. Because he hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t flirted back. He hadn’t said a word. Just silence.
So you started avoiding him.
It was easier than facing him head-on, easier than seeing that unreadable expression in his eyes and wondering if it was pity.
You still did your job — flawlessly, of course. Schedules were kept. Calls were answered. Color-coded folders appeared on his desk right on time. You even left him his teal notes, though you wrote less now, your handwriting sharp and clipped.
But you didn’t linger in his office anymore. You didn’t hover in the doorway trading barbs. You didn’t tease him about his half-empty coffee cups or correct his phrasing on speeches with your usual smug satisfaction.
You kept it professional. Too professional.
And Bucky noticed.
Every day, the silence between you grew louder. Every time he caught your eye, you looked away. Every moment he wanted to corner you and demand, “Did you mean it?” — you were already halfway out the door.
It was killing him.
And it was killing you too.
So you did what you always did when life got unbearable: you called your best friend, invited her over, and stocked up on tequila.
“Tonight,” you muttered to yourself, braiding your hair tight, ignoring the gnawing ache in your chest. “We’re drinking. We’re forgetting. He basically rejected me, and that’s fine. Totally fine.”
But it wasn’t fine.
And the longer you avoided Bucky Barnes, the more inevitable the collision became.
Bucky had planned to play it cool.
He’d asked you into his office that morning under the guise of needing help with a bill draft. He didn’t. He just wanted you close, wanted to see if he could crack through the wall you’d built between you.
You’d walked in looking like sin and salvation at once — messy bun, cable knit cardigan slipping off one shoulder, black satin skirt catching the light when you moved. Effortless. Unreachable.
He’d leaned back in his chair, tossing you a half-smile. “So. Everything okay?”
Your pen hadn’t stopped scratching across the page. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Just feels like you’ve been…” he tilted his head, pretending casual, “…busy.”
You looked up then, sharp, guarded. The kind of look that made most people fold in seconds. Not him. Not with you.
“Congressmen are always busy,” you said evenly, and turned right back to your notes.
The banter was there, faint echoes of what it had been, but there was a hollowness beneath it. You weren’t letting him in.
And it was killing him.
That night, the ache in your chest cracked wide open.
You sat cross-legged on your couch, cardigan still on, glass of tequila sweating in your hand. Your best friend was sprawled next to you, half-laughing at your misery, half ready to take the bottle away.
“Are we serious right now?” you groaned, tipping your head back. “On a Tuesday? Tuesdays, man. Why is this my life?”
“Because you’re dramatic and in love with your boss,” she sing-songed, earning a weak swat from you.
Half-crying, half-laughing, you grabbed your phone before she could stop you. “I’m calling him.”
“Babe—”
Too late. The line was already ringing.
And like always, he picked up.
“Hello?” His voice was low, warm, immediate. He never let it ring more than once.
You giggled, slurred. “How’s yous been? What’s up?”
There was a pause. “I’ve… been good. You okay?”
“Bye, it’s me,” you mumbled, words tumbling over themselves. “How’s mm-call… do you me still love?”
Bucky froze. His grip on the phone tightened. “What?”
You laughed, watery and broken, pressing the heel of your palm to your eyes. “Oh, I’m just drinking to call someone. A girl who knows her liquor is a girl who’s been dumped.”
The word hit him like a fist. “Dumped?” His voice cracked, raw. “Who dumped you?”
“You, silly,” you whispered, giggling through the sting in your chest.
Silence.
The kind that hurt.
Because on his end, Bucky sat with his heart in his throat, gutted by the idea that you thought he’d rejected you. That you thought you were dumped, when all he wanted was to cross the line, drag you into his arms, and prove just how wrong you were.
The line went quiet after you whispered it.
“You, silly.”
Two words that didn’t sound silly at all. They sounded like a knife to his chest.
Bucky sat there in the dark, the only light in his apartment coming from the lamp on his desk and the glow of his phone pressed to his ear. His heart was pounding so hard he swore you could hear it through the line.
Dumped.
You thought he’d dumped you.
He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as his grip tightened around the phone.
“When did I—” his voice cracked before he forced it steady, lower, rougher, “when did I reject you, doll?”
No answer. Just a soft giggle, muffled like you were rolling onto your side, the sound of your sheets rustling through the receiver. You were fading, already drifting off, not even realizing what you’d just done to him.
Bucky pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly. Christ. He wanted to scream. Wanted to shake you awake through the damn phone. Tell you you’d gotten it all wrong.
His eyes flicked to the corner of his apartment — the little box shoved onto the bookshelf. The one filled with every teal-scribbled note you’d ever left him. Drink water. Don’t forget the rally notes. You’re better at this than you think. A candy wrapper you’d tucked in with his paperwork one late night. A sticky note you’d doodled on when you thought he wasn’t looking.
He’d kept it all.
Because you weren’t just his assistant. You were the reason he hadn’t drowned in the chaos of this new world.
And now you thought he’d rejected you.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered into the line, even though you were already gone. “If you knew how bad I wanted you…”
He let the silence stretch, just the sound of your breathing on the other end, uneven and sleepy. He leaned back in his chair, head tipped against the wall, eyes closed. His chest hurt.
Bucky wasn’t an idiot. He’d been around long enough to know what this meant — there was no walking this back. No going back to professional smiles and teal glitter pens, no pretending he didn’t crave you every time you stepped into his office.
He had two choices:
Keep his mouth shut and let you believe the lie.
Or risk everything and tell you the truth.
When the call finally dropped, Bucky sat there in the silence, phone limp in his hand. His pulse was still racing, his jaw aching from how hard he’d been clenching it.
Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he wouldn’t let you run from him again.
You were dying.
Not literally, but close enough.
Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing in your pocket, each vibration another nail in the coffin of your professional dignity. You tried to keep your head down, smoothing the edge of a briefing packet on Bucky’s desk as if the paper could swallow you whole.
Carter: You up?
Steve: We need to talk.
Mickey: ?? Why aren’t you answering me??
Blaine: Baby, don’t play hard to get. You know what we are.
You hit “ignore” so fast you almost dropped your phone. “It’s…nothing,” you muttered when you caught Bucky’s frown.
He didn’t buy it. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s fine.” You forced a laugh, shoving the packet toward him, your voice a little too bright. “Just—consequences of me versus tequila this past week. That’s all.”
His brow furrowed. “Consequences?”
You bit your lip, trying to wave it off, eyes flicking anywhere but him. “I might’ve… texted some old flings.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
When you finally glanced up, his jaw was clenched, his hand flexing against the arm of his chair. Something sharp flashed in his eyes — jealousy, hot and unfiltered, and it made your stomach flip.
You stood, smoothing your shirt, desperate to escape. “Anyway, I should take my lunch—”
You didn’t get two steps before he was on his feet.
“Wait.”
You froze, heart stuttering when you realized he’d moved faster than you expected, his arm braced against the doorframe before you could touch the handle. His presence filled the space — broad shoulders, blue eyes burning into yours, the heat of him so close it stole your breath.
“Bucky?” Your voice cracked a little, betraying you.
He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at you like he was searching for something, like he was weighing whether to leap off the cliff you’d both been toeing for months.
“Tell me something,” he finally said, low and rough. “Do you call all of them the way you call me?”
Your throat went dry. “…What?”
His jaw ticked. “At two in the morning. Slurring. Laughing. Telling them things you don’t even say in daylight.”
Heat flushed your cheeks. You could barely breathe. “Bucky, I—”
“Because if you’re gonna sit here and tell me I’ve gotta watch you text Carter, or Mickey, or whoever the hell Blaine is,” his voice dropped lower, darker, “while you’re drunk-dialing me to tell me I dumped you? Then we’ve got a problem.”
The room spun. Your pulse was in your throat, your chest, your fingertips. You hadn’t been ready for this, not here, not like this.
“Why…” you whispered, the word catching in your throat, “why do you care so much?”
He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to keep looking at him. His hand dropped from the doorframe, hovering near your waist but not quite touching.
“Because it’s not them, sweetheart.” His voice was low, devastating. “It’s never been them. It’s you.”
You laughed. Nervously. Too high, too brittle.
“Bucky, do you realize how many workplace violations this conversation alone could rack up?” Your voice shook despite the humor you tried to lace it with. “Christ, I should probably be packing up my desk already.”
The joke fell flat. His gaze didn’t waver. Those stupid, bright blue eyes locked on you like he was seeing right through the cracks in your armor.
And for the first time, you let it slip.
The mask. The sharp, composed assistant who never cracked, never faltered, who kept Congressmen and lobbyists and press hounds in line — she fell away. What stood in her place was just you.
Your hands tugged at your sleeves. Your lip caught between your teeth. And your eyes burned hot before you could stop them.
“I—” you started, then faltered, throat tight. “I don’t even know how I drunk called you. I know I… I confessed when I was with my friends and—god—it was humiliating.” Your voice cracked, tears threatening to spill.
You turned your face away, biting down harder on your lip, trying to stop the tremor in your chest. “If you’re still disinterested in me, well, fuck.”
Your hands shook as you tugged at your sleeves again, desperate to hide them. You could feel the tears coming, the sting making you squeeze your eyes shut. God, you were going to cry in front of him. Embarrassing. Humiliating.
But then—
“Doll.”
Soft. Urgent. His voice cut through your spiral, pulling you back.
“Slow down. Please.”
You blinked when you felt it: the warmth of his hand sliding around your wrist, grounding you, thumb brushing over your pulse like he was trying to soothe it.
“I miss you,” he whispered, the words breaking out of him. “I think about you every damn minute. I don’t know where you got the idea that I didn’t—I never—” His jaw clenched, his eyes burning into yours. “Holy shit, I fucking like you so much it kills me.”
Your breath hitched.
“I kept all of it,” he pressed on, voice rough, raw, unstoppable now. “Every note. Every letter. Everything you’ve written me. They’re in a box at home. Like some idiot teenager hoarding scraps because they matter.”
Your tears finally slipped, hot and silent down your cheeks.
“I pick up every time you call, not because I have to—but because I miss your voice when I don’t hear it. And last night—” his throat worked, anger at himself, at you, at the whole damn situation thick in his tone. “When you told me I dumped you? I wanted to shake you awake through the phone.”
He stepped closer, his other hand hovering near your face like he wanted to cup your cheek but didn’t dare. His chest rose and fell fast, like he was holding back a tidal wave.
“I never rejected you, sweetheart.” His voice cracked, softer now. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”
“I need to know,” Bucky said, breath hot, blue eyes searching yours like they might drown him if you didn’t answer. His hand was still warm on your wrist, anchoring you in place. “I need to know if you like me too. Not just some drunk confession, not something you regret in the morning.”
His chest heaved, voice cracking with urgency. “Because if you did… I need to know. I’ve been trying not to cross that line too.”
Something in your heart stopped.
Your throat went dry, your body tense, and then—like it had been waiting for years—you let the words stumble out. “Yes. I do. I really do. Fuck, Bucky.”
And that was all he needed.
His lips crashed onto yours in an instant, hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding his breath for months and finally let it out. You stumbled back with the force, your hand shooting out to catch yourself on the desk—only for his metal arm to steady you, strong and sure at the small of your back.
His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moved against yours, hot and bruising. Your fingers tangled in his hair before you could even think, tugging, scratching, making him groan low in his chest—the sound shooting straight through you.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, lips sliding down to your jaw for a second before reclaiming your mouth again.
And then everything he’d ever imagined—everything you’d ever denied yourself—clicked into place.
Because he did it. He actually did it. He dragged his hand back just long enough to flick the lock on his office door, not breaking the kiss, not letting you go.
You gasped when suddenly you were lifted, weightless, his grip firm as he hoisted you up with ease. You barely had time to catch your breath before he set you on his desk, your back hitting the polished wood as he crowded between your knees.
The kiss deepened, slower for a heartbeat, then hungrier. His flesh hand traced up your side, curling around your waist, his thumb pressing into your shirt like he needed to brand himself with your warmth.
Your hands tugged harder at his hair, making him groan again, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. His whole body pressed into yours, and you swore you could feel every bit of the tension he’d been holding back since the first time you’d walked into his office.
The desk that had been the line between Congressman and Assistant—notes, pens, color-coded packets—was now just the stage where everything finally broke loose.
His mouth moved against yours like he’d been starving, and you were the only thing that could feed him. Each kiss grew rougher, deeper, until your head tipped back, giving him everything, and he devoured it like a man who’d waited too long.
His hands weren’t still anymore.
That metal grip at the small of your back slid higher, curving around your waist, firm and possessive, while his flesh hand slid under the hem of your shirt, his thumb pressing into your bare skin like he needed proof you were real. The cold of vibranium and the heat of skin left you gasping, arching into him without thought.
“Jesus, doll,” he muttered against your lips, his breath hot, ragged. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted this? Wanted you?”
Your only answer was a broken moan when his lips trailed down your neck, teeth grazing, tongue soothing over the spot like he was already addicted to the taste of you.
“Bucky—” you whispered, half warning, half plea.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes wild, blue and desperate and dark all at once. “Tell me to stop.”
Your hands fisted tighter in his hair. “Don’t you dare.”
That was it. That was the match to the fuse.
He groaned low, deep, and then his mouth was back on yours, sloppier now, hungrier, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you further onto the desk. Papers crinkled under your hips, pens rolled and clattered to the floor, but neither of you cared.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hard line of him against you through his slacks. He swore under his breath, his metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open like he owned you.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed between kisses, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, “all those nights, sittin’ in here pretending I didn’t wanna bend you over this desk—” His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging. “You have no idea.”
You whined, your nails dragging down the back of his neck, making him hiss. “Bucky—”
“What?” he growled softly, lips moving down your throat again, leaving marks this time. “Say it.”
“I wanted this too,” you admitted, breathless, the words ripped from you as his hand slid higher up your thigh, dangerously close. “God, I wanted you so bad.”
He groaned again, head tipping back like the words physically hit him. Then he looked back down at you, eyes burning, voice rough as gravel.
“Then it’s over. No more lines. No more rules. You’re mine.”
And then his mouth was on you again, claiming, devouring, his body pinning you to that desk as if the whole world could burn outside his office and neither of you would notice.
Six months later.
Your phone buzzed as you tucked a file back into the cabinet, the glow lighting up the corner of your desk. You didn’t need to check the contact name. You already knew.
Bucky: When you done with work?
You smirked, thumb hovering before you typed back: Why? You want me to come to the tower?
The reply came fast.
Bucky: …maybe.
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. Maybe. As if you didn’t already know he’d been counting the minutes until you were there.
Meanwhile, across the tower, Bucky regretted every choice that had led to this moment.
Because the second the ding of his text went off, the room full of chaos stopped to watch him.
Yelena leaned over the couch, eyes narrowing. “Who are you texting, Grandpa?”
“None of your business,” Bucky muttered, sliding his phone face down on the table.
“Ohhh,” Ava sing-songed, immediately egging Yelena on. “He’s hiding it.”
Walker smirked, smug and irritating as ever. “Figures. Barnes finally found someone to deal with him.”
Alexei’s booming laugh rattled the room. “Barnes has girlfriend! Look at him, he is blushing!”
“I’m not—”
“My God,” Yelena cut in, dramatic, pointing. “He is blushing. Is it your assistant? The scary one?”
Bucky sighed like a dad stuck in a car with five screaming kids. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Counted to five. Didn’t work.
“Barnes.” Walker’s tone dripped smugness. “Dating your assistant? Very unprofessional.”
“Shut up,” Bucky shot back flatly.
Bob, bless him, tried to intervene. “Guys, c’mon. He already told us about her.”
“Exactly,” Bucky muttered. Finally. One sane person.
But Yelena just grinned wider. “Yes, but he didn’t say she was the assistant. Barnes, Barnes, Barnes. Tsk tsk.”
“Barnes, you dog,” Ava added, laughing as she dodged the throw pillow he chucked at her head.
Bucky groaned, grabbing his phone back from the table. “I hate all of you.” Then, with a pointed glance: “Except Bob.”
Bob smiled awkwardly. “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Walker muttered, rolling his eyes.
But Bucky ignored them, already typing back to you.
Bucky: Yeah. Come to the tower. My girl’s coming, maybe the rest of them will finally shut up.
The second he hit send, Yelena shrieked. “MY GIRL?!”
And Bucky swore under his breath, already regretting opening his damn mouth.
You sighed as the elevator hummed up the tower, leaning back against the cool metal wall. Your heels were killing you, your blouse clung from the long day, and honestly — you weren’t sure what awaited you.
The doors slid open with a soft ding.
And immediately, five heads snapped toward you like meerkats.
You blinked. Counted. One, two, three, four, five.
“Uh,” you said carefully, clutching your bag tighter. “I’m… looking for Bucky?”
It was like throwing raw meat into a pit of wolves.
“Ohhh, you’re his girlllll!” Yelena crowed, grinning from ear to ear.
Ava practically bounced on her feet. “Finally, we meet the woman who keeps Grandpa Barnes from snapping at all of us!”
Walker smirked, leaning against the wall like an ass. “Wow. He wasn’t lying. You’re real.”
Alexei just laughed so loudly it echoed down the hall. “MY GIRL, he said! He was so serious, like big strong bear!”
Meanwhile, Bob gave you a small, shy wave. “Um. Hi. Sorry. They’re a lot.”
You stood there, stunned, fighting the urge to back into the elevator and slam the close doors button. Instead, you gave a weak laugh. “Right. Definitely the right floor, then.”
The hounding continued — rapid questions, nosy comments, Yelena circling you like a shark — until a voice cut through the chaos.
“Leave her alone.”
All five froze.
And there he was. Bucky Barnes, looming in the doorway with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose like the exasperated dad of too many overgrown toddlers. His glare shifted over the lot of them before finding you.
And just like that, the scowl softened.
Your lips stretched into a grin. “Hi, Bucky.”
The grumpy line of his mouth eased into something warm — too warm — and before you could say another word, you were walking toward him. He met you halfway, bending down just enough for you to press your lips against his, slow but certain, shutting everyone else out in one instant.
When you pulled back, you whispered, “My shoes are killing me.”
“C’mere,” he murmured, scooping you up with that impossible ease. He set you gently on the kitchen counter, crouching down to slip your heels off like it was the most natural thing in the world. His metal fingers were careful against your ankle, his flesh hand steady on your calf.
You exhaled in relief. “God bless you.”
Of course, the peace didn’t last.
“SOFTIEEEE!” Yelena howled, doubled over. “Barnes is on his knees for his woman already!”
Walker snorted. “Very professional, Congressman.”
Ava elbowed Yelena, giggling. “He’s whipped. Look at him.”
Alexei? Just clapped so hard it was deafening.
Bucky growled under his breath, standing. “I swear, one more word—”
Then Bob stepped forward, voice quiet but steady. “Hi. I’m Bob.”
You smiled at him instantly, genuine. “I know. The old man told me everything.”
Bucky groaned, throwing his head back. “Really, sweetheart?”
You just giggled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Mm-hm.”
And Bob? Bob smiled shyly, his cheeks pink.
Alexei was still howling from the spectacle of Bucky slipping your heels off when he suddenly banged his big hand on the counter. “WE CELEBRATE! Tequila!”
Your head snapped toward him, your eyes lighting up. “Oh my— my go-go juice.”
Walker raised a brow. “Go-go juice?”
You turned, deadpan, one hand on your hip. “Walker. It’s my go-to drink. Keep up.”
Bob snorted so hard he nearly choked, Yelena slapped his back while wheezing with laughter, and Ava leaned against the counter with a smirk. “Oh, I like her.”
Meanwhile, Alexei was already rooting through the cabinets like a madman. He produced a massive bottle, slammed it on the counter, and poured you a glass that was… concerningly generous.
Your eyes widened. “That’s— that’s a lot of go-go juice.”
Alexei grinned like a proud dad. “For you! You drink like champion!”
But before you could even reach for the glass, Bucky’s voice cut sharp through the noise.
“She’s not drinking that.”
The room went dead silent for one beat — and then exploded in boos.
“BOOOOO, POSSESSIVE!” Yelena jeered, cupping her hands around her mouth.
“Barnes, let the woman live,” Walker added with a smirk.
Ava just egged them on, sing-song: “She’s not drinking, she’s not drinking—”
Even Alexei pouted, holding the glass toward you. “But is celebration!”
You were laughing so hard your sides hurt, clutching Bucky’s sleeve as he glared around the room. “She’s not drinking,” he repeated firmly, his metal hand already curling protectively around your waist. “And that’s final.”
“BOOOOOO,” the chorus went again, louder this time.
Bucky didn’t even bother with another word. He just scooped you right off the counter, ignoring your squeal and the roar of laughter that followed.
“Bucky!” you laughed, your arms looping around his neck as he carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. “They’re gonna mutiny.”
“Let ’em,” he grumbled, not slowing until his bedroom door shut behind him.
The quiet fell over both of you like a blanket. For the first time that night, the world outside didn’t exist.
He set you down on the edge of his bed, shrugging out of his jacket before flopping down beside you with a groan. You curled against his chest immediately, your head finding its home over his heartbeat.
“So no tequila?” you teased softly, your voice muffled against his shirt.
He groaned again, his arm tightening around you. “Doll, you’re gonna be the death of me.”
You smiled against him, fingers tracing absent patterns over the fabric. “Mm. You like it.”
His lips pressed into your hair, quiet, certain. “Yeah. I do.”
(You've got mail!) BA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA DA SHOULD WE HOOKS UP!! Oh my gods this was the song I said would be MY song on the album and I was so right. I GOT SO SCARED CAUSE EVERYONE WHO LISTENED TO IT BEFORE ME WAS LIKE it was eh (ahem @bbsbrina) BUT SAFE TO SAY IT WAS ONE OF MY FAVORITES, SCRATCH THAT it’s THE FAVORITE SONG. But I got my vinyl today so happy, AND AND AND I almost wrote a spicy scene for this BUT I didn’t had to edge yall a little. I’m keeping the spice for SOMETHING so be prepared be ready.
Synopsis She’s the Avengers’ perfect little Barbie: glowing, charming, untouchable. The media loves her. The tabloids fetishize her. And she smiles, nods, and answers dumb questions like a pro… She takes it all. And then she punches lockers, screams into towels, and rants in the quiet—safe only because Bucky is there to watch, listen, and maybe even join in.
Word Count 10k
Themes + Warnings D1 Crashout energy (rightfully so) , Slow-Burn Romantic Tension (COULD BE ROMANTIC OR PLATONIC) , Media/Societal Pressure , Anger / Rage Outbursts , Media / Objectification Themes
DISCLAIMER the skin color in the photos do not represent THE READER its pure aesthetic, the reader is up to your imagination!
— All American-Bitch I don't get angry when I'm pissed, I'm the eternal optimist! I scream inside to deal with it!
M. list | Request (Open but slow)
You were sunshine.
That’s what everyone said, anyway. The sunshine of the Avengers. The easygoing one. The optimist. The one who could take Steve’s stubborn silence, Tony’s biting sarcasm, and Thor’s booming arrogance and turn it into something like camaraderie. You were the smile when things got dark, the soft voice in the middle of shouting, the polite laugh that kept reporters from asking too many uncomfortable questions.
And God, you were good at it. Too good.
Which was exactly why no one noticed that you wanted to slam your head against the conference table twenty minutes into today’s strategy meeting.
“Tony, your plan doesn’t account for—” Steve started, voice sharp and clipped.
Tony immediately cut him off with a dramatic sigh. “Cap, my plan always accounts for your what-ifs. You’re just too paranoid to admit it.”
“Paranoid? I’m thorough.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me again how ‘thorough’ went last time when—”
Here we go again.
You plastered on the brightest smile you could manage and slid neatly between the two of them before Steve’s jaw could lock any tighter or Tony could launch into another ten-minute monologue. “Alright, alright, let’s all take a breath,” you said, voice light, hands held up in mock surrender. “Steve, you’ve got a point about structure, but Tony’s right too—sometimes improvising is necessary. Maybe we can… I don’t know, try not to kill each other in the process?”
A couple of strained chuckles. Tension diffused. Another victory for The Sunshine of the Avengers™.
Except under the table, your nails dug crescents into your palm.
Your eye twitched. Just a little. No one noticed.
The meeting dragged on. And on. And on.
Every time you opened your mouth, it was to smooth something over. Wanda sat quietly in her chair, eyes downcast, lost in her own little bubble. Nat didn’t need to step in—Nat was Nat. Everyone already took her seriously. She had that edge, that presence, the kind of sharpness that warned people not to cross her.
You? You were approachable. Gentle. The team’s little burst of sunlight.
Which apparently meant you were also the goddamn babysitter.
“Thor, please don’t throw Mjolnir at the table just to make a point.”
“Sam, can we not place bets on who would win in a cage fight during a tactical debrief?”
“Yes, Clint, you’re very funny, but maybe stop balancing pencils on your nose while Fury’s talking.”
Every word out of your mouth was met with a laugh or a nod, never taken seriously, never respected like Steve’s hard-edged commands or Nat’s quiet input. You were comic relief. The peacemaker.
It took everything not to roll your eyes so hard they’d fall out of your skull. You wanted to snap—tell them to stop acting like teenage boys fighting over a group project. Instead, you smiled again, the picture of patience, while your pencil snapped clean in two between your fingers. No one noticed. No one ever did.
You quickly bent your head, scooping the two halves into your lap before anyone could notice. Except—
Blue eyes flicked toward you from across the table. Bucky.
You pretended not to see him.
By the time the meeting finally ended, your jaw ached from clenching your teeth through another round of “let’s argue about nothing for two hours.” You escaped to your room the moment you could, pacing the floor like a caged animal.
It wasn’t even anger at Steve or Tony anymore—it was the gnawing frustration of having to be the one who never lost it. The “perfect” one. The calm one.
Did Wanda ever feel this? Did Nat?
Wanda had her own world, her own shadows. People let her drift on the edges. She wasn’t expected to smile and laugh and play nice every damn minute. Nat? Nat could shoot a glare and silence a room. You envied that. You envied the way she didn’t have to earn respect with a grin and a joke.
Meanwhile, you? You were the sunshine. Sweet. Approachable. Optimistic.
You wanted to scream.
You didn’t sleep. Of course you didn’t.
Instead, you found yourself wandering into the kitchen in the middle of the night, bare feet silent against the tile, chasing the hope that tea might calm the restless storm in your chest.
The overhead lights were too harsh, so you didn’t turn them on. The soft glow from the fridge was enough, washing the counters in pale light as you clattered a mug down a little harder than necessary.
“‘Take a breath,’” you mocked under your breath, rummaging through the cabinets for tea. “‘Be patient.’ Yeah, sure. God forbid I actually say what I’m thinking. No, no, gotta be perfect. Gotta be sweet. Gotta be the goddamn sunshine.”
The kettle clicked as it heated. You paced, muttering.
“They don’t even see me. I’m just… the smile. The prop. The one who makes it all look pretty while they tear each other’s throats out. Sunshine, sunshine, sunshine—”
“You always talk to yourself this much, doll?”
You froze.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hair messy from sleep—or the lack of it. His voice was low, quiet, not mocking. Just curious.
You hadn’t even heard him come in.
Heat crawled up your neck. “I—I wasn’t—” you started, fumbling for words. “I was just—”
“Ranting?” His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “Sounded like ranting.”
You swallowed, mortified. Great. Just great. Out of all people to catch you spiraling at two in the morning, it had to be the man with a permanent scowl and more trauma than anyone on the team.
“Forget you heard anything,” you muttered, reaching for the kettle. “It was nothing.”
Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. He just walked forward, slow and deliberate, plucking another mug from the cabinet. He set it beside yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Not nothing,” he said simply. “But I’m not asking.”
You blinked at him, thrown off. He wasn’t mocking you. He wasn’t pitying you. He was just… there.
When the kettle clicked off, he poured the water for you before you could stop him, then poured his own. You both stood there in the quiet kitchen, steam curling between you.
He didn’t fill the silence with words. Didn’t pry.
And for the first time all day, you didn’t feel like you had to smile.
You were already tired before training even started.
The debrief had run late, you hadn’t slept, and Steve’s motivational pep talk felt more like a lecture than encouragement. But you smiled, stretched, and cracked a joke about how Clint owed you coffee if you knocked him on his ass again.
Sunshine. Always sunshine.
“Alright, pair off,” Steve ordered, clapping his hands.
Of course you ended up with Sam.
“C’mon, sunshine,” Sam drawled, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s see what you’ve got today.”
You forced a smile, even as your jaw tightened. He always called you that. Sometimes it felt affectionate, other times like a jab at the role you’d been boxed into. Sunshine, dollface, sweetheart. Anything but soldier.
The spar started fine. Quick footwork, sharp counters. You landed a clean strike that made him grunt. For a moment, you felt good—sharp, capable, like they’d have to notice your skill this time.
Then he started talking.
“You know,” Sam puffed, dancing out of reach with that smug grin, “you’re real good at smoothing things over. Like—when Stark’s about to blow a gasket? You’re always right there. I feel for your every little issue, you know? You just know what to say.”
He chuckled like it was a compliment.
Your teeth ground together. Every little issue?
You swung harder, aiming for his ribs. He blocked, still grinning. “Hey, hey—don’t get mad, sweetheart. I’m just saying you’ve got a gift. I know just what you mean half the time, but you say it better. You make it sound… nice.”
There it was again. Nice. Easy. Sweet.
Your fist connected with his shoulder harder than necessary. His eyes widened, and you saw the flicker of surprise—then amusement.
“Whoa,” he laughed, shaking it off. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
And that’s when you almost lost it.
Because of course he didn’t know. Of course none of them knew. You’d done nothing but fight tooth and nail to prove you belonged here, and still—still—you were just a face, a body, a fucking visual. The perfect, all-American bitch with the easy smile. Pretty enough to put on the cover of a magazine, harmless enough to make into a joke.
Not a fighter. Not a soldier.
Just… sunshine.
Your hands shook as you reset your stance. Wanda’s gaze flicked toward you from across the mats, her brows pinching. She knew. She always knew when you were on the edge, when the storm was building under your skin. She’d tried to ease you before, to breathe calm into your chaos, and you always brushed her off.
I’m fine. That was your line. That was your role.
But you weren’t fine. Not right now.
Nat leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like she was watching the start of a movie. She’d been waiting for this—for you to finally crack, to finally stop swallowing your fire and let it burn.
And God, you wanted to.
“Easy,” Steve’s voice cut through, firm and commanding. “You’re not here to hurt your teammates.”
You froze, chest heaving. Steve’s gaze pinned you in place—stern but well-meaning, like he was reminding a kid to use their inside voice.
He meant well. He always did. And that made it worse.
“I know you like to make light of the darkness,” Steve said, softer now, almost fond. “That’s good. We need that. But don’t lose focus.”
Light of the darkness. That’s all you were to them, wasn’t it?
The laugh. The easy one. The prop to make their sharp edges palatable. Never the blade. Never the weapon.
You bit your tongue, forced a nod, and stepped back. “Yes, sir.”
Training went on. You held it together, barely, every nerve screaming.
The moment training ended, you bolted.
You made it to the locker room, yanked your towel from the bench, and slammed a locker so hard the metal rattled.
Your chest heaved. Your vision blurred.
You pressed the towel to your face and screamed. A sound ripped from deep in your chest, raw and ragged, a noise you didn’t even recognize as your own.
It wasn’t enough.
Another scream tore out of you, shaking your whole body. The towel muffled it, but not by much. It was primal, ugly, the kind of scream that scraped your throat raw.
“Yeah, you know me,” you gasped between heaves, pacing like a caged animal. “Got sun in my motherfucking pocket, best believe. Always smiling. Always easy. Always perfect. FUCK—”
You threw the towel down, hands in your hair, pulling until your scalp burned.
“I’m not sunshine,” you spat, voice breaking. “I’m not your fucking sweetheart, I’m not your Barbie doll, I’m not your—” The words broke into another scream, louder this time, echoing off the lockers.
You kicked the bench hard enough to send it screeching against the floor. Punched the locker until your knuckles ached. Pressed your forehead against the cool metal and sobbed, breaths coming in sharp, ugly gasps.
All of it—the fake smiles, the dismissive compliments, the headlines, the way Steve’s disappointment still felt like judgment even when he meant well—it crashed down on you at once. Years of swallowing it. Years of being perfect.
And now you were shattering.
“Y’know,” a low voice drawled, “that towel didn’t do anything to you.”
You whipped around, heart lurching.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He must’ve walked in mid-scream.
Mortification flooded you. “Shit,” you muttered, fumbling for the towel, hiding your face. “I—I wasn’t—”
“Yelling into fabric?” His brow lifted, deadpan. “Yeah. I do that too.”
You froze.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Didn’t smirk like Sam would’ve. He just said it plain, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“You…” you swallowed hard. “You do?”
“Not always a towel,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Sometimes a pillow. Sometimes a wall.” His mouth twitched, like he almost found it funny. “Walls usually lose.”
A breathless laugh broke out of you before you could stop it. Not the sweet, polite laugh you gave the team, but a raw one, jagged and a little unhinged.
The tension in your chest loosened, just a little.
He didn’t move closer, didn’t press. He just leaned against the lockers, arms still cro ssed, watching you with that steady, quiet gaze.
“Doesn’t mean you’re weak,” he said after a beat. “Means you’re human.”
You looked at him then—really looked—and realized he wasn’t saying it for you. He was saying it for himself too.
For a long beat, the locker room was silent except for your uneven breathing.
Then you nodded. Not perfect, not sunshine—just a raw, shaky nod.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel crazy for wanting to scream.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
It was supposed to be clean, simple. Sweep the Hydra outpost, secure the files, get out. That’s what Fury said. That’s what Steve said. That’s what you told yourself when you forced your smile in place before stepping into the quinjet.
But missions never go like they’re supposed to.
The second the team hit the ground, chaos cracked through the plan like lightning splitting a tree.
It started with one wrong turn.
One miscommunication, one slip in the comms, and suddenly the whole mission went sideways. Hydra remnants were supposed to be boxed in, but somehow the perimeter collapsed and the team spent the next thirty minutes in pure chaos—ducking fire, shouting over each other, improvising plans.
You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.
You smiled into the comms, kept your tone even, made a joke about “Saturday night traffic” when the escape route clogged with enemy trucks. You cracked a laugh when Tony muttered about Steve’s “outdated tactical playbook.” You even laid a hand on Wanda’s shoulder when she started panicking, grounding her while your own pulse hammered at a dangerous pace.
Tony complained about Steve’s “stone age comms protocols.”
Steve barked back about Tony’s “reckless improvisation.”
Sam swooped in with a sarcastic, “Are we fighting Hydra or each other?”
And you—stuck in the middle—kept the smile plastered on your face, even as your temples throbbed.
“Hey,” you’d said into the comms, tone deliberately light, “let’s save the lovers’ quarrel until after we’re not dodging gunfire, yeah?”
It got a huff of laughter from Wanda, at least. Even Natasha smirked faintly before leaping into the fray. But Steve and Tony? Still at each other’s throats, even while fighting.
You wanted to scream right then. Just rip the comm out of your ear and scream.
Sunshine. Always sunshine.
Instead, you ducked a bullet, grit your teeth, and kept the “perfect teammate” mask cemented in place.
By the time the Hydra agents were scattered and the files secured, your nerves were singed raw. mission technically accomplished—you were fraying at the edges. But you didn’t show it.
Everyone else argued their way down the street toward the exfil point, voices ricocheting in your skull.
“I told you we should’ve flanked—” Steve started.
“Yeah, and I told you your tactics are older than dial-up—” Tony cut in.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear into both of them, because you’d watched the plan unravel, and you’d patched it together in real time, but nobody noticed. Nobody listened.
“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, “I feel like I’m stuck in a group project with divorced parents.”
“Not helping,” Steve snapped.
“Didn’t know you had that in you,” Sam tossed casually over his shoulder at you as you jogged to catch up.
You blinked. “What?”
He grinned, like it was harmless. “All that fancy footwork back there. Guess you’re not just here to smile for the cameras after all.”
Something in your chest tightened.
It was a joke. You knew it was a joke. But it hit right where all the ugly thoughts lived. Because wasn’t that exactly how the world saw you? Pretty face. Good for PR. Always composed, always agreeable. Perfect little All-American sweetheart.
You laughed it off, because what else could you do? “Guess I’m full of surprises.”
But inside, you were already spiraling.
You kept thinking about Wanda, how she drifted in her own little bubble of chaos, untouchable. Nat, too—so untouchably herself, so unapologetically sharp. Nobody expected them to smile through everything, to be palatable and pleasant and perfect.
Why was it only you?
Why did you have to swallow the screams, curl your nails into your palms, let your jaw ache from holding it shut?
The final straw came when Tony clapped you on the shoulder as if handing out candy.
“At least you kept it together,” he said, loud enough for Steve to hear. “Light as a feather, fresh as the air. Always steady. Always perfect. I mean—class, integrity… just like a goddamn Kennedy.”
And then he laughed, already turning back to argue with Steve again.
It wasn’t praise. It was a sentence. A reminder. Stay pretty, stay polished, stay perfect. Stay in your box.
You smiled, because of course you did. You smiled so hard your cheeks ached.
But you were one breath away from shattering.
So you slipped away.
Turned down a narrow alley, heart pounding, jaw locked, lungs burning for release. You pressed your back against the cold brick, dragged air into your chest—and exploded.
“I swear—” your voice cracked, guttural, “with love to spare—”
And then you screamed.
It tore out of you like a grenade, ricocheting off the alley walls, raw and ugly. You screamed until your throat scratched, until tears blurred your vision.
“I am light as a feather,” you spat bitterly, mocking Tony’s words. “I’m as fresh as the goddamn air. I’ve got class and integrity, just like a fucking Kennedy—”
Another scream ripped through you. Louder. You dug your nails into your palms until crescents marked your skin, your body shaking with the force of it.
You screamed again. And again. You screamed until the sound turned jagged, then broke into harsh, gasping sobs. Until your head spun. Until you thought you might collapse from the sheer weight of holding it in for so long.
“Y’know,” a voice cut in, casual, almost amused, “for a second I thought we were under attack again.”
You froze.
Your head whipped toward the mouth of the alley, blood roaring in your ears.
Bucky Barnes leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression neutral.
Of course. Of course he’d followed.
Mortification clawed up your throat. “Shit—” You straightened so fast you almost stumbled, swiping at your face. “I wasn’t—this isn’t—”
“Relax.” His tone was even, quiet. Not mocking, not sharp. Just steady. “I’m not here to stop you.”
You blinked, chest heaving. “You’re… not?”
He shrugged, metal shoulder shifting. “Nah. Thought maybe I’d join in.”
Before you could process that, he tipped his head back—and screamed.
Loud, guttural, echoing like thunder.
Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck—”
He screamed again, louder, his voice bouncing off the walls.
Something cracked inside you, but this time it wasn’t pain—it was laughter. Sharp, startled, bubbling out of you before you could stop it.
Then another scream built in your chest, and you let it rip, matching his.
Soon it was both of you, side by side in a dingy alley, screaming like lunatics.
Civilians passing on the street slowed, whispering. Are the Avengers fighting? Should we call someone?
But you didn’t care.
You screamed until your ribs ached, until your throat felt raw, until your body vibrated with the release.
You screamed until the anger dulled
Screaming until it turned into shaky, helpless laughter spilling out of you both.
When the noise finally died, you slumped against the wall, chest heaving. until you were doubled over, breathless, tears on your face but laughing anyway.
Bucky dropped beside you, shoulder brushing yours. His hair stuck to his temple, his voice rough from the yelling.
“Feel better?”
You let out a shaky laugh. “Like shit.”
“Yeah.” He smirked faintly, eyes crinkling. “But… lighter, right?”
You exhaled, head falling back against the brick. For the first time in days, weeks, maybe months—you actually felt it. Lighter. Not fixed, not perfect, but like you’d finally dropped something you’d been hauling alone.
You considered it. And he was right. There was still anger coiled in your gut, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was manageable.
Still, embarrassment prickled at your skin. “You’re insane.” You nudged his arm, weakly.
“Maybe.” His gaze lingered on you, steady and soft in a way that made your chest ache. “But so are you.”
You didn’t deny it.
For the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to.
Because with him, you didn’t have to.
The cameras were already flashing before you even sat down.
That wasn’t unusual—you’d grown used to it, the way lenses tracked your every move, how hands holding microphones seemed to lean closer when you opened your mouth. But today, it felt heavier. Like the air itself was pressing down, telling you to sit straighter, smile brighter, keep it together.
The long table on stage stretched with nameplates in front of each Avenger. Steve at the center, Tony just off to his right, Natasha cool and composed at the far end, Wanda half-checked out with her chin propped on her palm. Sam leaned back in his chair like he owned the room.
And then there was you—seat positioned right where the lights hit hardest. America’s sweetheart. Sunshine girl. The “perfect” one.
You smoothed your skirt as you sat, fixed your hair, tilted your lips into that practiced curve. Easy. Harmless. Approachable. Perfect.
The first questions weren’t about you.
They never were.
A reporter from the Post stood and asked Steve about leadership challenges within the team. Another pressed Tony about tech development and ethics oversight. Sam got asked about flight tactics; Natasha was hit with a sharp one about international diplomacy.
You sat quietly, nodding along, folding your hands neatly on the table. Like good set dressing.
And then, predictably, the spotlight shifted.
“You,” a woman in the third row said brightly, leaning toward her microphone, “you’ve been described as the sunshine of the Avengers. Always calm, always smiling. How do you stay so pretty under all that pressure?”
The word snagged. Pretty.
You smiled wider, because what else could you do? “Lots of sleep and tea,” you said, light as a feather, voice smooth as glass. “Helps to have a good moisturizer too.”
The crowd chuckled. Cameras clicked.
Inside, your jaw ached.
The questions kept coming, and not the kind that mattered.
“What’s your morning routine?”
“What brand of mascara do you use?”
“Do you and Bucky have chemistry off-screen?”
“Who’s the funniest Avenger?”
“Do you ever worry about wrinkles with all that stress?”
Every answer had to be sweet, careful, soft-edged. You deflected with practiced charm, just as you always did.
Sam teased at one point, leaning toward his mic with a grin. “C’mon, she’s basically perfect. She probably wakes up with that smile.”
The crowd laughed.
You laughed too. That’s what they expected.
But beneath the table, your fingernails dug half-moon crescents into your palm.
Then it came.
The question.
You didn’t see the man’s face clearly—only the mic lifting, the smirk in his tone.
“So,” he said, “being on a team full of guys, do you ever feel… pressured? Y’know, to keep them in line? Or do you just bat your eyelashes and let them do the heavy lifting?”
The air shifted.
Your head snapped up.
Natasha’s eyes narrowed immediately, sharp as knives. Wanda straightened in her chair, jaw tightening. Both of them poised, ready to slice the question in half for you.
But you smiled. Too bright. Too fast. You laughed it off, swallowing the scream clawing up your throat.
“Guess I just try to keep up,” you said breezily.
It landed like ash.
A few weak chuckles scattered through the room. Someone on the team made a sound—Sam maybe, a nervous “heh”—but nobody shut it down.
Nobody said a damn thing.
And the spotlight was back on you.
You opened your mouth, ready to deflect again, but the words snagged. Because it wasn’t just a question. It was every headline. Every whisper. Every time your skill was downplayed, every joke about you being eye candy, every careless comment about how “pretty girls don’t get angry.”
It was all of it, condensed into one smirking little jab.
And before you could stop it—your eyes burned.
A tear slipped down your cheek.
The room went dead silent.
The cameras snapped like gunfire. Reporters shifted in their seats. Steve’s lips pressed into a thin line; Tony’s eyes darted toward the man who’d asked.
And you—America’s Sweetheart—did the most PR-trained, soul-crushing thing possible.
You laughed. Shaky, too high. Waved a hand like it was nothing. “Sorry,” you said, voice breaking. “Didn’t mean to—get so emotional.”
You smiled. Bright. Too bright. The crowd softened, murmuring reassurances.
You laughed again, apologetic. “See? Sunshine. Even when I cry.”
The cameras loved it.
But your stomach burned.
The room chuckled nervously and erupted in clicks, shutters going off rapid-fire.
“Ohhh,” the reporter drawled, like he’d been waiting for this, “you’re pretty when you cry.” The reporter who’d asked leaned back, smug.
It was casual. Almost teasing. And it burned worse than any villain’s blade.
It wasn’t cruel, not exactly. It wasn’t sharp. It was worse—it was casual. Like it was normal. Like reducing you to a face, to a body, to a performance, was the most natural thing in the world.
That’s when it happened.
Bucky Barnes, the man who never said a damn word in these settings, leaned toward his microphone.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
The words cut through the tension like a blade. The room erupted—reporters gasping, laughter bubbling, cameras flashing like lightning.
The interviewer stammered, red-faced.
Natasha pounced, her voice slicing clean: “Next question.”
Wanda added, sharp and pointed, “Try asking something worth answering next time.”
And just like that, the tide shifted.
But you? You kept smiling. Because that’s what you had to do.
You didn’t remember leaving the stage. Didn’t remember answering the rest of the questions. Didn’t remember the flashbulbs or the murmurs or Wanda’s side-glance that said she knew exactly how badly you wanted to scream. or the murmurs or Natasha’s sharp-edged smirk of solidarity.
You only remembered slamming your bedroom door so hard the frame rattled.
You remembered the glass of water in your hand, sweating against your palm—before you hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall, shards raining down like diamonds.
“Oh, all the time,” you snapped, pacing. Your voice was already breaking. “I’m grateful all the fucking time.”
Your reflection in the window stared back—flushed, red-eyed, trembling.
“I’m sexy, and I’m kind,” you mocked, the words tasting like poison. “And I’m pretty when I cry.”
You grabbed the nearest pillow, buried your face in it, and screamed until your throat burned raw.
Tears blurred everything, anger clawing up your chest like fire. You punched the bed, kicked the dresser, paced and ranted and spiraled until the walls felt too close, too suffocating.
“I can’t—” you gasped, gripping your hair with both hands. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—smile, and nod, and be their fucking sweetheart. I’m not—”
Another scream ripped out of you, ragged and broken.
Another scream tore out of you, ragged and raw.
You didn’t hear the knock at first. Didn’t hear the door creak open.
It was the soft scrape of something against the floor that finally snapped you out of it.
You turned, chest heaving.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway.
In his hands: a broom and a dustpan.
He didn’t speak. Just moved past you quietly, crouched down, and began sweeping up the shattered glass.
“Bucky—” your voice cracked.
“They’ll never get it,” he said simply, not looking up. His voice was steady, unbothered, like this was just another mission. “But I do.”
Your throat tightened.
The rage ebbed, just a little. Enough for you to sink down onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands.
The sound of glass being swept into the dustpan was strangely grounding. Rhythmic. Steady.
Bucky didn’t ask you to explain. Didn’t tell you to calm down. Didn’t say you were overreacting.
When he was done, he set the broom aside, sat next to you. Not too close, not far either. Just… there.
The silence stretched, heavy but safe.
And for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.
The crash had drawn him to your door.
He hadn’t planned on following you after the conference—though he’d wanted to. He’d seen it, the way your shoulders went stiff at that question, the way your laugh cracked around the edges, the way that tear broke free before you could swallow it. He’d wanted to tear the mic out of that asshole’s hands himself, but he’d barely managed his one-liner. He wasn’t good at these things. Not words, not rooms full of people.
But he’d seen you leave with your jaw tight, your steps too sharp. And when the sound of glass shattering rang down the hall, he didn’t even think. He grabbed the nearest broom from a supply closet and went.
Now, standing in your room, he didn’t say a word. He just swept.
The shards glittered against the floor, catching the light like razors.
He knew that kind of rage. The kind that made your hands twitch for something to break, to prove you could feel anything other than the mask you wore.
He’d lived it.
He remembered nights in dingy apartments, fists bleeding against walls. The scream that tore out of your throat into a pillow—he knew that sound. He’d heard it in his own chest, muffled against cheap fabric so no one would come knocking.
That’s why he didn’t judge. Didn’t flinch.
As the broom brushed glass into the pan, he thought: They don’t see it. They don’t want to. But I do.
You’d quieted a little by then, breaths coming in ragged pulls, body hunched on the edge of the bed. He glanced at you, just once, and for a moment it was like looking into a mirror he hated—someone trying so fucking hard to hold it all together when the cracks were already running deep.
He wanted to tell you he understood. That it was okay to break.
But Bucky Barnes didn’t have speeches in him. Not anymore.
So he swept. Careful, steady. Making sure every piece was gone so you wouldn’t cut yourself later. It was the only language he had left: actions instead of words.
When he was done, he set the broom aside and eased down next to you. Not too close—he never wanted to crowd you—but close enough that you’d feel he wasn’t leaving.
The silence hung between you, thick but not suffocating.
For a long minute, neither of you spoke.
And then, unexpectedly, the words came easy.
“Used to break a lotta things,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. His voice was low, almost rough with memory. “Walls. Plates. My own damn knuckles.”
You let out a shaky laugh, still muffled behind your hands. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “Sometimes still do. Helps.”
The corner of your mouth twitched upward, even as your eyes shone red. “You scream into pillows too?”
He huffed—almost a laugh himself. “Yeah. I do that too.”
The silence after wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else. Something softer.
He wasn’t good at small talk. Never had been. Most conversations these days felt like walking barefoot across broken glass—every word dangerous, every step too much.
But with you, it was different. The words didn’t scrape on the way out. They came natural.
“You don’t have to be perfect, y’know,” he said after a while. The admission sounded clumsy in his own ears, but he meant it. “Not with me.”
Your breath hitched. And for a second, he thought maybe he’d said too much. But then you leaned into him—just barely, your shoulder brushing his—and the smallest sigh slipped out.
That was enough.
He didn’t need speeches. Didn’t need to fix it. He just needed to sit there, with you, and let you know that someone finally fucking saw you.
📰 EXCLUSIVE: America’s Barbie Joins the Avengers Byline: Taylor Knox, Celebrity Features Editor
She’s optimistic, she’s beautiful, and she’s battle-ready—at least, that’s what Earth’s Mightiest Heroes would like us to believe. But behind the vibranium shields and Stark-level tech, is [Y/N] really a fighter… or just the Avengers’ living, breathing Barbie doll?
Ever since her first public appearance alongside the team, the 24-year-old has been branded “America’s Sweetheart” and “the sunshine of the Avengers”—nicknames that fit, considering her dazzling smile and picture-perfect personality. Always poised, always polite, always pretty. (Seriously, have you ever seen a hair out of place? We haven’t.)
Her teammates clearly adore her—but not necessarily for her combat skills. While Captain America and Falcon handle tactical leadership, and Black Widow and Scarlet Witch strike with lethal precision, [Y/N] tends to shine brightest on the red carpet. Whether in couture gowns or spandex suits, she’s the one who turns heads. And maybe that’s the point.
A high-ranking PR insider told The Daily Bulletin: “She’s the perfect all-American package. She’s young, gorgeous, relatable, and safe. She makes the team look good. Fans—especially young women—see themselves in her, even if she’s not the one taking down aliens.”
When asked about her training regimen, one source close to the Avengers laughed: “She works hard, no doubt, but she knows her place. She’s not there to outshine Rogers or Romanoff. She’s there to lighten the mood and look good doing it. And honestly? She does that better than anyone.”
And the world seems to agree. Social media is already flooded with edits dubbing her the “Avengers’ Barbie”—with perfect lips, perfect hair, and yes, perfect hips. (One viral tweet racked up 300k likes with the caption: “She’s not saving the world, she’s saving the vibe.”)
So, is [Y/N] the future of superheroism? Or is she simply the team’s PR dream—America’s Barbie in spandex, smiling for the cameras while the real heroes get their hands dirty?
She’s got the face of a starlet and the body of a cover model. The Avengers’ resident sweetheart—the PR dream. Who says heroes can’t be pretty?
One thing’s for certain: She knows her place. And for the Avengers, maybe that’s all they need her to.
…what the fuck
The headline hit the news cycle like wildfire: “The Avengers’ Barbie.”
Bright pink letters splashed across a paparazzi photo of you smiling on your way into Stark Tower. Your uniform had been replaced by an airbrushed mock-up of a sparkly dress and a plastic crown, like some editor had gotten a little too creative with Photoshop. The article itself was worse—half jokes, half digs, all wrapped in that tone people use when they think they’re flattering you.
“She’s got the face of a starlet and the body of a cover model,” it read. “The Avengers’ resident sweetheart—the PR dream. Who says heroes can’t be pretty?”
Pretty. Barbie. A doll.
When the team saw it, they’d laughed.
Even Steve chuckled—good-natured, like he thought it was harmless. Sam had nearly fallen off the couch. “Damn, Barbie! Do we gotta start calling you Malibu now?”
You smiled. Of course you smiled. You tossed your hair, rolled your eyes, made some joke about requesting a Dreamhouse on the roof of the Tower. Natasha smirked but didn’t join in. Wanda didn’t laugh at all—her eyes cut to you with that razor-sharp understanding she always carried, the kind that made you want to look away before she dug too deep.
But still, you kept up the act. All sunshine. All sweetness. All Barbie.
Inside? It was rotting you alive.
That night, you couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, the word Barbie burned neon behind your eyelids.
Not warrior. Not strategist. Not teammate. Barbie.
Hell it was even worse cause they were also just dismissing all of barbie’s accomplishments because of her looks.
Steve’s chuckle replayed in your head like a needle skipping on a record. Sam’s cackle. Tony’s dismissive, “Well, at least they called you marketable. Could be worse.”
Marketable. A product.
Not human.
Your jaw ached from how hard you’d clenched it during that whole exchange. The skin of your palms still bore half-moon indents from your nails. You’d dug in so hard you almost bled.
And the worst part—the very worst part—was that Natasha and Wanda noticed.
Wanda had lingered when the others dispersed, coming to stand beside you at the kitchen counter where you’d been pretending to scroll on your phone. “You know they’re idiots, right?” she murmured, her accent soft but firm. “They don’t get it. Not the way we do.”
Nat had leaned casually against the fridge, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her voice cutting. “They’re laughing at the headline because it’s easy. They don’t care enough to see the insult under it. But don’t let them win by playing along.”
Her words had struck like a blade: don’t let them win.
But you only smiled, brushing them both off. “I’m fine.”
You weren’t fine. You were about to snap.
When the clock blinked 12:37 a.m., you cracked.
You threw on sweats, bandaged your hands with muscle memory, and stormed out of your room. The Tower was dead quiet, city lights flickering through the massive windows as if mocking you. Every step toward the gym felt like stomping into war—your chest a battlefield, rage boiling in your veins.
You slammed the gym door behind you. The sound echoed in the empty space, sharp enough to make your ears ring.
You didn’t bother with lights. You didn’t need them. The world was already burning white-hot behind your eyes.
Straight to the heavy bag. No warm-up. No gloves. Just raw fury.
And you went feral.
Punch after punch, knuckles screaming through the wraps, sweat pouring down your spine. You weren’t throwing calculated strikes—you were wrecking. Hitting until your arms shook, until your chest heaved with sobs you wouldn’t let out.
The sound filled the room, each impact ricocheting through the walls like gunfire.
Your breath ripped out of you ragged and broken. “I know my age and I act like it,” you spat between hits, mocking the article’s backhanded compliment about your “maturity.” Another blow. Another hiss of pain.
“I’m a perfect all-American bitch,” you growled, striking harder, voice cracking. “With perfect all-American lips—” smack— “and perfect all-American hips.” Another slam. Your hand nearly split the bag open.
The words tasted like blood and bile on your tongue.
“I know my place, I know my place, and this is it.” Punch. Punch. Punch.
And then—silence.
The bag didn’t sway the way it should’ve.
You froze, breath shuddering. That was when you realized someone was holding it steady.
Bucky had been there the whole time.
He’d come down earlier, chasing his own sleepless demons. The gym was his sanctuary too—silent, cold, a place to burn the rage out of his system before it ate him alive. He’d been working the speed bag in the corner when you stormed in. He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t interrupt.
But when your fists started slipping, when your body started to shake, he moved.
He held the bag firm, silent and steady.
And the sight of you—hair falling loose, sweat soaking through your shirt, eyes wild and furious—hit him harder than any punch could. He’d seen you polished, perfect, smiling for the world. But this? This was the raw, uncut version. No mask. No Barbie. Just you.
And for the first time, he thought you’d never looked more gorgeous.
He said nothing at first. Just braced the bag with both hands, muscles tense, letting you burn it all out.
Finally, when your punches slowed, his voice cut through the sound of your ragged breathing. Low. Rough. Quiet enough it almost disappeared.
“Don’t hold back. I got it.”
You didn’t hold back.
You hit until your body betrayed you, collapsing against the bag with your forehead pressed into the canvas, tears hot against your cheeks. Your arms hung heavy, trembling with exhaustion.
You slid down to the floor, back against the bag, chest heaving. A sob ripped out of you before you could stop it, then another, until you were laughing through the crying, half-hysterical.
“Barbie,” you spat bitterly, wiping your face with the back of your shaking hand. “Fucking Barbie.”
Bucky slid down across from you, arms draped over his knees. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell you it wasn’t a big deal. Didn’t minimize it the way the others did.
He just nodded, like yeah, he got it.
“They see what they wanna see,” he said finally. His voice was steady, unflinching. “Not what’s real.”
The words split you open worse than the headline had. Because wasn’t that the truth? They didn’t see you. They saw a mask. A smile. A doll.
And he knew what that felt like.
You buried your face in your hands and let yourself fall apart.
And he just sat there. Quiet. Present. Steady in the way only Bucky Barnes could be.
Minutes passed. Hours maybe. Eventually your sobs softened, your breathing evened. You leaned back against the bag, drained and raw, staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t move. Didn’t rush you.
When you finally looked at him, eyes swollen, face damp, he met your gaze without a trace of judgment. Only understanding.
For the first time, you felt like someone was taking you seriously.
Not the Barbie. Not the sweetheart. Not the PR dream.
Just you.
And that, more than anything, was what made the tears fall all over again.
The gym smelled like sweat and iron. The world outside didn’t matter—just you and the wreckage inside your chest.
Your fists throbbed with every heartbeat, skin split raw beneath the bandages you’d wrapped in your rush. The pain was sharp but grounding, the kind you almost welcomed. Proof you weren’t made of plastic. Proof you weren’t Barbie.
You sat there on the mat, knees pulled close, trying to breathe through the tangle of sobs and laughter. Every exhale hitched, shaky. Every inhale carried the bitter taste of humiliation you couldn’t scrub out.
Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved. He was stone-still, arms resting on his knees, gaze steady. Not pitying. Not curious. Just… there.
It should’ve felt suffocating, being witnessed like this—messy, broken, mask shattered. But it didn’t. Somehow, with him, it felt like the first time in weeks you could breathe.
Eventually, you let your head fall back against the bag with a dull thunk. “They’ll never stop, will they?” you whispered, voice shredded. “No matter what I do, it’ll never be enough. It’ll always be my face. My body. My smile. Never me.”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet. For a split second, you thought he was leaving—your chest caved at the thought—but then he crouched beside you, flesh hand reaching for yours.
Wordless. Gentle.
He turned your hands palm-up. The wraps were damp, streaked red where your skin had split open. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Just started unrolling them, slow and careful, like every tug of fabric mattered.
You wanted to tell him he didn’t have to. That you were fine. But the words caught in your throat because for once, someone wasn’t asking if you were fine. He was just being there.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Heavy. Almost unbearable in how tender it felt.
He worked with methodical precision, fingers surprisingly steady as he peeled the wraps away. His thumb brushed your wrist, calloused skin against yours, and you nearly shivered at the warmth of it.
When the last strip came free, your knuckles were raw, the skin torn and angry. He reached for the med kit stashed under the bench, flipping it open with practiced ease. Alcohol pads. Ointment. Fresh gauze.
The first press of antiseptic burned like fire. You hissed through your teeth, jerking, but his hand tightened around yours—not harsh, just firm enough to ground you. “Easy,” he muttered, voice low, almost a growl.
Not annoyed. Protective.
You bit your lip, watching as he cleaned every cut, every scrape, then wrapped your hands again—neater, stronger than you’d ever managed on your own. It wasn’t just bandaging. It was ritual. It was care.
And he did it all in silence.
By the time he tied the last knot, your chest had gone hollow. Not from rage this time, but something quieter, heavier.
You stared at your hands, snug in their fresh bandages, then at him. “Why are you doing this?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.
He didn’t look at you right away. Just sat back on his heels, wiped his palms on his sweats, and finally met your eyes.
“Because I know what it’s like.”
Your throat tightened.
“What?” you whispered.
He shrugged, gaze flickering down. “Being looked at. Judged. Labeled. People think they know you, but they don’t. They just take what’s easiest to see and run with it.” His jaw clenched. “I spent years being nothing but… that guy. The Winter Soldier. The monster. The headline.”
The way he said it—flat, steady—sent something jagged through you. Because he wasn’t looking for sympathy. He wasn’t dumping trauma for you to carry. He was just telling the truth. Quietly.
“And you…” he added, softer now, eyes lifting back to yours. “They don’t see you either. Not the way you deserve. But I do.”
The words hit like a sucker punch. Your chest went tight, tears burning again.
You looked away, swallowing hard, desperate not to crumble all over again. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to.”
Silence. Thick. Stretching between you like a wire pulled taut.
For a moment, you swore the world narrowed down to just the sound of your breathing and the weight of his gaze.
You wanted to run. You wanted to stay. You wanted to scream, laugh, cry—all of it at once.
But all you did was lean back against the bag again, pulling your knees close, trying to calm the storm.
Bucky shifted too, lowering himself down beside you this time instead of across. Close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. Not touching. Just… there. Solid. Steady.
He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.
And you sat there in that silence, raw and wrecked, feeling something strange settle into your chest. Something you couldn’t name yet. Something you were too exhausted to even try.
But you knew one thing.
With Bucky, you didn’t feel like Barbie. You didn’t feel like a headline.
You felt like yourself.
And for tonight, that was enough.
The studio lights hit first, blinding and harsh, sending a wave of static through your chest. Cameras swiveled, microphones perched like predators, and the hum of the audience filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Tony leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen, smirking like he owned the world. Steve sat perfect, posture straight, answering every tactical question with careful precision. Bucky… Bucky sat silent, still, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes sharp, calm.
And then there was you.
You sat there, heels tight on your toes, posture perfect, smile locked in place, hands folded neatly in your lap, knuckles pale from clenching, heart hammering. I don’t get angry when I’m pissed. I’m the eternal optimist, you repeated silently, over and over, a mantra to hold yourself together.
The first few questions were easy enough: strategy, tactics, leadership. Tony joked. Steve answered with precision. Bucky clipped a concise tactical response that left the audience impressed. You smiled and nodded, careful, polite, the perfect sunshine of the team. But every tick of the clock hammered inside your chest, pulse rising, jaw clenched, eyes twitching.
Then the host leaned in, grin sharp, voice too sweet:
“And now… for [Y/N] herself—our America’s Sweetheart! Tell us, are you ever going to settle down? Do you have suitors lined up for you? Or will you leave the world-saving to the others?”
The world slowed. The audience chuckled lightly, but your pulse accelerated into chaos. The others? Clearly, they meant super-soldiers, witches, wizards, men in suits.
You rolled your eyes, laughing lightly but sharply. Not ditzy. Not fake. Perfectly real. “Settle down?” you asked, voice laced with amused venom. “Are you kidding me? I’m at the top of my game. Literally right up there with super-enhanced humans. Ladies, c’mon. Leave saving the world to the men? I don’t think so!”
A giggle escaped, dark and ironic. “I… don’t think so.”
Wanda’s eyes flicked toward you, tense, protective. Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, suppressing a grin. Steve stiffened ever so slightly, while Tony just nodded, pretending he wasn’t watching the storm in your eyes.
Good. You owned it. That simmering rage, the brilliance, the fury—it became power. If they want Barbie, they’ll get Barbie. Not fake, not plastic. Real. Dangerous. Gorgeous. And glowing with lethal confidence.
Before the applause could fully settle, the host pivoted, smirk intact. “And now, [Y/N], tell us your skincare routine!”
The room tilted.
Smile intact. Perfect posture. The mask on. But inside, everything screamed. I shower, don’t you? When are you going to ask about my battles? Or are you just too scared to let a lady shine? I mean, you have no problem with letting Nat and Wanda shine—but I’m the easiest target, huh?
Your jaw clenched. Eye twitching. Pulse hammering. Heart racing. Every microsecond of your being wanted to tear into the absurdity of the question. But the mask held. Perfect smile. Polite answer. “Oh, just sunscreen and water. And sleep when possible,” you said, voice sweet, biting back the venom, tasting it like metal on your tongue.
The host laughed. Audience laughs with him. Your teeth ground together. Every tick of the teleprompter, every flash of the cameras felt like nails against your skull.
You ripped off your mic. Hard. The cord tangled in your fingers. You didn’t care. “Wonderful day, everyone,” you muttered sarcastically, storming off the stage. Heels clicking, muttered curses under your breath, words you hadn’t spoken in weeks pouring out in uneven, furious bursts.
Bucky followed immediately, not hiding it. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. Just followed. Steady. Quiet. Calm. Safe.
Backstage, you finally let go. Fist slammed into the wall. CRACK. Pain radiated up your arm. Breath came in ragged bursts. Hair stuck to your damp forehead. Knuckles raw. Rage unspooled and twisted into exhaustion, frustration, humiliation.
“Skincare routine?” you hissed, voice hoarse. “After everything—after risking my life, after fighting gods, aliens, chaos—you want to know how I keep my skin clear? Are you kidding me?!”
Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirk faint, eyes steady. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, love,” he said softly.
You spun, cheeks flushed, teeth clenched, hair wild. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. Calm. Grounded. Watching.
The adrenaline still racing, you slumped against the wall. Knuckles throbbing. Breath shaking. He crouched beside you, wordless, pulled out a first-aid kit. Alcohol pads. Tape. Gauze. His hands were steady, methodical, wrapping your hands, cleaning cuts with quiet care.
“Easy,” he muttered when you flinched. “Don’t hurt yourself more than you already have.”
You slumped fully now, trembling. “I scream inside to deal with it… but it’s never enough,” you admitted, voice low, breaking.
He didn’t answer immediately. Just sat with you, finished wrapping your hands, slow, deliberate. Then softly:
“Then don’t scream inside anymore. Scream where someone hears you. Scream with me.”
A bitter, raw laugh escaped you. Relief mingled with fury.
Finally, you rose. He rose with you. Shoulder brushing his, small, grounding contact, cameras flashing, lights burning—but you weren’t alone. You weren’t pretending anymore. You weren’t just “sunshine.”
Barbie. You embraced it. Perfect, untouchable, real. Dangerous. And for the first time, you loved it.
Walking out, shoulder to shoulder, slow-motion in the camera flashes, chest decompressing just slightly, hands brushed together. Subtle tension. Subtle comfort. Rage still there, but tempered by the only person who could hold the storm without flinching.
You weren’t alone anymore.
The training room smelled of sweat and rubber mats, a faint metallic tang from the weights lined along the wall. You were focused, as usual, keeping the mask in place—the “sunshine of the Avengers,” calm, smiling, light-hearted, joking with Sam when he pushed too far. But beneath it, your body was taut, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. Jaw clenched, knuckles pale from gripping your gloves, eye twitching from nerves you refused to admit to anyone.
Bucky was there, quietly observing. His gaze caught every subtle movement—the way your shoulders tightened when Steve barked instructions, the slight flare of your nostrils when Sam teased you again, the microsecond flinch at Tony’s sarcastic quip about “America’s perfect little angel.” And he noticed the tiny victories you gave yourself, small gestures that no one else saw: how you exhaled slowly to center yourself, how you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from losing your composure.
“Hand me the weight plate,” you said, voice light, smiling at Sam.
He smirked. “Didn’t know you had that in you,” he teased, sliding the plate toward you.
Inside, something snapped. Not a full meltdown, not yet—but your mind spun, fiery. I’ve done everything to prove myself. I’ve trained, I’ve fought, I’ve saved the team’s ass more times than I can count, and I’m still the ‘perfect eye candy.’ Still the Barbie everyone thinks is just… nice and shiny. Nice and safe. But not real. Not me.
You felt your pulse spike, the heat rushing up your neck, the subtle twitch behind your eye. You bit back the words you wanted to shout at him, the ones that would ruin your “perfect” image. Instead, you flexed your fingers, fists tightening, then relaxing.
Bucky noticed.
He slid closer under the guise of adjusting his stance, hand brushing yours for a moment as he passed. Not enough for anyone else to see, but enough for you to feel the anchor, the grounding presence. Your chest eased fractionally. I feel safer letting him see me like this than anyone else.
Later that night, after the press conferences and tabloids had done their worst, you snuck into the quiet room near the gym. The weight of the day finally hit. Your heels clicked against the floor, sharp and fast, every step a beat of frustration. You grabbed a pillow, fists clenched, and slammed into it, muttering curses under your breath—words no one else would hear, but that burned with truth.
Bucky appeared in the doorway, quietly, no judgment. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask if you were okay. He just watched, letting you scream, letting you crash out. When you finally stopped to catch your breath, shaking and flushed, he moved closer. Wordless. Calm. Grounding. He sat beside you, helping you wrap your knuckles, his hands steady, deliberate, patient.
“You don’t have to hold it in with me,” he murmured quietly, adjusting the tape over your raw knuckles.
“I like that you see this side of me,” you whispered, voice still shaky. “I don’t have to hide the crash-outs with you.”
He gave a small, rare smile, nodding. That was all. No words needed. Just presence. Just understanding. You leaned slightly against him, too long, aware of the heat from his body and the calm steadiness that countered your chaos. Tiny comfort gestures, grounding, simple, intimate, safe.
The next week, you returned to public appearances with a new fire burning inside. The tabloids had tried to brand you as “The Avengers’ Barbie,” patronizing and backhanded, and you’d leaned into it—flawless, sarcastic, sharp. You answered ridiculous questions with wit, not sweetness:
“Skincare routine?” → “Sunscreen and saving the world, same as always.”
“Are you planning on settling down?” → “I’m busy fighting gods and aliens. Romance will have to wait.”
Fans adored you for it. The applause, the flashes, the commentary praising your confidence—it lit a spark in you. Not the “perfect Barbie” they thought they wanted, but the chaotic, brilliant, unapologetic you.
Backstage, though, you still needed your release. You crashed into a quiet room, fists slamming a pillow, muttering curses and half-laughed expletives. Bucky followed, silent. Sat beside you. Adjusted the tape. Hand brushing yours for grounding. His rare soft smile letting you know he understood completely.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, voice low, calm. “I see all of it. The chaos, the fire, the rage. And I like it.”
You laughed, bitter and raw. “I don’t even know if I like it half the time.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, shrugging slightly. “I do.”
Over the following days, subtle moments became routine. Training sessions weren’t just drills—they were sparks of private tension:
Hands brushing over gear.
Leaning on him slightly during late-night sparring.
Tiny glances that lasted too long, letting him know you trusted him with your chaos.
Your public persona stayed strong, sharp, dazzling Barbie: witty, sarcastic, flawless. But in private, with him, you were messy. Real. Human. Raw. He didn’t push, didn’t judge. Just sat there, steady, letting you crash out, letting you be everything the world didn’t get to see.
The duality became empowering. You realized you could be both: the icon the world adored and the chaotic, fiery, messy person Bucky got to know. And for the first time, it didn’t hurt—it strengthened you. Your confidence grew, public appearances became performances you controlled, and your private moments with Bucky were anchors in a storm of expectations and scrutiny.
He never commented on your public image. He didn’t need to. He just nodded approvingly when you returned from the stage, adjusted your gear, or let out a sigh of exhaustion. Tiny, grounding touches. His presence alone was enough.
The world saw the perfect all american bitch, flawless, witty, unflappable, still a crashout. Bucky saw everything else. And that, finally, was enough for you too.
(You've got mail!) I SCREAM INSIDE TO DEAL WITH IT LIKE AH, LIKE AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AH AH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH OH MY FUCKINGG GODDDDDDDD. All the time 😇. LMFAOOO anyways life has been kicking my ass work has been kicking my ass and honestly this was so therapeutic to write. STAY TUNED I HAVE MORE COMING UP SHORTLY!!! But hope yall enjoyed this, this was lowkey fun to make. I left some little Easter eggs in here hope you find them
summary: you would laugh at the irony — bucky is the one telling you the love of your life is gone — if you didn’t feel like this.
WARNINGS: angst, swearing, they kiss n stuff so ig its cute sometimes, civil war discourse, guns, unstable reader, also TREAT YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHERS RIGHT or ill come beat you with a BAT lmk if i missed anything
pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!enhanced!Reader
word count: 12.5k
a/n: written for hann over @sunmoonandbucky!! and i’m so sorry this is late! this is a stand-alone kinda prequel that occurs in the same universe as come undone so sorry yall steve is still an asshole and this ain’t up to snuff but i was having trouble keeping it a reasonable length (like maybe less than 15k???) my prompt was “i bet they have a sex dungeon” but i reworded it just a tiny bit. gif not mine
It begins with “Maybe I can get Thor to come down,” and “Only if you call your blondie first.” (You add you could pretend to put a gun on Jane and he’d instantly come down in a blaze of white and rainbow light — Jane retorts with the fact that Steve Rogers bought a bouquet of roses on your first date a week after you began being her shadow and writes you hand-written letters every second week. The instant you call, he’ll come running)
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.
Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Word Count: About 5.3k.
He didn't want the cleaning service at first.
Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.
The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.
Didn’t think he needed it.
And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.
Then something changed.
It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.
And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.
He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.
Found himself breathing deeper.
And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.
He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.
But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.
----
It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.
Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.
That was four years ago.
The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.
So she cleaned.
Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.
Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.
When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.
“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”
She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.
It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.
The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.
A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.
Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.
It wasn’t a dream job.
But it was good enough.
And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.
----
She hadn’t meant to snoop.
It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.
But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.
Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.
Barnes, James B.
Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.
Her stomach gave a weird little flip.
She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
James Barnes.
It couldn’t be-
But it was.
She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.
And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.
And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on.
Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.
A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.
So he was her boss.
It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."
She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.
She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.
He was just a man.
A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.
----
She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.
Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.
She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.
A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.
And the food.
She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.
No complaints.
So she kept going.
On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.
A small cake.
A batch of oatmeal cookies.
A little apple pie tucked into a glass container, still warm.
Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.
----
It started with the pie.
He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.
The apartment smelled like something sweet.
Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.
He set his keys down and found it on the counter.
Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.
He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.
But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.
And it was good.
He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?
But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.
By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.
And it did.
Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.
He found himself trying to imagine her.
Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?
He started looking forward to Thursdays.
Started coming home earlier, if he could.
And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.
----
He nearly stepped on it.
The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.
But it was a chain.
Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.
He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.
Definitely not his. No one else had been here.
His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.
She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.
The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.
He found himself thinking: She must be older.
The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.
He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.
He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.
He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.
And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.
Just until Thursday.
----
She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.
Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.
She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.
Her throat closed.
The pendant.
A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.
The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.
She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.
It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.
She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.
Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?
The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.
We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.
That was it.
She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.
She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.
It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.
It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.
Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.
Almost poetic, really.
The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.
----
He looked a it longer than he meant to.
He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.
When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.
He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.
The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.
It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.
He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.
The necklace, and beside it, the flower.
No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.
For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.
For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.
For the food that tasted like memory.
For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.
----
She wasn’t expecting anything.
By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.
Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.
That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.
Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.
It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.
She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.
There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.
He’d found it.
She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.
She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.
----
The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.
It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.
Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.
He moved toward the kitchen.
And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.
He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.
He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.
He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.
It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.
And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.
The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.
They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.
He reached for a second slice.
And for the first time in days, he really smiled.
----
He should’ve checked the schedule.
The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.
No session.
A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.
James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.
He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.
Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.
She’s there today.
He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.
But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.
The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.
He reached the hallway.
He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.
Not what he had expected.
As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.
Baby, I'm preying on you tonight
Hunt you down eat you alive
Just like animals
Animals
Like animals
Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-
Maybe you think that you can hide
I can smell your scent for miles
Just like animals
Animals
Like animals-mals
It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.
A very suggestive prose, by the way.
He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.
But I get so high when I’m inside you-
She turned.
Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.
They stared at each other.
Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.
Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I- I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”
“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”
It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.
He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”
The lie passed his lips smoothly.
She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.
She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”
“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”
She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.
He looked away.
The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.
----
She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.
Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.
Not even close.
In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.
And now… this.
Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.
She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.
He didn’t seem mad. That was something.
Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.
But that didn’t mean anything.
People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.
Fuck.
She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.
The pendant. The flower.
Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.
But that was before this shitshow.
Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.
What if she got fired?
What the hell was she going to do?
The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.
She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.
And the thing that made it worse?
She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.
And now all she wanted to do was vanish.
----
He tried to read the bill.
The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.
Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.
His eyes scanned the same sentence again.
Still nothing stuck.
Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.
The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.
She hadn’t fled.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.
He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.
He hadn’t meant to scare her.
He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.
What if she requested a transfer?
What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?
He wouldn't complain.
He’d never say a word.
But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.
He looked at the time and did some quick math.
She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.
If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.
He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.
So he waited.
Just long enough.
Let the minutes tick by.
And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.
----
She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.
She heard the footsteps before she saw him.
She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.
He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.
But she knew better.
She straightened her back and made herself speak.
“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.
He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.
He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”
A beat.
“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”
He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”
There it was. A quiet request.
Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.
The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.
“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”
He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.
“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”
There was a pause.
His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.
“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”
His voice was rougher now, gentler.
“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”
She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.
He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”
marvel au
bucky x blackwidow!reader
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, handjobs, fondling, nudity, dry humping, grinding, female masterbation, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, clothed ejaculation,reader has dubious methods of coping, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, use of safe word/motion, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, major arguements, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, injury, bloodr, eader is lowkey depressed, trauma. mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything - will be updated with each part
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PARTS [5/7]
part one
part two
part three
part four
part five
ok i had an idea for a one shot but it’s totally fine if u don’t want to do it!
so reader and bucky break up (bucky dumps her) bc he thinks she can do better or whatevs and instead of feeling sad, reader is kind of getting off to how bad bucky is doing without her 😜😜 this is obviously inspired by my kink is karma from chappell lmao. anyways ends in fluff or smut and a lot of how much bucky missed her 🙂↕️🙂↕️😛😛
thank uuu !!
BITTER [one-shot]
modern marvel au
vet!bartender!bucky x reader
Bucky doesn't do relationships, but maybe you'll be the one to change him
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, sexual themes, angst, hurt/comfort, major character death, ptsd, bucky barnes needs a hug, bucky barnes has issues, bar fights, alcohol, smoking, swearing, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 8.2k
A/N: heya nonnie. this isn't exactlyyy what you asked for but i hope you like it anyway. i'm technically on hiatus rn but i felt bad leaving your ask unanswered for so long. i've been working on this between classes, i'm not super happy with it but i thought i'd post it anyway, it got a bit longer than i was expecting. i have like 5 million things due at the end of the month so i might be gone for a bit so here is a treat in the meantime! much love! ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.
permanent taglist: @civilbucky @globetrotter28 (i swear there was someone else who wanted to be added, pls let me know if that was you i lost your comment)
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The first thing Wanda had told you about Bucky Barnes was to beware.
Proceed with caution.
You were the type to fall in love easily, it was one of the first things you had confessed to Wanda, wine-drunk only a week after moving into her dodgy shoebox of an apartment, where the previous tenant's mail still showed up—and so did their debt collector. You were new in the city, bright-eyed and overly romantic about all you encountered, including the suspicious stains on the carpet courtesy of Wanda’s old roommate, who she only referred to as ‘that nightmarish cunt’. Wanda was cool, chic yet edgy, her voice dripping a Slavic accent and always armed with a dangerous look in her eye. She worked downtown as a sous chef at one of those mid-tier restaurants that you considered fancy, but anyone even marginally higher than your pay grade wouldn’t look twice.
Her boyfriend, Sam, worked at a bar across the road. Howling Commandos. He co-owned it with his buddy, the infamous Bucky Barnes. They had met while serving in the army, both retiring early from service. Sam was discharged after an injury that rendered him ‘useless’, and Bucky was discharged shortly after on grounds of mental health.
And maybe that was the allure—the myth of Bucky Barnes.
He was handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed, the usual fairy-tale rom-com affair. He was brooding, damaged goods, and had a real chip on his shoulder since his discharge. He poured a good drink, kept the bar running smoothly, and was big enough to intimidate drunk frat boys who occasionally wandered in looking for a fight. But apparently, he didn’t do relationships. He would fuck anything that moved if it caught his fleeting attention for long enough, but that was it.
Wanda had confessed it all to you on that dreaded wine-drunk night, hummus and carrot sticks forgotten as the TV blared Wanda’s Spotify playlist on loop. She’d had a friend, one who had moved away now, but that friend had slept with Bucky. Said it was the best lay of her life.
So, Wanda had said, voice dipped as she gave you a drunken, sloppy grin over her Pinot Gris, the two bottles she had pinched from work now empty. If you want the night of your life, go for it, but don’t expect anything more.
That was the rule with Bucky Barnes:
Don’t get attached.
So, maybe foolishly, when Wanda had roused you from a hangover-induced nap the following day by asking if you wanted to join her at the Howling Commandos and continue your bender from the night before, you had taken the leap.
–
Howling Commandos didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.
It had the look of a place that had seen one too many late nights and even more bad decisions. Exposed brick walls, low-hanging lights that shrouded the room in a dim orange glow, and a row of pool tables tucked in the back behind a collection of stained wood tables and chairs. It was edgy, kind of dark and mysterious, much like the infamous bartender who now stood before you in the flesh.
You and Wanda had descended upon the bar at half-past nine, arms linked, laughter spilling between you. You’d gelled quickly—your soft, unguarded friendliness balancing out her wicked smirks and razor-edged sarcasm.
She swung into a barstool with the ease of someone who belonged here, peeling off her winter coat and tossing it onto the counter, shaking the snow from her auburn hair. Across from her, Bucky barely spared her a glance, his mouth set in a line that could have been annoyance or indifference.
“Wanda.” His voice was low, unimpressed.
That was all he said. No hello, no warmth. Just her name, like it was something to be tolerated.
Wanda only grinned, leaning her elbows onto the bar like she had all the time in the world.
“Sam’s out back,” Bucky added, eyes flicking toward the door before sliding right past her, landing on you instead. “Still picking up strays, I see.”
You grinned before you could help yourself, slipping into the seat next to Wanda. As you shrugged off your coat, neatly sliding it into your lap, Wanda let out a mock-horrified gasp on your behalf.
“So rude, this is my new roommate.” Wanda’s eyes slid over to you, head tilting as she gestured towards the scowling Bucky. “And this dickhead is Bucky. He’s co-owner with Sam.”
“I remember.” You replied with ease, your gaze and smile unwavering even as Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, turning away to continue polishing the glass in his palm.
Wanda, unbothered by his callousness, leant in. “I’m going to be honest, I need a drink ASAP. I’ve got an awful headache, and you know what I always say! Best way to beat a hangover? Drink even more.”
“Does Sam know you’re an alcoholic?” Bucky cut back, not even bothering to turn around.
“Awwh, Buck, is that genuine care?”
“Not for you.” Bucky snipped.
Wanda made a mock pout face, fingers drumming across the bar. “But seriously, put me out of my misery here—”
“Your usual?” He cut over her.
Wanda didn’t skip a beat.
“Pretty please,” she purred, her tone sweet and syrupy, dripping with exaggerated charm. As she settled more comfortably into the stool, her gaze flicked to you with a knowing gleam. “What do you want? On the house.”
Before you could respond, Sam’s voice rang out, thick with amused exasperation. “Baby, you can’t go offering drinks on the house to everyone—” He appeared from the back, a box of bottled spirits cradled in his arms,
“She’s my roommate—” Wanda began, but Sam cut her off, raising an eyebrow as he set the box down with a thud.
“Oh yeah? I haven’t forgotten the last one that you also insisted could have free drinks, and she turned out to be—”
“Don’t! Don’t bring up that cunt—”
You tuned out the conversation as Wanda slipped from her seat, weaving around the bar with the kind of effortless grace that came with knowing she belonged. She leaned into Sam’s space without hesitation, her laughter slipping through the low hum of the bar, threading between the murmur of voices and the scratchy tune spilling from the jukebox in the corner.
It wasn’t until Bucky slid a glass of dark liquor across the bar—precisely where Wanda had been sitting—that you finally tore your gaze away from them.
His eyes found yours, expectant, unmoving.
“It’s okay, I can pay,” you assured him, reaching for your wallet, but his unimpressed stare didn’t waver. His silence stretched, almost as if he were waiting for you to back down first.
You didn’t. “Gin and tonic.”
No acknowledgement, not even a nod. He simply turned, reaching for the bottle of gin without a word.
Wanda reappeared beside you, collapsing back into her seat with a dramatic sigh, a sound that quickly dissolved into a giggle as Sam pressed a quick kiss to her cheek on his way past. The small moment of affection made you smile, your gaze trailing after him as he made his way toward the pool tables. He moved with familiarity, exchanging greetings with the patrons, his presence met with easy grins and back pats.
“He’s cute,” you hummed, watching him settle into the space like he owned it.
“I know, right?” Wanda smirked, pulling her drink closer.
You propped an elbow on the bar, your curiosity piqued. “How’d you meet?”
She took a slow sip, savouring the taste before setting the glass down. It looked like rum and coke. Smelt like it too. “He used to come to my work all the time when they were fixing up this place. We just got to talking one day and—”
Bucky set your drink in front of you with the same quiet precision as before, cutting off Wanda’s sentence mid-thought. You turned your attention back to him, offering a bright smile that didn’t falter, even as he met it with a frown.
“I’ve never liked those,” Wanda barely spared him a glance, instead eyeing your drink with mild disdain. “Not sweet enough for me.”
“Well, I like my drinks how I like my men,” you replied, the words coming with a smirk that you directed toward Bucky, holding his gaze longer than you probably should have. “Bitter.”
—
Shivering in the back alley by the dumpsters probably wasn’t your brightest idea, but at this point, you were committed.
You and Wanda had knocked back one too many drinks—again. It was becoming a habit, one that Sam was starting to take personally, considering he was the one who had to cut Wanda off after she got a little too liberal with her chatting and nearly convinced a stranger to let her wear his coat home. You, on the other hand, had managed to slip out gracefully, settling your tab before Wanda was carted out back to be babysat and force-fed water.
Neither of them had been thrilled at the idea of you walking home alone. Buzzed, barely dressed for the weather, and just reckless enough to make poor decisions, you’d assured them you were fine. Which, technically, was true. What you had failed to mention was that you hadn’t actually made it more than a few feet out the door before deciding to truly test the limits of your dignity.
The cigarette hanging from your lips wobbled slightly as you tried—unsuccessfully—to light it with numb fingers. You swore under your breath, stuffing the useless lighter back into your pocket just as the back door of Howling Commandos swung open.
And as fate—or some cruel, all-seeing god—would have it, it wasn’t Sam or Wanda who stepped outside.
Bucky emerged, a black trash bag slung over one shoulder, his usual scowl fixed in place. His stride slowed slightly when he caught sight of you, his expression unreadable.
“Thought you went home,” he muttered. “Sam and Wanda already left. If you need a ride, I can call you a cab.”
You tilted your head, watching as he moved, efficient, mechanical. The back door groaned shut behind him, its echo swallowed by the muffled city noise beyond the alley. Dumpster lid up, bag tossed in, blue eyes flicking back to you, waiting.
“I don’t need a ride.”
His gaze swept over you, unimpressed. “Sure about that? You look outta your damn mind right now.”
You exhaled, breath clouding the frigid air as you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets. The wind bit through the alleyway, slithering beneath the fur-trimmed collar and creeping up your spine.
“Well, when I had this brilliant idea, I was still drunk,” you admitted, shifting your weight on unsteady legs. “Now that alcohol’s worn off and it’s cold as shit, I can’t even fuckin’ light a smoke ‘cause my hands are shaking so bad.”
You lifted your fingers to prove your point, stiff and trembling from the cold, flashing him a lazy grin. He did not look impressed.
“This a cry for help? I don’t know what it is with Wanda and picking up crazy fuckin’ roommates—”
“I wanted to get your number.” You shrugged, unbothered by the scepticism in his tone. “Didn’t want to do it in the bar, figured you’re a private kinda guy, don’t like putting your business out for the world. I can respect that.”
He blinked, once. Then, slowly, “So you thought the next best option was to wait in a back alley in the snow—?”
“Hey,” you cut him off with a laugh, shifting your weight against the wall. “I said I was drunk when I came up with it… never said it was a good plan.”
Something flickered across his expression. Dry amusement, maybe. Then, to your surprise, he huffed out a short laugh, his breath visible in the cold air curling between you.
You smirked. “C’mon, I’ve been out here for like… an hour. Least you can do is give me your number.”
He took his time looking you over, slow and assessing. Despite the heavy winter coat hanging off your shoulders, you were still grossly underdressed for the weather. The short, tight-fitting dress clung to you like a second skin, courtesy of Wanda’s slut-shaming is sooo 2016 speech. A poor choice in hindsight, considering the temperature was bordering on unbearable.
“I’ll do you one better.”
You arched a brow. “Yeah?”
His voice dipped lower, something rougher curling at the edges. “How about I lock up, and you sit your pretty little ass in my car? I’ll drive you back to mine.” A beat. “Sound good?”
Now, this was the Bucky Barnes Wanda had described—the dangerous one, the elusive ladykiller. The shift had been minuscule, yet you already found your panties were wet.
You smiled. “Well, now you’re talking my language.”
—
"We should stop seeing each other."
Bucky sat hunched on the edge of his bed, forearms braced against his knees, fingers laced tightly together as if he were holding himself back. He didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his mouth a firm line, but that wasn’t what unsettled you—it was the tension in his shoulders, the restless bounce of his leg, the way he exhaled through his nose like he was already regretting this conversation.
That first night had been the spark, but the fire never quite burned out. It carried on in flickering embers, nights tangled in his sheets, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, bodies moving in time with the city’s restless heartbeat. If you had to put a name to it, fuck buddies was the closest fit, though even that felt too familiar, too warm. There were no tender morning-afters, no texts outside of arranging the next meeting. You met him in the alley after closing and let him drive you back to his place. Though sometimes, you never made it that far. Sometimes, it was the backseat of his car, windows fogged, streetlights streaking across his skin as you clawed at his shoulders. Other times, it was rushed and desperate, your palms braced against crates in the storeroom, breath hitching between half-suppressed moans before either of you had the sense to lock the damn door.
But as winter thawed into spring, something shifted.
The first crack in the foundation came when Bucky, against all odds, accepted your half-hearted invite to grab a bite to eat. You’d won a cheap voucher for a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place around the corner from the bar, fully expecting him to wave you off. But he hadn’t. And somehow, the two of you had ended up crammed into a booth, sharing a pile of nachos, snickering into your drinks as you watched a group of college kids make absolute fools of themselves. You wouldn’t have called it a date—Bucky sure as hell didn’t—but something about it felt different. Easier. The way he’d nudged his plate toward you when he noticed you eyeing his last taco. The way he leaned just a little too close, voice dropping low in your ear, murmuring some dry remark that made you snort into your margarita.
You weren’t sure when the line blurred. Maybe it was when your not-date nights became just as routine as your hookups. Or maybe it was at Wanda’s birthday dinner when Bucky—without thinking, without hesitation—draped his arm across the back of your chair, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin of your shoulder. You hadn’t even noticed at first, too caught up in conversation, but Wanda and Sam sure as hell had. They shared a look, one of those wordless exchanges, tight-lipped and knowing. Like they were bracing for the inevitable. Like they could already see the fallout creeping on the horizon.
And they were right.
Because after a year of effortless, reckless bliss, Bucky finally reached his limit.
You should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known that letting Wanda rope you into planning his surprise birthday party was a mistake. That something so personal, so full of effort, would make him withdraw. It was all too much. Too close. Too intimate for someone who spent his life keeping people at arm’s length.
And just like that, the fire snuffed out.
Your grip tightened around the box in your hands, the crinkling of the wrapping paper comically loud in the quiet room. The laughter and chatter from the party outside felt like a world away, muffled through the walls of his bedroom. You had pulled him aside to give him his present in private, and now it sat between you like a hand grenade, pin already pulled, waiting for the explosion.
“Are you going to open your present? Hand-picked by yours truly, I made sure not to let Sam meddle with those prank gifts of his—” You ignored his words, shoving the brightly wrapped box towards him. He barely glanced at it before waving it off, his scowl deepening.
“Did you even hear what I said?” Bucky interrupted you, expression nowhere near impressed
“Jesus, Bucky. Are you serious?” The sigh that left you was excessive, the once bubbly and sweet aura you wrapped yourself up in so tightly melting away in an instant.
You should have known.
He had been off all week. Distant, restless. He’d stopped waiting for you in the back alley after his shifts ended, ignored your texts, and let your calls go to voicemail. Hell, he hadn’t even invited you over to fuck in two weeks, and that was the foundation of whatever this was between you. You’d told yourself it was the late winter blues—snow had been falling thick for weeks now even with spring looming closer by the day. Maybe, you had told yourself, it was some kind of early mid-life crisis with his birthday looming.
But deep down, you’d known better. You’d felt it in the way he couldn’t meet your eyes anymore, how his touch had cooled from burning to indifferent. It was like a switch had flipped, turning lust into something close to disgust.
“I’m serious,” Bucky said, exhaling like the conversation had already exhausted him. He rubbed a hand down his face, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder as if looking at you would make this harder. Or maybe easier. “We should stop… whatever this is.”
The present now sat on the bed, abandoned between you. You placed it down with deliberate care, fingers smoothing over the edges as you mulled over his words. Beyond the walls, the party raged on, voices rising in drunken harmony as Sweet Caroline blared over the speakers. A chorus of shouts—touchin’ me, touchin’ you—mocked the silence stretching between you.
You knew there was no point in arguing, not when Bucky had already made up his mind, disillusioned or not. But the question still burned its way up your throat before you could stop it, raw and sharp as you met his gaze.
“Why?”
His brows furrowed. “Why?”
However he had expected you to react, this clearly wasn’t it. Maybe he thought you’d cry. Maybe he thought you’d yell. But you had never been the type for tears or begging. You just wanted the truth. The cold, ruthless reason why this wasn’t working anymore.
“Yes. Why? What’s changed?”
Bucky hesitated, something flickering across his face. Hesitation, regret, guilt, maybe all three. Then, his jaw tensed, and he forced the words out like they tasted bitter on his tongue.
“You’re… You’re just too much. You’re too much for me.”
Your head tilted slightly, observing him. He still wouldn’t meet your eye.
“Too much, huh?” You echoed, voice steady despite the way your stomach twisted. “And how exactly am I too much?”
He sighed, exasperated. “You’re just… overbearing. You always want to text or call, or stop by the bar. You’re always asking after me with Sam and Wanda. It’s all just a little too much, doll. This was supposed to be a casual thing.” His fingers flexed at his sides, his frustration palpable. “You’re just—”
“So, you’re punishing me because I care?”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying, Bucky?” Your voice sharpened, and your patience unravelling. “That I’m clingy? That I’m suffocating you? Is it such a crime that I want to spend time with you—”
“You’re just—fuckin’ everywhere.” His voice rose, and you arched a brow, arms folding over your chest. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I swear to God. Every thought I have, everything I do—you’re there. I dream about you. And sometimes, I swear I smell that goddamn perfume of yours even when you’re not around—”
“Bucky.” You took a step forward, searching his face for something, anything. “Have you ever considered that maybe this is happening because you like me? Not because I’m some overbearing burden in your life—”
His lips pressed into a thin line, his entire body stiff.
“I don’t do relationships.”
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking your head. “So, what then? You’re just gonna cut me off? I got too close, didn’t I? Too close to you—to the real you, the one you hide under all that brooding, tough-guy bullshit—so now you’re pushing me away?”
Bucky’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
You exhaled sharply, your patience splintering under the weight of his silence. “You know, Wanda warned me this would happen. Sam too. Hell, just about everyone out there did.” You gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the muffled chaos of the party beyond his bedroom. Laughter and music seeped through the walls. “Your friends, your colleagues. They all warned me. Guess I’m the idiot for thinking it’d be different, huh?”
His gaze flickered. A barely-there flinch. You pressed on.
“They told me you throw people away when they get too attached.” Your voice softened, but not with kindness, with something hollow, something resigned. “Or worse, when you do.”
His breath hitched, so quick and so subtle that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you would’ve missed it. But you saw it: the crack, the hesitation, the battle waging behind those sharp blue eyes.
For a second, it almost looked like he might break. Like he might finally say what he was really thinking.
But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment was gone. His expression hardened, every ounce of warmth draining from his face.
“I don’t need you.”
And just like that, the last ember of hope inside you burned out.
You swallowed against the ache in your throat, but your voice came steady, unwavering. “Is that the truth?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “Or are you just telling yourself that to feel better?”
His eyes darkened, and this time, there was no hesitation.
“Get out.”
—
You weren’t sure why you came back to the Howling Commandos.
You were beginning to suspect that Wanda and Sam were scheming something. She was constantly begging you to visit the bar every night off she had with the promise of free liquor. It had taken a few weeks after Bucky’s birthday meltdown for you to finally budge. Maybe it was the way Wanda had pulled you along, her arm hooked through yours like she could drag you away from the weight of it all. Maybe it was the way she made you laugh, tipping her head back, auburn hair catching in the bar’s dim light, her wicked look as she shrugged off her coat and flung it onto the counter. Maybe it was because you knew he would be here.
And, maybe, just maybe, you wanted that.
Bucky stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw tight as he poured a whiskey neat without looking up. He must’ve heard you come in like he always did, but his eyes never once lifted from his work.
You perched upon one of the barstools beside Wanda, the wood sticky beneath your elbows, the orange glow from the bar’s lights catching in the condensation on your glass. A gin and tonic. No words exchanged, no request needed, just Bucky’s hand sliding it across the table without so much as a glance in your direction.
It was almost funny, the way he refused to look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge you beyond the ghost of a touch as his fingers brushed the glass. And yet, he still remembered your drink. Still took the time to slice a bit of lemon for the rim, just the way you liked it. Never mind that he’d once grumbled about how much he hated customers who ordered anything that meant extra cleanup at the end of the night.
“You gonna sulk all night or actually have fun?” Wanda teased, knocking her knee against yours.
You took a slow sip, letting the cool burn of gin settle on your tongue before answering. “I am having fun.”
“Sure you are,” she drawled, not buying it for a second.
But the night wasn’t all bad. You were feeling good, maybe a little too good, laughing at Sam’s exaggerated retelling of a story you’d already heard a dozen times, Wanda snorting into her rum, the buzz settling in like a second skin.
But the uneasy peace did not last long, as chaos had a way of following Bucky Barnes like his own shadow.
Two guys, a little too confident, a little too eager. You felt them before you even turned, whiskey on their breath, a practiced smirk tugging at the lips. The kind of men who smelled like cheap aftershave and overconfidence, sliding into your space with easy grins and empty compliments. One leaned in too close. “Didn’t think someone like you would be drinking alone.”
You arched a brow. “Who says I’m alone?”
He took the bait, smirking. “That right? Where’s your boyfriend, then?”
“Don’t have one.” You replied, tone disinterested.
He grasped your arm, and you yanked it away, nearly elbowing Wanda beside you in the process. “Oh yeah? I could change that for you sweetheart—”
You didn’t have time to answer before you saw the bar flap shoot up in your peripherals.
“Hey, man,” Sam warned, barely getting the words out before Bucky was there, a cloud at the edge of your vision, muscles wound tight beneath his shirt. He wasn’t looking at you, not really, but you could feel the storm rolling off him in waves, the tension singing through his frame.
The guy didn’t even have time to react before Bucky shoved him back—hard enough to knock him off balance, sending his drink sloshing onto the floor.
“The fuck?” Whiskey-breath scowled, stumbling forward like he thought he had a chance.
Bucky stepped in, jaw clenched, fist already curled like a promise. His voice was smooth, even. “Out. Now.”
The guy scoffed, straightening. “Oh yeah? What are you, the bouncer?”
“Nah.” Bucky tilted his head. “I fuckin’ own the place.”
Sam was rounding the bar, slipping beneath the bar flap. “One rule, Bucky! We have one rule!”
“No assholes in the bar?” Bucky deadpanned, flexing his fingers.
“No. No punching customers—hey!”
Too late.
The first punch landed with a sickening crack, sharp enough to slice through the low hum of conversation. A brief, stunned silence settled over the bar, glasses paused mid-air, a cue ball rolling to a stop on the felt. Then, a gasp. A sharp inhale. Someone let out a bark of laughter.
The guy staggered back, clutching his jaw, blinking like he couldn’t quite process what had just happened. But instead of learning his lesson, he surged forward, swinging blindly in a desperate attempt to save face.
The impact came from the right. A solid hit, knuckles cutting against Bucky’s brow. His head snapped slightly to the side, strands of dark hair falling loose from where they’d been tucked behind his ears. The second punch followed fast—less precise, more frantic—but it clipped him along the cheekbone, just enough to split the skin.
A thin trail of red welled up, tracking down the sharp line of his face.
Bucky stilled.
A slow, dangerous exhale. Then, before the guy could so much as blink, Bucky struck. A brutal, efficient one-two, fist slamming into ribs, then an upward cut that sent the man sprawling. His friend hesitated, torn between pride and self-preservation, before grabbing a fistful of his collar and dragging him toward the door.
Bucky flexed his fingers, shaking out his hand like he was testing for damage, like he barely felt it. The cut above his brow was bleeding, a slow trickle of crimson trailing towards his temple, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
You took a sip of your drink, eyes flicking lazily towards him, your pulse not even kicking up. Beside you, Wanda didn’t so much as blink; she just swirled the last of her rum and coke, watching the scene unfold like it was a rerun of a show she’d seen too many times before.
Finally, with a knowing smirk, she leaned in, voice low and honey-smooth. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”
You swirled your gin and tonic, ice clinking against the glass, lips curling around the rim as you took another sip.
“Maybe.”
—
The back room was cold, the kind of cold that settled deep in the bones, seeping through the exposed brick walls. A single bulb hung overhead, casting a dim, yellow glow over the stacked crates of liquor and the metal shelves lined with bottles. You’d been in here many times, though usually under much more pleasurable circumstances. Bucky sat on an overturned crate, elbows on his knees, blood drying along the ridge of his knuckles. His head was tipped slightly forward, shoulders hunched as he rolled one of his split knuckles between his fingers, like he was testing if it still hurt.
You shut the door behind you.
His jaw tightened. “Don’t.”
You ignored him, stepping past the crates and grabbing the first aid kit off the nearest shelf. “Sit up straight.”
He didn’t move.
So, with a sigh, you pressed a firm hand to his shoulder and shoved him upright. He let it happen, though he shot you an unamused look as he exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Jesus, you’re pushy.”
You crouched in front of him, flipping open the first aid kit, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling the air. He watched as you poured alcohol onto a clean cloth, soaking it through before pressing it against the cut above his brow.
Bucky flinched, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab your wrist, to stop you. But he didn’t.
“Hold still,” you murmured, dabbing at the wound.
His lip curled slightly, but he stayed put, letting you clean the blood away. His fists clenched on his thighs, shoulders wound tight like he was waiting for something worse.
“You know,” you said, voice light despite the weight in the air, “I heard from Wanda you’ve been losing it lately.”
Bucky huffed. “Yeah?”
“She said you’ve been missing shifts, and when you do turn up, you’re, uh…” You smirked, twisting the cloth to clean the edge of his jaw. “Well, these are her words, not mine—a miserable old cunt. Keep picking fights with customers.” You paused, waiting to see his response. His lips remained sown shut, his gaze cold, and he did not quite meet your eye. With an arch of your brow, you continued.
“Apparently, someone broke into your car, and you’re getting kicked out of your apartment because your landlord wants to sell it to some construction assholes.” You tilted your head, studying him. “I mean, some of that isn’t your fault, but it sounds like karma to me.”
Bucky’s fingers flexed. “Why do you care, doll?”
“I don’t,” you said easily, wringing out the cloth before pressing it against his brow again. “It’s like… watching a car wreck. Kind of captivating in a way.”
He let out a short, humourless laugh. “You’re fucked up.”
“Yeah, maybe I am.” You shrugged, barely glancing at him as you grabbed another clean cloth. “But I think, deep down, maybe I just pity you.”
Bucky’s expression darkened. “Why are you so normal about all of this? Aren’t you the one that’s supposed to be, I don’t know, freaking out? I was the one who dropped you, not the other way around.”
You paused, the cloth still pressed to his skin. You considered his words, then slowly and calmly, you replied. “It’s your own heart that you’re breaking, baby.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You don’t know that.”
“I think I do.”
His lips parted like he was about to argue, but instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t know shit about me.”
You sat back on your heels, observing him. The bruises were darkening across his cheekbones, his knuckles still raw, and his body shuddering from the aftermath. But beneath it all—under the cold defiance and the sharp edges—you saw it. The weight of something unspoken, something he wouldn’t admit to himself.
You hummed, tilting your head. “I know a lot.”
Bucky’s gaze flickered to you, wary.
“I know that you take your coffee black, your whiskey neat,” you said, voice soft. “That you always make your bed because it’s a habit from when you served. You prefer to drive stick. You’re a cat person.”
You held his gaze, watching the way his fingers curled. “I know that you wear two sets of dog tags. That there are ghosts following you that you don’t talk about. I know that you realised you were getting attached to me. That it scared you so badly you dropped me the moment it clicked.”
“I know that you still ask after me,” you finished, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know that deep down, you care about me.”
Silence settled between you.
Bucky stared at his hands, dried blood caking along the ridges of his knuckles. He was still for a long time, so long you thought maybe he wasn’t going to respond at all.
“This… this thing between us.” His voice was rough. “It was a fling. Nothing more. A moment in time, not to be repeated.”
You inhaled slowly, disappointment evident, then stood.
With an easy motion, you tossed the bloodied rag onto a nearby crate.
“Keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, stepping back.
Bucky looked up at you, something flickering behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
You just smiled.
“Because I know,” you said simply, turning toward the door, “that in the end, you’ll come crawling back to me.”
“I won’t.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the corners of your lips curling.
“Okay.”
—
The cemetery was quiet, save for the whisper of wind through bare branches and the distant hum of traffic beyond the iron gates. The last bite of winter still clung to the air, spring struggling to take hold, leaving the sky an endless stretch of pale grey.
You pulled your coat tighter around yourself as you stepped out of Sam’s car, boots crunching against the gravel path. Wanda climbed out from the passenger side, rubbing her arms against the cold, while Sam exhaled sharply, tilting his head towards the small gathering of headstones up ahead.
“He’s already here,” he murmured.
Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his back to you, his head slightly bowed toward the grave. Even from a distance, there was a tension in the way he held himself—like he was bracing for impact or maybe just trying to keep from unravelling.
You tightened your grip on the flowers in your hand and followed Sam and Wanda towards him.
Bucky didn’t turn when you approached, but you saw his shoulders shift, the slight tensing of his jaw when he realised there was one more person than expected. He still didn’t say anything, though, just kept his eyes on the headstone.
Steve Rogers.
The name was carved deep into the stone, clean and straightforward. No rank, no medals, no accolades. Just a name. A man who had meant something to them.
You hadn’t even known Steve existed until Sam mentioned him offhand a few days ago, his voice softer than usual, the usual humour dimmed. He hadn’t given many details—just that Steve was an old friend, someone he and Bucky had served with, and that the anniversary of his death was coming up. It hadn’t been an invitation, just a passing remark, but something about it stuck with you. Maybe it was the way Sam glanced at Bucky afterwards, concern hidden beneath his easygoing demeanour or the way Wanda’s expression darkened slightly like she’d been expecting it. You didn’t know anything about the man they were mourning, but you knew Bucky, and you knew the kind of grief that sat heavily on a person’s shoulders. Maybe you wanted to pay your respects. Perhaps you just wanted an excuse to get eyes on him, to see how bad the damage was. Either way, when Wanda and Sam left for the cemetery, you were in the car with them.
You stepped forward and crouched down, laying the flowers gently against the grave. The wind tugged at the petals as you stood, moving back beside Wanda, who sent you a glance but didn’t say a word.
Sam was the first to speak. “Damn, Steve. I hope you know we visit you even in the freezing fuckin’ cold.”
A small chuckle rumbled from Bucky’s chest, barely there. “Yeah.”
Sam exhaled, shaking his head. “You know, I think about that time in training when Bucky dared you to climb the roof of the barracks, and when you actually did it, Bucky nearly had a heart attack ‘cause you realised he’d have to go up there to get you down.”
Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “Idiot did a victory pose at the top. Almost fell straight off.”
Sam laughed. “Man, I wish we had taken a photo of you, dumbass.”
They fell into an easy rhythm, trading stories, some funny, some quiet and unspoken, shared only through small glances and nods. Wanda stood beside you, hands clasped in front of her, while you listened, letting them have their moment. She hadn’t known Steve either, just fragments of memories and stories Sam had told her over the years.
Eventually, the cold started to settle in deep, and Sam clapped his hands together. “Alright, I don’t know, but I think Steve would be personally offended if we froze our asses off standing here like idiots instead of heading home.”
Wanda nodded, already turning back toward the cars. You followed, but before you could take more than a few steps, Bucky spoke.
“I’ll take her home.”
The words were short, and clipped, but they made Wanda and Sam pause.
Sam lifted a brow, glancing between the two of you, then exchanged a look with Wanda, one of those unspoken conversations between lovers that didn’t need words.
But neither of them argued.
Sam just gave a small, knowing shrug and started toward his car. Wanda followed without a word, though you could’ve sworn the auburn gave you a subtle smirk.
You exhaled softly, then turned towards Bucky’s car.
The drive was quiet.
Outside, the world blurred past, fields and roads stretching under the grey sky. You kept your hands close to the vents, soaking in what little warmth the car offered, your fingers still stiff from the cold. Bucky’s grip on the wheel was tight, his knuckles pale. He was wound up, his shoulders rigid, and his jaw locked. The muscles in his forearms twitched as he shifted gears, and every so often, he exhaled sharply like he was biting back something sharp.
Minutes passed, the ghost of unspoken words swirling between you.
Then, suddenly—
“Fuck this.” Bucky muttered the words under his breath, his grip on the wheel tightening before he jerked the car off the highway. The tyres crunched over gravel as he turned onto a narrow backroad leading toward a small, empty picnic area near a river. The place was deserted, picnic tables dusted with half-melted frost. Too cold for anyone to be out.
You sat there, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. The sky outside had darkened, clouds pressing down low on the horizon as the river lazily wound its way through the mist. Bucky’s hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his eyes fixed on the view outside.
“How did you know about Steve?” The question left his lips quietly, almost like an afterthought, but it was sharp all the same.
“Sam.” You hesitated for a moment, gathering your thoughts. “I kind of put the pieces together. It’s his dog tags you wear, right?” Your voice came out soft but steady.
Bucky gave a single, sharp nod. “Yeah.”
You sighed, glancing out the window for a brief second. The weight in his voice, the way he carried it like an old wound, told you this was something fragile, something that had never quite healed.
“I didn’t mean to intrude. I just…” You trailed off, the words dying on your tongue, uncertain, too small for the grief that lingered between you. Your gaze flickered to his, but he wasn’t looking at you.
His voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. “Steve... Steve, he wasn’t just my friend. He was my partner.”
Something inside you stilled. The breath you’d been meaning to take got caught in your chest. “You were… together? Dating?”
“Yeah.” His voice wavered, unsteady in a way that made your stomach twist. “We were, uh, in love, I guess.”
The words hit you like a cold gust, Something in your mind clicked into place, pieces of him you hadn’t understood suddenly making sense. You stared at him, taking in the way his brows furrowed, the way the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes seemed more pronounced now, like he’d aged in the last few minutes.
“Did Sam know?”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “A few people did. His family, mine. A few friends.”
“I’m sorry.” You swallowed, trying to push past the lump forming in your throat. The words felt inadequate, almost meaningless. “I know my words don’t mean much or change anything, but I truly am sorry that you lost someone that important to you.”
He didn’t reply right away. Instead, his grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, the leather creaking beneath his hold. His eyes stayed locked on the river, but he wasn’t really seeing it. He was somewhere else.
Then, barely above a whisper, “He stood on a landmine.”
Bucky’s voice was rough, worn thin. “He was dead before… before he would have even realised he’d stepped on it. They never really recovered all of his body. He just kinda… turned into mist.”
You felt your stomach drop. A slow, creeping horror curled around your ribs, sinking its claws in deep. “You saw it?”
“Yeah.”
“Bucky, that’s horrific, I—” You felt your words die in your throat. What was there to say? There was no comfort for something like that. No words that could make it hurt less.
Then, slowly, his head turned, an empty, haunted gaze meeting yours. “That coffin out there, it’s empty. We do this every year, but it’s like talking to the wind.”
The words were like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, your throat tight with the rawness of it. Slowly, you reached across the console, your fingers brushing against his arm. “He didn’t suffer.”
“No.” Bucky's voice broke for the first time. “No, I suppose I should be thankful for that.” A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away with a rough, almost impatient hand. But he didn’t pull away from your touch. Didn’t move to hide the way his hands shook, fingers still locked in a vice grip around the wheel.
You didn’t comment on it.
You kept your hand on his arm, a steady presence against the tension coiled beneath his skin. There was nothing to say—at least, nothing that would make any of it easier. He had already said enough, and you weren’t going to insult him by pretending there were magic words to fix it. So you simply stayed, grounding him in the quiet, hoping that maybe, just maybe, letting even a sliver of it out might lighten the weight he carried.
The silence stretched, thick but not uncomfortable, the kind that settled in the space between two people who understood each other without needing to fill the gaps with empty words. A sharp gust of wind rattled against the window, slipping through unseen cracks and sending a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t move. Neither did he.
Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bucky turned his head, his gaze locking onto yours, raw, searching, like he was looking for something he wasn’t even sure existed. His throat bobbed, lips parting as he exhaled a slow, uneven breath. “I’m sorry.”
You blinked, taken aback. “For what?”
“How I’ve treated you these past few weeks.”
“Baby, you don’t need to apologise—”
“No, I do.” He interrupted tone tinged with frustration. “I… I realised that I cared for you. A lot. And it scared the shit out of me. After Steve, well, I swore I wouldn’t love again. I couldn’t… I couldn’t imagine going through that again. Or worse, if I died and left someone behind like that—”
You shook your head, cutting him off gently. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not though—” he began, but you interrupted him again, your voice calm, sure.
“I forgive you.”
Bucky went still, his expression unreadable for a moment as he processed your words. His jaw clenched, his eyes flicking between you and the river, as if weighing something in his mind.
A long, charged silence settled in. Then, just as you thought the moment would pass, he spoke, his voice quieter this time. “You’re sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” You smiled softly. “Listen. I didn’t know Steve, and I never will but… if he cared for you. If he loved you, he’d want you to be happy. He wouldn’t want you to shut yourself away from love, from feeling.”
“Honestly…” Bucky paused, sucking on his teeth. “Honestly, you’re probably right, doll.”
Bucky let out a slow breath, staring ahead like he was trying to gather his thoughts.
“I still don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Loving someone. Letting someone love me.”
You smiled softly, tilting your head. “Good thing I’m patient.”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, that much is obvious.” Bucky glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then, almost too softly to hear, “I want to try.”
You reached over, lacing your fingers through his. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”
His grip tightened, just for a second like he was anchoring himself to you. And then, as if realising how ridiculous he sounded, he let out a low laugh, disbelief lacing his tone. “You’re too good for me, doll.”
“Hmm, maybe.” You giggled, leaning towards him, resting your forehead against his shoulder for a brief moment, letting the warmth between you settle. “I think I’ll stick around, though.”
“Yeah?” His voice held a tinge of uncertainty like he was testing the waters. His arm shifted, moving from the wheel to pull you closer to his side. “I haven’t scared you off?”
You tilted your head to look up at him, grinning. “I think you’d have to try a little harder to do that.”
He held you closer, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “So…” He paused, his breath hitching as if the words were caught in his throat. “Would you stick around… as my girlfriend?”
You jolted up, eyes widening in surprise. “Did the Bucky Barnes just ask me—”
“Shush, you.” He chuckled, cutting you off, his finger moving to gently press against your lips.
You smiled, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek, and he tugged you in closer, his grip firm but not demanding. His lips found yours, slow at first, testing—like he was still convincing himself this was okay, that he could have this. But as you melted into him, your fingers curling against the fabric of his jacket, something shifted. His hand slid up your back, anchoring you against him, his lips warm, sure, moving against yours with a quiet intensity.
You sighed into him, your breath mingling with his, the space between you disappearing until there was nothing but the press of his body, the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin. His fingers skimmed the nape of your neck, tilting your head slightly, and he kissed you again, slower this time, savouring it like he wanted to memorise the way you felt against him.
The world outside blurred, the hum of the car engine distant, unimportant. There was only this, only him, his warmth, the quiet, desperate way he held you like he was afraid to let go.
When you pulled away, Bucky let out a sharp sigh as if something inside him had finally relaxed. “Thank god, it would be kind of awkward if you didn’t—”
You silenced him with another kiss, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.
WARNINGS: ANGST, hospital talk, swearing, vomitting,
pairing: amnesiac modern!bucky x gender neutral!reader
word count: 5.3k
a/n: a small study on a long-term relationship and the strains and disagreements that come into it. it’s been a hot sec since i’ve posted any marvel stuff. still tryna get back into writing for bucky, but this is written for @mushyjellybeans. prompt is bolded :)
“I don’t think this is something we should be arguing about,” you mutter, throwing your phone down into the car’s cupholder as Bucky’s grip on the wheel only intensifies. You slide hands over your thighs, stretching your legs against the red carpet of his newly refurbished Mustang. If there’s one thing you haven’t argued about yet, it’s the renovated ‘87 Mustang Bucky’s done over with his father, not completely done yet, but still, it looks hell of a lot better than it did before. “It shouldn’t have been made an issue tonight, of all nights.”
Summary : The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. They don’t know that they’re already married.
Pairing : New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Interior designer!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Secret wife trope. Tower fic! Secret-ish baby. Cursing, not-too-detailed descriptions of sex, pregnancy, (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 6.7k
Requested by : two anons! Based on this and this.
Note : I combined two requests, I hope that’s alright, anons! Enjoy!
Bucky only stayed at The Watchtower three days a week.
Officially, those days were for debriefings, strategy syncs, mission prep, and what Alexei affectionately called team bonding.
The rest of the week, he goes off-grid and minimal contact, calling it rest and recuperation.
He spent those days outside the city, tucked away in a modest, two-story house in the suburbs.
The walls were painted in earthy tones. The porch creaked when it rained. The neighbours didn’t ask questions. But most importantly, it was where you, the love of his life, resided full time.
It was home.
Bucky had closed on the house exactly nine months and fourteen days ago. A week later, he’d married you under a willow tree in the backyard with no fanfare, only Sam, Joaquin, and Isaiah Bradley as guests, and a ring you both picked out from a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Sam had joked that it must have been the best day of his overextended, complicated life.
He was right.
Still, not a single member of his newly assembled team had a clue.
They knew Bucky Barnes, the leader of the New Avengers, war-hardened and famously chronically single. They knew the efficient, don’t-ask-me-about-my-weekends version of him. They did not know that the same man kissed his wife’s temple every morning before she left for work, took out the trash without being asked, and spent his evenings slow dancing with you in the kitchen to whatever jazz record was spinning on the old turntable.
That part of him was private.
He didn’t keep you a secret out of shame — Bucky showed how much he loved you in the ways that mattered. But with many of his old enemies still out there, keeping you out of the spotlight was non-negotiable.
It was especially necessary now that the New Avengers were under public scrutiny, the media hounding them with every move, and Val running ops like a government-sponsored reality show.
But, of course, what he least expected happened.
When Val asked Mel to source a top-tier interior designer for the Watchtower’s massive renovation, Bucky didn’t say anything.
He didn’t pull any strings. He didn’t say a word.
But of course, Mel found your firm. It was one of the best in town, after all.
Of course, all he could do was stare blankly when Mel casually dropped your name in a team meeting two weeks later. You, who’d been growing your design firm from the ground up, known for clean lines and warm spaces and zero tolerance for pretentious decor.
And when you told Bucky that you’d accepted the Watchtower job, he’d smiled weakly and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
Which led to this moment.
—
Your first day on the job was a Monday morning.
You stepped into the lobby of the newly renamed Watchtower, hard hat hooked on your hip, leather-bound notebook under one arm, and your chewed up pencil behind your ear.
You, as planned, acted completely unfamiliar with the man you’d kissed goodbye at 7 a.m. over toast.
You approached the cluster of Avengers who’d been haphazardly gathered for your arrival — Ava, John, Yelena, Bob, Alexei, and Bucky. Your husband leaned against a column, arms folded, feigning indifference while silently praying his face didn’t give away his precious little secret.
But then your eyes met.
For one fleeting moment, your smile brightened. But you covered it up and offered him a hand like you hadn’t fallen asleep his bare chest fourteen hours ago, and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m your interior designer.”
Bucky took your hand.
The handshake lasted two seconds too long.
“James Barnes,” he said. “Pleasure.”
Ava raised an eyebrow.
You let go of his hand, nodded politely, and turned to the others to introduce yourself.
Your voice was steady, your posture perfect, but Bucky noticed the way you tapped your thumb against the spine of your notebook — the tiniest nervous habit. He kissed that hand every night.
When you walked off to start your tour, Ava elbowed Bucky in the ribs.
“She is too pretty. If you don’t ask her out, I will.”
“M’ not into her,” Bucky said. It was the worst lie he’d told in years.
“C’mon man,” John chuckled. “That looked like love at first right.”
Bucky just shrugged and turned away, pretending to be interested in a support beam.
—
Six Weeks Later
You were everywhere.
Literally everywhere inside the Watchtower.
You were in hallways, stairwells, and repurposed labs. You were under floorboards to check for old wiring. You were balancing precariously on scaffolding with paint samples in one hand and a clipboard in the other. You had a team, sure, but you were the kind of interior designer who believed that breathing the same dust as your contractors was the only way to truly understand your art.
Within a month, you turned a gutted superhero facility into your battlefield.
And you made it look good.
You had turned bare concrete into well thought out sketches, made a temporary lounge out of broken furniture and vintage rugs, and wrestled the tower’s unmaintained lighting grid into semi-functional compliance. You worked long hours. You cursed openly at bad insulation. You drank your coffee black and your water in gallons, and somewhere along the way, the tower became a passion project, your baby.
And the New Avengers grew fond of you.
They tried to be subtle about it, watching you from doorways or pausing in their sparring sessions whenever you passed through to say hi.
You’d wave a friendly hi back, before going back to being all-business.
At this point, you and Bucky had practiced your we-just-met act to an Oscar-worthy level. You faked polite smiles, formal greetings, and total lack of familiarity, even when you showered together the night before.
But sometimes, it slipped through the cracks.
You can help but steal glances at each other — each one lasting just a little too long. His hand would find your lower back when he leaned over your desk to study a blueprint, fingertips brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your shirt hem. Your voice dropped half an octave whenever you addressed him in front of others, slipping in sergeant under your breath like it wasn’t a private reference from your bedroom.
Sometimes, you’d pass him in the hallway and murmur things quiet enough only he could hear. A reminder of what you’d do to him the moment he got home. Or what he’d done to you the last time he snuck back to the house for the night. You’d say it just loud enough to leave him frozen in place for a second — then he’d look like he needed to punch a wall or take a very cold shower to stay professional.
You made it impossible to concentrate.
So Bucky, for all his practiced stoicism and control, was coming undone.
Which was probably why the team started to notice.
Or, more accurately, why John Walker lost his goddamn mind one Tuesday afternoon.
The makeshift common room — still mid-renovation — was still half-furnished, but they made it work. Yelena was scrolling through her phone while Bob napped on a deflated air mattress. Ava cleaned her knives at the dining table that had mismatched chairs. Alexei was rearranging the fridge after someone messed up his system.
Bucky stood near the large window, arms folded, pretending to be interested in the HVAC schematics you were showing to one of your contractors across the room.
You laughed at something the guy said, and Bucky’s eyes twitched in jealousy.
That was all it took.
John groaned loud enough to echo off the half-installed acoustic panels. Then, on his last straw, he flopped onto the couch dramatically.
“If you like her, Barnes, just ask her out already. Jesus,” John said, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve been eye-fucking her across the hall for a month.”
Bucky just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“She’s out of my league,” he said coolly. It was a textbook deflection. “Besides, she’s not even my type.”
Yelena immediately snorted. “Liar.”
Ava didn’t look up from her knives. “Liar.”
Even Bob, barely conscious, mumbled. “Liarrrr.”
Alexei only chuckled.
“What is wrong with you?!” John sat up, “You’re literally, like—what? A hundred and ten years old? You can’t still be doing the whole ‘girls don’t like me’ routine.”
Bucky gave a half-shrug, still not looking away from where you were, now climbing a ladder with a pencil behind your ear.
“She’s here to work,” he said. “I respect that.”
“Ah,” Alexei scoffed. “Is that why you follow her around like Roomba?”
Bucky had no answer to that.
—
One Afternoon
Today had been a long day
It was dusty. It was loud. Contractors bickered, blueprints got smudged, and Bucky had looked unreasonably good doing absolutely nothing — just standing around in that damn new uniform with the red star on his right arm.
You hadn’t had more than a couple hours alone where you weren’t sleeping or eating— not at home, and especially not in the Tower, when at least one other team member would be hovering like a nosy, overgrown child.
So when you saw Bucky slipping into the elevator alone, you called out for him.
“Mr. Barnes,” you half-shouted to get his attention, jogging across the hall. “Hold the door.”
He pressed the button with his metal hand, glancing up with a fond smile. “Didn’t know we were doing last names now,” he said, just above a whisper.
“Would you rather I call you Sergeant?” you replied quietly as you slipped inside, brushing past him just enough to make it intentional.
The doors slid shut.
And then, just as the elevator began its slow descent, you heard a mechanical in the belly of the Watchtower. The lights above flickered once—then again—before cutting out entirely.
A single red emergency light buzzed to life.
You stumbled slightly, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm instinctively.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Power’s off,” he confirmed, chuckling when you jumped, kissing your temple to let you know that it was going to be okay, that the elevator was ventilated well enough for you to survive a long time in there.
You slapped the emergency call button, and…. Nothing. Not even a buzz.
You blinked up at the ceiling like divine intervention might come through the grates.
“Bucky,” you pouted, clutching his arm a little tighter, “do something.”
“I am doing something,” he said as he crouched down and nudged at the panel, making no real effort. “It's just not working.”
“Well, pry the door open or—use your metal arm or something!”
He shot you a dry look over his shoulder. “Can’t. This thing was built to withstand the hulk.”
You watched him stand and lean back against the wall like he was settling in. Like… he didn’t mind this.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you sighed, “I’ve got to meet the people installing wallpaper in ten minutes.”
Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes maddeningly calm. “Could be worse,” he offered with a shrug.
“Bucky,” you warned, eyes narrowing.
“What?” he replied, too innocently, too calmly.
“We’re technically both on the clock,” you reminded him.
He shrugged. “We’re also stuck. Sounds like PTO to me.”
You rolled your eyes, but can’t help the smile on the corners of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”
That crooked grin formed on his face. “You’re tellin’ me you haven’t missed me, doll?”
“Don’t,” you said, pointing a finger to his chest.
“Don’t what?”
“That voice. That look. You're gonna get us in trouble.”
He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. He was not touching you, but he was near enough that your heart began its traitorous dance, even after all this time. “We’ve barely touched each other. Last time was what— four days ago?”
“Four days is not that long,” you said.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It used to be four hours.”
You swallowed hard, but he was not done yet.
“Used to be I couldn’t walk past you in our house without stopping to touch you.”
You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.
“Used to be I’d wake up with your thighs already wrapped around my face,” his voice dropped an octave lower, “And now I’m lucky if I get a quick kiss before you run off to yell at plumbers.”
“I did give you a kiss this morning,” you looked up at him.
“Not the kind I meant,” he said, eyes glued to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
You choked on a laugh, shoving at his chest weakly. “That’s very inappropriate, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’m your husband.” He bit your earlobe gently. “And I’m tired of pretending we don’t wake up in the same bed.”
“We’ve got… responsibilities.” Your fingers were already in his hair. “People are counting on us.”
“Let them wait,” he muttered, kissing you slow and deep now, mouth moving with that sinful confidence that made your knees buckle. “You’ve been killing me all week, walking around this place like you don’t belong to me.”
“I am yours,” you whispered against his lips, heat coiling in your belly. “But the cameras—”
“Power’s off.” He reminded, hand sliding up your thigh, curling behind your knee and hiking your leg around his hip. “You need this. I know you do.”
“You’re cocky.”
“I’m right,” he said, kissing you again. This time you kissed him back harder.
Your body gave in before your words did. It always did with him.
And as his fingers slipped past the lace of your underwear and his mouth returned to your neck, you forgot entirely about the elevator, the job, the rules.
You weren’t the Watchtower’s interior designer anymore.
You were just his wife.
And he was very, very good at reminding you why.
Neither of you noticed the faint red light in the ceiling blink back to life. Didn’t notice the tiny lens in the far corner of the elevator was still functional.
You had no idea Yelena had rigged a backup battery into the surveillance system.
And you definitely didn’t know the power outage wasn’t an accident.
It was a setup.
—
Later that afternoon
The new Avengers gathered in the security room like kids about to witness an R-rated movie.
And in a way… they were.
Yelena had the footage queued up. She sat with arms folded, boots propped up on the console, a smug grin across her face.
This was her idea, after all— playing matchmaker as a favour to Bucky.
“It’s visual-only,” she said, almost too casually. “No audio. You know—normal CCTV stuff. But we don’t need sound to read body language.”
She hit play.
The plan was simple: trap Bucky Barnes and that absurdly hot interior designer in the Watchtower elevator to see if he finally made a move.
“Ten bucks says he doesn’t even talk to her,” Ava declared, leaning against the wall.
“I say he kisses her,” Bob offered gently, still half-asleep in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. “Just a little one. He’s always so tense, it would be nice to see him… be sweet.”
John had brought popcorn like it was a movie premiere. “I want to believe he asked her out,” he said.
“Today is the day,” Alexei nodded in agreement, “ I can feel it.”
The screen flickered to life.
Bucky stepped into the elevator first, holding the door for you.
The doors closed.
Nothing out of the ordinary at first. It looked like normal conversation.
Then the elevator stopped.
You pressed the emergency call button. Nothing.
Bucky tried the panel, giving up too quickly.
Yelena’s grin widened. “Showtime.”
And then, Bucky stepped closer, whispering something into your ears.
“Classic,” John said, leaning in. “Here we go. Here comes the kiss on the cheek.”
The kiss landed on your lips instead.
It was not a peck. To everyone’s surprise, it was hungry.
The room went deathly silent.
Ava’s arms slowly uncrossed. “Okay….”
Bob’s mouth parted. “Oh…”
Then— then came the second kiss.
It was longer.
Your hands in his hair. His metal arm was up… your skirt?
Your back hit the elevator wall.
John sat forward slowly. “Wait… wait.”
Then, you climbed him.
It got very explicit very quickly.
John’s popcorn slid from his lap, forgotten.
Alexei was blinking like he’d witnessed a cult ritual.
Ava whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Bob clutched the arms of his chair. “That’s— that’s not him asking her out on a date.”
“Is the—” Alexei squinted, his voice dry, “—is the camera shaking?”
“No,” Ava said hoarsely. “That’s the elevator shaking.”
“Fuck,” John gasped. “We should— we should stop.”
Yelena stared at the screen, frozen. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Alexei held up a trembling finger. “He has not taken her to dinner. There was no courtship. There was no honour.”
Ava turned away from the monitor. “Turn it off. Turn it off!”
Yelena did.
The room plunged into an eerie silence.
Bob was still cross-legged on the floor. “I… I think there was a round two. Like… halfway through. I think I counted it. Different positions. Less vertical.”
They were all pale now.
Yelena stood up like she’d survived a car crash. “We are never speaking of this.”
“Delete the footage,” Ava added. “Burn it. Hack the cloud. Scrub the backups.”
“Gone,” Yelena said grimly. “It’s already gone.”
Alexei placed his mug down. “He has not even taken her out on date yet,” he repeated, horrified.
John slumped back into his chair, stunned “I’ll never look at elevators the same way.”
No one—not one of them—suspected marriage. No one suspected long-time commitment.
Not even a little.
They thought they’d witnessed a slip. A one-time break in Barnes’ solitude, a rare show of his desire.
They had no idea he fucked you like that at home every other day.
They just thought Bucky Barnes had the most soul-shattering game any man had ever possessed.
And not a single one of them ever got in that elevator without wincing ever again.
—
Six Weeks Later
It started out like any other off-day in the suburbs.
The early morning was quiet, with pale light spilling across the hardwood floors, the distant hum of a lawn mower down the street, and the smell of Bucky’s burnt-but-endearing attempt at breakfast wafting in from the kitchen.
It was supposed to be peaceful.
But you were in the bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test with your hands trembling and your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.
Pregnant.
Three times, all different brands.
It wasn’t planned, not really. You have been talking about it, and even said you’d give it a go by the end of the year.
Hell, you were on even the pill. But the last couple months had been a blur— long hours at the tower and stress-induced forgetfulness.
Somewhere in the chaos of overtime and rushing out the door with a protein bar instead of breakfast, you must’ve slipped up. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe that was enough.
You barely heard your own footsteps as you tiptoed down the hallway in a fog, still holding one of the tests like it might disappear if you blinked. Bucky was at the kitchen counter, humming under his breath, shirtless in his gray sweatpants, a bowl of strawberries in front of him with his dog tags reflecting in the morning sun.
He turned when he heard you come in, and his smile immediately faltered.
He could tell by the look on your face that something was… off.
“Sweetheart?” His brow furrowed as he stepped toward you, eyes looking over as if scanning for wounds. “Are you okay?”
You tried to say something, but nothing came out. You just looked at him with wide eyes, parted lips, and the test clenched tightly in your hand.
His hands gently closed around your arms.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Breathe, doll. Tell me what’s going on. Did something happen?”
You shook your head, lip trembling. “No. Nothing like that. I just… I…”
He ducked his head, trying to catch your eyes. “Look at me,” he said, less demanding but more gentle. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me.”
Your breath hitched. You looked down, uncurled your fingers, and held out the test.
Bucky looked at it.
Then up at you.
“…What is this?” he asked, almost cautiously. Like he needed confirmation.
You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked before it even came out. “I think I’m pregnant.”
He blinked twice. “You’re—”
You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “I—I know. I was on the pill. I swear I was. But with everything going on at the tower and those back-to-back all-nighters and fuck, James, I must’ve messed up, I must’ve missed one or two—”
“Wait. Wait—wait,” he said suddenly. He stepped back just enough to look at you fully, like he needed the whole picture to understand. “You’re serious?”
You nodded again. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t joke about this.”
He was completely still, like the words were sinking into him bit by bit.
And then, to your surprise, he let out a shaky breath, laughed a little, and ran a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re pregnant.”
You looked at him nervously, heart pounding. “I—I mean, it’s early. Like really early. Just a few weeks, I think. We don’t have to freak out. We can talk about it. Think about it. We can—”
But he cut you off, stepping forward again and cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. His eyes were glistening.
“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out. I’m just—holy shit, baby. I— you’re growing a little version of us in there. We’re doing this... if you… if you want this, too.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your arms wrapping around him instinctively.
“We’re doing this,” you whispered back, like saying it out loud made it more real. “I… I do want this.”
He kissed the top of your head, your temple, your cheek. “We were headed here anyway. Maybe I didn’t know it’d happen now, but…” He leaned back to look at you, eyes full of wonder. “I love you so much.”
You sniffled, laughing through it. “I was so scared.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said, “Never with me.”
There was a long moment where the two of you just held each other, breathing in the warmth of the moment. When…
“So, uh. What do we tell the team?”
You chuckled. “About what? The baby or the fact that we’re married?”
He winced. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
Bucky wanted to share his joy, he really did.
But he still had enemies. The kind who would use anything, anyone, to get to him.
And he would rather die than see your name — and his baby’s— end up on one of their lists.
“You still want to keep it quiet?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at your stomach, his teeth clenching.
“I don’t want anyone knowing if it puts you in danger,” he said finally. “I don’t care what they think of me. I just want you safe. Our family safe.”
You nodded. “Okay. So... in two or three months— the tower renovations’ll be done by then. I can just wear baggy clothes.”
He gave you a wary look. “You already wear baggy clothes.”
You shrugged. “I’ll wear bigger ones.”
Surely, this was a foolproof plan, right?
—
It was successful for all of two weeks. You played your part, showed up to the tower, exchanged the usual small talk with the team, and pretended everything was normal, all while avoiding harmful construction materials and focusing on furnishing.
Then one morning, you looked pale coming out of the toilet, wiping acid from the corner of your mouth with tissue. Bob looked over, eyebrows raised in concern. You waved him off with a smile.
“Fuck morning sickness,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.
And that was it. You didn’t even think twice. You were too focused on the nausea, the spinning room, the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You didn’t realise you’d said it.
Bob didn’t clock it right away either. You’d already left the room by the time the words caught up with him. He was halfway through his coffee, reading a book, when—
He froze. His eyes widened.
“Wait…”
Morning sickness?
—
Bob didn’t say anything right away.
He sat there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d stood.
Morning sickness, his brain repeated again, louder now.
He stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a closed-door meeting in Conference Room 7.
Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John filed in, curious and worried—it wasn’t often that Bob called a we-need-to-talk-right-now meeting that didn’t involve a breach or a fire drill.
Bob stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, unreadable.
“She’s pregnant,” he said flatly.
Everyone blinked.
“…Who?” Ava asked, tilting her head.
Bob stared at her. “Bucky’s little elevator secret.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow. “How… How do you know?”
“She….” Bob started. “She said something about morning sickness.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Oh,” said Alexei, thoughtfully.
“...Oh,” Ava echoed.
Yelena’s eyes widened. “OH?”
John straightened up in his chair. “Hold on. Do you think—” He looked around the room, dropping his voice to a whisper, “—do you think Bucky could be the dad?”
They all looked at each other. The memory hit them at once like a suppressed group hallucination.
No one’s talked about it since.
Not out of respect, but out of sheer trauma suppression and the fact that, frankly, they weren’t paid enough to bring it up.
“I mean,” Ava said slowly, “Did anyone see him with a condom?”
“Not that I can remember,” Yelena shuddered, brow furrowed. “But I wasn’t exactly memorising it.”
“Elevator baby,” Alexei whispered, stunned.
Bob just nodded grimly.
Then John, who’d been thinking too hard, looked up. “Do you think Bucky knows?”
The room went completely silent.
Ava blinked. “Shit.”
Yelena exhaled through her nose. “He’s either going to marry her in a panic or pass out.”
John rubbed his temples. “Do we… do we tell him?”
Bob looked down nervously. “Better question—who’s going to tell him?”
Everyone looked at each other.
No one volunteered.
So they did it together.
—
They confronted Bucky two hours later. In the gym, of all places.
He was mid-rep when they approached—shirt damp with sweat, and music blaring in his ears. His brows furrowed in concentration as he finished his set and racked the barbell with a clang.
That’s when he noticed them.
Five fully-grown adults in a semicircle, watching him. Staring, like it was going to be a goddamn intervention.
He tilted his head. “...who did you kill and where did you bury the body?”
Bob cleared his throat, stepping forward like a nervous HR rep. “Umm, that’s not why we’re here.”
Bucky pulled out one earbud. “Then what’s going on?”
“We need to talk.”
That phrase never meant anything good, and they all knew it. Ava shifted her weight from foot to foot like she had somewhere more pleasant to be (a landmine field, perhaps). John had his arms crossed and was chewing the inside of his cheek. Alexei was trying to look fatherly and failing spectacularly. And Yelena—oh, Yelena—was vibrating with the kind of energy that suggested she either had bad news or gossip so juicy it came with a side of fries.
Bucky glanced at them, suspicious. “Okay… what is this? Am I getting voted off the team?”
Yelena stepped forward, and just… spat it out. “She’s pregnant.”
That landed like a punch to the solar plexus. His brain buffered.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
They knew. They’d figured it out.
How?
He licked his lips, then attempted to play dumb. “….Who?”
Ava folded her arms. “We have a feeling,” she started, unimpressed, “you might be able to figure it out. Considering you had some… fun… in the elevator a couple months ago.”
Bucky’s eyes twitched.” I—what? You’re saying—how do you even know about that?”
Yelena raised a hand, almost sheepishly. “We, uh… we might’ve set up the elevator failure.”
John immediately smacked the back of her shoulder. “You. Not we. That was your idea.”
“I said might’ve!” she hissed.
“What we’re saying,” Alexei interjected, rubbing a hand down his face like a weary dad at a PTA meeting, “is that there is chance you are going to be dad.”
Bucky tried to laugh. It came out like a goose being strangled. “I’m not ready to move on from the elevator camera. That’s a massive violation of privacy. I—what kind of sick—”
“You did it in public,” Ava interrupted coldly.
“And you’re not denying it,” Bob added.
“I’m just saying,” Bucky snapped, pointing wildly, “you kept it? You still have the tape? Can I see it?”
Everyone groaned in unison.
John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You might have gotten a hook up pregnant, and the first thing you care about is your sex tape? Seriously?”
Bucky didn’t respond, which said a lot.
Bob said plainly, “But we’re pretty sure you didn’t use protection.”
“She was on the pill!” Bucky snapped.
“You still don’t do hookups bare, Bucky!” Ava exclaimed, voice rising.
“She hadn’t had sex with anyone else in years!”
“Anyone… else?” John asked, skeptical.
Bucky opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And shut up.
Bucky groaned, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to scrape the stress off his skin.
Then, finally, with a voice so quiet it barely made it through the hum of fluorescent lights, he finally said, “She’s…my wife.”
A beat passed with silence.
Then Ava shrieked, “I’m sorry—WHAT?!”
“When?!” John thundered.
“About a year ago,” Bucky admitted. “We kept it a secret. It wasn’t safe for her. I didn’t want anyone coming after her because of me.”
Alexei frowned, tone softer now. “And now…”
“Now she’s having my baby,” Bucky said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I don’t know how to protect her from this. From all of this.”
“Fuck,” John let out a low whistle. “Is it… is it the elevator baby?”
“We did the math,” Bucky turned beet red, “there is a… pretty good chance that’s the case.”
“Elevator baby,” Yelena echoed, eyes wide.
She sounded almost proud.
Bucky looked at each of them— serious now. “You can’t tell anyone,” he warned, “She’s… she’s everything to me. If this gets out—if she’s hurt, if someone uses her to get to me—I wouldn’t— couldn’t— live with myself.”
And just like that, gone was the teasing.
They stood there, in a loose circle around him, the lights humming overhead, the scent of sweat in the air. A line crossed, and secrets spilled open. This was a line where their friendship was tested—and affirmed.
John, finally, clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Congrats, man. You’re gonna be a dad.”
“Elevator dad,” Yelena added.
“Don’t,” Bucky warned, but he was smiling, just a little.
—
The shift was subtle at first.
Alexei started carrying things for you.
You’d walk into a room with a stack of sample boards or fabric swatches for a renovation pitch, and before you could even blink, he’d be at your side, snatching half of them away and saying, “You should not be lifting this.”
You tilted your head the first time. “I… I’m okay, Alexei.”
He just stared back, deadpan. “Does not mean you should.” And then walked away before you could argue.
Then there was Ava, who started checking the air quality constantly.
“Gotta keep the air pure,” she’d say, making sure your workstation was well-ventilated from paint fumes.
You started to get suspicious after the third can of air purifier she smuggled into the conference room.
And then came John, who strolled past your desk one morning with a coffee in one hand and a brochure in the other. He stopped like he just happened to remember something.
“Oh hey,” he said, waving the paper around. “That new baby store down the street? Massive sale. Car seats, little shoes, those bib things shaped like bandanas? You know, the cool ones. Just… figured I’d pass it along. Y’know. In case… anyone.”
You squinted. “Anyone?”
He coughed. “Just in case anyone… likes sales.”
Right.
It wasn’t until Yelena hugged you, that the alarm bells started getting harder to ignore.
She pulled away, uncharacteristically gentle, and said, “You’re good at taking care of things.”
“…Okay,” you said cautiously, “Are you dying?”
She just blinked. “No. I just think you are doing great.” She paused. “And you should not wear heels. They’re bad for your ankles.”
That was it.
You came home that night, dumped your bag by the door, and found Bucky on the couch eating mac and cheese he probably stole from the tower.
He looked up, beaming. “Hey, doll. You okay?”
You squinted at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”
He tilted his head. “About what?”
You flopped next to him, sighing. “Yelena hugged me today.”
His eyes widened. “…Oh.”
“And told me I’m good at taking care of things.”
He was dead silent.
“John is talking about baby boutiques to me. Ava keeps purifying the air. And I’m pretty sure Bob gave me vitamin water.”
Bucky looked down.
You gave him a pointed look. “So, I’m just gonna ask: Did you tell them?”
He winced. His whole face did the oh-no-don’t-be-mad-at-me scrunch.
“Umm…” he said.
“Oh my god.”
“I—I didn’t tell them, technically,” he started, clearly floundering. “They figured it out! Bob overheard something, and then there was a meeting, and I got cornered at the gym and they were all standing in a circle like some kind of intervention and they were like ‘we know,’ and I panicked and I didn’t want to lie and—”
“Bucky.”
He stopped, biting his lip.
“I’m not mad,” you said, cutting him off before the ramble could spiral into an apology monologue. “I’m… relieved.”
His brow furrowed. “You are?”
You nodded. “Do you know how exhausting it is trying to hide a whole human and pretend I’m not in love with you?”
“I just wanted you to be safe.” He looked down, a little guilty. “I thought if they didn’t know, there’d be less risk.”
“I know,” you murmured, reaching over to take his hand. “But honey… they’re not strangers. They’re your people. Our people, now.”
He smiled, fingers threading through yours. “Yelena did threaten to murder anyone who so much as looked at you wrong.”
“See?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “That’s the kind of prenatal care I’m talking about.”
He chuckled, pulling you close, one hand resting gently against your stomach. “We’ll still keep it quiet outside the tower. For safety.”
“Of course,” you said. “But at least I don’t have to hide there.”
Then Bucky said, “Also… Bob wants to throw you a secret baby shower. In the hangar. With… themed cupcakes.”
—
Eight Months Later
Jamie was six weeks old the first time you brought him to the Watchtower.
He was bundled up in a little blue onesie with a cartoon white wolf on the chest, swaddled like a burrito in a cotton blanket, and blissfully asleep in your arms.
The 87th floor had been converted for the three of you— a secure residential wing with baby gates and blackout curtains and a surprisingly tasteful wallpaper Bucky picked himself. You were here to check it out, and also introduce your baby to the team.
Most days, you would stay at the house in the suburbs, where birds chirped and neighbors waved and no one could hear Bucky singing lullabies off-key at 2 a.m. But it was nice to know you had a home in the Watchtower.
You barely stepped in the common room when the team got up.
“Is that him?” Ava whispered like she was approaching royalty.
“Don’t crowd the baby,” Bucky said, holding out an arm protectively.
John peered over Ava’s shoulder. “He looks like a tiny Bucky. But like, angrier. Is that even possible?”
Jamie yawned.
Yelena, unusually soft-voiced, leaned in “Look at him. So small. So squishy. Like a baby potato with many opinions.”
“He does look judgmental,” Bob offered.
“He is judgmental,” you smiled.
—
There were a couple more visits after that before your first official night at the tower.
They’d been asking for weeks to hold him now.
Every visit, every mission debrief, every team meeting that you attended with Jamie snoozing in a carrier strapped to your chest, someone would inevitably ask:
“Can I hold him?”
The answer had always been not yet.
Not until he had more of an immune system than a fruit fly.
Especially not until Bob stopped referring to his hands as “clean-ish.”
But today, Jamie was twelve weeks old.
Today was the day.
You warned them ahead of time, sending them a group text. Bucky enforced it like a drill sergeant, passing non-alcohol hand sanitiser around like communion.
The baby was clean. The adults were clean. The air smelled faintly of lemon.
Yelena was first, practically vibrating as she took Jamie into her arms like a sacred artifact.
“Bozhe moi,” she whispered, eyes wide.
“He’s real,” Bob said, as Jamie curled his arm around his finger, “we can touch him.”
Then John took a turn, cradling Jamie like he was made of glass. Bucky, perhaps knowing he had some experience and was trying to make amends with his own son, trusted him most. “He’s so… light.“
Eventually, one by one, everyone got their turn.
And then… Alexei.
He stepped forward quietly, hands extended, palms open and ready. There was a certain fondness in his eyes.
You gently handed Jamie over, and Alexei took him with a grace that didn’t match his usual bull-in-a-china-shop aesthetic. He rocked him slightly and began saying something soft in Russian. It sounded like a lullaby.
Jamie adorably blinked up at him.
And then, with the seriousness of a priest delivering a sermon, Alexei slowly walked across the room… and stopped in front of the elevator.
“Little Jamie,” he said in a soothing voice, still swaying, “this, my sweet little cherub, is where you were conceived.”
“Dad!” Yelena whisper-shouted, her hands in the air. “Stop!”
“I’m just telling him the truth!” Alexei protested.
“He’s a baby!” Ava barked.
“He needs context!”
“HE NEEDS A NAP!” John insisted.
Alexei looked down at Jamie, who stared back, completely unbothered.
“I think he gets it,” Alexei said, beaming.
Jamie sneezed.
Bucky buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe we let him hold the baby.”
You, already laughing, said, “At least he didn’t point out the exact panel of the wall.”
Alexei turned around, lifting Jamie like Simba. “And over here, by button 13, that’s where your father’s ass was—”
“OH MY GOD,” Yelena wailed, launching a pillow at him.
Bob hastily caught it. “We shouldn’t throw things when the baby is airborne.”
John held out his arms. “Give him back before you scare him with a detailed retelling.”
Alexei sighed, but passed Jamie over. “You are going to be great warrior like your father, Jamie.”
You settled onto the couch beside Bucky, your body relaxing as you leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then let his lips linger in your hair. He never failed to remind you that you were safe. That Jamie was safe.
Your eyes drifted across the room— your strange, chaotic, beautiful little makeshift family in a room that was a labour of your love. Bob was wiping down a clean countertop for the third time. Ava and Yelena were mid-argument about the correct way to swaddle a baby, neither remotely qualified but equally committed.
Jamie, unfazed by the commotion, cooed contentedly in John’s arms, his tiny fingers reaching for the man’s bead as Alexei kept talking to him in russian.
Your heart felt like it might burst.
He had your nose, Bucky’s eyes, and all the love in the world.
In the background, Alexei’s voice rose again, brimming with mischief. “Next time, I’ll show him the armoury.”
“NO!” came the instant chorus from everyone in the room.
You couldn’t help it, so you laughed.
Jamie was loved. Fiercely, ridiculously loved.
And there wasn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t burn the world down for him.
Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 9.2k
Requested by : Anon! Based on this request
Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
When you took the job, you didn’t ask too many questions
The recruiter approached you late—long after you’d sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew you’d be desperate.
The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.
It sounded too good to be true. It offered full medical license activation and triple the usual pay. Off-books, but government-sanctioned, they claimed. You’d be working with elite personnel in a high-clearance, undisclosed location. It was a matter of national security, they said.
When you made contact, they brought you to a warehouse and made you read non-disclosure agreements—dozens of them. They didn’t let you take them home to review. You signed everything in a windowless room with a clock that ticked too fast, and signed up to the project.
Your official title was “Classified field medic for enhanced personnel. Clearance Level 6 required.” It sounded impressive, official. You told your parents it was part of a DOD black ops program and that you weren’t allowed to say more.
You were happy you could finally help—
they had far too much medical debt to ever dig their way out.
And… They were proud.
If only they knew.
You were told you’d be assigned to “classified subjects.”
When they finally gave you the details of the work, you noticed the facility wasn’t listed on any public records. The address they gave you wasn’t on any GPS. The car that picked you up had no license plates. You were blindfolded before arriving.
You should have run then. But you didn’t, because they paid in advance.
You paid off your loans in one go and gave the rest to your family, promising you’d be earning more over the next couple of years.
The facility you were assigned to didn’t have windows. The lights never changed. Days bled into each other until even your internal clock began to fail you. The air was too clean, the silence too dense—like the walls were swallowing sound. They injected you with yellow liquid when you arrived, and you weren't allowed to ask for details. Cameras were in the corners, always watching.
You weren’t allowed to ask names. You weren’t given files.
You weren’t allowed your phone. No clocks. No outside contact unless you had prior clearance.
They never called it a hospital, because it wasn’t.
It was a slab of steel buried deep underground in Siberia, and you worked under it like a cog in the coldest machine you’d ever known. The men you reported to didn’t wear name tags or rank insignias. They all looked the same— pale-faced, dressed in black. You didn’t know their names, and you have never heard them use yours, either.
At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Just for a year. Just until you paid off your loans. Just until you figured out where you really belonged.
But then you saw the red flags. You folded them neatly and tucked them away with your conscience.
See, they knew the kind of people to look for— desperate ones. They recruit smart people who were overworked, drowning in debt or grief or fear. The ones who couldn’t afford to ask where the money came from.
And by the time you realised who you were really working for, it was too late. Because no one leaves that facility unless it was in a body bag.
Hydra was predatory like that.
—
You had been patching up STRIKE team operatives for almost a year. You were good—efficient, clean, and silent. You didn’t pry, and what made you valuable.
You never asked where the injuries came from. Bullet wounds, knife gashes, torn ligaments, crushed bones—you treated them all. You developed antiseptics that worked faster than standard-issue cream and learned how to seal a shrapnel wound in under ten minutes. You fixed what needed fixing, and you didn’t get in the way of the mission.
One morning, you were pulled from your bed at 0400 hours without an explanation. Two men in black shook you awake by the arm and took you to an elevator that descended farther than you knew the facility even went. There was a change in the air the deeper you went—thicker, colder. Like the walls were full of ghosts.
They didn’t tell you what your new assignment was, not until you stepped into the white-lit room and saw him.
He was on a reinforced chair, with blood crusted over his ribs and soaked through his cargo pants. The metal arm was twitching with little sparks, the seams dripping oil and blood in equal parts. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was split.
And still— he didn’t look away.
You’d heard whispers about him before— the Asset.
They called him It.
Not a name. Not a person. A living weapon— built, not born.
You expected more people guarding the cell, but the only other man in the room was his handler— Colonel Vasily Karpov. You’d met men like him before, but none who looked so openly afraid of the thing they commanded.
"The previous doctor had been terminated due to noncompliance,” Karpov said, which was Hydra-speak for the Asset snapped his spine in two like a breadstick.
Your mouth went dry. "And I’m next in line?"
“You’re competent,” he said. “And replaceable.”
He walked out before you could respond.
The door shut behind him with a final hiss, like a coffin sealing.
And then there was just you— and him.
You took a step closer. He tracked your movement with his blue, calculating eyes. You could tell he didn’t know what you were—but knew how to kill you if you got close.
You didn’t speak at first. You just moved slowly, methodically.
Eventually, you became brave enough to clean the blood. You assessed the damage. His injuries were extensive— fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, deep lacerations across his abdomen. Most people would’ve gone into shock hours ago.
But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.
He didn’t flinch when you treated him.
Not even when you pulled a broken tooth from the inside of his right bicep.
He winced, though, when you put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. And later, when your gloved hand rested gently on his chest, while rubbing small circles to calm him down, his eyes flicked to your face.
It was the first time he looked at you.
Afterward, you logged the treatment. You followed the protocol. You filed the injury report.
In the official files, they referred to him as an it. But in your private notes, you called him he.
—
Over the next year or so, you were his doctor.
And apparently, you were the only doctor who survived more than eight months.
You’d fix up his ribs when they were fractured. You cleaned bullet wounds from his side, his shoulder, the meat of his thigh. You iced swollen knuckles and stitched torn flesh, always so amazed how quickly his body healed.
But still, they used him until he broke. They froze him from time to time, but after he was out, they dragged him back and told him to put the pieces together.
You worked in silence. He sat in silence.
Most days, his eyes were washed-out and programmed.
But sometimes, during the worst of the injuries—when your hands pressed into open wounds, when you whispered sorry— his eyebrows softened.
At this point, you had memorised his injuries, and the places his enemies targeted again and again. You started pre-packing supplies before he even arrived.
The handlers noticed.
You began modifying your ointments—adding subtle numbing agents, to match his supersoldier metabolism.
You weren’t supposed to. They wanted him in pain.
But you did it anyway.
Once, they brought him in half-conscious, his metal arm sparking at the joint, blood soaked through the tactical gear. There was a knife wound under his ribs— and it was too deep.
He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.
It was not a reaction to pain. It was a warning. His eyes met yours, and they were clearer than usual— as if he was fighting something.
And then, for the first time, you realised: He knew what was happening to him.
Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.
But there was a man inside the machine, and today was awake just long enough to hate it.
That night, they froze him and drilled the trigger words into his brain again.
—
Tonight, he came back worse than usual.
Bruised. Bloodied. Shot in seven different places. His face was partially swollen, split lip crusted with dried blood, a jagged tear across his side soaking his uniform black-red. His metal arm twitched violently, fingers clenching and unclenching with a mechanical rhythm— as if the programming inside him was short-circuiting.
He was strapped into the chair again, the restraints digging into his wrists deep enough to turn the skin purple. Four guards had hauled him in like he was an animal— one of them nursing a broken arm.
They left you alone with him and chuckled, “good luck.”
The Asset’s head was bowed low, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. The tension in his shoulders was wrong. Too rigid, too coiled, like a wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.
You stepped closer, and he jerked suddenly against the restraints—and his metal hand nearly caught your arm.
You froze.
In your peripheral vision, the guards laughed behind the glass.
He didn’t look at you.
He was breathing hard and shaking violently, as if was trying to stay in his body.
You looked at the camera in the corner, swallowing back a panic and anger.
“I can’t treat him like this,” you said. If he didn’t calm down enough for you to stitch him up soon, he was going to bleed out.
Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. It was… unprofessional.
A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.
“That’s too bad,” said Karpov’s cold, detached voice. “It is your job.”
You stared at the glass behind which they watched— always watched.
Then you turned back to him.
You tried, as always, to be gentle. To be careful. You knelt to clean the gash under his ribs. You threaded your needle, soaked the wound with antiseptic.
But his body thrashed again.
You dropped the needle.
His metal arm lunged forward, nearly catching your throat before the restraints snapped him back into place.
He didn’t mean to, you reminded yourself.
But the part of him that killed without asking questions was surfacing, and you were too close.
Your hands shook.
He turned his head away from you as if ashamed. Or furious.
Fuck.
You were losing him.
So you did the only irrational, human thing that came to mind.
You… sang.
“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool…”
Your voice cracked on the first line. It had been years— you hadn’t sung it since you were small— curled up on your mother’s lap while she ran her fingers through your hair and kept the nightmares away.
You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly.
“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”
He… didn’t flinch again.
You kept singing while you threaded the needle and stitched the worst of the gash along his side. His trembling eased.
You spoke without really meaning to, your voice almost a whisper.
“My mother used to sing it to me,” you lulled. “I only realised later what it meant,” you continued. “‘One for the master, one for the dame…’”
You wiped sweat from your forehead, working on a deeper wound now.
“Servitude, right? ‘One for the little boy who lived down the lane.’ Maybe lullabies sung to entertain children. Maybe they’re for making people… obedient,”
You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down.
“Because I think…,” you said, tilting your head as you managed to fish a bullet out of his side. “Obedience it taught. Not born.”
And then, like the thought slipped out of your mouth without permission, “Were you taught well?”
You didn’t expect a response.
But this time, his head turned and he looked at you.
His voice came out rough, underused, gravel dragged across rusted metal. But these sounds were not growled nor screamed.
“It was the only thing I remember learning,” he whispered.
You froze.
It was the first time you had ever heard him speak.
The needle slipped from your hand, fell into the tray with a clink. You were stunned.
Through all that, he watched you.
You knelt beside him, picked up the needle again with shaking hands.
His eyes followed you as you resumed treating him. He was silent the rest of the session.
But something had changed.
—
The first time he leaned into your touch was a couple of months later.
You were bandaging a wound just beneath his collarbone in tight, methodical loops when your fingers brushed the skin of his neck. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head just slightly toward your hand.
He… made a conscious choice.
You didn’t say anything, and neither did he. But your hands lingered a little longer than usual.
Sometimes, when he was lucid, he’d look at your hands while you worked— following their motion like they were the only real thing in the room. You weren’t sure what he was seeing.
Then… you started narrating aloud. It was partly for him, partly for you. “This’ll sting a little,” you’d say, cleaning a wound.
“Pressure here—sorry, hold on…”
He never answered at first.
Then one day, he did.
You were stitching a deep tear in his thigh when your thread caught. “Sorry,” you said under your breath.
“You always say that.”
You looked up, needle halfway through the thread. “Say what?”
“‘Sorry,’” he managed, “it’s not your fault.”
“Sorry,” you mentioned sheepishly. “I’ll stop saying it.”
Then, you resumed your work.
The next time he came in, he was limping badly, and for once, the restraints weren’t used. Maybe they knew he couldn’t stand. Maybe they didn’t care if he bled out.
And he didn’t even make it to the chair. He sat on the floor instead.
When you knelt beside him, your knees touching his, he didn’t pull away. He let you cut the fabric from yet another ruined suit— fifth one this month— or year? You have long lost track of time in this Siberian bunker.
Still, he let you clean the blood from his temple.
“Don’t they ever give you a break?” you asked, not expecting an answer.
“No,” he said simply.
You frowned.
Still, your hands were steady.
You started humming when he came in—low, quiet melodies under your breath. Sometimes lullabies. Sometimes nothing at all—just sounds, like a lifeline tossed into water. He never asked you to stop.
One night, after they’d brought him in burned—his arm singed, the edge of his jaw blistered—you held an ice pack against his skin and whispered, “You shouldn’t be alive after half of this.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, after careful consideration, he said, “Sometimes I think I’m not.”
Eventually, he started helping you—lifting an arm for treatment, shifting his weight when he knew it would help you work faster. He never said much. Never more than a sentence or two. But the words, when they came, were clear.
“Thank you.”
“Be careful.”
One night, he asked for your name.
You told him. But when you asked him what his was, he only said, “I don’t know.”
But for the first time in a very long time, The Asset smiled.
Because it was the first time anyone ever cared to ask.
—
When he wasn’t in cryofreeze, they kept him in a reinforced room that wasn’t technically a cell, but wasn’t anything else either. It had a cot, a chair, and a toilet.
You called it the holding room.
They called it the kennel.
You’d come in for treatment checks once or twice a week between missions— tended his joints, monitored the fluid viscosity in his metal arm, checked for infection.
But the guards watched him too. Always. From the control room, behind the glass, hands on the mic.
They joked about him.
At first, it was petty things— how much blood he could lose before he passed out, how many bones had healed crooked.
But it got worse.
Much worse.
They joked about his body when he was in heat. How he “rutted in his sleep sometimes.” How they’d seen the security feed catch him grinding against the mattress, the cot, the restraints, whatever he could in his animal state after missions.
“He’s always desperate after a kill,” one of them said once, laughing. “Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Fucking the pillow like a mutt.”
You had frozen when you heard it. But today—today, it went further.
“Bets?” one of them said. “Ten rubles on the mattress tonight. Twenty on the wall.”
All three of the guards stationed to watch that night laughed.
“Stop,” you said, through gritted teeth. “What you’re doing is disgusting. Watching him like that—mocking him— when his agency’s being taken from him? He’s a fucking person and you need to grow up.”
What followed was the longest ten seconds of silence in your life.
And then one of them leaned forward in his chair and sneered. “If you think he’s a person, why don’t you go in there?”
You blinked. “What?"
“Go on,” The other guard grinned and got up from his seat. “If you think he’s man and not machine, let’s test it.”
You stepped back, realising what their plan was. “Don’t touch me.”
“Too late.”
Their hands grabbed your arms.
You fought—kicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw blood—but there were three of them, and you were half their size. One of them slammed your head into the wall hard enough to daze you.
You didn’t know where the pain began — your scalp where they’d yanked your hair? The side of your jaw where a fist had struck you clean across the face?
Still, you fought. You slammed your elbow into one guard’s windpipe hard enough to make him choke. You thrashed and tried everything, but they were stronger.
And they enjoyed it.
You’d never seen teeth like that — bared in joy at suffering. One of them— Maksimov had blood on his knuckles and another— Yuri had both hands up your shirt before you bit him hard enough to draw blood.
You screamed, “He—we— a person!” not knowing whether you meant yourself or the Winter Soldier.
But they didn’t care.
One of them tore at the buttons of your shirt while another held your arms behind you. The fabric split as your bra snapped and air hit your chest and you curled inward, shaking, humiliated, trying to hide your body with trembling hands.
“He’ll definitely go for her pussy,” one of them muttered like it was a bet at a bar.
“I’d go for the ass first,” another chuckled. “Tighter.”
Then came the worst line.
“I bet the dumb beast doesn’t know the difference and finish in her mouth in under three minutes.”
The laughter didn’t stop.
Your legs gave out once they dragged you through the hallway to the lower levels. You stumbled, bleeding from your lip, your breasts half-exposed, nails broken from the fight. They hauled you back up and slammed your back into the steel door before keying it open.
You saw the inside of the room for only a second before they shoved you in and locked the door behind you with a clang.
“Have fun, soldat!” A guard, Anton, said.
You fell, and started trembling.
Everything hurt.
And then you looked up.
He was there.
The Asset — him. The Winter Soldier.
He was standing in the center of the room. He wasn’t strapped down this time, his long hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. His chest was bare, streaked with drying blood and oil. His eyes locked onto you the moment you hit the floor.
You froze.
Your arms flew across your body, trying to cover yourself as you backed yourself into the wall. You curled in on yourself, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rush of blood in your ears.
He’ll fuck you, they had said. He’ll take the choice away from you. He’ll use you as a way to satisfy himself.
You believed it for a second.
You’d seen what he could do — seen the machine they’d made him into. You’d see the bloodlust in his eyes when he came back from missions.
You were terrified.
You curled tighter.
He took one step forward.
And… stopped.
You took a chance and looked at your face.
He wasn’t looking at your chest. He wasn’t leering. His pupils weren’t blown wide with mindless hunger. He wasn’t hard, or panting, or unchained from reality.
He was staring at your injuries.
At the torn fabric, at the swelling in your cheek. The handprint rising red on your arm. And the grip marks on your breaks. The blood at your lip. His brow furrowed.
And his whole body… melted.
The heat was gone, almost instantly.
Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.
“Who…” he rasped, “did this to you?”
His voice was hoarse, barely there. But there was no mistaking the rage that had formed underneath it — nothing like the lust the guards had imagined.
He handed you his only blanket, and you clutched it. He let you wrap yourself in it, and when you couldn’t stand, he helped you sit up, not touching your skin unless he had to.
“Maksimov, Yuri, and Anton,” you whispered, lip trembling.
His teeth clenched.
He reached out slowly — slow enough that you could move away, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t force — and brushed the blanket more tightly around your shoulders, like he was covering you from the world, from the camera, from the three guards he knew were watching.
You were still crying. You didn’t realise it until his human thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.
He didn’t say anything for a while.
He just sat there, at your level, holding the blanket closed with one hand, eyes locked on yours. Not on your body. Not on your skin.
You folded into his chest, not because he demanded it, but because it was safe.
He wrapped his arms around you like he’d never learned how to hold a person without breaking them. And still — he didn’t break you.
He just held you, shivering, until your breathing slowed.
And in the silence, you heard the quietest thing of all. “I won’t hurt you.”
Once again, The Asset had made a choice.
A human one.
—
Hours passed.
The two of you stayed curled together on the concrete. You had stopped crying eventually, but your body still trembled now and then— from shock, from adrenaline.
You still felt his arm around your shoulders—gentle, not possessive.
The guards who had been watching were probably bored. You thought maybe—maybe—you’d be left alone. Maybe they’d gotten the message. Maybe they wouldn’t push again.
You were proven wrong when the heavy steel door hissed open.
You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.
The same three guards entered and they were prepared. They carried sleek, matte black rifles. Loaded, to deal with The Asset should he go rogue.
And then you heard the voice.
“Что с тобой, солдат?” — What the fuck is wrong with you, Soldat?
Yuri stepped forward, gun dangling casually in his hands, eyes not even on The Asset— but on you.
“Мы дали тебе дырку, и ты даже не воспользовался ею?” — We gave you a hole and you didn’t even use it?
You flinched so hard your head hit the metal wall behind you.
The Asset stood up and stepped directly in front of you, body between yours and theirs, fists clenched. He was…shielding you.
The guards exchanged glances, laughing now. One of them cocked his gun and slung it over his shoulder like a prop in a theatre.
“Ладно. Тогда мы сами её трахнем,” —Fine. Then we’ll use her ourselves. Maksimov said, smiling.
And then Yuri moved fast. He reached out and grabbed your ankle, hard, yanking you out of the blanket.
You screamed.
And The Asset snapped.
No hesitation, No programming.
Just rage.
The Asset’s metal fist punched Yuri square in the chest and launched him into the far wall. The impact was loud enough that you heard a crack—maybe the wall, but most likely Yuri’s spine.
Before anyone else could react, he twisted and ripped the rifle from Anton’s hands. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and shot Maksimov in the throat.
Blood sprayed the walls, and Maksimov gurgled once before slumping to the ground.
Anton raised his hands to surrender.
Too late.
Bucky pivoted, metal arm slamming the barrel of the rifle into Anton’s face with brutal force, then fired— one shot, clean through the eye.
He dropped the gun.
It clattered to the floor, ringing louder than the gunshots had.
He turned back toward you, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.
He knelt. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.
—
Within minutes of the bodies hitting the ground, you heard the sound of heavy boots walking in.
Karpov entered the cell like he owned the air in it.
He didn’t look at you.
He didn’t look at the corpses.
He only looked at The Asset who was still crouched in front of you, body curled like a shield.
Karpov simply pressed a switch on a small black device he held in his gloved hand.
There was a crack of electricity, and The Asset screamed.
You jolted, reaching for him—but it was no use.
His body seized up as the taser pulse ran through his spine, his metal arm locking tight against the floor,
He didn’t resist. He didn’t even try.
When he collapsed unconscious beside the cot, Karpov turned to you without missing a beat.
“Come.”
You shook your head. “He—he was protecting me—he saved me—”
“You’ll have time for your little report later,” he snapped, throwing you some clothes to put on. “For now, come.”
—
The interrogation room was cold.
Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.
“You will explain,” he said coldly.
Your eyebrows furrowed, still half in shock. “Explain what?”
He tilted his head. “You calmed him down.”
Your mouth opened, then shut.
"You do understand," he said in his frigid Russian-laced English, “that he should have either killed you, or fucked you.”
You froze.
He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.
“That’s what the programming was designed to do,” he continued. “You are aware of his conditioning, yes?”
You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.
“Then you know what heat was for.”
You have heard of why it was drilled in his brain— but you didn’t answer.
Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.
“It was an instinct trigger. Embedded in his biological and neural mapping through synthetic hormonal injections and psychosexual conditioning. During these ‘heat’ cycles, he was supposed to be motivated—” He paused, eyes narrow, “—it was supposed to encourage mating.”
Your throat closed. Did he really not care about the dead guards? Was the project really his main concern?
“The Soldier’s DNA is nearly perfect.” he said, as if it was. “Hydra wanted progeny. Super soldiers born, not built.”
He leaned in then, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.
“But every woman they introduced… didn’t survive long enough to be useful. He tore through them out of instinct. So the project was abandoned years ago. The heat was too unstable, and he had no control.” He sat down across from you. “Until you.”
Your stomach lurched.
“You,” Karpov said slowly, “calmed him down.”
“I—I didn’t do anything,” you whispered.
“You must have!” he snapped.
You flinched.
“I’ve studied his tapes for years! I've watched him crush skulls with his bare hands, tear out throats. Rip people in half when the words are spoken. But you—” Karpov stood, circling the table again. “—you knelt half-naked in front of him while he was in heat—and instead of fucking you to death, he held you.”
“I don’t know,” you said hoarsely.
Karpov stared at you for a long moment, then sighed. He picked up the file from the table and turned to leave.
At the door, without turning back, he said, “You’re being reassigned.”
—
When you went back to your quarters. Your bunk was gone.
Your locker was cleared and stuffed neatly into a duffel bag.
On the floor was a folded piece of paper.
REASSIGNED TO: THE KENNEL
Effective Immediately.
Observation: Subject Winter Soldier
Objective: Behavioral stabilization
Note: Subject's physiological response indicates reduced volatility in your presence.
Further utility assessment pending.
You sank onto the cot.
Now, to Hydra, you weren’t just a doctor. You were a leash.
—
The cot wasn’t meant for two.
It was military-issue— narrow, hard-edged, bolted to the floor like everything else in the kennel. At first, you didn’t even sit on it when he was there. You’d sleep on the floor with your back to the cold steel wall, too awkward to mention what happened that day. The blanket was wrapped tight, pretending it wasn’t humiliating, pretending you weren’t always cold.
At first, he’d just watch, afraid of crossing a line— especially after what had happened to you.
Then, after a week, he motioned for you to sit beside him on the cot when you changed bandages or administered injections.
Then, a month in, after a mission where he came back with his knuckles broken and a gunshot wound near his ribs, you were too exhausted to curl back up on the floor. You’d been crying silently that night, your hands trembling as you stitched him, your eyes stinging, wondering where everything had gone wrong.
When you’d finished, he looked at you. “…You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
Your eyes flicked up.
“What?”
He shifted to make room. One side of the cot opened up to you.
You hesitated. Then nodded.
That night, you lay stiff as a board beside him, back to back, flinching to touch. You barely slept, afraid to breathe too loud.
But the next night, when you came back from the showers and the lights dimmed for sleep, he scooted over before you even asked.
By the second month, your backs were pressed together at night.
By the third, you’d curl inward, and he’d curl, too. One of your legs would brush his. Your forehead might graze his chest. His arm, the flesh one, sometimes draped around your side in the middle of sleep and didn’t pull away when you shifted closer.
—
When his heat cycles came—and they always came—you prepared.
You stayed calm and gave him space.
You… would sing to him. Lullabies, mostly— songs meant for children too small to understand how cruel the world could be.
He never moved toward you during those nights. He never touched you without invitation. He’d sit on the cot, the muscles in his neck pulled tight.
Sometimes he’d whisper things to himself, half-delirious.
"No. Not her. Not her."
—
When he was frozen, you stayed in the kennel alone.
You didn’t think you’d miss him, but you did.
You’d find yourself sitting on the floor beside his cot, staring at the sealed cryo-chamber, singing to yourself just to fill the space.
And when they unfroze and reset him, you were still his doctor.
You still iced his knuckles. You still placed his dislocated shoulder back. You still pulled bullets from his flesh and closed the wounds with care no one else gave him.
But after the first few months, he started looking at you differently.
Like he knew you. Even after resets. Even after ice.
—
One day, after a mission that had stretched on far longer than any of the others—he came back. He was quiet when he entered. He did not say a word.
But after two hours of working on his wound, he whispered, “Bucky.”
You tilted your head, confused. You weren’t sure you’d heard right.
Then he said it again, firmer this time. “My name is Bucky.”
What?
Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up.
He… remembered?
“…Okay, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be— because anything louder might shatter whatever this was—perhaps a glimpse of the man buried beneath all the programming and pain. “Can you please lift your arm for me?”
He did.
And for the first time, he looked… not just present. Not just there.
He looked real.
—
You were still asleep when the cold hands tore the blanket from your body.
Two Hydra agents stormed into the kennel, and before you could even sit up, they had you by the hair, dragging you off the cot like a rag doll.
Bucky shifted awake next to you, but the third guard tased him before he could fully even register what was happening.
“What—what are you doing—?!”
They didn’t answer. They just manhandled you down the corridor, your bare feet scraping along concrete, your heart still stuck between dreams and dread.
In the interrogation room, one of them shoved you into the metal chair so hard the back of your skull smacked against steel. A hand grabbed your chin, wrenching your face toward him. The other paced behind, a cattle prod crackling ominously in his grip.
You recognised the person in front of you as Karpov. “What did he tell you?”
You blinked. Your ears rang. You were still half-asleep, disoriented.
Then you realised:
Oh.
Someone saw the footage.
Someone saw what happened last night. Someone heard Bucky say his name.
Your mouth opened, before shutting again. You weren’t even sure what to say. He didn’t tell you anything else, but if you said so, would they even believe you?
But Karpov demanded more.
“Did he say his designation?”
“Did he say anything else? Was there a code?”
“What did he tell you, girl?”
The prod surged forward with a snap of electricity, kissing your side. You screamed—more from shock than pain—but the heat seared like fire across your ribs. You convulsed in the chair, gasping, trying to curl away, but the restraints held you firm.
And then—through your haze—you saw a flicker in the hall.
You heard a grunt. A thud.
And suddenly—he was there.
The Winter Soldier. No—Bucky.
His body still shook from the effects of the tasers, but his eyes were burning.
One of the agents turned in time to catch a brutal kick to the gut that sent him sprawling. The other barely got a hand to his weapon before Bucky lunged, using the full weight of his body to knock him back. You saw blood and heard bone crack.
In seconds, it was over. Even Karpov was hauled away to safety.
Bucky was at your side, kneeling, his trembling fingers working clumsily at the restraints.
“Bucky—” your voice cracked. “You’re hurt—your face—”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes didn’t meet yours.
The cuffs snapped off.
You sagged forward, into his arms before you even realised you were doing it. You felt the thrum of his chest, the rise and fall of ragged breathing.
He cupped your face with his human hand, and for a second you thought he might kiss you — but no. He pulled back.
Because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to lose you.
“You need to go.”
You froze. “What?”
“There’s a tunnel—service corridor—they don’t watch it after hours. It connects to the south barracks. You can get outside the perimeter.”
“Bucky—no,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’m not leaving you.”
He clenched his teeth.
“You have to,” he said. “I can’t protect you here.”
“I don’t care—”
“I do.”
That stopped you cold.
His voice cracked on those words. He looked away, just for a second, as if ashamed of how much he meant them. “I— I’m starting to know things I shouldn’t,” he said softly. “I need you to go. If I don’t… if I’m not… If they wiped me…”
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“I need you to promise me,” he said, almost begging now. “Don’t come back for me.”
“I—please—”
His lips brushed your forehead, right before he shoved you gently but firmly toward the hall.
“Go.”
So you did.
—
Thirty Years Later.
The world had changed.
Until yesterday, James Buchanan Barnes was a congressman. He didn’t go looking for redemption anymore. And he certainly didn’t go looking for you.
What would be the point?
You were probably… what? In your sixties? Seventies? If you’d survived at all— and Hydra said you hadn’t, that they’d caught you in one of the tunnels and killed you— he could only hope you’d built a life—married someone kind, had children, found a place where the past couldn’t follow you. If you had managed to find peace, he wasn’t going to rip it open like an old scar just to ask, Do you remember me?
So he never tried.
But he never loved again either.
Because even if he never said it out loud, Bucky Barnes had once loved you in a place where love wasn't supposed to exist.
He still did.
That kind of love didn’t fade. It just lay quiet beneath the skin, like a healed-over wound that never quite stopped aching.
It wasn’t something he talked about. Not to Sam. Not to Steve, before he left.
Until...
—
New York. Post-Void.
The sky was still clearing after the void had swallowed New York City whole
The Thunderbolts were scattered across the debris-littered street, dragging survivors from the wreckage after Valentina smirked smugly from successfully introducing them to the world as the New Avengers.
Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.
That’s when he heard it.
It was faint, like madness like a lullaby from another life.
“Baa baa, black sheep… have you any wool…”
His whole body went still.
He whipped around, scanning the dust and rubble, and—
There.
You were kneeling beside a crying girl on a broken stoop, blood smeared down her shin, and she had a sprained ankle— maybe. Nothing fatal—but you held her like she was made of glass, one hand gently pressing a bandage against her knee, the other stroking her curls as you sang.
And you… you hadn’t changed.
There was not a wrinkle on your skin, not a gray hair on your head. You didn’t look a day older than the last time he saw you, thirty years ago.
He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe.
“You know her?” Yelena asked, stepping beside him, flicking blood from her forehead.
“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”
You calmed the little girl down when she started sobbing, making sure you were gentle with her injuries.
Bucky didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
His lips parted like he might say yes, but no sound came out.
“One for the master, one for the dame,” you sang as the girl sniffled, “and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”
It was like his lungs had forgotten air. His heart beat painfully inside his ribs—too much, too fast, too sudden.
And then—
You looked up.
Saw him.
And smiled.
—
You walked over to him like you were in a dream—like every step was an act of defiance to everything that had broken you, bent you, tried to erase you.
He was now sitting on the ground, legs sprawled like they couldn’t quite hold him up anymore. Blood streaked across his jaw, already drying in cracked lines. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from drowning.
Your boots crunched over broken glass and gravel as you closed in. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t know if he could handle words yet—not until your presence fully registered.
You crouched down, and he flinched when you touched his face—not because it hurt, but because he didn’t trust that any of this was real.
“You’re hurt,” you finally said. “Let me help.”
You pulled out the antiseptic, your hands shaking slightly. You dabbed the cotton gently along the edges of a deep cut above his brow. The moment the liquid touched skin, he shuddered.
And then he started shaking.
The tremble that began in his hands and spread to his shoulders, his chest, his teeth. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, to ask something, but the words got lost
Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His breath hitched before the first choked sob, clawing its way up his throat.
And maybe it had been.
Because it wasn’t just about seeing you. It was about seeing you alive.
Alive.
Not a hallucination. Not a memory. Not like he saw you, in the void.
Alive. With breath in your lungs and heat in your veins and the same look in your eyes that once held him when he was in pain.
His lips moved—silent at first. Then the words came out shaky. “Do you… remember me?”
You froze for half a second, eyes softening in a way that shattered him all over again.
“Of course I do,” you whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead. “I could never forget the love of my life.”
Was that what he was to you?
After all this time, he still meant the same thing that you did to him?
He turned his face away like it might somehow spare him some tears, but it didn’t. The sob that followed ripped from the deepest part of his heart, almost primitive. Not the kind you cry when you’re sad, but the kind you cry when you realise your heart’s still beating after being convinced it was gone.
He collapsed into himself, shoulders hitching, breath stuttering out in ragged gasps. His metal hand clawed blindly at the ground like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped under.
You didn’t say anything else. You just moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders, resting your forehead to his temple as he wept.
Yelena had wandered off a while ago—probably in search of someone else to pester— most likely her father.
She hadn’t even looked back. She probably knew that this moment didn’t belong to her.
It belonged to him. And you.
He tried to say something else—an apology, maybe, or a confession—but all that came out was, “I—I…” he swallowed, “I— I…”
“Bucky…” You hushed him gently, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. “We’ll talk somewhere private, yeah?”
He barely nodded.
Because right now, language was too small a thing. All he could do was hold onto you. And all his mind could think was the way your hand fit in his like it always had.
—
You walked ahead of him, leading him down the cracked sidewalk with a hand hovering just near his arm in case he stumbled again.
He hadn’t stopped shaking.
Every so often, Bucky would glance sideways at you—like if he looked away for too long, you might vanish. His eyes were still red, his fists clenched like it hurt to hold himself together. Still, he followed.
It wasn’t far—just a few blocks. Somewhere between tourist traps and bodegas.
The sign above the trauma clinic was clean and professional. Your name etched in utilitarian serif, easily overlooked.
You didn’t take him through the front. Instead, you circled to the alley behind the building and paused before a rusted steel door that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. But then—you looked directly at a small, seamless panel embedded beside the frame.
A red light swept across your retina, and when it recognised you— the lock hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.
“Come on,” you murmured as the door swung inward.
You descended a narrow staircase, the lights flickering on ahead of you one by one—clean, white fluorescence bathing the walls. At the bottom, it opened into a wide, reinforced corridor.
And then you turned the final corner.
Oh.
That was all his mind could manage.
This was not a secret lab. Not some grim Hydra hellhole or impersonal bunker.
No. This place was…
It was your life. A shrine. A sanctum buried beneath the city.
It was a sterile medical bay with sleek counters, an exam table and chair, sealed cabinets filled with trauma kits and gauze and every instrument a trauma doctor could need—but the walls told a different story.
To his right: a newspaper framed in glass. “Harlem Disaster Narrowly Avoided: Doctor Treats Over Fifty Civilians After Abomination Rampage.” Your name was in the byline. There was even a photo—blurry, taken on someone’s flip phone, of you, sleeves rolled up, arms smeared with blood as you performed a field tourniquet on a screaming man.
Then, “Unsung Hero of New York: Trauma Doctor Saves Dozens in Battle of Midtown.”
He kept turning. The memorabilia… evolved.
A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.
A display case holding a single 9mm bullet, etched with the faint white skull of the Punisher— etched on it.
A shattered web cartridge, unmistakably Spidey’s, with a bit of dried synthetic fluid still crusted at the nozzle.
Even a shelf with a glittery Ms. Marvel Funko Pop, clearly out of place, sitting cheerfully among medical books and gauze rolls.
Bucky’s voice, when it came, was nothing more than a breath. “What is this?”
You stepped beside him, your fingers trailing the little bobblehead. “Gifts from… friends.”
He turned to you. “Friends?”
You gave him a tired smile and joked, “Is it so unbelievable for me to have friends, Bucky?”
He blinked, startled by the levity. You gently nudged him to sit on the exam table, and he obeyed without protest as you cleaned his wounds.
“I just…” he said, voice thin. “I don’t know how you’re still alive. Or how you still look so…” His eyes lingered. “…young.”
You didn't meet his gaze. “Thank Hydra.”
Bucky swallowed, but you continued.
“When I got recruited, they injected me with something— they said it was just a stimulant— to keep me going longer, help me work longer hours.”
He went still.
“Later, I learned that it was something called the Infinity Formula. Not exactly a Super Soldier Serum, but it… slowed my aging significantly. I guess they didn't want to have to train more people.”
You kept working on the cuts on his face.
“When you got me out… I didn’t know how to be in the world anymore. So I built this practice. I wanted to be… useful”
Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.
“But then, vigilantes started showing up. People who couldn’t go to hospitals— people who were bleeding, hunted, scared. It was a small community, so word spread.”
Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.
“I patched them up.” You nodded toward the artifacts on the walls. “No questions. Just… tried to keep them breathing long enough to get back out there. It became my life.”
Every artifact had a story, and you were the invisible thread stitching it together.
“A couple months ago, Fisk outlawed masked vigilantes and made everything worse. Not a lot come round anymore, but I still help. How could I not?” You looked up at him.“They show up half-dead, still trying to save people. They just need someone to believe they’re worth saving too.”
Bucky's hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.
You pulled the final stitch and wrapped the wound.
“There,” you whispered. “You’re good.”
But Bucky didn’t move. He was staring again. Not at the artifacts, not at the walls. But… at you.
“You…” His voice cracked. “You never stopped.”
There was no more Hydra. No more handlers. No more needles.
And yet you continued doing what you do best.
Back then, he'd thought he'd imagined it. That flicker of you— the only good thing in that place built to destroy anything good.
But now…
Now, here you were. Standing in front of him. Still real. Still breathing. Still looking at him like he was a man, not a weapon.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse and hesitant, like it hurt to say.
“Can I…?”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at you, struggling to find his voice. “Can I touch you?”
You didn’t move for a heartbeat. But then you nodded.
And that was all he needed.
He pulled you ever closer, barely daring to breathe. He lifted his metal arm so gently, like you might vanish if he pressed too hard— he cupped your cheek.
His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.
It was real.
His other hand followed, cradling your face between his palms. His calloused fingers trembled against you, his lips parting. A man who had faced death a thousand times over… and was now utterly undone by the fact that you were standing in front of him, alive.
Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and the first sob slipped out of him like a wound opening in real time. His whole body curled inward, as if trying to shield you and collapse into you at the same time.
Your hands came up slowly, mirroring his motion like magnets finding their way to each other after centuries apart, holding him just as gently. “I missed you, Bucky.”
His eyes, that haunted blue, searched your face. “Why didn’t you come for me?” he asked, pain buried deep in his voice. You must’ve seen him in the news— during the Sokovia Accords, the ordeal with the Flag Smashers, or when he became a congressman. You simply have had to have seen him.
You swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes. “I didn’t think…,” you admitted, “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
His brows furrowed. “Of course I remembered you,” he said, a little broken, a little desperate. His thumb moved again, tracing circles against your skin. “But Hydra told me you were dead— I never believed them. But after everything, I thought maybe you’d moved on. That you were gone for good, one way or another.”
Tears welled in your eyes now, hot and brimming over, and you let them fall. “After what we’ve been through?” you asked, your voice trembling as a sad smile curled your lips. “How could I ever move on from you?”
He let out a sharp breath, like your words were a punch to the chest. Gently, as if giving you the chance to pull away, he pulled you closer — chest to chest, heart to heart — until he helped you up and you were straddling his lap, your hands finding a perch on his shoulders, his arms caging you in like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.
His forehead rested against yours again, breaths mingling, warm and shallow.
“God, Bucky…After all this time,” you whispered in amazement, “what are we?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, finally, with certainty, he said, “A choice.”
Your breath hitched.
“A choice,” he repeated, eyes locked with yours, his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “The first real choice I made after having my mind taken from me. The first person I cared for that were not orders, not missions.”
Oh.
You let your fingers trail up into his hair, letting yourself touch him like you’d dreamed about for so long. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.
You swallowed again, sighed when he leaned into your touch.
“I…” you started, but pulled back just slightly so you could see his face, your eyes meeting his. “Can I kiss you?”
He looked at you like you were the only person in the world that made any sense.
He could only nod.
And you kissed him.
It was cautious at first, tentative, like a secret being unravelled — but the second he hummed, the world disappeared. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you to him as he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. You melted into him, your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times in your dreams.
When you finally pulled back, your forehead pressed to his again, both of you smiling like teenagers.
You let out a small laugh, “I’ve always wondered what your lips tasted like.”
He chuckled too, that low, boyish sound you hadn’t heard… ever. “Yeah?” he asked, fingers still tracing lazy lines along your spine. “Was it everything you imagined?”
You grinned, eyes still closed. “Better.”
He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth and whispered, “I missed you, too.”
—
You and Bucky had taken it slow.
After those first intense days together, you both decided to learn about each other outside of Hydra. Just to see who you were now.
You went on actual dates— coffee that turned into late dinners, morning hikes, lazy afternoons in museums, cooking together and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Turns out, outside the cold walls of bunkers and laboratories and hidden bases, you and Bucky were more compatible than you'd even dared hope. He liked vinyl records and peaceful mornings. You liked stargazing and stealing his sweaters. You both loved old noir films, loved sushi, and had developed a strangely passionate shared hobby for urban beekeeping.
You laughed more. He smiled more. It was like discovering each other for the first time all over again.
You’d kept your medical practice open, still offering your services to non-traditional patients. But when the Watchtower was done and the New Avengers moved in, they asked you to help the team.
Your official title was Medical Liaison and Trauma Consultant, but mostly you patched up a rotating cast of stubborn supersoldiers and spies who swore they “healed fast” and then passed out on your med bay floor.
But today, the med bay was calm — just a light checkup for Alexei, a bruised rib for Yelena, and a lot of banter.
Everyone knew you and Bucky were dating, but no one had the guts (or stupidity) to ask questions.
Until now.
You were cleaning up your tray of instruments when Bob leaned back in his chair and asked casually, “So… how did you guys meet again?”
You paused.
Bucky, seated on the edge of the exam table with his shirt half-buttoned, glanced at you.
“Oh, you know,” you blinked, “Mutual enemies.”
There was a beat of silence.
“What does that even mean?” Walker asked, clearly disappointed.
You smiled sweetly. “It means you don’t want to know.”
Yelena squinted at you from the other bed. “It means the real story is either classified or deeply traumatic.”
“Or both,” Alexei said.
You laughed — a little too brightly for the topic — and handed Yelena her discharge form. “Exactly. Now who’s next for bloodwork?”
Bucky slid off the table, kissing your cheek quickly as he passed. Ava rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.
Mutual enemies? Yeah, right.
The more accurate term would be: the best thing Hydra never meant to happen.
Summary: You didn’t plan to become a guardian overnight—and you never planned to ask Bucky for help. He wants a future you’re not sure you believe in, and now you’re both standing at the edge of it, trying to decide what comes next.
MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: grief, discussions of parenthood, fear of commitment, emotional vulnerability, soft angst, happy ending
Word Count: 8.6k
Author’s Note: i think about bucky with kids constantly for someone who does not, under any circumstance, want kids of my own. this fic was born from that contradiction—what happens when someone who doesn’t want that life ends up face-to-face with the one person they might actually want it for. not in a dramatic “i’ve changed my whole personality” kind of way, but in the soft, accidental, deeply inconvenient way that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
this is for the emotionally constipated readers who would rather die than say “i love you,” and the fictional men who already know and love them anyway <3
The apartment smelled different now.
There was the lingering scent of your cinnamon soap and the lemon cleaner Bucky insisted on using when you were too tired to tidy, but now it was laced with something unfamiliar—something younger. Strawberry shampoo. Plastic doll hair. A forgotten juice box tucked somewhere it shouldn’t be.
The light hit differently, too. Brighter. Your niece—technically your cousin, but no one ever used that word; it was always just aunt—had insisted on opening every curtain earlier, claiming the place was “too dark like a villain’s lair,” and who were you to argue with that kind of logic when you’d just taken in an eight-year-old girl on less than seventy-two hours’ notice?
You were still in your work clothes—black slacks, boots scuffed from too many hours in the field, and a soft, oversized t-shirt with a faded Stark Tech logo, stolen from an old operations summit. Your badge was still clipped to your belt, forgotten. You’d been planning logistics for an upcoming mission, cross-checking Sam and the team’s travel with the jet availability calendar when the call came in: your aunt and uncle had been in an accident. Your niece, Elodie, had no one else.
You stood in the kitchen, elbow-deep in a cabinet of mismatched mugs and protein bars trying to find the one box of hot chocolate mix you swore you had. The one with tiny marshmallows, the kind you remembered your aunt always keeping on hand for Elodie.
You hadn’t even had time to think or cry about it.
You weren’t a parent. You organized mission briefings, coordinated tactical gear shipments, smoothed over UN red tape. You were not—had not been—planning to be anyone’s guardian. At least not anytime soon. And certainly not like this.
You didn’t even know if this would be permanent. That word hadn’t been used yet, not officially. There were still forms to sign and papers to be reviewed, social workers to talk to. You hadn’t unpacked your suitcase from last week’s on-site debrief, and now there were markers and crayons scattered across your rug. A third toothbrush in the bathroom. A fourth cup in the sink. A kid in your home who drew you with what appeared to be fire breath and a rocket launcher arm.
No one had answers. Only half-formed apologies and the kind of bureaucratic scramble that smelled like the same abandonment you’d been through before.
Elodie had been sent to one of those transitional holding centers. The ones with fluorescent lights and paper-thin blankets, tucked behind some nondescript county office downtown. You knew the kind. You still had dreams about them sometimes. Dreams that smelled like antiseptic soap and sounded like other kids crying through the walls.
The second the first call ended, you were already moving. Didn’t pack your work bag. Didn’t clear it with Sam. You just went. Because no matter how unprepared you felt, no matter how deeply this upended the rhythm of your life, you weren’t going to let that system lay its hands on her.
You’d left the office with your badge still clipped to your hip and your phone already pressed to your ear, fingers numb as you tried to call Bucky. Not once. Not twice. Three times before you gave up on catching him in real time and left a string of voicemails that got increasingly cracked around the edges. You didn’t explain everything. You couldn’t. The words wouldn’t line up.
When he finally called you back—somewhere between you signing temporary custody papers and watching Elodie trudge toward you with a trash bag full of her things—his voice was low, still sleep-rough, the kind of exhausted that only came from time zones stacked against bone.
You knew he was on assignment halfway across the world, somewhere humid and unstable, running point on something you knew he wouldn’t be back from for at least a week. You knew better than to call.
Especially when your head wasn’t clear. Especially when you were spiraling.
Because Bucky always assumed the worst. Always heard the silence between rings like gunfire. Late-night voicemails landed somewhere between a threat and a goodbye in his mind, and you knew that.
But you did anyways.
Because you couldn’t not. Because the words wouldn’t stay in your throat. Because somewhere in the middle of the paperwork and the fluorescent lights and the way Elodie didn’t ask any questions as she was handed over, you realized the only person you wanted to hear from was him.
You hadn’t meant to wake him. Hadn’t meant to drag him out of whatever two-hour pocket of rest he’d managed to find. You didn’t even really remember what you had said. What he’d said. You hadn’t said anything about how long she’d be with you. Hadn’t said anything about how this would change the shape of your lives.
And neither had he.
You’d known for a while that Bucky wanted a family. Not in a loud or impatient way. He never said it outright, but it lingered in the spaces between your lives—the way his hand would settle against your back in the baby aisle at the store, or the way he’d pause when you passed playgrounds on long walks, always watching the kids with this look that was equal parts hope and mourning.
You saw it, too, in the smallest shifts: the way he went quiet every time a leasing agent pitched the extra room as a nursery when you toured apartments on your lunch break.
He never said anything. You never asked what he was picturing, but you felt it radiating off him like heat. Not expectation. Just want. Tucked somewhere he thought you wouldn’t notice.
He never pushed. Never asked.
And you’d never given him an answer.
And you—honestly, you weren’t sure.
You’d seen too much. Lost too much. Grown good at things that didn’t belong in a home with children. You never imagined yourself built for it. Didn’t plan for carpool lines or permission slips or morning routines that didn’t start with encrypted briefings. You used to think people who had kids must’ve known something you didn’t. Like there was a moment—a click—where they felt suddenly qualified. Ready. Right.
That moment never came for you.
And yet now, there were tiny socks drying over the radiator. A unicorn backpack by the door. Crayons in the shape of bite marks on the table. A child-shaped echo in every room Elodie passed through.
You kept telling yourself it was temporary. That it didn’t mean anything beyond circumstance. That you were just holding space until the paperwork stopped stalling, until Elodie could get placed somewhere good. But your coat was already hanging beside hers. And that morning, when you found one of her barrettes snapped to the side of your boot, you didn’t move it. You just left it there. Like it belonged.
There was a knock on the door. Three short, deliberate taps. Then two.
Your heart skipped.
Only one person knocked like that.
Your hands froze where they were rummaging through the cabinets.
He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. Not for another three days. He’d said he’d check in when he could, that cell service was spotty and the extraction team needed time to move. You hadn’t expected to see him until the weekend, maybe longer if things went sideways.
You wiped your palms down the front of your shirt and pushed your hair behind your ears. And for one brief, flickering second, you wished you had more time. Enough to at least figure out what the hell you were doing. Enough to get past the part where Elodie’s things in your apartment still looked out of place. Enough to shove this strange, sudden, not-quite-parent version of yourself back into a box before he saw it.
Before you had to watch him walk into your apartment and be good with a child—your child, for all intents and purposes—because you knew he would. Before you had to see the look on his face—the one you’d been avoiding for months now. The one that said: I want this. I’ve always wanted this.
Because you didn’t know what you were going to feel when it happened. And worse, you didn’t know what he’d feel if you couldn’t meet him there.
Before you decided what scared you more, you opened the door.
Bucky Barnes stood on the other side, and for a second, it knocked the breath from your lungs.
He looked like he’d only just made it home. Not in the dramatic way—not bloodied or bruised or visibly wrecked—but in the way his shoulders hadn’t fully settled, in the faint smudge of exhaustion under his eyes, in the stiffness that still clung to the way he stood. His dark jeans were road-dirty at the hems, and his henley was creased like he’d pulled it from the middle of his duffel bag in a rush. His hair was pulled back loose, not neat, and he hadn’t shaved in days.
And still, he was here. Solid. Present. Eyes steady on yours like the world hadn’t shifted in the days since you last touched him.
His arms were full. Brown-paper-wrapped packages, all hand-tied with twine. Some flat and square like books. One longer, maybe art supplies. Every edge smoothed, every corner careful.
You blinked. “Bucky… what are you doing here?”
He swallowed, shifted the weight in his arms, then shrugged with one shoulder. “Got back early.”
There was more to it. You could see it in the tightness around his mouth. The way he didn’t say how early. Or why he came straight here. You hadn’t seen him in nearly three weeks, and now he was standing in your doorway, hands full of things for a kid he hadn’t even met.
You glanced down at the packages. “You brought gifts?”
His mouth twitched. “Bribes, technically.” His ears turned pink. “I went to that bookstore on Ninth on my way home. Picked up a few things. Chapter books. Stuff I liked when I was little.” A pause. “And a set of colored pencils. The good kind.”
You stared at him, the quiet sincerity of it hitting harder than anything else had that week. “Bucky…”
“I’m not trying to—” he started, then stopped himself. His mouth tugged downward. “I just thought maybe it’d help.”
“I know,” you said softly, stepping aside.
Bucky stepped past you—but not before brushing a kiss to your cheek, so brief it almost didn’t register. He lingered there for a beat too long, like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the shape of it yet. Then he moved fully inside.
He entered like he was stepping over a threshold into something sacred.
His movements were slower than usual, like the air was heavier here—like he wasn’t sure where he fit in this space anymore, or maybe he just didn’t want to disturb it. His eyes flicked once toward the coat rack, where a child-sized fleece hoodie hung crooked over one of the lower pegs. Then to the far corner of the living room, where your old side table had been replaced by a collapsible plastic shelf filled with coloring books, two stuffed animals, and a bottle of detangler spray.
He didn’t comment on any of it.
Instead, he crossed to the kitchen counter and set the stack of packages down with the same care he’d give a weapon—precise, balanced, respectful.
And then he just stood there, hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter, gaze sweeping the room again. Not like he was searching for anything. Just… absorbing. Mapping the new terrain.
The pink-and-silver sneakers by the door. The glitter glue drying on a paper towel near the windowsill. The way the coffee table had been shifted off-center to make room for a folding chair that didn’t match anything else in the room.
You didn’t speak. Neither did he.
But there was something in his expression, something quiet, stunned, and utterly unguarded, that stopped you cold. It wasn’t judgment. Not confusion. It was closer to reverence. Like he was witnessing the beginning of something he hadn’t expected to be allowed to see. Something he was already halfway in love with.
Finally, he spoke—low and even, like the hush of a church you didn’t believe in but still respected.
“She still up?”
You nodded. “Office floor. Marker battlefield.”
“Casualties?”
“A few caps and an entire throw pillow.”
He breathed a soft chuckle. Then, after a pause, “How’s she doing?”
“She’s adjusting better than I thought she would,” you said, which wasn’t really an answer.
He nodded like he got it. Like he understood there were griefs that cried through you, and some that just sat there, patient and unspeakable, like stones in your throat.
Bucky leaned back against the counter, eyes scanning your face. “And you?”
You hated the way your chest stuttered at the question. You weren’t the one who lost parents. You weren’t the child. You weren’t the victim. But his gaze didn’t flinch.
You offered a thin smile. “I’ve had worse deployments.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But you didn’t come home from those with someone depending on you to make dinosaur-shaped pancakes.”
“She'd probably say they were ‘too extinct,'" you muttered.
His laugh was soft and silent—shoulders moving, lips barely parting. You caught the glint of metal where his vibranium hand reflected the overhead light. And something in you softened. Bent toward him like muscle memory.
And then, from the other room—
“HELLO???” a voice called, sing-song and unapologetically loud. “I heard whispering. If someone is here, you have to announce them. That’s the rule.”
Bucky blinked. “That’s… new.”
“She made a rulebook,” you muttered, moving toward the office Elodie had taken over. “It’s seven pages long. One of the rules is no stepping on lava unless you have lava boots. Which, I would assume, you don’t.”
Bucky raised a brow. “Damn.”
You stepped just far enough to gesture toward the office.
Elodie sat cross-legged on a rug patterned in navy constellations. There was marker on her cheek. A juice box at her elbow. And about six open sketchbooks that had all been repurposed into epic fantasy storyboards involving unicorn battles and what looked like a tragic betrayal by a flamingo.
She looked up without moving her body—just the flick of her eyes, dark and unblinking, like she’d already figured Bucky out and was now waiting for him to do the same.
He didn’t sit right away.
He crouched near the edge of the rug, one hand splayed on the hardwood, the other resting loose on his thigh. He angled himself just out of her reach, like he was waiting for permission to exist in her orbit. You’d seen him crouch like that behind cover, in broken buildings with enemy fire overhead. And somehow, this felt more vulnerable.
Elodie didn’t blink. She studied him like she was memorizing weak points, a small commander sizing up a potential threat. Marker clutched mid-air in her hand like a weapon she hadn’t decided whether or not to use.
“Are you really my aunt’s boyfriend?” she asked, flat and sharp, like a line of questioning she’d been rehearsing.
He coughed. “Uh. That’s… complicated.”
She squinted. “So yes.”
Bucky turned toward you like he was asking for backup. Backup. Clarity. Maybe even comfort. You shrugged from where you were leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of lukewarm tea you’d forgotten you’d poured and left on the hallway cabinet. Your other arm wrapped loosely around your waist, bracing for something you couldn’t name.
There was no label for the thing you’d built with him. No tidy word for the quiet way he slipped into your life and stayed. The dishes he washed without being asked. The way he remembered your schedule down to the minute and texted you to drink water after briefings. The way he never looked at you like you were too much or not enough—just you, like it was a privilege.
Bucky was your partner. Had been for a while now. Long enough that your toothbrushes lived side by side at your respective apartments, long enough that you fell asleep with your leg tangled in his more often than not. But you’d never once called him your boyfriend, and you were pretty sure if you did, it’d sound ridiculous. Like naming something wild just to make it feel tame.
Elodie huffed toward Bucky. “That’s what grown-ups always say when they’re trying to lie in a fancy way.”
Bucky looked back at her, lips twitching. “Well, I’m not lying. I just didn’t know I needed a job title.”
“You do if you’re gonna date her.” She turned back to her drawing. “She’s very busy and important.”
Bucky sat properly now, legs crossed, hands resting in his lap. “I know.”
You didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing until your lungs started to burn. Something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, no edge of teasing. Just reverent acknowledgement. Like he’d known all along how much of you was built from schedules and damage control and long, quiet corridors of never quite belonging to anyone.
There was a beat of silence. Elodie was coloring something with aggressive pressure. It might’ve been a unicorn. Or an explosion. Could’ve gone either way.
You wrapped your arm tighter around yourself and leaned against the doorframe, trying to steady the strange shift taking root under your ribs. Like a rope pulled taut, finally slackening.
“Your arm’s really loud,” Elodie said, glancing at Bucky from beneath her lashes.
He looked down at the vibranium with a half-smile, more weary than apologetic. “Yeah. It does that.”
“Can you hear it in your sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you ever punch people with it?”
Bucky let out an exasperated chuckle. “Only when they deserve it.”
That earned him a slow nod. Like she was weighing the ethics of her own hypothetical robot arm.
She uncapped another marker, tongue poking out as she colored. You watched the two of them in profile—her knee bouncing with chaotic energy, his body unnaturally still, as though moving too quickly might break the spell.
Bucky leaned forward a little, peering at the paper. “What are you drawing?”
“It’s a princess in a battle suit.”
Bucky raised a brow. “With flamethrowers?”
“Duh.” Elodie rolled her eyes. “And a sword. But the sword’s also a guitar. That plays magic. That melts faces.”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “Obviously. Anything less would be unrealistic.”
She stopped coloring just long enough to stare at him like he’d passed some kind of secret test.
“Most people say I’m weird.”
“Well,” he said, lowering his voice like it was a secret, “most people are boring.”
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You just stood there in your own goddamn apartment, pretending to sip tea, trying to find your footing in the middle of something that felt suspiciously like a tightrope.
You knew Bucky wanted this. Not in the performative way some men said they wanted kids when what they really meant was they wanted to skip to the part where someone called them dad. No, Bucky wanted the whole thing. The messy, complicated, soul-splitting weight of it. He wanted the trust. The responsibility. The chance to become something no one had ever given him the space to be.
You’d seen it before. In the way he helped parents offload groceries at the bodega down the street. In the way he knelt to tie a stranger’s kid’s shoe without a second thought. In the way he’d once spent forty-five minutes talking to a five-year-old about dinosaurs in a waiting room while you filled out post-mission injury reports with your ribs wrapped tight.
It had never been a secret.
And the reason you’d been hesitant—it had never been about fear of softness, or the selfish desire for freedom. It was deeper. More twisted than that. You knew what it meant to love someone so much they were etched into the blueprint of who you were. You knew what it meant to have no protection against that kind of loss. Children were not maybes. They were not experiments. They were not things to try on like coats and discard when the weather shifted. They were permanent. Eternal. A vow you couldn’t take back once it was spoken.
And the idea of bringing someone into this world—this broken, unpredictable world—and watching them struggle to survive it without knowing if you’d be there for all of it… it was a fear that never really loosened its grip.
You’d always wanted your future with Bucky. That had never been the question. You would’ve married him tomorrow if he asked. You would’ve burned the world for him if he needed it gone. But this? A child? A shared life born of both of you?
You hadn’t known if you could make peace with the kind of courage that took. Not until now.
Because suddenly, here they were. Your person and your blood, though a few times removed, sharing air and markers and deadpan wit like it was second nature. And you weren’t even in the room, not really. You were just standing there, one foot in a life you’d planned and one foot in something you’d never let yourself hope for. Watching him wait for her trust. Watching her hand it over like it was hers to give, which it was. Watching them learn each other’s rhythms like it was nothing, like it was instinct.
Elodie considered Bucky for a moment longer, then gestured to the other wrapped packages on the counter that were just barely visible from the office. “Are those for me?”
Bucky tilted his head. “Maybe.”
“I mean,” she said, voice casual but eyes glittering, “you could give them to me now. And I might let you pick a crayon.”
“Might?”
“I have sparkle crayons.”
He chuckled under his breath, slow and warm. “Tempting.”
You blinked.
The room seemed to settle back into focus by degrees—the light from the floor lamp catching dust in its beam, the smell of Elodie’s strawberry shampoo baked into the couch cushions, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Your fingers were stiff around the mug, half-drunk tea long gone lukewarm, and when you finally set it down on the side table, the ceramic tapped louder than you expected.
Your throat felt dry. Too much thinking. Not enough oxygen. You dragged in a breath that didn’t quite reach the bottom of your lungs.
Elodie was leaning toward Bucky now, all knees and elbows and determination, digging through her crayon box with a clear sense of ceremony. Bucky, for his part, watched her with the kind of unguarded attention he usually only reserved for you when he thought you weren’t looking.
You cleared your throat, voice emerging slightly lower than usual, like you were still half inside yourself. “El,” you said, stepping forward, slow and deliberate, “if you’re nice, maybe Bucky will stay for dinner.”
Her eyes went wide, then narrowed with suspicion.
“Can he cook?”
“I can,” Bucky answered, hand over his chest like he’d been insulted, “but I also know how to order takeout like a professional.”
“Pancakes,” Elodie said instantly. “With whipped cream. No fruit. Unless it’s chocolate chips. Chocolate is fruit.”
“That’s… not how that works,” you murmured.
“Chocolate comes from trees,” she said firmly, looking at Bucky. “Right?”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “She’s got me there.”
She beamed. Then, without warning, she shuffled closer to him, plucked a glittery purple crayon from the box, and held it out to him.
Bucky took it carefully, like it was made of glass. “This is a high honor.”
“Now draw something.”
He glanced at the paper. “Where?”
She pointed. “Right there. That’s where the evil queen’s lair is gonna go. She eats hearts.”
Your mouth dropped open. “Elodie—”
“It’s fine,” she said, all innocence. “She eats bad hearts. Like rude people.”
Bucky snorted and covered it with a cough.
He didn’t say anything else. Just lowered the purple crayon to the paper and began sketching the outline of a jagged cliff. His strokes were slow and deliberate, heavy-handed like he was thinking harder than he wanted to admit. Elodie watched him work, chin in her palm, like she was studying a museum exhibit. At some point, she shifted onto her stomach, legs kicking behind her in that idle, unthinking way kids did when they were fully relaxed—when they believed they were safe.
Bucky’s knees cracked when he adjusted his position. She didn’t comment on it, but you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
He started narrating his drawing, quiet, offhanded, like he didn’t mean to, but it pulled her in all the same. Something about how the evil queen’s castle had a retractable moat. How the lava was sentient and grumpy. How her lair had its own snack drawer. You watched her light up like a fuse. She offered additions: a throne made of bones, a guard dog with seven eyes, a jukebox that only played cursed love songs. And Bucky went along with all of it, like he’d been inducted into a world where logic was second to whimsy and magic was just assumed.
He was so present. So precise in the way he listened. And it gutted you.
Because for all your planning, all your carefully orchestrated life, nothing had prepared you for this—for the deep, marrow-level ache of watching someone you loved step into a version of himself that felt like home. He’d never been lighter than he was in that moment. Never been more grounded.
There was no trace of the man who used to wake gasping from dreams, or the one who couldn’t look in mirrors for weeks at a time. This was just Bucky. Sitting cross-legged on your rug, holding a crayon like it was a weapon or a wand, letting a child who had lost everything build something out of nothing again, even if just for a moment. With him.
And it was devastating in the quietest way.
Because you hadn’t known it would look like this.
You hadn’t known the moment would come while your tea went cold and the windows fogged and the floor lamp buzzed faintly in the corner. You hadn’t known you’d be watching the man you loved win over the sharpest, strangest little girl you’d ever met with a story about a heart-eating queen and a magic guitar sword. You hadn’t known you’d ache in places you thought were already hollowed out. You hadn’t known how badly you’d want to freeze time.
And you certainly hadn’t known how much it would terrify you—that there might be something more terrifying than the idea of children.
Wanting this. Wanting them. Wanting to be the thing they reached for when the world turned unkind.
You pressed your hand against the edge of the counter and didn’t realize how tightly you were holding on until your knuckles paled. You knew you weren’t crying, but the feeling lived somewhere behind your teeth, metallic and old. You swallowed it down and let it burn.
Elodie cackled at something Bucky had said—some offhand comment about cursed muffins or killer bees—and he grinned, full and unguarded, a flash of joy that hit you square in the chest.
You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt.
You just stood there in the kitchen while the light shifted around you, watching the two of them draw their evil castle in glitter crayon and nonsense. Watching them fill the room with color and laughter and something dangerously close to belonging.
It was well past ten.
The apartment had finally gone still, the kind of silence that only settled after small bodies gave up their fight with sleep. The kind of quiet that felt tentative. Earned. As though the walls themselves were exhaling for the first time all day.
You were sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, knees drawn slightly under the blanket. A book rested open in your lap—something literary you’d started last month and hadn’t touched since—but the words didn’t register. You’d been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes. Maybe longer. You’d reread it so many times you weren’t even sure what it said anymore. It might as well have been written in a language you’d forgotten.
The pages were too bright in the low light of the bedside lamp. You kept adjusting your grip, pretending to read, pretending that your thoughts hadn’t been looping the same two images over and over again:
Elodie curled on the pull-out mattress in your office, already half-asleep before Bucky had even finished a chapter of the book he’d bought her. And Bucky, sitting beside her on the floor, voice low and even, one hand braced on his knee, the other gesturing gently with the story’s rhythm like he was casting a spell and didn’t know it.
You’d told yourself you’d send him home.
You meant to. Really.
You’d even mentioned it, lightly, as you started cleaning up dinner—stacking syrup-sticky plates in the sink while Elodie sat cross-legged on the counter arguing about how chocolate was basically a breakfast food group. You’d told Bucky it might be better for her—safer, more comfortable—to keep things lowkey for a while longer. Her first week. Still new. Still tender.
But then she’d pulled him aside, all wide eyes and conspiratorial whispers, and asked if he’d stay.
Just until morning. Just until they could build the pancake fortress they’d designed at dinner. Just until he could draw her robot dragon riding a bike before you dropped her off at school.
And Bucky? He hadn’t even hesitated. He’d just looked at you, silent question flickering across his face like: is that okay? And all you could do was nod.
Because how could you say no?
Not to him. Not to her. Not when she was smiling like that for the first time all week, not when he was standing there like something half-hopeful and half-afraid, trying not to overstep even as a child made space for him.
But some small part of you had wanted to say no. Not out of resentment. Not even out of fear.
But out of the awful, creeping awareness that you couldn’t stop watching him around her. Couldn’t stop tracking the ease of it—the way he caught her juice box when she knocked it over without blinking, or how he crouched low to her level to ask what kind of syrup she liked like it was the most important mission brief he’d ever received.
You couldn’t stop noticing how natural it looked. How right.
And if he’d been even slightly uncertain, if there’d been hesitation or awkwardness, you might’ve been able to file the whole night away under temporary circumstances. Contain it. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t tentative. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was just there. Steady. Warm. Comfortable in a way that made your chest pull tight.
You hadn’t been prepared for what that would stir up in you.
The soft click of the bathroom door opening echoed through the room, along with the fog of steam that rolled in before dissipating into the cooler air. Bucky stepped into the bedroom, towel slung low around his hips, chest still damp, hair wet and combed back with his fingers. His dog tags caught the light briefly before he reached for the drawer where he kept spare clothes at your place—sweatpants, a couple of old t-shirts, socks that never matched.
You didn’t look at him, your eyes still locked on the page in front of you, but you felt the shift anyway. The moment he clocked it. Something about the stillness of your body before you could smooth it out. The fact that your eyes hadn’t moved in minutes. That you were sitting like a statue dressed in cotton and pretense.
“You alright?”
The question was quiet. Careful. Not intrusive, but heavy enough to weigh against the silence between you.
You blinked. Realized you’d been holding your breath again. You glanced at the page, then up at him. “Yeah,” you said. “’Course.”
Your voice sounded thin in your own ears. Not a lie. Not really. Just incomplete.
Bucky watched you for a moment longer, then tugged on a pair of sweatpants and let the towel drop into the hamper. He pulled a shirt over his head—one of yours, actually, which hung a little tight across his shoulders despite it being oversized—and finally walked over, barefoot, the floor creaking under his weight.
“You’ve been reading the same page since I got in the shower,” he said, settling on the edge of the bed, one knee bent up beside you.
“I’m fine,” you said, clearing your throat. “Just tired.”
“You’re a lot of things,” he said gently, “but you’re not a liar.”
That earned a faint smile, nothing more. You closed the book, laid it face-down on the nightstand, and folded your hands in your lap.
“You sure you want me here tonight?” he asked, and it wasn’t about logistics or politeness. You knew that. You heard the real question underneath: Are you okay?
You nodded, but it was too slow to be convincing. “Elodie asked you to stay. I think she would’ve cried if you’d left.”
“Yeah,” he said, and ran a hand through his damp hair, his gaze still pinned to you. “But I meant… do you want me here?”
The question didn’t come with accusation. Just that same soft steadiness he’d always used when it mattered. The kind of question that wasn’t really a question. The kind that had been hovering since the moment he stepped into your apartment hours ago, even if he hadn’t asked it then.
You glanced up. And the way he was looking at you—open, sure, already bracing for the worst with that quiet kind of dignity that made your ribs ache—you wanted to run from it. Not because it was wrong, but because it was too right.
You hadn’t asked him to come, to show. That was the part that kept catching in your throat.
Not when the call came in, not when you signed the temporary custody paperwork at a county desk that smelled like cheap coffee and mildew. Not even when you drove Elodie home with a bag full of her things that someone else had packed. You hadn’t asked when you texted him—half-panicked, half-numb—telling him she was here, settling in. And ou hadn’t asked him when she cried herself to sleep the first night in your office. Telling him, not asking. Because you hadn’t wanted to hear what he might say. Or worse, what he might not.
And maybe it was cowardice. Or maybe it was something worse: the quiet, selfish part of you that still believed your life with him existed in a vacuum. Clean. Separate. Tidy. Built on nights in and casual routines and a version of intimacy that didn’t stretch into futures you weren’t sure how to hold.
And yet here he was. Not asking for anything. Just… here.
You looked at him then, hair still damp, skin warm from the shower, that worn-in shirt of yours stretched soft across his chest. You thought about the fact that he was in your bed and Elodie was asleep down the hall and somehow it didn’t feel strange. It didn’t feel like a guest in the house. It felt like something that had already been happening.
And for a moment, you wanted to laugh at his question. Because of course you wanted him here. You always had. That was never the problem.
The problem was how much.
And how easy it had been to pretend that everything you had—this middle ground between safety and permanence—was enough. That there wasn’t more quietly waiting at the edge of the page you were scared to look at.
You shifted the blanket over your lap. You didn’t look at him when you spoke. You looked at your hands, curling into the fabric, unsure what to do with themselves.
“Can I ask you something kind of awful?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Always.”
You nodded, eyes still fixed somewhere just left of him.
“Did you ever… look at what we have, and think—maybe we built it smaller than it could be?”
There was a long pause. You thought he was going to speak, but he waited. Gave you room. Let the air stretch out until you either took the leap or didn’t.
You exhaled, jaw tight.
“I think for a while now, I’ve had this version of us in my head,” you said, the words cracking loose. “A life that I built like scaffolding. Safe. Predictable. Two toothbrushes, joint laundry, arguing over movie night, that dog we keep saying we’d get when my lease is up and we move in together.”
You swallowed, finally flicking your gaze up to meet his.
“And I let that become the limit. I kept it manageable. Contained. Because if I didn’t look too hard beyond it, I didn’t have to admit that there was something more I wasn’t sure I could give you.”
His expression didn’t shift. No pity, no surprise. Just that same quiet presence. That same unshaken care. Like he’d been waiting for this—not to hear it, necessarily, but to carry it with you.
You opened your mouth like you might say more, but for a second, you couldn’t. You weren’t sure there was a word for this feeling: the unraveling of something you hadn’t even realized was knotted tight.
“And what’s that?” he asked, voice low.
You looked down at your hands again. The way they curled in your lap, before one of them loosely gestured to the door, to where Elodie was sleeping in your office. “The…rest.”
He nodded once, slowly. Then he said, with no edge at all, “You mean kids.”
You didn’t flinch. You just closed your eyes.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“I’ve never asked you for that,” was all he said.
You laughed, soft and humorless. “No. But you didn’t have to. You’ve been carrying that hope in your back pocket since the day I met you. Like you didn’t want to jinx it. Like you’d rather hold it quietly than risk hearing me say no.”
There was a stretch of silence after that. Not awkward. Just long.
When you opened your eyes again, he was watching you with something unreadable in his face—something like pain, but not quite. More like recognition.
“Do you want me to tell you you’re wrong?” he asked.
You shook your head. “I don’t think I am.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
He shifted a little, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loose between them. His voice stayed calm, quiet, even.
“I did want that. I still do. Not because it’s some checkbox, or some fantasy I’ve been clinging to since I was twenty. It’s not about proving anything. Not to you, not to anyone. It’s just…” He sighed heavily. “There’s a part of me that wants to give something good back to the world. Something real. And I think I spent so many years convinced I wasn’t allowed to have that—any of it—that when I started seeing it, even possible, I didn’t know what to do with it.”
You stared at him, heart beating so hard you could hear it in your ears.
“And the thing is,” he continued, still not looking at you, “you made me believe that maybe I could. You were the first thing that didn’t feel temporary. That didn’t feel like something I had to survive.”
You blinked, but he kept going.
“I used to look at couples, families, and feel like I was watching a movie I couldn’t be cast in. And then I met you. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was standing outside the glass. You made a place for me.”
Your voice came out small. “And now?”
He finally looked at you again.
“I’d still choose you. Every time. Even if you never want that. Even if it’s never part of the equation. You are my world. Everything starts with you and ends with you. Anything else is just stuff that happens in the middle. But I need you to understand something.”
His jaw worked as he tried to find the words. His fingers flexed once where they rested on his thigh, like he was bracing against something invisible. Then he let out a breath and shook his head—not at you, but at the space between you, like it was full of things he didn’t know how to carry anymore.
“I’m not here because I’m waiting for you to come around or change your mind,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “I’m here because I love you. All of you. Not just the easy parts.”
His gaze flicked up to meet yours, and there was nothing guarded in it—just this wide, devastating honesty.
“But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard sometimes. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t get heavy—wondering if this part of me, this quiet… want… is something I’m gonna have to put away and never touch again. I don’t…” He rubbed the back of his neck, like saying it out loud made it more real. Like it cost him something.” I don’t even know if it’s even possible with everything that Hydra did.”
The words hit with surgical precision. Not cruel. Not meant to wound. Just true.
And what hit even harder was the way he said them—not guarded, not hedging. Just here. Present. Raw. A version of him you used to think you’d never see.
Because there had been a time—not that long ago—when silence was the only language he trusted. When every feeling came out sideways: in too-tight grips, in the snap of a closing door, in his jaw locking tight around things he didn’t know how to name. You’d spent the better part of a year learning his moods by the set of his shoulders, by the way he stopped returning phone calls instead of saying he wasn’t okay.
You let the words settle. Let them burn. Then, finally, you spoke.
“I think,” you said slowly, “that I’ve been afraid of how much I’d lose if I opened that door. Afraid of how much of me would change if I said yes. And I didn’t want to be less… me in the process. I didn’t want to turn into someone else. Someone softer. Smaller.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said instantly.
“I know. I know. It’s just…” You dragged a hand down your face. “If I admitted I wanted that future, I’d have to admit I was never really in control of it to begin with.”
He nodded, understanding. Then reached for your hand. Not forcing it. Just open.
You took it.
“I’m not asking for now,” he said. “Or soon. Or ever, if that’s where we land. But if there’s even a version of you—five years from now, ten—who maybe wants it… If that’s someone you want to explore, I’m here with you, no matter what.”
You stared at him. At the man who should’ve run a long time ago. Who’d never once made you feel like a compromise. And all you could think was God, what would I have done if I never met you.
“I don’t know what I want,” you whispered. “But I think I’ve been closer to wanting it than I’ve let myself admit. And that scares the shit out of me.”
His thumb traced the edge of your knuckles.
“Good,” he murmured. “Means it’s real.”
He said it like it was simple. Like pain was proof of truth. And maybe for him it was. Maybe for you, too.
You nodded, but it was slow, distracted. Like your body knew to agree before your mind caught up.
You sat there in it for a moment. His hand still curled around yours, his thumb moving in slow, absent-minded arcs against your skin like he didn’t know he was doing it.
Then you shifted—just enough that your knees bumped his—and said, almost to the air between you, “It surprised me.”
He didn’t speak. Just watched. Waited.
You glanced down at your hands. “Watching you with her tonight. It… surprised me. Not because you were good with her—of course you were. I knew you would be. You’ve always been good with people, even when you don’t think you are. And kids? They get it. They get you. They always have.”
You paused. Picked at a loose thread in the blanket.
“What surprised me,” you said finally, “was how easy it was to picture you doing it again. Not just with Elodie. With someone else. Someone who’s… ours.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Thin, uncertain. Dangerous.
Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“I’ve spent so long building this version of my life that could weather anything,” you went on. “Something efficient. Contained. Strategic, even. Like a mission op. Like if I just accounted for every variable, nothing would catch me off guard.”
You let out a breath. “And then all this happens. And suddenly I’m in the kitchen, watching you draw a glitter castle with a girl who didn’t even know your name yesterday, and I’m… I’m thinking about crayon boxes. I’m thinking about pancakes with chocolate chips. I’m thinking about how it would feel to watch you hold someone tiny and furious with your eyes.”
Your voice went quieter. “And I realized I wasn’t scared of it. Not in the way I thought I’d be.”
Now Bucky did move—just slightly. His head tilted, not like he was shocked, but like he was listening closer.
You kept going.
“I wasn’t thinking about everything I’d have to give up, or everything I’d risk losing. I was thinking about what it would be like to have a life with you that keeps unfolding. One that doesn’t end where the door shuts. One that keeps… growing. One that I know you deserve.”
You looked at him now. Really looked. And you found him already watching you like he was memorizing every word.
“And that scared the shit out of me,” you added, half-laughing, half-shaking. “Because I thought—fuck, I killed that part of myself. I buried it under all the survival instincts. And now it’s just sitting there, alive and inconvenient.”
Bucky’s free hand moved then—metal palm over your knee, not gripping, just grounding, thumb resting there, solid.
“You didn’t kill anything,” he said. “You just stopped looking at it.”
A long pause stretched between you, heavy and humming.
“I’m not—This isn’t…” you tried. “This isn’t about you wanting something and me finally catching up. You never asked. You never pushed. You just waited. And that might be what broke me open more than anything else.”
His jaw shifted. That small, almost imperceptible movement he did when he was holding something in. But his voice stayed quiet.
“I never wanted to be the reason you changed your mind. I just… I hoped, maybe, you’d change it for yourself. And if that meant I got to be there when you did, then—yeah. That’s something I would’ve waited forever for.”
You shook your head, blinking hard. “You were always willing to take the version of me that didn’t want more. And I—I don’t know if I can live with the fact that I might’ve let you do that. That I might’ve kept you in a smaller life than you deserved just because I was too afraid to imagine a bigger one.”
His hand tightened gently on your knee. “Don’t do that. Don’t rewrite this like I settled.”
You looked up, throat tight.
“You think this—us—is a smaller life?” he asked. “Because to me, this is the only thing I’ve ever had that felt real. That felt mine.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he stopped you with a shake of his head.
“Don’t. You’re allowed to want more. You’re allowed to change. But don’t call what we have less just because it came first.”
You reached out—hand sliding against his jaw, thumb at the hinge of it—and his breath caught like he hadn’t known how badly he needed the contact until you gave it.
“I just keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “what if I hadn’t watched you with her tonight? What if you didn't come over? What if I’d never seen it—never had this… moment? Would I have let the possibility pass me by without even realizing what it was?”
He leaned in then, resting his forehead gently against yours. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than breath.
“You didn’t miss it. You’re right here.”
You nodded, but it barely registered—your breath catching somewhere in your chest as his words settled in the space between your ribs.
And it was only then, when his fingers brushed featherlight across your cheekbone, that you realized you were crying.
Not in any dramatic way. Just quietly. The kind of crying that happened without asking. Slow tears that curved down your face like they’d been waiting a long time to fall. You hadn’t even noticed the sting at first—too busy listening, too busy holding the conversation like it might break if you looked away.
Bucky didn’t say anything about it.
He just swiped a thumb under one eye, then the other. Careful. Gentle. His hand lingered against your jaw for a second longer, callused fingers against skin, then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead.
Then he shifted, slow and careful, crawling beneath the covers like he’d done a hundred times before but still didn’t take for granted. You didn’t even think—your body just turned toward him, instinct pulling you into the curve of his chest before he was fully settled. He slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you in, like gravity had been waiting.
You stayed like that for a while. Breath slowing against him. His hand spread over your ribs, thumb tracing slow circles like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were here, you were warm, you were choosing him.
“I’ll help,” he said eventually. Quiet, but firm.
You blinked. “What?”
“Elodie,” he said. “Whatever you need. Mornings. Pickups. School stuff. I’ll take the early ones. You’re always slammed on Thursdays with ops calls anyway.”
You almost smiled. “You don’t even know her schedule.”
“I’ll learn it.”
He said it like it was obvious. Like it was already decided.
You were still tucked under his chin, so he couldn’t see your expression. Maybe that was why you said what you said next.
“There’s still a chance this won’t be permanent.”
“I know.”
“And if it is, I don’t know what that’ll look like. Not legally. Not financially. Her parents’ accounts barely had enough to cover the transfer forms. I’m fronting groceries right now on a card that was supposed to last me until next cycle.”
“Then we figure it out.”
“Bucky—”
“I’ve got savings.” His voice wasn’t defensive, just steady. “Pension from the VA. Stark made sure of that. I’ve got contracts from Sam’s team and hazard pay I never touched. I can help. I want to.”
You were quiet a long time. Then, “You don’t owe me that.”
“I’m not doing it because I owe you.”
He shifted back enough to look at you. Eyes clear. Certain.
“I want to be part of this. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when she likes me because I bought her crayons. I want the real thing. The tired mornings. The appointments. The science projects the night before they’re due. If this becomes a life... I want to be in it. All the way.”
You felt his words sink under your skin, slow and unrelenting.
He brushed a strand of hair back from your temple, fingers pausing just a second longer than they needed to.
“I know we haven’t figured out all of it yet,” he said. “I know this wasn’t the plan. But that doesn’t make it less real. Doesn’t make it less ours.”
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Pairing: Fugitive!Bucky Barnes x Fugitive!Reader
Summary: Inspired by I Know Places, Getaway Car, and Cowboy Like Me
"You were prettier back then," a familiar voice suddenly says from beside Bucky.
His shoulders stiffen momentarily, pulling his eyes away from his own little exhibit only to see the top of your baseball cap pulled low on your head. His jaw clenches, metal fist tightening as he remains unsure if you've come as friend or foe. Foe, he's almost entirely certain. "Who sent you?"
You playfully scoff. "I don't take orders anymore. You know that."
"What do you want?"
You wryly chuckle, your nonchalance taunting, irking, Bucky. "What makes you think I want anything?"
Now, it's his turn to scoff. Coincidences like this don't just happen. He knows this well. "You just happened to be here?"
You languidly shrug. And he's not sure if you know how bad you're pissing him off or if you're really just trying not to call attention to yourself. "You've pissed off a lot of people. We're supposed to be laying low," you cheekily remind him.
"What I do has nothing to do with you," he curtly murmurs, though he knows that's not entirely true.
He leisurely begins walking away, slow, without purpose to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Without hesitation or fear, you reach out and clutch his vibranium arm. What bothers him even more is that your hold actually roots him in place. Your hold still on his arm, you hiss under your breath, "Hey, things start going to shit for you, they start going to shit for me too."
His jaw clenches tightly. "I know."
"I know a place," you offer.
"Use it for yourself," Bucky grimaces.
"You know, I don't have to be here. I don't have to help you," you point out.
"Your point?"
"Right now, take all the friends you can get," you say, dropping your hand from his arm. "People aren't exactly lining up to help you out."
Bucky's clenched jaw loosens, he's smart enough to know when the cards are stacked against him. And right now, he had a losing hand. "Fine."
"Don't sound so excited, Soldier."
He grunts, "Lead the way."
He spares one last glance at his exhibit before following you out the side exit. A life he'd lived, but long forgotten. All culminating in a life on the run. But he is. He is on the run, and he needs to focus on that.
So he follows you. Down a restricted hallway. To an emergency exit. Then, a steel door with a large painted 'emergency exit' sign on it. Though the door warns that an alarm will sound, not a single sound is made as you freely swing the door open and step out into the disgusting alleyway.
There's a car waiting there. You've already hopped in and he pretends not to notice that the car is almost certainly stolen.
In fact, he doesn't say anything.
He offers not a single nicety, not a murmur of small talk, he remains completely silent as you drive past city limits. He keeps his eyes trained out the road in front of you, the passing terrain becoming more unfamiliar with each passing hour.
On the small plane that you somehow managed to commandeer, he keeps one eye on you piloting the otherwise empty aircraft.
And still he says nothing.
After many hours of silent travel, it's nightfall when you pull up to the unassuming apartment building in a completely new country. You grab both duffle bags stowed in the backseat of yet another mysteriously commandeered car, and with your heads low, you make your way up the rusty metal staircase. He tries to pinpoint exactly where you are. He knows he should've asked and that he probably could still ask, but the silence now feels like some weird competition of who can hold out the longest.
The air is cold, the houses sparse and rundown, but the landscapes vast and breathtakingly beautiful.
He allows himself only the shortest of seconds to scan the area and to feel the fresh breeze on his face before he follows you.
His boots thump and echo against the metal steps, and he can hear the heavy metal door groan as you unlock the door. He makes it up the flight of stairs just in time to see you forcefully open the door with your shoulder as your battering ram.
With his only two impressions of his newest hideout being the stairs and the door you almost tore down to get in to this place, he steps into the apartment with very little expectations.
But in spite of the derelict nature of the building and door, the place inside isn't terrible. Especially not for a fugitive. It's relatively furnished, a bed and a couch in the small studio apartment. There's a small metal table in the small kitchen and another wooden one in front of the pull-out couch. There's running electricity and indoor plumbing. He knows that, for all intents and purposes, this was as good as he was going to get right now.
You chuck the two bags on the small wooden coffee table, Bucky following your lead and dumping his alongside yours.
"This place isn't terrible so let's try to make it stick, alright?" you rhetorically ask, speaking as though you hadn't spent the better part of 18 hours without a word between the two of you.
"Fine."
"Okay, listen up," you command, though there's still remnants of your playfully sarcastic tone. You start unpacking the first bag, holding up a manila envelope, "Paper file for the technologically inept."
The muscles in his jaw ticks because of course. Of course you weren't helping him for the sake of being a good samaritan, you needed him for something, a job, a mission, an assignment. Something. Still, through gritted teeth, he asks, "What is it?"
"It's everything I gathered. Everything I know," you say, sliding the file across the table to land right in front of Bucky. "I figured I shouldn't know more about you than you do."
He falters, the tension in his expression stuttering to a confused, furrowed look. He looks down at the file in front of him. He opens it and it's exactly what you said it was. He sees his name printed on the first page: James Buchanan Barnes. All of his basic information followed by pages and pages of forgotten memories. "You're just giving this to me?"
"My act of kindness for the day," you flippantly remark, continuing to unpack the bag. Bucky scoffs, his guard snapping right back up. He knows that there's more to it. More that you're omitting, more answers that you conceal in half-truths and roundabout answers. Before he can call you out, you continue, "Everything that you'll need should be in walking distance. Some cash that should last you a while. There's a burner in the bag if you need me. Try not to need me."
"You're not staying?" Bucky questions, putting the file to watch you pick up one of the two bags.
"Easier to lay low alone."
"What are you going to do?" he ask before he can think better.
"Don't worry about me. I know places," you quip, a mischievous grin on your face. He knows that you know exactly what you're doing. The emotional and mental whiplash gives him no opportunity to ask questions, to demand answers. Before he can collect himself and stop you, you're walking out of the apartment. Only to turn back around and with your signature lighthearted, wry sarcasm, you ask, "Is it insensitive for me to say, 'get your shit together'?"
Bucky wordlessly shrugs, unsure of what to do with himself, or how to accept the strange act of kindness.
You nod, offering him a kind smile. Before the door closes, you add, "Get your shit together, Soldier. It's not going to get easier."
Bucky nods once in understanding, "Thanks."
--
A Year Later...
His quiet, borderline normal life, lasted approximately a year.
A year before he saw the headline falsely accusing him.
A year before Steve stood in his apartment, begging him to let him bring Bucky in.
He ran from your place with only the black duffle bag you left him on his back.
And he's running. Running from everyone. From his friend from a lifetime ago. From the newly crowned King of Wakanda. From Tony Stark and SHIELD.
The little burner phone weighs heavily in his pocket. He contemplated calling you, but what were the chances that you'd show up for him again?
None, he decided.
He hadn't heard from you in a year. The phone probably didn't even work anymore.
His eyes frantically sweep the area around him. And to say it was bleak was an understatement.
He's surrounded, all his enemies closing in on him from every direction when the burner rings at what has to be the most inconvenient time in recorded history.
He's not even really sure why he answers. But he does, pressing the phone to his ear before his entire life collapses before him.
Over the sound of his heavy footsteps still running, he hears you chuckle, "Laying low really means nothing to you, does it?"
"A little busy," Bucky grunts, holding the phone in the crook of his neck.
"I can see that."
"Wha-"
"Look up. On the overpass." He looks up at the overpass almost directly above him, the sleek silver sports car that's revving its engine. "Unless you want to keep playing with your friends?"
He huffs, but as much as he hates to admit it, it's one hell of a life saver. He doesn't think, just does. He narrowly escapes Steve's grip, jumping on a large SHIELD SUV, then grabbing the railing to the overpass. As he vaults himself onto the road, shots ring out all around him.
You impatiently rev the engine again. And you do so with a cheeky grin, pissing Bucky off before he's even interacted with you.
He flings the door open and before he's even fully in the car, you take off. You zoom through the busy streets, expertly dodging civilian cars skidding to a halt, pedestrians gawking at the high speed car chase, Bucky's innumerable enemies all chasing the car. And through all this chaos, you seem completely unburdened, not at all worried that you'll be caught.
"Here," you order, offering no greeting before handing Bucky the handgun in your holster. "Make yourself useful. And put your seatbelt."
He scoffs at the seemingly ridiculous statement, but says nothing, wasting no time before throwing his seatbelt on and aiming the gun out the window at the cars now tailing you. The overwhelming sounds of the high speed chase thrum in Bucky's ears, as though he could feel the sirens in the beat of his heart.
He wants to credit himself and his excellent shooting skills as to how the two of you evaded all the cars the cars slowly but surely, but he can't. Not at all. The clip of the gun you gave him is empty before he knows it.
"There's more toys in the back," you instruct.
He turns so his torso is no longer leaning out of the car. He looks forward for a moment and sees the caution lights warning you that the very bridge you're about to drive on to will rise in the center, blockading any car from moving any further, flickering just a few meters in front of you.
Without pause, you drive onto the bridge anyway, toeing the gas to propel the car even faster.
"The bridge," he warns.
"Thank you, Captain Obvious. That's how we're going to lose them," you cryptically remark, pumping the gas pedal again. "You have your seatbelt on, right?"
He ignores your question, bracing himself for whatever is about to happen. "You're not going to make it."
"I'll make it."
"You're not going to-"
There's no time to finish his words before the definitely stolen car is hauling up the rising ends of the bridge. His hand flies up to grip the passenger handle as you use the risen bridge as your ramp to freedom.
His stomach lurches as you breeze through the air. And the short moment that the car flies through the air feels like an eternity, the entire time Bucky thinks to himself that you're not going to make it. That SHIELD is going to fish you out of the water and you'll both be arrested.
Only for the tires to hideously squeal when you hit the pavement. The car violently rattles and the smell of burned rubber fills the car, but there isn't a moment to doubt whether the car will still work because you're still hauling it down the street.
"Told you I could make it," you breathlessly laugh, your knuckles white as you clutch the steering wheel.
"You're crazy," he exhales, though you can almost swear you hear a hint of a chuckle from him.
With only a helicopter desperately trying to maintain visual left on your tail, you swerve into a tunnel, losing everyone pursuing Bucky.
When he's certain you've lost everyone chasing him, he takes a deep breath, taking a moment to enjoy the light of freedom on his face before he's forced back into hiding. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Now what?" he reluctantly asks.
For all he knows, you're going to dump him and his duffle bag out on the side of the road before he gets the both of you caught.
"Now, we ditch the car. Then, I've got another place where you can lay low," you offer, much to Bucky's surprise.
This time he clearly hears the 'you'. You have a place for him. He shakes away his objection, focusing on the task at hand.
Even more surprisingly, you pull into a packed parking garage. The kind that you don't need a ticket to get in our out. Your baseball cap still pulled low on your head, you pull into a parking spot with cars parked on either side of you.
"Grab the bags," you instruct.
He nods, grabbing all three bags from the backseat. Then he watches as you scratch the VIN number on the dashboard, the model number from the side of the door, in one quick, sharp movement, you tear off the license plates, then wipe down everything that you or Bucky touched.
"Thorough," Bucky comments, slightly impressed by your attention to detail and how quickly you just stripped the car of anything that could be traced back to you.
"Thanks."
"And now we steal another car?"
"Steal. Borrow," you shrug. "Same difference."
"But we're stealing?" he asks, bothered by your nonchalant reaction to grand theft auto.
"Oh, definitely," you freely laugh.
Though it deeply bothers him, he says nothing.
Beggars can't be choosers, he tells himself.
And anyway, you're still helping him. Even if he doesn't have the faintest idea of why you're doing it.
You languidly search through the garage as though you're just shopping for a car and definitely not on the run. Just as he's about to demand that you move faster, you pull on the door of a small, unremarkable sedan. It doesn't look old, but it's not flashy - he has no clue why it caught your eye.
He figures that's probably the point. You unceremoniously pull at the door handle. And just like every other time, he swears that it's not going to work. That the car alarm will go off or at the very least the car will be locked and you'll be left looking for another car.
But to his surprise, and annoyance, the door opens without a problem. No alarms ring through the garage. There's no struggle or broken windows. It's that simple for you.
"Special toy," you cheekily explain, flashing Bucky the small device as you duck into the car.
He rolls his eyes but climbs into the passenger seat, dumping the three bags into the backseat again. He briefly wonders why you have two bags for yourself when he could've sworn that a year ago you only had one. He dismisses it, a lot can change in a year. But there's a pesky little thought in the back of his head that something isn't adding up. While he's trying to reason everything out, you drive off without another word.
"What did you even do?" you ask after a considerable time in silence, your tone too light and playful for Bucky to even consider it an accusation.
"Nothing," he swears.
"Well, what do they think you did?"
"Wait," he falters, unused to anyone giving him the benefit of the doubt anymore. And that you do so without hesitation, even more questions crop up in Bucky's head. "You believe me?"
"You've never given me a reason not to."
"The UN. They think it was me."
"Jesus," you exhale, shaking your head to tame the runaway thoughts.
"Why are you here?" he asks, his tone bordering on accusation again.
"Saw your face in the paper. Was passing through. Thought you'd like a getaway car."
He watches you for a moment, looking at your focused expression for any signs of insincerity. And though he can't quite reconcile the events that brought you here, he finds not a trace of deceit on your face, "Thanks."
It doesn't sit right with him. There's things that you're not saying. This endless rotary of places that you have that you're just offering up. Especially after he just blew the cover of one of your safe-houses.
And it bothers him even more how nonchalant you are about it all. You seem completely unaffected by the fact that everyone is looking for Bucky. And by helping him, they're looking for you too.
After crossing several borders and escaping the areas where he's most wanted, he feels only marginally better. He wants to go straight into hiding, to get to this place of yours and stick his head in the sand for the next six months until it all mostly dies down.
Even as the sun lowers on the horizon, he doesn't feel safe. He feels vulnerable out here in plain sight.
But you take him to a bar.
He shakes his head in disbelief because you actually take him to a bar.
A bar, of all places.
It sits on the very edge of a city that's a little too populated for Bucky's liking. He's on edge from the very moment you walk in.
While you walk in with your chin up and a wide, flirtatious grin that just begs to be looked at, his legs shake with unbridled anxiety, his jaw hasn't unclenched since you first picked him up, and his head pounds with millions of rampant worries.
And you look perfectly fine.
From when you order a round of drinks and a greasy burger for the two of you, you look completely and totally at ease.
You casually sip at your drink. Your eyes roam around the bar, slowly drinking in the entire scene before you. The patrons drunkenly boasting about their respective wealth and their ostentatious lifestyles. The bartender that flirts with you every time you approach for a fresh drink.
He remains in the booth, watching you make trip after trip to the bar. It's after your fourth trip that he grabs your wrist as you move to stand up again. "We should go."
You slide back in the booth with your empty glass still in hand and prop one of your feet up. "You need to relax. Have some food, drink a little. We're gonna be fine."
"I can't get drunk."
"Neither can I, but you don't see that stopping me," you chuckle, downing the rest of your Old-Fashioned.
"Can you take this seriously? We need to get out of here," he hisses, leaning as close to you as the table will allow him to.
"Fine," you groan. "But one more drink."
He huffs, but you still get up and slowly saunter to the bar. You leisurely flag down the bartender, tipping your glass toward him with a flirty smirk. He watches as you casually giggle and hang onto every word the man says as he prepares your drink.
"Thank you," you coo, your hand resting on the man's forearm as he hands you the drink.
You don't come back to the table this time.
You sip at your drink, slowly swirling the liquor with the small wooden skewer. Just as Bucky's about to stand up and haul you out of the bar, another blonde, greasy-haired man approaches. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw this guy with another girl. Presumably his date for the evening. Only moments ago, his date got up to use the bathroom, and here the man was shamelessly flirting with you.
You showed no signs of telling this man to leave you alone nor made any indication that his advances were unwelcome. No, you lean into him, laughing a little too hard at slurred jokes and brazen come-ons.
"What the hell is she doing?" Bucky mutters to himself.
You lean so far into the man that, for a moment, Bucky worries that you're going to fall off the bar stool. Just as he's sure that you're going to fall or kiss the guy, you playfully push the guy's shoulder away.
Bucky lets out a breath of relief, relief that he doesn't want to admit that he feels.
And just when he's confused as hell, he sees your left hand. The one sneaking into the man's obscenely expensive leather jacket and slyly stealing his wallet.
He scoffs in utter disbelief. He knows he can't really claim the moral high ground, but still he snatches up his jacket, slaps a twenty on the table and leaves in a huff. He doesn't look back to see if you're following him, but he can hear from the crunch on the gravel that tells him you are.
He's not even sure why he tried to leave the bar in the first place. He knows you have the keys and that you're the only one that knows the location of the safe-house. But God, that stunt pissed him off.
"So you're a thief now?" he accuses over his shoulder.
You gasp, mostly in a playful tone, "I resent that, I am not a thief! I prefer con artist. More classy."
He stands at the passenger door impatiently waiting for you to unlock the car. You're unhurried and take a moment to notice how even in the dead of night, even as he glares at you, his eyes are stunningly blue. "You just stole that guy's wallet!"
"I only steal from people who deserve it," you defend, finally unlocking the car.
"And what exactly did that guy do?"
"Besides trying to slip a little something in that girl's drink?" you rhetorically question, holding up the little packet of crushed up powder the guy had been itching to use all night, then examining the content's of the man's wallet. You look at the man's ID with a furrowed face. "His name is also Chad. You just know he's an asshole."
Bucky sighs deeply, opening the car door in a huff, "What happened to laying low?"
"He hasn't even noticed his wallet's gone," you dismiss, climbing into the driver's seat. "And he's wasted, he won't notice until tomorrow morning. He's been running a tab all night so he'll just think he left it here. And by then, we'll be long gone. It's not a big deal."
"And if you get caught?"
You roll your eyes, shaking your head. "I was trained in the Red Room, I think I can handle some lame trust fund baby."
"Don't pull that shit with me anymore."
You roll your eyes and start the car, "Et tu, Brutus."
In the silence, you think about the last year. The old men you swindled and conned that really believed you were the one. Each word you whispered in their ears, promising them that it could be love. Passing through town after town like a bandit, only to disappear like an elusive puff of smoke.
It hurt a little more than you wanted to acknowledge that Bucky judged you for the things you'd done. You thought that out of everyone, he might be one of the few people that could understand, a bandit just like you.
Though you began your drive at the very beginning of nightfall, the sun slowly creeps up on the horizon when you break the tense silence, "Well, I hesitate saying this since you're still in a pissy mood, but before we get any closer to the safe house, we're going to have to switch cars again."
"How far away are we?"
"Couple hundred miles out."
"And we need to switch now?" he grumbles.
"Yes. We switch now, make it look like we're going East when we're going West. Gets them off our trail for a while longer."
"Are you going to steal the car too?" Bucky snarkily mutters.
"Oh my God, you're still on this! Why do you even care?"
"Because it's wrong!" he chides.
"The way I see it, us traitors never win, so forgive me if I really don't give a shit."
"I'm not a thief."
"Whatever," you scoff. "And yes, we're paying for the car. In cash. No paper trail. No stolen cars that people are looking for."
This second part of the trip is even worse than the first. Even worse than the trip you made with him a year ago.
To fill the tempestuous, suffocating silence, you blast the radio. You don't care if Bucky's glaring holes at the side of your head in clear displeasure, you do it anyway. As he scoffs his way through a shady, back-alley car dealer with an even sleazier salesman, you smirk and pretend like you don't notice his terrible attitude.
You flirt your way through a incredible deal with even more incredibly forged documents. He takes a glance at them as you're going through all the motions and he swears they look like legitimate. The only difference between himself and the salesman is that he knows better.
And once you're settled in an even crappier, but much more legal, used car, you turn down the obnoxiously loud music because you see Bucky's eyelids drooping, the exhaustion etched in his features as the adrenaline from the days prior leave his system.
You watch as he fights the sleep that slowly over comes him, each sleepy droop of his heavy eyelids warded off by a sharp jolt of his head snapping upright as though he's been watching you the entire time. You know he's about to crash, he's fighting against days worth of travel and a draining life on the run. You know this exhaustion well.
And you turn the music off completely when he starts quietly snoring in the passenger seat. You steal a few glances at him as you drive through the open road. The age melts off of him when his eyebrows aren't furrowed at you, when the judgement isn't as clear as the day that passes you by on the open road, nor the scowl that seems to be specially reserved for you.
You drive the entire way, stopping only at gas stations where you fill the tank and grab some crappy gas-station junk food for the two of you.
It's entirely miserable and you yourself don't know why you're going this far out of your way to help someone who so clearly wants nothing to do with you, but there's a part of you that's glad you're going it anyway.
You're glad because you believe him. You believe that he's not a bad man. Not when he's the reason you escaped the clutches of the Red Room. You see a person who was put in circumstances just as unfortunate as your own.
And you remind yourself of that until the car screeches to a halt in front of another of your safe-houses.
"Home, sweet home," you sarcastically retort, dropping the bag on the couch as you both enter the safe-house. "For you, anyway."
You waste no time unzipping the bag to reveal its contents to get Bucky on his feet and partially sustain him until he has to move again.
Except this time, he sees the wad of cash, nicely bundled, sitting right on top of the bag's contents. He doesn't even know why it bothers him so much. You're right, he has no moral superiority here. He doesn't even really care about that sleaze-ball you robbed blind.
You're right, the guy will be fine.
It's you, he decides.
You're what's pissing him off. Not the days worth of travel he wears. Not the fact that he's a fugitive.
It's you.
Your aloofness.
Answers that are riddled with half-truths and heavily redacted plans. The fact that he can't pin you down. That he has no clue what you want from him nor why you're going this far out of your way to help him.
Loose lips sink ships. But so do loose cannons.
He knows it's you that's pissing him off and still, he looks up from the wad of cash in the bag back up to you with silent accusations in his eyes.
You shake your head at the man, feeling the considerable amounts of judgement as he stares you down. So you take the purposefully take the bait, "You should've seen the guy I stole that from."
"That's not funny," he sneers.
"Come on, Soldier. Lighten up," you tease, unafraid of the growing scowl and intense look deepening on his face.
"Don't call me that."
"Bucky?" you taunt, remembering the old nickname from his file.
"No."
"James?"
"Knock it off," he seethes.
"Lover?" you over-enunciate, dragging the word out to tantalize Bucky.
"Is everything a joke to you?" he snaps, pinning you against the wall with his forearm pressed against your collarbone.
"God, you'd think a year alone would've given time for that sense of humor to form," you chuckle.
"Why do you even care?" Bucky demands.
You try not to laugh at the ironic 180 this conversation just took, but you smother the laugh, instead offering the same excuse you gave him the first time you helped him, "I already told you. Things go to shit for you-"
After the twelve hour nap in the car, his brain is no longer muddled with exhaustion. Pieces of the puzzle are coming together and he doesn't like what he sees, not one bit. "You're lying."
"No, I'm not-"
This time, he doubles down, "You said you came because you saw my face in the paper, but then you asked me why they were after me. If you saw the paper, you already knew that."
In spite of the dangerous position you find yourself in, you wryly chuckle, "So you caught that. Very astute, I'm impressed."
"Who sent you?"
"I told you, I don't take orders anymore. Least of all from you."
"I don't buy it," Bucky sneers, putting just a little more weight into his hold. "Why are you helping me? What do you want?"
"Trust issues much?"
"Why?" he orders.
You finally begin pushing back against the weight of him. He doesn't stumble back, but does ease up on the amount of force he uses. "I don't need you. I don't want anything from you. You have nothing to offer me. Have you ever thought about that?"
"Then why?" he fumes.
You shrug, once again too blithely for Bucky's liking. "You helped me once. Maybe I just don't like owing people."
"Bullshit."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Do you ever just give a straight answer?"
"No."
His voice laced with desperate pleas, he softly whispers, "Why are you helping me?"
You take a breath, taking a moment to decide how you want to proceed. And the second you look up at his pleading eyes, your voice drops along with Bucky's. "Have you ever thought that maybe I just wanted to help you?"
"No."
"You want me to say it? I'll say it, I wanted to help you. You got me out, I didn't forget that."
"That explains the first time. And now?"
"Is everything an inquisition with you?" you quickly retort.
"Only when mysterious people show up out of nowhere and decide to help me without a good reason."
"I didn't say I didn't have a good reason," you whisper in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. He's not sure if this is just your training or if you're actually being honest with him, but against his better judgement, as the words leave your mouth, he believes you. "You're a good reason."
"You weren't in the area," Bucky concludes, finally removing the forearm that pins you against the wall.
"Not even a little bit," you reluctantly admit.
"What do you want from me?" he murmurs, leaning so close to you that his breath becomes your own.
"Nothing," you exhale.
"You sure about that?"
You look at him dead in the eye and nod ever so slightly, "Yes."
"Stay," he mutters in your ear, his words a confusing blend of a desperate question and a intense order.
Though he's no longer holding you in place, you remain rooted in place under the blue eyes that glimmer as though they were filled with stars. You shakily nod, "Okay."
"Good."
You clear your throat, tearing finally freeing yourself from his gaze, "We should get some food. Scope the area out."
"Alright."
It's been a while since you've been here. It's one of your favorite safe houses, somewhere tucked in a small yet beautiful Romanian city. Though you haven't returned to Bucharest in years, you still remember all your favorite little spots.
It's also one of the only places that only you know about. You've never told anyone about this place, it's cover has never been blown. It's the perfect place for the two of you to hide.
Bucky's hand almost jolts when you reach out for his as you walk through the town square to a small little restaurant, before you even explain the cover, he relaxes and intertwines his fingers with yours.
Still hand-in-hand, you two duck into the small diner.
It isn't long before you're both seated in a booth, tucked into the very corner of the restaurant with two plates of food in front of you and Bucky. And though it's easy for you to pretend that this is your own little corner of the world, isolated from the dangerous, dark clouds always looming on the horizon, it's clear that it's not that easy for Bucky.
His shoulders remain rigid. Head lowered. His face set in what seems like a permanent scowl carved onto his face.
He's practically inhaled his food, while you pick at your plate, enjoying your first real meal in days. He quietly whispers, "We should get back."
"Will you relax? We're safe here."
"And if we're not?" he quickly retorts.
"Do you trust me?"
Though the inexplicable 'yes' is already on his lips, he pauses for a moment, if only to allow rationale and reason to finally step in. It doesn't. "Yes."
There's a strange sense of pride that swells in your heart that he admits that he trusts you. From your years on the run, trust was hard to come by. Worth more than any other resource or emotion. Trust was so fragile, a little flame that could easily burn out, only to be given to the most delicate, dutiful hands. "But I know I shouldn't."
"No, you shouldn't," you agree. "But I'm glad that you do."
"You said 'us traitors'," he prompts, hoping that you'll allow his prying this time.
"Uh-huh?" you languidly lilt, though alarm bells are ringing in your head to change the course of conversation.
"Who'd you betray?"
You put the fork down with a sigh, though there's still a slight humor in your tone, wiping your mouth before you speak. "You want the list?"
He wordlessly nods, silently urging you on.
"Alright, but it's not pretty."
He says nothing, still waiting for you to stop stalling and tell him what he desperately wanted to know.
"Okay, don't say I didn't warn you."
"I'm waiting..." he chortles.
"Well," you start, only allowing the conversation because it's the first time you've ever seen Bucky look even remotely relaxed. "Let's start off with the big ones. The United States."
"Obviously."
"Mexico, England - actually all of the United Kingdom, France, for time purposes, let's just say most of Europe," you start, then prattle on for almost five minutes about all of the countries you were currently wanted in. And you were certain that there were more that you didn't know about. "And most surprisingly, Portugal."
"What the hell did you do in Portugal?" he snickers.
"I don't remember."
And maybe Bucky was being overly sensitive, hyper-aware of the slight change of inflection in your tone, but from the slight twist in your mouth to the lack of a sarcastic comment, your memory sounds like a pretty sore subject.
"They think I bombed the UN," Bucky unexpectedly offers.
"But you didn't," you remind him.
"So we can't go anywhere in North America," he decides, not even realizing that, for the first time, he'd just acknowledged the two of you as a unit. Or that this would be a perpetual partnership.
"Uh, that's not true. I actually am welcome in Canada."
"Canada... nice."
"We can go anywhere. The countries aren't the problem, it's the people that want us that make it a little tricky."
"So who wants you?"
"Besides you?" you quip. Bucky rolls his eyes, but this time you do manage to get a slight chuckle out of him. "Dreykov, but the Widows are the real problem there. SHIELD isn't too pleased with me, but they've got their hands full with HYDRA, who now that I think about it, I also pissed off. I think Romanov's given up on finding me, at least for now."
"Jeez, I thought I pissed off a lot of people."
"Please," you scoff. "I don't have the king of Wakanda, Tony Stark, Captain America, all on my shit list."
"Maybe," he snorts.
You omit the names of the people left behind. Those in the Red Room, he already knows those names well.
Logically, you knew you could not and should not take responsibility for them. But you left. Even years on the run were better than staying in that hellhole. You owed an unspoken and un-payable debt to the man in front of you. You spent years alone, it was better that way, but for the man who risked everything for you all those years ago, you were going to do the same for him.
--
Six Months Later...
He hangs from your lips as you walk through the town square. You laugh, pushing his shoulder to look at the fruit stand in front of you.
As you reach for the small basket of plums, you can pinpoint the very moment when it all goes to hell.
When the skeletons in your closet, plotting hard to fuck this up, finally escape. You hear the frantic, hushed whispers as you pass through the town square. Whispers you've never heard before. People strangely scanning the area, all on high alert. Your shoulders stiffen, squeezing Bucky's hand three times to alert him of the danger.
You also see the very moment all his walls go back up.
"Shit," you hiss under your breath, tugging Bucky by his hand through the crowd of people.
You've been here too long. Been too complacent. Too at ease. Distracted by the man in beside you, you let your guard down.
You stand with his hands on your waistline. It's a scene that's already begun and you're out here in plain sight, you can practically hear the whispers of accusation as they pass by.
And for the first time in very long time, you feel vulnerable.
You know he feels it too.
The little flame you pretended could burn forever was being threatened before your very eyes and you felt utterly helpless to stop it.
And though you tell yourself that if he just holds your hand without dropping it, it'll all be fine, but you're not even sure that you believe it.
You've always been the first to leave, to cut ties once people could no longer carry their own weight, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it now. You couldn't leave him behind.
You both scan the area for watchful, anachronistic eyes. And it's your eyes that catch a SHIELD agent in plain clothes hissing into a hidden communication wire on their shoulder.
"We have to go," you caution, tearing your eyes away from the agent as they stand up from their seat. "Now."
That's when the first shot rings out from a vantage point above you. One of the first bullets clip you in the arm, and Bucky tears you away as more shots surround the two of you. He takes your hand, ducking into a small alcove just out of sight. It's not a permanent refuge, but it's a pause to gather your bearings.
"I don't have anything," you hiss, clutching your injured arm.
"Me neither. Is it bad?" he asks.
The worst part of it is that he actually sounds genuinely concerned, his eyes are filled with sincerity as though a graze wound is more important than the fact that you're both hopelessly surrounded. You ignore his question, keeping an eye out for anymore SHIELD henchmen. "We need a plan."
"We're not getting out of here unarmed. I'll go back to the apartment, and-"
You vehemently shake your head, clutching his arm to keep him in place, "They'll have it surrounded by now."
"I'll be fine. I'll get the bag. You got the getaway car?"
"Yeah," you hesitantly nod, a strange sense of impending doom rising in your throat.
"Hey," he pauses before he takes off. A firm hand on the back of your neck, he kisses you with all the intensity he can muster. It's unsettling how much it feels like a goodbye. "We're gonna be okay."
You nod, squeezing his hand one last time before he runs off. You watch him duck out of the alcove into a narrow pathway leading to your apartment.
With bated breath, you scan the area. You shake away the last of the dread, tugging off the baseball cap and pulling up the hood of your sweater.
Running calls too much attention, you know this from experience. So with your head low, you briskly walk down the cobblestone streets to just up the road where several cars are parked. You won't even take the time to figure out what will work best, what will get you away quickest. You'll take the first thing you get your hands.
You yank the handle of the first car you reach.
But you're not thinking clearly. Worry is muddying your mind. You forget you don't have your handy little device in your back pocket. The car alarm sounds, practically deafening to a person trying to remain inconspicuous.
You curse yourself, the foolish mistake of leaving it in your house. It was a safe-house, it was never meant to be your home. But you lost sight of that.
And now SHIELD agents have caught sight of you again.
"Damn it," you hiss, climbing into the car.
The SHIELD agents shouting at you are drowned out by the obnoxious car still blaring.
With unmeasured, indecisive movements, you do your best to start the car in front of you.
Your breathing comes quicker and for the first time in a very long time, you're not calm, you're not steady. You're worried. Carrying not only the weight of yourself, but Bucky too. You've tethered yourself to another person and that implication truly weighs on you now.
With sloppy, novice moves, you finally get the damned thing started.
One hand on the steering wheel, the other frantically throwing your seatbelt on, you take off down the street, ignoring the squealing of other cars behind you. You already know that this entire area will now be crawling with SHIELD agents and whoever else is looking for Bucky.
You take a sharp turn down the sloped road that leads straight to the safe house. You sigh, clutching the wheel, your only focus on reaching Bucky.
And that's your Achilles' heel.
Because before you even see them barreling toward you, before you can react, a large van violently smashes into you, sending the small sedan rolling down the sloped road.
You gasp as the impact takes you by surprise, the sheer force knocking the wind out of your lungs.
Your head smacks against the window on the driver's side, you feel glass shards in your hair and swiftly cutting and scraping against your skin as you tumble through the car.
You don't have time to assess injury or even the severity of your situation, because the second the car is done rolling, you unhook the seatbelt. More glass scrapes against your neck as you hit the roof of the upside down car.
You reach for the door. With all your force you try to pry the door open, but the crumpled metal wedges the door shut.
Panic rises up in your throat, but your training reminds you to shove it back down. You remind yourself that you're still you. You're well trained. You have that going for yourself. You can handle this.
Although you can hear the shards of broken glass cutting into to your jacket and you can feel each small cut of your hands, you position yourself away from the window. With both of your feet and one swift kick, the window breaks just enough to allow for an escape.
You claw your way out of the car before anyone can reach you. In spite of the pain throbbing in your body, you bolt again. In search for anything to get you and Bucky away from here.
At the foot of the road, you see a small bike. It's not ideal, but it's all you've got.
This time, it's only adrenaline that fuels you.
You manage to get the bike started and immediately take off in search of Bucky. You swerve down pedestrian walkways, small back roads not intended for vehicles. You cut corners and dodge pedestrians as they shout in fear and dive out of your way.
And you finally find him in the very center of the circus. The same circus you turned into your twisted love story.
His head shoots up at the sound of the revving engine. And this time, he takes no joy in the sight of you. He looks at your face, bloodied and bruised. Your extended hand bloodied and shaking from pain or anxiety, he's not sure.
Though you yourself are barely standing, you extend a frantic, shaky hand to him, "Come on. I know a place."
This time he shakes his head. Partly because he's tired of running, tired of constantly looking over his shoulder and waiting for the other shoe to drop. But mostly because he can't be selfish anymore.
The vultures are circling and he knows the price of being caught. And though he didn't want to admit it, every day it seems more and more likely that you both are going to get caught. After all, how many places can one person know?
And worst of all, the price is much steeper for you. You get caught and he knows you have little to no chance. There's no one out there feeling sorry for you. You don't have Captain America as a bargaining chip or as leverage for freedom. Steve's not championing your cause, fighting for your future.
He knows it's an asshole move, making the choice for you, but he also knows you'd never give up on him.
You watch as he takes a step closer to the people chasing your tail. A step away from you. "Come on, Soldier. Don't do this."
"Us traitors never win."
And with those words, he takes off. The bag you gave him strapped on his back, the money, and everything you'd spent a life on the run cultivating, all gone with him.
He leaves. Leaves you there, still surrounded, vastly outmanned. But it's his words that hit you like a shotgun shot to the heart.
"Fuck," you angrily sigh, slamming your injured hand on the bike.
You contemplate going after him. Even begging him to take your hand. But you're not a beggar, you remind yourself. You're a traitor, destined to lose.
You kick off the road, revving the bike and taking off in the getaway car. You murmur a goodbye to the only traitor that ever mattered to you.
And remind yourself that you should've been the first to leave.
--
2 Years Later...
"Remind me again when I started taking orders from SHIELD?" Bucky sarcastically asks, popping in the small earpiece.
"When you were pardoned under the condition that you contribute to society," Sam quips.
"And I can't just pay taxes?"
"No," Nat interjects. "Besides, this one's a little personal for me. But I think for you too."
Bucky grunts, unimpressed by the vague details he had going into the mission. He knew two things: he was to get dressed nicely and he was apprehending someone. The sparse details and checkered information he had were a little too reminiscent of his former partner in crime from almost 2 years ago. "Are you going to explain?"
With a wry smirk and a knowing look, Nat slides Bucky a fuzzy still from a hotel security footage. He knows just from the vague outline exactly who this is.
A uncharacteristic chuckle bubbles out of his mouth at the sight of a person he'd been trying to find for the better part of a year. The person who ran with him through hell.
He tried that number so many times, only to be met with an annoying beeping and a monotone operator that informed him that the number had never once been in service. Just like that you were gone.
Nothing more than a fleeting memory of the best of times and the worst of crimes.
"Did you just laugh? Did he just laugh?"
He shakes his head, ignoring Sam's question and staring down at the picture. "What are you going to do with her?"
"That's really up to her. She's a slippery one. She'll smell me coming from a mile away," Nat remarks, and Bucky vaguely remembers you telling him that you thought she'd given up on finding you. It's clear to Bucky that it wasn't the case. "But you? She might listen to you."
"I'm not going to force her to be here. I won't arrest her."
"I don't want you to. You shouldn't have to force her to be here. She's been on the run long enough. If they can find a place for me here, they can find a place for her."
And the second he gets to the swanky hotel bar, his eyes find you immediately. Like they're drawn to you and only you. He can only see the back of your little black dress. Something that blends in, but with an elegance that sets you apart from the other businessmen leering at you from afar.
Your shoulders stiffen after he looks for a moment too long. It's as though you can feel his eyes on you before you ever see him.
He adjusts his suit jacket and walks the length of the room, ending at the bar. If you've noticed he's standing right beside you, you don't say. You take a long sip from your drink, looking unaffected at his familiar presence. He takes a moment to study your profile, the familiar slope of your nose, the jawline he'd traced countless times on sleepy mornings, lips he once hung from. He flags down the bartender with his gloved hand, "I'll take an Old-Fashioned."
"You don't like bourbon."
"Maybe I'm here for the experience."
"You can't get drunk."
"Neither can you and yet, here you are." You say nothing to him, taking another long drink from your glass as though the liquor will somehow start to work after all these years. He chuckles, "I almost can't believe it. It's bold, even for you. New York, right under SHIELD's nose. Does laying low mean nothing to you?"
"Get out of here," you sharply order, the softness in your voice once reserved for him long gone.
"I know a place," he offers, hoping the sentimentality of the phrase will make you more amendable to leaving with him - to staying with him.
It doesn't.
"I'm not going with you," you curtly decline.
"They're not exactly giving me a choice."
"So do it," you challenge, whirling around in your seat and presenting your wrists to him. He takes in the sight of your face for the first time in years, and immediately notes that there is no warmth in them for him. In spite of the ire, he maintains eye contact with your icy glare and coyly smiles at you. "What's another betrayal to you?"
He ignores the bait, taking out his ear piece and dropping it in the glass in front of him. He knows the thing is probably high-tech enough that it won't completely malfunction in liquid, but it gives him a chance to talk to you without other listening ears present. "They're not that bad, you know. Once you get past the superhero complexes and self-righteousness."
"I'm still not going with you."
"Think about what you're doing here."
"I wonder if it'll be a maximum security," you audibly think, simply to egg Bucky on. "Or will they save themselves a prison break and throw me on the Raft?"
He frowns deeply. "Is it really worth it? Locked up for the rest of your life because you don't want to be a good guy?"
You stand up out of your seat, downing the rest of your glass as you slide off the stool. "Not good enough."
"Dance with me," he offers out of the blue.
"What?"
"One dance. For old time's sake," he lies, trying to buy himself enough time to stop whatever comes next.
You look to the small quartet in the corner of the room, then the the few couples swaying on the marbled dance-floor. "Dancing is a dangerous game."
"Then it's good that I can handle myself."
Your eyes narrow, sizing Bucky up. "Lead the way."
He takes your hand. It's a familiar feeling, almost second nature to intertwine his fingers with your, his thumb lightly grazing the back of your warm hand. He only strokes your hand once before you rip your hand out of his hold. He schools his expression, taking the defensiveness in stride. Instead, he puts his his right hand on the small of your back.
The moment you reach the dance-floor, he tugs you closer to him. His gloved metal hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the slow rhythm of the music. The other hand finally back in yours.
"I think the last time I danced was with you. In Romania."
"You know, I'm not a very sentimental person." you reply simply, cutting off Bucky's attempt at a trip down memory lane.
"Clearly."
"Holding onto the past is useless, I've learned. Especially when it ended the way it did," you coldly remind him.
"Does that bother you?"
"You've moved on to bigger and better things. It doesn't matter to me."
His head lolls, clearly mulling over your words. "Bigger? Maybe. Better? I don't think so."
"That's a terrible pitch, Soldier."
"I know better than to sell to you of all people."
"Mm... flattery. You're getting desperate," you flippantly point out.
"You don't need me to flatter you."
"But it sounds so nice coming out of your mouth."
He chuckles, taking the moment to spin you out and back into his arms, even closer than before. Still faced away from him, his right hand is in your left. He lowers his face down to the crook of your neck, speaking lowly, "Well, then let me tell you how beautiful you look tonight. Your poor target. It's the most lethal things that come in the most beautiful packages. Designed to lure you in, to entice, and then... well, you know."
"Very astute." He twirls you again, this time you end up facing him. You slowly inch your face closer to Bucky's. His exhales become your inhales. His lips are so close to yours, as close as they can be without touching. "My target is anything but poor."
"You wouldn't need to do this anymore. You could stop running, stop looking over your shoulder."
"It doesn't matter," you mutter against his lips.
"Why?" he breathes, lowering himself to capture your elusive lips.
As he lowers himself, you take a step back. With a cheeky smile, your hands drop from his shoulders as the song comes to a close. "Because your time is up, Soldier. Did you decide? Are you going to arrest me? Or tell those people sitting outside that you lost me?"
"There's a third option there."
A bitter chuckle leaves your mouth, "I'm a lot of things, but a fool is not one of them."
"Exactly. You know when you're outmanned."
"You can't strong-arm me into the Avengers Compound."
"You said I was a good reason," he abruptly interjects.
"Because I thought you were. I suppose should've known better." He shuts his eyes, your words hitting him like a shot to the heart. He feels you slipping away from him. All he can think is that this is the last time he's ever going to see you again. One way or another, this is the only chance he has left. "I was wrong about one thing though."
"What?" he asks, his eyes opening to see you standing right in his face.
You finally look him dead in the eye, lowering yourself to meet his eye line. "Some traitors do win."
"I remember," he blurts, grabbing your wrist to stop you from walking away. "I remember everything."
"Good for you," you scoff, trying to wrench your wrist from his hand.
"It's why I did what I did. I ran because I - I saw that look on your face. I knew we weren't both getting out of there. I didn't get very far. Only made it about a mile before I was surrounded."
"I don't give a shi-"
"I went to Wakanda," he continues as though you hadn't tried interrupting him. "Back in cryo. The trigger words don't work anymore. And I was pardoned under the condition that I help the good guys, but I looked for you. Every day, I looked." He reaches in to his pocket. For a second, you think that he's pulling out a gun, but then you see the glint of the burner phone you gave him all those years ago. It shocks you that he kept it all this time. "I tried calling. I still try calling you. But you were gone. You're kinda a tough person to get ahold of."
"Yeah, well, I'm still on the run. Can't exactly list my phone number."
"I wanted to apologize. To thank you. To- to tell you I missed you," he say, vulnerability slowly creeping into his voice. He loosens his grip on your wrist, letting his hand slowly skate down until he feels the warmth of your fingertips. He grabs your hand, squeezing it three times. This time, there's no danger lurking just around the corner, it's because he knows it going to be a long road. Not an easy road, but a road he doesn't want you to face alone anymore. "I know a place. For the both of us. No more running. No more games. Please."
You sigh, staring into his blue, pleading eyes filled with silent promises. "Lead the way."
AnonymityIsFun Masterlist
Inspired By Taylor Swift Masterlist
Summary: When Y/N joins the team, Bucky isn’t fond of her but as time goes on, she begin to form bond with the team and with him.
Warning: Swearing, torture, violence, death
Words: 20,971
A/N: All translations were made using Google, so sorry if they are wrong! This is also my first Marvel fic, and my first Bucky fic, so all feedback is welcome!
Master List Tag List
May
You’re nervous. Your palms sweat, even with the air conditioner pumping through the compound, and your heartbeat is elevated. You know that your presence is allowed but you don’t know whether they will accept you. After all, you were part of one of the most atrocious organisations that had ever existed.
smut
requests info
wc | 9.1k
summary | you run into an ex boyfriend during an interrogation. except it’s you being interrogated, and it’s your ex boyfriend doing the interrogating.
song
another draft just waiting to be published. really obsessing over Spencer Reid.
also there’s mentions of abortion, nothing graphic it’s literally just a short direct reference and nothing else.
“I’m with you because everything you do, you do because you know it’s right. I’m with you,” he whispered now, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. “I’m with you because you remind me that there is good in this world. And I would die before I let that good be lost…I would die for you, if it meant the world got to see what you had to offer.”
