Not even the way Bucky stopped touching her like she was something precious.
It was the silence — the kind that felt like a goodbye he didn’t have the courage to say.
Y/N sat at the kitchen table, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the cup across from her — his cup — still half-full from the night before. He hadn’t taken a sip this morning. Never even came into the kitchen.
He used to.
Every morning.
With a sleepy smile, a forehead kiss, a mumbled “five more minutes, doll.”
But this morning, she woke up alone.
Again.
And she felt it — the shift. Like a cold wind blowing through a house that used to be warm.
Like losing something before it was even gone.
The door creaked behind her. His footsteps. Heavy. Slow. She swallowed, wiped her cheeks quickly with the back of her hand.
He didn’t notice. Or maybe he pretended not to.
“Morning,” she whispered, voice cracking even though she tried to hide it.
Bucky didn’t answer at first. He stood in the doorway, eyes tired, jaw tight. Like he had been fighting a war in his own mind… and losing.
Finally, he muttered, “We need to talk.”
Her heart dropped so violently it almost made her dizzy.
Of course.
Of course this was coming.
She nodded, but her throat burned. “Okay.” A whisper. Barely a sound.
He sat across from her, in the chair he used to pull close just to touch her knee. Now he sat too far away.
“I don’t think I can…”
He exhaled shakily.
“I’m not good for you. I’m not what you need.”
Her chest cracked wide open.
“Bucky—”
He shook his head hard. “Let me finish.”
His eyes were glassy. Not crying — but close. Too close.
“You’re patient. Kind. Soft in all the places I’ve gone hard. You deserve someone who doesn’t bring nightmares into your bed. Someone who doesn’t shut down when things get hard. Someone who…” His voice broke for a second. “Someone who can love you the way you deserve.”
She stared at him, breath gone, heart beating way too fast and way too slow at the same time.
“But I love you,” she choked.
He flinched. Like it hurt him.
Maybe it did.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please… don’t make this harder.”
Her hands trembled violently. “Bucky, you don’t get to decide what I deserve. You don’t get to walk away because you’re scared. You don’t—”
“I do.” His voice was hoarse, final. “Because staying is hurting you. I see it. I see you shrinking, trying to make space for all the parts of me that don’t fit.”
“No,” she whispered, tears falling faster than she could stop them. “No, you don’t get it. You’re leaving because you think you’re protecting me. But all you’re doing is breaking me.”
He shut his eyes.
She sobbed — a broken, ugly sound she tried to swallow back.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t go. Don’t walk away from me. Don’t—”
He stood. She did too, reaching for him with shaking hands.
He stepped back.
That hurt the worst.
“Bucky, please.”
A whisper.
A plea.
A prayer.
His voice cracked as he said the words she would remember for the rest of her life:
“It’s better this way.”
She sobbed so hard her knees almost buckled. “If you walk out that door, you’re choosing to lose me.”
He looked at her — really looked.
Like he knew he was about to shatter both of them.
“I know,” he whispered.
Then he turned.
She screamed his name — a broken, desperate cry that ripped through the apartment — but he kept walking.
Married!Bucky Barnes who broke the hotel bed on your wedding night by fucking you all night long in your wedding dress.
Married!Bucky Barnes who comes home every night from congress, tired out of his mind and makes you sit on his face so he can just relax and focus on the good things in life (you).
Married!Bucky Barnes who finds a grey hair one morning, panics and you have to tie him up for him to understand just how hot it is for him to be aging so finely.
Married!Bucky Barnes who accidentally gets you pregnant the first time, and who purposefully gets you pregnant the second time because he loved seeing you full of his baby and taking care of you all the time.
Married!Bucky Barnes who still does date night with you every Friday night, brings you your favourite flowers and then fucks you until you orgasm once on his tongue, once on his fingers and once on his cock.
Married!Bucky Barnes who texts you periodically throughout the work day, who ignores the offers for lunch and instead sits outside the park, eating the leftovers from the meal you made last night for him and calls you until you have to leave.
Married!Bucky Barnes who lets you come into the office on slow days, wearing only a trench coat and the Louboutin heels he bought for you, and fucks you against his desk, using his handkerchief as a gag to prevent anyone but him from hearing your gasps, moans and groans against the old wooden desk.
Married!Bucky Barnes who sends the kids off to hang out with their Uncle Sam all weekend so he can focus purely on you, and how good your pussy feels around his cock and how your chest feels pressed against his.
Married!Bucky Barnes who re-proposes years later so you can renew your vows and take you on a proper honeymoon, one that you didn't get the first time because of his job.
Married!Bucky Barnes who buys you everything you need. A pregnancy pillow, done. A new diamond for your ring, already at the jeweller's. A new laptop and phone for work, in your hands before you can even ask. He knows you from the inside out, and he'd never change for the world.
"Look, I've been where you are. You can run, but it won't get you far. Sooner or later, it'll catch up to you. And when it does, it'll be too late. So you can do something about it. Do it now or live with it forever."
1. The first time you touch his hair, he goes still.
You’re just brushing a curl off his forehead. Casual. Thoughtless. But his whole body freezes. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
“You okay?” you whisper.
He nods slowly. “No one’s… touched me like that in a long time.”
So you do it again—gently, carefully—and he melts under your fingers.
2. He flinches the first time you hug him from behind.
Not because he’s scared—but because he’s not used to being held softly. When your arms wrap around his waist, you feel him tense, then slowly… sink.
“Just me,” you murmur into his back.
“I know,” he says, voice thick. “Just… gimme a second.”
3. He apologizes when he touches you, even by accident.
Brushing hands. Shoulder bumps. His knee grazing yours under the table—every time, he pulls back and mumbles “Sorry.” Like touch from him might break you.
“You don’t have to apologize for being close to me,” you say.
He looks down. “Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to.”
4. He doesn’t know what to do with comfort.
The first time you find him after a nightmare, you reach for his hand—and he stares at it like it’s a foreign object.
“You want me to—?”
“Only if you want to,” you say softly.
He takes your hand. Holds it like it’s fragile. Doesn’t let go all night.
5. He memorizes every place you touch him.
He won’t say it, but he catalogues it all: the back of his neck. His jaw. The inside of his wrist. He’ll touch those places when you’re not around, just to remember how it felt.
You catch him once, fingers pressed to his collarbone.
“That’s where you kissed me,” he says quietly.
Your heart cracks open.
6. He can’t initiate—but he craves it.
He’ll stand near you. Lean close. Rest his shoulder against yours on the couch. But he won’t be the one to reach out first. He doesn’t want to cross a line he thinks he doesn’t deserve to.
So you reach for him. Every time.
And every time, he sighs like it’s the first time he’s exhaled all day.
7. He melts when you play with his fingers.
You do it absentmindedly—twining your hand with his, tracing the ridges of his knuckles, tapping your fingers against his palm. You look up and he’s just staring at you, eyes soft, expression unreadable.
“What?”
“Just… didn’t know something so small could feel so good.”
8. He loves when you touch him when he’s sad.
He won’t say he’s upset. Won’t cry in front of anyone. But when he’s quiet and distant, you slide into his lap, wrap your arms around him, and tuck your face into his neck.
He doesn’t speak. Just holds you like a lifeline.
Later, he whispers: “You don’t have to fix it. Just stay.”
9. He holds your hand in his sleep.
Every night, without fail, you wake up with his fingers laced through yours. Even when he’s dreaming, his body reaches for you. Like it needs proof you’re still there.
One night, you whisper, “You holding on to me again, Barnes?”
He doesn’t open his eyes. Just mumbles, “Always.”
10. He touches you like a prayer.
Every caress is slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid the moment will end and you’ll disappear. He kisses your wrist. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Lets his hand linger on the small of your back longer than it needs to.
“You look at me like I’m something good,” he says one night.
You cup his face. “You are something good.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m trying to believe you.”
1. Bucky does laundry at 7AM like it’s a sacred ritual.
He says it calms him — the folding, the warm air from the dryer, the order in it. You wake up to the scent of clean cotton and find him humming to himself, sleeves pushed up, sorting your socks like it’s a military operation.
“You’re doing the thing again,” you mumble, standing in the doorway, barely awake.
“What thing?”
“Matching my socks by pattern and softness.”
He shrugs, not looking up. “They feel better together.”
2. Sunday mornings = pancakes. Always.
It’s a rule, apparently. No weapons, no missions, just pancakes and the two of you in pajamas while Frank Sinatra plays on vinyl. Bucky claims his recipe is “a Barnes family secret,” but you’re 98% sure he found it on Pinterest.
“You’re getting better at flipping them,” you say, leaning against the counter.
“Flipping is a metaphor for life,” he says, deadpan.
You blink. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve had three cups of coffee and I love you. That’s what’s wrong with me.”
3. He’s weirdly obsessed with moisturizers now.
Something about taking care of his skin makes him feel normal. He reads labels. Googles ingredients. Has opinions on SPF. You catch him once, in the mirror, applying eye cream with comical precision.
“You judging me?” he asks, one brow raised.
“A little,” you say, smiling. “But mostly I’m just proud.”
“Good. Your boyfriend’s hot and hydrated.”
4. Reading nights = your legs in his lap, always.
He’s not a fast reader. But he takes his time, underlining passages, rereading the same line until it means something. Sometimes he reads aloud. Sometimes he just traces circles on your knee while you read next to him in silence.
“You wanna hear something sad?” he murmurs, finger tapping a line.
“Always.”
He reads it out loud. A quote about finding pieces of yourself in someone else. Then looks at you.
“I think I found too many of mine in you.”
5. Bedtime is his softest hour.
He always gets in first. Opens the blankets for you. Waits. And when you crawl in beside him, he pulls you close like muscle memory — hand resting on your lower back, breath slow against your neck.
“I never slept much before you,” he whispers.
“And now?”
“Now I dream.”
6. He always makes your coffee. Even if he doesn’t sleep.
He doesn’t drink it often—says it makes him jittery—but every morning, without fail, your mug is waiting. Sometimes he even writes dumb little notes on napkins. “For the most dangerous thing in this kitchen (you).”
“You didn’t have to,” you say, blinking sleep from your eyes.
“I like knowing I did something for you before your day even started.”
7. He makes playlists for you.
Not modern ones. Not Spotify or YouTube. Bucky burns actual CDs or writes out handwritten song lists and labels them like mixtapes. Vol. 1: For When You Miss Me. Vol. 2: For When You Can’t Sleep.
He shrugs it off, but you find him smiling whenever one of his songs plays in your car.
“You put Sinatra next to Taylor Swift?”
“It’s called range,” he mutters. “And I stand by it.”
8. Rainy days make him soft.
When it rains, Bucky slows down. He curls up on the couch with you, a blanket tucked under his chin, wet hair still damp from walking the dog. You watch shows he doesn’t understand, and he watches you.
“What?” you ask when you catch him staring.
He shrugs. “I like the sound of rain. And your laugh. They go together.”
9. He keeps your gloves in his coat pocket. Always.
It started because you kept forgetting them. Now it’s habit. When your fingers get cold, he doesn’t even ask—just reaches into his pocket, pulls them out, and slips them on your hands himself. Carefully. Like he’s dressing a porcelain doll.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, watching him fuss with the cuffs.
“You’re freezing,” he counters. “Let me take care of you.”
10. He tries to bake for you. He is... not good at it.
You come home once to find flour everywhere, three exploded muffins, and Bucky holding a tray of what look like burnt hockey pucks.
“I followed the recipe,” he grumbles.
“Where did it go wrong?”
“Probably when I got distracted thinking about how happy you’d be if they were good.”
Your heart melts. You eat every single one.
Summary: You’ve hated Bucky Barnes since the moment he joined the Avengers. Not because he was the Winter Soldier—though that’s part of it—but because he acts like he’s above redemption. Cold. Silent. Always watching you like he’s waiting for you to screw up. But one mission goes sideways. You get separated from the rest of the team and end up injured, trapped in a safehouse—with no one but Bucky. And he’s bleeding worse than you are.
PART 1
PART 2
Bucky's POV
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
But god, I wanted to.
I wanted to feel her mouth against mine, soft and sure. I wanted to hold her like I wasn’t afraid of breaking something. Like I wasn’t the sharp edge in the room.
But instead?
I ran.
Again.
Now I was pacing the hallway outside the training room like a man being hunted by his own heartbeat, palms pressed to my temples, chest too tight to breathe.
She looked at me like I was someone.
She touched me like I was human.
“I’m not scared of you.”
Those words had been echoing in my head since I left the kitchen.
They should’ve helped.
They didn’t.
Because I was scared of me.
Not the version of me that fought beside Steve or sat silently in mission briefings or folded laundry at 3AM when no one else was around.
No.
The other one.
The one with red in his eyes and blood on his hands. The one Hydra carved out of a boy and turned into a ghost.
She didn’t know what I was capable of. What I’d done.
And if she ever did?
She’d look at me differently.
She’d stop looking at me like I was worth something.
I sat on the bench in the dark corner of the room, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes like I could block the memories out.
I couldn’t.
Not the screams.
Not the names.
Not the quiet.
God, the quiet after I left her standing there. She didn’t yell. She didn’t chase me.
She just looked… hurt.
And I’d seen that look before.
In mirrors. In flashbacks. In the people I lost.
I dropped my hands and stared at the floor, breath shallow.
Every part of me wants to go back to her.
Every part of me is terrified I’ll destroy her if I do.
Because I don’t know how to be someone’s beginning. I’ve only ever been the end.
But she—she was light.
Not blinding. Not loud.
Just steady.
Warm in a way that made me forget what cold felt like.
And if I was smart, I’d stay away.
If I was kind, I’d let her go.
But I wasn’t either of those things.
Not anymore.
Y/N POV
I didn’t see him the next day.
Or the day after that.
Not in the gym. Not in the kitchen. Not even in the hallways where our paths always used to cross, accidentally-on-purpose.
It was like he vanished.
Which, fine.
He was good at disappearing.
But this time… it felt personal.
I kept my head down during debriefs, avoided the lounge, skipped dinner with the team and took my meals to my room like I was seventeen and sulking. Natasha noticed. Sam noticed. Hell, even Tony asked me if I was sick.
I wasn’t sick.
I was just tired.
Of guessing where I stood.
Of the way he looked at me like I was gravity and then acted like I was danger.
Of feeling like maybe I was imagining all of it — the heat in his eyes, the weight of his hand on mine, the almost-kiss I could still feel in the space between my ribs.
Maybe it meant nothing to him.
Maybe I was just one more line he couldn’t cross. One more softness he didn’t think he deserved.
But if that were true…
Why did it hurt this much?
Why did it feel like something had been ripped out of me when he left?
I tried not to overthink it.
But I kept hearing his voice anyway.
“I’m not good for you.”
I wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Ask him what the hell he thought I’d been doing all this time if not choosing him, over and over again, in every small way I knew how.
And now he was just gone.
Avoiding me like the truth was too loud to look in the eye.
And maybe it was.
Because I wasn’t mad at him, not really.
I was mad at myself.
For caring.
For hoping.
I found him on the roof.
Of course I did.
It was the only place in the compound that ever really felt like nowhere—and I’d learned, over time, that Bucky gravitated toward nowhere like it was the only place he could breathe.
It was cold. Late. The city was a blur of lights beyond the ledge, soft and glowing under a cloudy sky. He was sitting on the edge, hoodie up, elbows on his knees, staring out like the skyline had answers he couldn’t get anywhere else.
I almost turned around.
Almost left him there in the quiet, in the only place he seemed to want to exist.
But I didn’t.
Because I was done wondering. Done overthinking. Done being left with nothing but silence and half-moments and the way he looked at me like I was his last good thing and then walked away like he didn’t deserve to touch it.
I stepped closer, slow and deliberate. My boots crunched softly against gravel.
He didn’t look at me.
Didn’t move.
I stopped a few feet behind him, arms crossed over my chest more for protection than warmth.
“You keep leaving,” I said quietly, “like I don’t get a say in this.”
He tensed—just slightly—but still didn’t look back.
The silence stretched. Long. Tired.
Then: “Because if you say yes…” His voice cracked. “I won’t be able to let go.”
I felt it like a punch.
He finally turned then, just enough for me to see the edge of his face in the pale rooftop light. His eyes were dark. Raw. Like he’d been walking around with the whole sky inside his chest and no place to put it.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I still see when I close my eyes. Every time I think about you… every time I let myself feel something, I remember the blood on my hands and I—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to live with that. Not and be close to you. Not and feel this.”
I stepped forward, slowly.
“You think I don’t know darkness?” I asked. “You think I haven’t lived with it? Loved someone and lost them and spent years drowning in what I couldn’t fix?”
His eyes met mine finally. “This isn’t the same.”
“No. It’s not. But I know what it feels like to carry something too heavy for one person. And I know what it feels like when someone helps you set it down—just a little.”
He looked away again, like he didn’t believe it. Like he couldn’t let himself believe it.
So I said it.
“I don’t want the soldier,” I whispered.
He froze.
“I don’t want the ghost you think you are, either. The quiet shadow. The weapon you keep seeing every time you look in the mirror.”
I stepped closer.
“I want you. The one who held my hand like it meant something. The one who stayed awake in the safehouse because he thought I might have nightmares. The one who watched me train like I mattered. The one who said he notices everything about me.”
His breath hitched.
I kept going. My voice shook, but I didn’t stop.
“You already saved me, Bucky. Not in some dramatic way. Not with explosions or fights. But by being this version of you. The one that tries. Every day. The one that lets me see him, even when he’s afraid to.”
He stood then, like he couldn’t sit anymore. Like the words were too much.
His hands trembled at his sides.
“I’m still scared,” he said quietly. “Every minute.”
“I know,” I said.
“I don’t trust myself with you.”
“I do.”
He looked at me like that broke him.
And then—finally—he stepped forward.
So close.
His eyes searched mine like he needed permission, like he needed to be sure I wasn’t just going to vanish if he reached for me.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” I whispered. “Just don’t run.”
He swallowed hard.
And then—after everything—
He didn’t.
He didn’t run.
He leaned in, forehead brushing mine, breath shallow. And in the quiet, I could feel his whole body shaking.
So I touched him first.
My hand on his jaw. Gentle. Grounding.
And for the first time since I met him, he let himself fall toward something instead of away from it.
Not visibly. Not in any way most people would notice. But I felt it. In the way his breath hitched. In the tightness of his jaw under my fingers. In the way his hands hovered near my waist like he wanted to hold me but didn’t trust himself not to crush something delicate.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t rush him.
Just stayed there, my forehead against his, the tip of my nose brushing his, our breaths mingling in that fragile space where people either fall together or pull apart.
Don’t run, I’d said.
He hadn’t.
And now we stood in the kind of silence that only happens when there’s nothing left to hide.
I felt his exhale.
He was so close I could feel the tremor in it.
His voice came barely above a whisper. “You make it hard to breathe.”
I blinked, stunned. “What?”
He shook his head slightly, eyes still closed. “Every time I look at you, it’s like something in my chest gets tight. Like I forgot how to exist without needing to be careful all the time, and then you just…” His breath caught. “You look at me like I’m someone worth something.”
I swallowed hard.
“You are.”
His eyes opened then. Slowly. Carefully. Like he was afraid I’d vanish if he moved too fast.
“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he said, voice raw. “I’ve never… not like this.”
I smiled. Small. True. “I’m not asking you to be good at it.”
He stared at me like I was giving him something sacred.
And then—finally—his hand moved.
He touched my waist, lightly, fingers splayed like he was still afraid to hold on. His metal arm stayed at his side, like he didn’t want to use it. Like he didn’t trust it.
So I reached for it.
Gently, I slid my hand down his wrist and curled my fingers around the edge of cold vibranium. His eyes widened—just a little.
“It’s a part of you,” I said. “I’m not afraid of any of it.”
Something shifted in his expression.
And that’s when he kissed me.
Slowly. Carefully. Like I was something he’d been afraid to reach for and was only now realizing he could.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was hesitant and a little shaky, lips brushing mine like a question before finally settling into an answer.
But god—it meant something.
It meant he chose to stay.
He pulled back just barely, forehead still pressed to mine, breath shallow. His thumb traced the side of my jaw, as if memorizing the shape of me.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
I smiled through the tears burning at the edge of my lashes.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I don’t care.”
He let out a quiet, broken laugh. Like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.
Then he kissed me again.
This time with more certainty.
Still soft. Still slow.
But with a weight behind it that said I want this. I want you. I’m choosing this.
And I kissed him back.
Because somewhere in the middle of all the broken pieces, we’d found something worth holding onto.
And neither of us was letting go.
He kissed me like he thought it might save him.
Like his mouth on mine could quiet the noise in his head.
Like he didn’t know how to say any of what he was feeling with words, so he poured it into this—into the way his lips moved against mine, slow and reverent and aching.
My hands slid up his chest—solid, warm, alive—fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt like I needed something to anchor me. He was trembling again. I felt it under my palms, in the way his breath stuttered against my mouth.
But he didn’t stop.
God, he didn’t stop.
His hand at my waist tightened slightly, like he was letting himself want more. His fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt, then slowly slid beneath it, just far enough to brush the bare skin of my hip.
I gasped softly against his mouth.
Not because I was surprised.
Because I wanted more.
He froze at the sound—just for a second. Pulled back enough to look at me, his eyes searching, lips swollen, chest rising and falling with the weight of restraint.
I didn’t say anything.
Just nodded.
Just leaned in again.
And that was all he needed.
This time, the kiss was deeper. Still slow, still gentle—but need crept in. A hunger he’d been swallowing for too long.
His hand moved—up my back, dragging the fabric with it, his palm warm and a little rough. His metal fingers rested lightly against my ribs, hesitant at first. He paused.
I pressed into him.
And he let go.
He pulled me closer, flush against him now, like he couldn’t stand the inches that had existed between us for so long. His mouth opened slightly, lips parting mine in a sigh that tasted like every emotion he hadn’t said out loud.
It was clumsy. Careful. Desperate in a way that felt sacred.
I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t need to.
I just needed him.
I tangled my fingers in his hair—soft and damp still from before—and tugged lightly, guiding him, grounding him. He groaned softly, deep in his throat, like the feeling of being wanted shook something loose inside him.
And I felt it then.
Not just the kiss.
Not just the pull.
But the ache behind it.
The years of silence. The pain. The hope he didn’t know how to have. It was all there. In the way his mouth chased mine, in the way his hands framed my body like a prayer.
He kissed me like I was his first language.
Like he’d forgotten how to speak until right now.
I broke the kiss first—just barely. Just enough to catch my breath. But he didn’t move far. He stayed close, his nose brushing mine, his hand still pressed flat between my shoulder blades like he didn’t want me to float away.
His eyes were wide, wrecked. Vulnerable in a way that broke something open in me.
“Say something,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
So I cupped his face, thumb brushing the sharp curve of his cheekbone.
“You,” I whispered. “I want you.”
His eyes fluttered closed like that was too much and not enough all at once.
Summary: You’ve hated Bucky Barnes since the moment he joined the Avengers. Not because he was the Winter Soldier—though that’s part of it—but because he acts like he’s above redemption. Cold. Silent. Always watching you like he’s waiting for you to screw up. But one mission goes sideways. You get separated from the rest of the team and end up injured, trapped in a safehouse—with no one but Bucky. And he’s bleeding worse than you are.
PART 1
PART 3
Coming back felt strange.
The compound looked exactly the same — the sharp hum of fluorescent lights, the low murmur of voices in the briefing room, even the smell of half-burnt coffee in the shared kitchen — all of it unchanged.
But I wasn’t.
And neither was he.
We walked side by side down the long corridor, not touching, not talking, but I could feel the weight of him beside me like a thread wrapped around my wrist. Not pulling. Just there.
Everyone stared when we walked in. Not openly — this wasn’t high school — but with quick glances, flicked eyes, subtle shifts. Sam raised a brow. Natasha met my gaze for half a second, then smirked like she knew something I didn’t.
I ignored them all.
Or tried to.
My room was just how I left it—messy, dim, a few personal things scattered where I always meant to clean but never did. I dropped my bag and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, heart hammering in a way that made no sense.
He hadn’t said much on the jet.
But he’d sat close enough that our arms touched. He hadn’t pulled away.
I could still feel the shape of his hand in mine. Not just the size, not just the warmth—but the way he held me. Like I wasn’t a punishment. Like I wasn’t a threat.
Like I mattered.
That night in the safehouse kept replaying in my head — the quiet, the heat of his skin under my fingers, the look in his eyes when I told him I didn’t hate him anymore.
I meant it.
And maybe that was the scariest part.
Because everything felt different now.
When I thought about him, it wasn’t with anger or fear or resentment.
It was with... something else.
Something slower. Quieter. Something that curled under my ribs and made it hard to breathe when he looked at me too long.
Something that felt like the beginning of a fall.
I almost took the stairs.
I don’t know why. I’d never taken the stairs before—my floor was too high and my legs were still sore from the mission. But something in me hesitated as I stepped into the hallway and saw the elevator doors already sliding open.
Of course he was inside.
He stood at the back of the small metal box, hoodie slung low over his brow, hands in the pockets of his worn jacket. He looked up when he saw me—and for the briefest second, something like surprise flickered across his face.
Then it was gone.
I stepped in anyway.
The doors slid shut behind me, and suddenly the space felt very, very small.
Neither of us said anything.
The elevator hummed quietly, the soft whir of motion filling the silence like background noise to a conversation we weren’t having.
I kept my eyes forward, but I could feel him beside me—his presence a gravitational pull I couldn’t ignore. Every shift of fabric, every breath he took, made the air between us feel a little tighter.
“You look… better,” he said finally.
I glanced over.
He didn’t meet my eyes, but there was something careful in his voice. Like he wasn’t sure he had the right to say anything at all.
“So do you,” I replied, softer than I meant to.
Silence again.
I shifted my weight. “How’s the side?”
He finally looked at me. “Stitches held. You did a good job.”
I looked down, a quiet smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah, well. You didn’t give me much choice.”
He huffed a faint breath—almost a laugh. Almost.
And just like that, something shifted.
Not dramatically. Just... enough.
His eyes stayed on me for a moment longer than they needed to. Like he was waiting for me to pull away. Waiting for the frost to return to my voice. Waiting for me to be her again—the version of me that couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him.
But I didn’t pull away.
I just met his gaze and let the silence settle between us like something shared instead of avoided.
“I meant what I said,” I murmured. “That night. I don’t hate you.”
“I know,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “You looked at me different.”
I blinked. “You noticed?”
He looked at me like I’d asked if the sun rose that morning.
“I notice everything about you.”
My chest tightened.
And for one long, suspended breath, I forgot about the floor number, the mission, the blood, the history.
It was just us.
Standing three feet apart like the space between meant something.
And maybe it did.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
He didn’t move.
Neither did I.
“I’ll see you around?” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes searched mine, slow and unreadable. Then: “Yeah. You will.”
And as I stepped out, I felt his gaze follow me the whole way down the hall.
I didn’t even remember walking to my room.
One minute I was in the elevator, standing three feet from him, my heart doing things I wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle—and the next, I was inside my room, door shut, back pressed against the cold wood like it could anchor me to reality.
What the hell was that?
It was just a moment.
Just a weirdly soft, slightly awkward, overly quiet elevator ride.
But my heart hadn’t stopped racing since he said it.
I notice everything about you.
Who says that? Who says that with a voice like gravel and a face that looks like it’s still breaking itself open every time he breathes?
And why—why—did it make my knees go weak?
I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling like it might have the answers. It didn’t.
I wasn’t supposed to feel this way about him.
Bucky Barnes was complicated. Wounded. Dangerous, even if he didn’t want to be. There was still blood on his hands and shadows in his eyes and some part of me that remembered why I couldn’t stand him in the first place.
But that version of him was slipping.
And the man I’d seen last night—bandaged and broken and quietly trying—that man was staying.
I didn’t know when it happened.
Maybe it was when he let me touch him without flinching. Maybe it was when he looked at me like he was scared he might break me too. Or maybe it was right now—my heart still pounding from two words spoken in a too-small elevator.
I notice everything about you.
That shouldn’t feel like hope.
But somehow… it did.
And that was the terrifying part.
Because I’d built my entire opinion of him on a wall made of grief and fear and assumptions. And now, brick by brick, he was dismantling it—not with apologies or grand gestures, but with small, quiet truths.
And I didn’t know how to protect myself from that.
Didn’t know if I wanted to.
I hadn’t expected him to be there.
The gym was usually empty this time of night—most people opting for sleep over sweat—but I couldn’t sit in my room any longer. Not with my thoughts racing. Not with his voice still echoing in my head like a song I didn’t know the words to.
So I walked in, tugged my hoodie sleeves up, and froze.
He was at the far end of the gym, wrapping his hands with cloth tape, back to me. His hair was still damp from a shower, tied low at the nape of his neck, a few strands clinging to the edges of his jaw.
I should’ve turned around.
But he looked up.
And his eyes softened.
He didn’t say anything. Just nodded—once—and stepped back from the sparring mat like he was offering it to me.
I hesitated. Then crossed the room.
We trained in silence for a while. I worked through a punching drill, the rhythm grounding me, sweat blooming across my back as the tension burned through my limbs. He moved to the weights, mostly keeping to himself. But every so often, I felt his eyes on me.
Not like before.
Not sharp or suspicious.
Just… watching.
Noticing.
“You’re dropping your shoulder again,” he said quietly, after my third round of jabs.
I sighed and turned toward him. “It’s a bad habit.”
“Can I show you something?”
I hesitated. Then nodded.
He stepped behind me, not touching—just close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. My pulse picked up before he even raised a hand.
“Relax your stance,” he murmured, voice low. “You’re too tight. You’re trying to control every movement instead of trusting your body.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Fair.”
His hand—his real one—grazed my waist. Barely there. Just a guide.
“Here,” he said, adjusting my angle.
His touch was gentle. Steady. Respectful.
But it made my skin buzz like static.
He moved closer, his chest nearly brushing my back now, and for one moment I forgot how to breathe.
“Now pivot—like this,” he said, his hand moving to my hip to guide the motion.
I followed instinctively.
And when I turned back around, he was right there.
Closer than he should’ve been.
We both froze.
His hand was still on my waist. My breath caught in my throat. Our eyes locked, and the space between us wasn’t space anymore—it was possibility. A heartbeat. A choice.
He leaned in—just barely.
I felt it before I saw it. The shift. The ache.
My gaze dropped to his mouth.
So did his to mine.
And then—
The sound of the elevator dinged down the hall.
We both pulled back, fast.
The air snapped between us like an elastic band stretched too far.
He took a step away, clearing his throat. “You, uh… you’re getting better. With the form.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to sound breathless. “Thanks.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was something else.
Like we’d crossed a line neither of us was ready to name.
But god, we both felt it.
It was past midnight.
The compound was still—the kind of quiet that only settled when everyone else had gone to bed, when the lights dimmed low and the world felt a little softer around the edges.
I padded into the kitchen barefoot, hoodie slung over sleep shorts, hoping for leftover pizza or at least something vaguely edible.
I didn’t expect him to be there again.
He was leaned against the counter, a glass of water in his hand, the fridge casting pale light across his face. His hair was loose around his shoulders, and he looked… softer. Less like a soldier. More like someone trying to be human.
He glanced up when I entered.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
“Never do,” he said, voice low, quiet.
I nodded. “Same.”
He reached into the fridge and held up a slice of cold pizza without asking. I took it and leaned against the counter beside him, chewing in silence.
We stood there for a while—side by side, like it was normal. Like we weren’t two people still figuring out what we were to each other.
But the silence felt different now.
It wasn’t heavy.
It was warm.
Comfortable.
Safe.
He turned to say something at the same time I did, and we both paused—smiling awkwardly.
“You go,” I said, grinning.
He hesitated. “You’ve been different. Since we got back.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “So have you.”
His eyes flicked down to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
And god, my heart—
I don’t know who leaned in first.
Maybe it was both of us.
It happened slowly—like the gravity between us was something we’d stopped fighting. His hand brushed against mine, our shoulders touched, and then his face was there, just inches from mine. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath.
My eyes fluttered shut.
So did his.
And then—
He stopped.
Pulled back.
Like something yanked him out of the moment.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely.
I blinked, startled. “What?”
He took a full step back, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “I shouldn’t—this isn’t—”
“Bucky.”
“I’m not—I’m not good for you.”
The words landed heavy. Too heavy.
I stared at him, stunned. Hurt blooming sharp and sudden in my chest.
“So that’s it?” I said quietly. “You pull me in, then push me away again?”
He looked down, jaw clenched. “I don’t mean to.”
“Then what do you mean?”
His silence stretched.
I took a shaky breath. “You’re not broken, Bucky. You’re scared.”
He flinched—barely.
I stepped forward, voice shaking but firm. “I’m not scared of you.”
He looked up, eyes stormy, haunted. “Maybe I’m scared of myself.”
And there it was.
The truth.
Raw. Real. Fragile.
I reached for him—not to pull him in, not to fix him—but just to touch, just to let him know I was still there.
He let me.
Our hands met in the middle. His fingers wrapped around mine like he wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he wanted to.
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” I whispered. “I just need you to be real with me.”
His eyes locked on mine.
And this time, he didn’t pull away.
His fingers curled around mine like he didn’t want to let go.
Like maybe he wouldn’t.
We just stood there, hands joined between us, the hum of the fridge filling the silence, the soft gold light catching on the sharp angles of his jaw.
I’d never seen his eyes like this before—so open. So scared.
I thought he might stay.
But then I saw it.
The shift.
The flicker of something cold slipping behind his eyes again.
He pulled his hand away like it burned.
“Bucky—”
“I’m sorry,” he said, already stepping back.
“Wait, what are you—?”
“I can’t,” he murmured, voice tight, already near the door. “Not tonight.”
I moved forward without thinking. “Bucky—please don’t—”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. Quieter this time. Like it hurt.
And then he was gone.
The door swung shut behind him, and I was left standing in the middle of the kitchen with nothing but the hum of the lights and the echo of his absence.
I stood there for a long time, heart pounding, fists clenched at my sides.
Not angry.
Just…
Confused.
And stupidly, achingly hurt.
Because I’d let him in. Just a little. Just enough to matter.
Summary: You’ve hated Bucky Barnes since the moment he joined the Avengers. Not because he was the Winter Soldier—though that’s part of it—but because he acts like he’s above redemption. Cold. Silent. Always watching you like he’s waiting for you to screw up. But one mission goes sideways. You get separated from the rest of the team and end up injured, trapped in a safehouse—with no one but Bucky. And he’s bleeding worse than you are.
PART 2
PART 3
I didn’t hate Bucky Barnes.
Not really.
Hating him would mean I thought he still had enough of a soul left to care. What I felt was… wariness. A simmering kind of resentment that lived just beneath my skin, like a bruise that never quite healed.
He walked like a ghost. Always quiet. Always watching. Like he was cataloging threats—even when none existed.
Including me.
Especially me.
Everyone else had made their peace with him. Steve vouched for him, and that was apparently good enough for the rest of the team. Sam tolerated him, Natasha pitied him, and Tony just kept his distance. But me? I didn’t have it in me to forget what he used to be. What he’d done.
Hydra killed my brother.
Three bullets to the chest. An "extraction gone wrong," they’d said. Just another redacted page in some burned file. I never got a body. Just a phone call and a closed casket. And somewhere, in some blurry satellite photo, was him—the Soldier with the metal arm and the empty eyes, walking away like my world hadn’t just ended.
They said he was brainwashed.
They said it wasn’t his fault.
I didn’t care.
Because every time I looked at Bucky Barnes, I didn’t see a man—I saw a weapon that should’ve been buried, not redeemed. And worse? He looked at me like he knew. Like he saw the blood on his hands reflected in my eyes.
So no. I didn’t hate him.
I just couldn’t forget him.
I should’ve said no.
I did say no, actually. Loudly. Colorfully. In front of at least three SHIELD agents and one very amused Natasha.
But Tony just gave me that smug grin of his and waved a dismissive hand like I was being dramatic. “You two need to learn how to work together,” he’d said. “Think of it as team-building. Like trust falls. But with guns.”
I didn’t laugh. Neither did Barnes.
And now? Now we were bleeding in opposite corners of a blown-out warehouse somewhere in the outskirts of Bucharest, with comms down and backup probably assuming we were already dead.
Perfect.
Smoke still hung heavy in the air, mixing with the sting of gunpowder and the copper tang of blood. My shoulder throbbed from where shrapnel had torn through the fabric of my suit, and my left thigh was slick with something warm I didn’t have the strength to look at too closely.
Across from me, Barnes was slumped against a crumbling wall, breathing heavy, cradling his side like something was broken. He looked worse than me—blood smeared across his jaw, dirt streaked down his temple, the metal of his arm scratched and sparking at the shoulder.
It should’ve made me feel something.
It didn’t.
“You’re the worst damn partner I’ve ever had,” I spat, gritting my teeth as I pulled myself upright using a busted metal beam.
He didn’t look at me. “You’re welcome for taking that sniper off your back.”
“Oh, right. Is that what you call blowing our exit route and getting us stuck in the middle of a goddamn ambush?”
“Could’ve left you,” he said coolly. “Didn’t.”
That shut me up.
For a second.
I hated how calm he always was. Like being half-dead and hated was just another Tuesday. Like he didn’t care whether he made it out or not.
I shoved down the guilt creeping up my spine. He had saved me. Sort of. In a reckless, explode-everything kind of way.
Still.
“This is why no one likes working with you,” I muttered, limping toward the half-open door that led to whatever basement this place had. “You don’t talk, you don’t plan—you just react and expect the rest of us to follow your lead like we’re disposable.”
Something flickered in his eyes then—quick and sharp, like a warning shot.
“You think I don’t know what you think of me?” he asked, voice low, hoarse. “You think I don’t see it every time you flinch when I walk into a room? Like I’m some kind of monster on a leash.”
“You said it, not me.”
He pushed himself to his feet with a hiss, clearly in pain, but too damn stubborn to show it. “Then why are you still here?”
I didn’t have an answer. Not one I was willing to say out loud.
So I turned, muttering, “There’s a safehouse three blocks from here. Underground. Shields and med supplies. You make it there, maybe I’ll start calling you useful.”
He didn’t reply.
But he followed me.
Bleeding and limping and silent.
Like a ghost.
Again.
The safehouse was barely more than a concrete bunker wedged beneath an abandoned laundromat, musty and dark and cold as hell—but it had four walls, a locking door, and a med kit the size of a small coffin.
I’d been in worse places.
I didn’t say a word as I collapsed onto the cot, tore off my jacket, and set to work. The shrapnel wound wasn’t deep, but it burned like hell, and I gritted my teeth as I poured antiseptic over the torn skin. My fingers worked fast—clean, press, tape—years of muscle memory kicking in from too many missions that ended like this.
Behind me, I heard Barnes sit down heavily. Metal clinked against wood, followed by a low grunt of pain.
Good.
I wasn’t proud of the satisfaction that gave me. But I also wasn’t sorry.
“You’re going to bleed out if you don’t do something about that,” I muttered, not looking at him.
“I’m trying,” he grunted.
I turned.
He was shirtless now—his torso half-lit by the shitty flickering light overhead. Blood ran down his side from a jagged gash just beneath his ribs, and his hands—one gloved, one metal—fumbled with a roll of gauze like it was a goddamn Rubik’s cube.
I rolled my eyes and stood.
“Move your arm.”
He didn’t. Just stared up at me, wary.
“I said, move.”
Still nothing.
I stepped in closer and narrowed my eyes. “Unless you want to bleed out and make me fill out a ton of paperwork, let me help you.”
That finally did it. He shifted, jaw clenched, metal fingers curling into the edge of the cot as I knelt beside him with the med kit.
The wound was worse up close—deep and angry-looking. Probably needed stitches.
“Of course it had to be your left side,” I muttered, reaching for the thread and needle. “God forbid I get to patch up the normal part of you.”
“Sorry for being an inconvenience,” he said dryly, voice tight.
“You’re a lot of things, Barnes,” I said, threading the needle. “Convenient has never been one of them.”
He didn’t respond.
I dipped the needle in antiseptic, then pressed the gauze to his side. He sucked in a breath through his teeth but didn’t flinch.
“Hold still,” I said, more gently than I meant to.
I started stitching.
And he… watched me.
Not the way most men did. There was nothing flirtatious or smug or cocky about it. His eyes were dark, tired, unreadable. Like he was trying to memorize something. Or maybe just trying to make sense of me.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.
I glanced up, startled. “Yeah, well. People like you make sure I get plenty of practice.”
His jaw tightened.
The words came out harsher than I intended. But I didn’t take them back.
I finished the last stitch and reached for a bandage. His skin was warm under my fingers—sweat-slick and bruised—and I realized how close we were. My knee brushed his thigh. His breath hitched as my hand smoothed the bandage over the stitched gash.
He looked at me like he wanted to say something.
I looked at him like I didn’t want to hear it.
But for a second… we were just still.
Quiet.
Breathing the same heavy air.
He blinked. “Thanks.”
I pulled my hand back. “Don’t make it a habit.”
A ghost of something—maybe a smirk, maybe something sadder—touched the corner of his mouth.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised.
The silence stretched.
I started cleaning up the med kit, keeping my eyes trained on the gauze and vials like they were the most interesting thing in the world.
But I could feel him watching me. Still. Like he hadn’t looked away since the second I touched him.
And then—
“Why do you hate me?”
His voice wasn’t sharp or defensive. It was quiet. Tired.
Like he already knew the answer.
I froze.
“Don’t do that,” I said flatly.
“Do what?”
“Ask questions you already know the answer to just so you can feel sorry for yourself.”
That landed. His shoulders stiffened.
“I’m not—”
“You want to know why?” I snapped, turning to face him. “Because you walk around with that blank look like you’re the only one who’s ever lost anything. Like we’re supposed to tiptoe around you while you sulk in corners and grunt your way through missions like a goddamn martyr.”
His jaw clenched. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I think you’re selfish,” I said, and my voice cracked a little, but I didn’t stop. “You shut everyone out, you refuse to talk, to try, to even act like you care if any of us live or die. You think that’s noble? It’s not. It’s just cowardly.”
He stood.
Not aggressively—just enough to face me, his full height suddenly there, taking up space I didn’t want to give him.
His voice came low. Controlled. Dangerous.
“You think I don’t care?” he said. “You think I don’t wake up every damn day and hate myself for the things I did? I hear their screams in my sleep. I see their faces every time I close my eyes.”
I swallowed.
He stepped closer. Just one step.
“You lost your brother,” he said. “And I am sorry. I am. But I didn’t pull that trigger.”
“You were Hydra.”
“I was a prisoner,” he snapped. “You want to be angry? Fine. Be angry. But don’t pretend you’ve ever tried to see past your own grief long enough to see me.”
I felt like he’d slapped me.
“I can’t see past it,” I whispered. “He’s gone.”
“I know,” he said, quieter now. “So am I.”
That shut us both up.
He looked down, breathing hard. And suddenly he didn’t look like a soldier or a killer or even the man I thought I hated.
He just looked… broken.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered. “Any of it.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know what to say to that.
So I did the only thing I could.
I sat back down.
And, after a long minute, so did he.
Not close. But not far either.
The silence came again.
But this time, it felt different.
Not empty.
Just... unfinished.
I don’t know how long we sat there.
The safehouse was quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the occasional creak of old pipes. I could feel the ache settling into my body now that the adrenaline was gone—sharp pulses in my thigh, a deep sting in my shoulder—but I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Eventually, I heard him exhale. Low. Controlled. Like he was peeling off a layer of armor one breath at a time.
“When I got out,” he said quietly, “I didn’t know who I was. Didn’t even know my own name. People kept telling me I was lucky. That I was free.” He let out a dry laugh. “Felt more like floating in space with no tether. Just… empty.”
I looked over.
His eyes were still distant, but there was something softer there now. Less guarded.
“I used to think if I stayed quiet, stayed in the background, I’d do less damage,” he said. “But it just made everything worse. Made me feel like maybe I really was just… what they made me.”
I didn’t know what to say.
But my hand… moved.
Slowly, without thinking, I reached out and let my fingers brush against his—his gloved hand, resting loosely on his thigh. Just the edge. Just enough.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
He looked down at our hands. Then up at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and I could hear the weight behind it. “For what they made me. For what I did. For him.”
I swallowed hard. “You weren’t the one who killed my brother.”
“No,” he said. “But I know what it feels like to lose someone you love and need someone to blame.”
My throat tightened.
He turned his hand over, palm up, fingers barely curled—inviting, but not pushing.
I hesitated.
Then slipped my hand into his.
It felt strange. Warm. Steady.
Real.
“I hated you,” I whispered. “So much.”
“I know.”
“I think… I needed to.”
His fingers curled gently around mine. Not possessive. Just present.
“Did it help?” he asked.
I blinked, then smiled—tired, small, real. “Not really.”
He smiled too. Just a flicker. Just for a second.
But it was enough.
In the quiet, something between us shifted. Nothing dramatic. No grand confessions or kisses in the dark. Just two people, side by side, no longer pretending they were unaffected.
Just two people… holding on.
I woke up to the sound of his breathing.
Soft. Steady. Human.
For a moment I didn’t remember where I was. Just the warmth pressed against my back, the faint ache in my shoulder, the scratch of an old blanket pulled halfway over both of us.
And the metal arm loosely draped around my waist.
Bucky.
My body tensed, just slightly. His didn’t move.
I tilted my head just enough to look over my shoulder. He was still asleep, or something close to it—eyes closed, jaw slack, the tension in his face melted away with sleep. He looked younger like this. Softer. Like he belonged to a life that was taken from him long before it even began.
I could’ve pulled away.
Should’ve, maybe.
But I didn’t.
Because for the first time since I met him, I wasn’t afraid of what I’d see when I looked at him.
There were still shadows in his face—pain, memory, ghosts he’d never outrun. But there was something else too. Something quieter. Something that looked like hope, if I was brave enough to call it that.
He wasn’t the assassin.
He wasn’t the weapon.
And he wasn’t just the man Hydra left behind.
He was trying.
Every day. Every breath. Every word he forced out of a throat scarred by silence.
He was trying.
And maybe… maybe that was enough.
His brow furrowed slightly as he stirred, breath catching. I thought he might pull away, retreat again into whatever place he went when the guilt got too heavy.
Instead, his fingers tightened just slightly around my side.
“Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he murmured, voice low and scratchy.
“You did.”
He didn’t open his eyes. “I don’t usually… sleep next to people.”
I didn’t either. But I didn’t say that.
“I don’t hate you,” I whispered.
That made his eyes open. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
I turned to face him fully, our foreheads nearly touching.
“I did,” I said. “But I don’t now.”
He searched my face for a long time. Then nodded, just once.
“Thank you,” he said.
And I knew how much that cost him.
“I don’t know if I can forgive everything,” I admitted. “But I think I’m starting to believe in second chances.”
His voice cracked. “I don’t know if I deserve one.”
I reached up, touched the side of his face. Just gently. Just enough.
My name is Abdelmajed.
I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.
The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.
Basic needs have become luxuries.
Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.
I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.
Escape from Gaza is my only hope,
but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.
I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.
My name is Abdelmajed, and I am a survivor of the war in Gaza. Everything I once knew has been taken away—my home, my safety, and the people
Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety.
Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.
Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.
you hated him for it. but not nearly as much as you hated yourself for wanting it again.
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader (fake marriage au)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, sexual tension, possessiveness, jealousy, angst, lots of team banter
summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.
a/n: hi loves! so, this series has been collecting dust ever since i watched thunderbolts a few weeks ago, but i finally decided to dig it back up and actually finish it, hopefully! i hope you enjoy it!
It started subtly — the way she lingered longer in bed each morning, even after the alarm buzzed into silence. How her coffee stayed half full, lukewarm on the counter. Her laughter, which once came freely, became more muted, as though the world had lost its colour a little more each day.
Bucky noticed. He always did.
At first, he didn’t press. He offered a soft kiss on her forehead, warm hands on her shoulders, a “You alright, doll?” that she always answered with a nod.
But the nods grew slower. Her eyes stopped meeting his. The circles under them darkened.
She wasn’t sleeping. Or she was sleeping too much. The playlist she once danced to while cooking went untouched. Her journals stayed shut. Her phone buzzed unanswered.
And then came the quiet. The crushing kind.
Not silence — no, she still spoke. But her words were flat. Empty. Like echoes of the girl she was.
One night, Bucky came home to find her sitting on the floor of their shared bedroom, wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled to her chest. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t even look up. Just stared at the rug like it held the answer to something she couldn’t reach.
“Hey,” he said gently, crouching in front of her. “Did something happen?”
She shook her head. Slowly.
He reached out, brushing a thumb against her cheek. “You’re slipping, sweetheart.”
That made her eyes flicker. The truth in his words — or maybe just the way he said them — broke through for a moment. But she didn’t argue. Didn’t pretend.
“I know,” she whispered.
Bucky pulled her into his arms. He didn’t say it would be okay — because he knew better. He’d read every page of her journal the day she gave it to him. He knew what this was.
This was the storm coming.
And he’d be right there to weather it with her.
The darkness didn’t announce itself.
It didn’t crash like a wave. It crept.
Each day bled into the next without shape or sound. The curtains stayed drawn. Her toothbrush went untouched. The same hoodie — his hoodie — clung to her shoulders like armor, but it couldn’t protect her from the weight inside.
She wasn’t eating anymore. Not really. A piece of toast half-nibbled. A few sips of water. She didn’t even seem to notice the nausea or the hollow ache of hunger. It was like she’d forgotten how to be a person. Forgotten how to want to.
Bucky watched the changes like bruises blooming.
Her hair knotted at the back. She no longer flinched at the cold. She didn’t even curl into him when he sat next to her — and that, more than anything, broke something inside his chest.
He cooked anyway. Left plates of food on the nightstand that always went cold. He’d crawl into bed beside her, whisper stories about Brooklyn, Steve, even Sam’s dumb jokes — anything to keep her anchored to the world — but most nights, she just lay there, eyes blank toward the ceiling.
“I can’t fix this,” he said to her one night, voice cracking with guilt. “But I’m here. Even if you can’t feel it.”
Her lip trembled. Just barely. She didn’t speak.
Sometimes she’d hum. Little noises. Soft breaths, half sounds like maybe she was about to say something but couldn’t find the strength. Other times, nothing.
The worst part? She knew it was happening.
That’s what made the silence so painful.
She knew.
She was aware of the spiral — she’d written about it, spoken about it when the clouds lifted long enough for her to breathe. But now, she was sinking. And she hated herself for it. For being “too much.” For being “this girl” again.
One morning, Bucky found her sitting in the shower. Water cold. Knees to her chest. Her eyes red, but no tears left.
He dropped to his knees outside the tub.
“I miss you,” he whispered.
She looked at him like she was behind glass, and for the first time in days, she spoke.
“I miss me too.”
Bipolar disorder wasn’t new to either of them.
It wasn’t a stranger they hadn’t met.
Bucky had read every book she handed him. Sat beside her in therapy sessions when she asked him to. Memorised what mixed episodes felt like versus the creeping slowness of depressive ones. He knew her tells. The way she tugged at her sleeves. The way she stopped using music. How she blinked slower. Answered softer.
He’d seen her bright, alive, electric with fire. Those were the high days. Dangerous in their own way — when her thoughts raced faster than her body could follow, when sleep felt optional and impulse chased impulse. He’d learned then to gently anchor her, keep her from flying too close to the sun.
But this? This was the fall.
And it was always harder to watch.
“Have you taken your meds today?” he asked softly one morning, crouched beside the bed with a glass of water in hand.
She didn’t answer. She blinked. Her lips were chapped. Her skin looked grey. There was a soft smell of sweat and sleep — she hadn’t changed clothes in three days. She looked like a ghost of herself.
He set the water down anyway. Left the pills by her hand.
He tried to talk her through a breathing exercise later, his voice steady even when his hands trembled. “You’re not a burden. You’re not broken. I’m here. You’ve survived this before, and you will again.”
But she wouldn’t look at him.
And then the call came.
He stared down at his phone, jaw tight.
A mission. Forty-eight hours. Just recon, they said. Quick. Clean.
But what if she got worse?
What if he wasn’t here when she broke?
He sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles white as he gripped his knees. She didn’t even ask where the call was from — didn’t ask if he’d be leaving.
She knew. She always knew.
He had one foot in this world and the other in another.
“Sweetheart,” he said carefully. “I need to leave for a couple of days.”
Nothing.
“I’ll make sure someone checks in, alright? Maybe Sarah, or Sam. Or—”
She turned her face into the pillow.
His voice cracked. “Please look at me.”
She didn’t.
He sat there until her breathing slowed — not to sleep, but that heavy, exhausted rhythm of someone completely worn thin. He brushed her hair back gently and kissed her temple.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Please don’t forget that. I’ll be back before you even realise I’m gone.”
But he could feel it in his bones —
this time, she might not believe it.
*****
He left this morning.
He kissed my forehead, like he always does when he’s scared I’m too far gone to hear I love you.
The door clicked shut, and I swear it echoed for an hour. I lay in bed, watching the ceiling breathe in shadows. The meds he left are still on the nightstand. I counted them three times. Didn’t take one.
It’s not defiance.
It’s… fatigue. Even the act of swallowing feels like a mountain.
I think I ate half a banana yesterday. Maybe. I don’t really remember. All I know is I’m cold, but sweating. My hair is tangled. My chest aches, but it’s not physical. It’s just… hollow.
The thing about bipolar is people think it’s just mood swings. Up. Down. Loud. Quiet. But this — this is the grey. The fog. The part where nothing hurts because nothing feels. It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s just numb.
Bucky used to say I light up a room.
Now I turn the lights off because I can’t bear to see what’s in the mirror.
I miss him. I hate how much.
I know he has to go. I know this is his job. But he’s the only person who’s ever seen the worst of me and stayed.
I keep hearing his voice in my head.
“Sweetheart, you’re still in there. Just come back to me.”
What if I can’t?
What if this is who I am now — a ghost in his t-shirt, too tired to cry, too drained to try, too aware of how small she’s become?
The worst part is…
I don’t want to die. But I also don’t really want to live like this.
And that’s where it gets dangerous.
I curled up in the shower today. Cold water. No soap. Just sat there until my skin went red and my mind went blank.
I wish he were here.
I wish I didn’t need him this badly.
But mostly…
I wish I still felt like a person.
I didn’t answer the knock.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just laid on the couch with Bucky’s blanket half-pulled over me, stale wine on the table from three nights ago, and a crust of toast I never ate.
Then the door creaked open.
“Y/N?”
Sam. Of course it’s Sam.
I hear him step inside, careful, like I’m something fragile. Maybe I am.
“I know you’re here,” he says gently. “Don’t panic. I’m just checking in. Buck asked me to.”
I don’t move.
He sighs.
The fridge opens and closes. Cabinets. Clinks of dishes. The hum of the kettle.
He’s making tea. Of course he is.
He returns a few minutes later, crouching in front of the couch.
“I brought chamomile,” he says. “Don’t know if it’ll help, but it always works on my nephews when they’re having a tough night.”
I still don’t move.
He sets the mug down next to me, then sits on the floor. Not the chair. The floor. He’s always known how to be grounded around people falling apart.
“I know this part,” he says, after a few minutes of silence. “Not like you do. But I’ve had my time with grief. With rage. Feeling like I’m outside my own skin. Like maybe the best thing I can do for the people who love me is just disappear.”
That word stings.
Disappear.
“I’m not going to tell you to snap out of it,” he continues. “And I’m not gonna guilt you by saying how worried Buck is. You know that already. I just want you to know… even if you can’t talk, I’m still here. You don’t scare me.”
My voice is dust. Cracked and splintered.
“I’m so tired, Sam.”
He looks up. Soft eyes. Hands clasped in his lap.
“I know,” he says. “But you’re still here. Still breathing. And that counts for something.”
I try to sit up. My body protests. The blanket slips. My skin is pale and bruised and thin — like I’ve been carved down to just the bones of who I used to be.
“I feel like I’m made of air,” I whisper. “Like I’ll blow away.”
Sam doesn’t flinch. He just nods.
“That’s why you need people to hold onto you. Until you remember how to stay.”
And for the first time in days, I cry.
Just a little.
Quiet. Shaky. But real.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t crowd.
He just sits and breathes — loud enough that I don’t feel alone.
*****
The bedroom was too quiet.
Too dark.
Too much like then.
Y/N sat curled into the corner between the dresser and the wall, fingers tangled in her hair, knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her breaths came shallow and sharp, ragged with the kind of terror that didn’t need a reason — only a memory. The walls were closing in. The shadows too loud. The silence deafening.
And then —
“Why do you always ruin everything?”
A man’s voice. Her father’s. But not here — there.
From before.
Before she knew what love was supposed to feel like.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. Her hands trembled violently. Her throat tightened.
“Stop crying, I said stop crying—”
The belt. The shouting. The silence that always came after.
Her chest clenched, her ribs aching with every shallow gasp. Nails digging into her legs, jaw tight as sobs ripped from her throat. Every sound in the room was warped by panic.
And then the front door opened.
Bucky stepped into the house, shoulders aching from travel, his heart already tugged by instinct alone — something was wrong. He dropped his bag. Didn’t call her name. Just listened.
A scream.
From upstairs.
He ran.
The bedroom door was ajar, and what he saw made the floor vanish beneath him.
Y/N, curled into herself like a child, screaming through gasps for breath. Trapped in her own mind. Her own memories.
“Y/N.”
His voice was steady. Gentle. Just above a whisper. He stepped into the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
“No—don’t—” she whimpered, eyes wide but unseeing, hands up like shields.
“It’s me, sweetheart,” he said, dropping to his knees in front of her. “It’s just me. You’re not there. You’re here. With me. You’re safe.”
She was shaking, soaked in sweat, breath stuttering.
“I can’t—I can’t breathe—he’s—he’s still—”
“No,” Bucky whispered, reaching slowly, carefully, fingers brushing her arm. “He’s not. He can’t hurt you now. He can’t touch you.”
She blinked. Her gaze flicked toward him, frantic and lost — but this time, she saw him.
“Buck…”
“I’m right here, baby,” he said, sinking to the floor beside her, pulling her into his arms. She clung to him like a lifeline, sobs wracking her body, her nails clutching the fabric of his jacket like she could disappear if she let go.
He rocked her gently, whispering to her over and over.
“You’re safe. You’re home. I’ve got you.”
He kissed her temple, her damp forehead, her shaking hands. And he didn’t let go. Not when her breathing steadied. Not when she cried again. Not when the flashbacks quieted and all that was left was a girl trying to survive.
He was home.
And she was still here.
Only the sound of her shaky breaths filled the space, her body still curled tightly against his. Bucky didn’t rush her. He just held her, grounding her with the weight of his arms, the soft press of his cheek against her temple, the warmth of his chest rising and falling beneath her palms.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely audible, hoarse from the screaming. “I’m so sorry for being like this.”
Bucky’s eyes closed for a moment. That kind of apology — it always hit him like a knife.
“You don’t have to be sorry for surviving,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers gently through her hair. “You hear me?”
She shook her head against him, tears leaking again. “But I—I ruin things. You were gone for two days and I—I can’t even make it without you. I’m a mess, Buck. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. I’m not—normal.”
Bucky pulled back just enough to tilt her chin gently upward so she’d look at him.
“You think I love you because you’re normal?” he said, brow furrowed, voice thick with emotion. “Sweetheart, I love you because you’re you. Because you keep going, even when it feels like the world’s crumbling around you. You fight through every storm your mind throws at you. That’s not weakness. That’s bravery.”
Her lip trembled.
“I just want to be better again.”
He cupped her face, eyes glinting with steady truth. “You will be. This is one part of the cycle, not the end of it. We’ve been here before, remember? And every time, you’ve found your way back.”
She stared at him, breaking quietly in the safety of his gaze.
“You really think I can come back from this?”
He leaned forward, brushing his lips to her forehead — reverent, certain.
“I know you can.”
And for the first time that day, she believed him — even just a little.
It had been quiet for a few days.
The kind of quiet that felt like a breath held underwater — still, slow, gentle. Bucky had been patient, as always. Making her breakfast even when she only took a bite, gently rubbing her back when she trembled, talking to her in soft murmurs at night when the memories came knocking. He didn’t push. He never did. He simply stayed.
And she was coming back to herself, bit by bit. The shadows under her eyes hadn’t disappeared, but there was a new glow behind them. A tired light, but a light nonetheless.
Until one morning — everything shifted.
She was already up when he stirred, music pulsing from the living room.
Bucky blinked groggily and sat up. It was loud. Fast. Bouncing off the walls. The kind of song that made your heart race even before you reached the beat drop.
“Sweetheart?” he called out, voice gravelly from sleep.
“Bucky!” she shouted back from somewhere near the kitchen. “Oh my god, you have to hear this — actually, wait, you are hearing this! Isn’t it amazing? I cleaned the bathroom, reorganised the bookshelf, made coffee — like, real coffee, the strong stuff — and I’m gonna bake something next, I think! Brownies? Muffins? No, wait — cookies!”
He stepped out into the room slowly.
There she was — radiant, glowing, electric.
She was spinning in her socks across the hardwood floor, one of his T-shirts hanging off her shoulder, her hair wild and her cheeks flushed with energy. She looked beautiful. Euphoric. But Bucky had lived this long enough to know the look in her eyes. The kind of wild that burned too hot, too fast.
He offered a soft smile, masking the familiar twist of worry in his stomach. “You’ve been up a while, huh?”
“Since four!” she beamed, eyes wide. “I couldn’t sleep — not in a bad way! I just had so many ideas, Buck. So many. I feel amazing. I was thinking, maybe we should go on a trip? Or repaint the flat? Maybe both! Do you think I could write a book? Oh my god, I should write a book.”
He approached her slowly, gently placing his hands on her waist as she bounced on her toes.
“Hey,” he said softly. “How about we slow down just a little?”
Her eyes flicked up to his, still sparkling. “Why? There’s so much to do, Buck! I’m finally me again. Don’t you see it? I’m me.”
Bucky swallowed thickly. This part always broke him a little — how beautiful she was when she was manic. How invincible she felt. How hard it would crash when it came down.
He nodded carefully. “I do see you, sweetheart. I always see you.”
And he held her tighter — not to contain her, but to steady the storm before it spun too far.
The morning light spilled softly through the curtains, but Bucky didn’t get the usual quiet wake-up he’d hoped for.
Instead, he blinked open his eyes to the faint, frantic thumping of music, the scent of paint, and an unmistakable buzz of chaos.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stumbled out of bed.
The living room was almost unrecognizable.
Walls that had been a calm beige were now splashed with wild, sweeping strokes of bright teal, sunburst yellow, and fiery orange. The floor was littered with paint tubes, brushes, and open bags. Half-assembled shelves stood against the wall, surrounded by boxes of houseplants, vases, and random trinkets — none of which they’d owned yesterday.
And there she was — hair pulled back messily, cheeks flushed with excitement, humming loudly as she swirled a brush through a patch of yellow on the wall.
“Oh! Buck!” she chirped, spotting him in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you get up! I was just so inspired. I figured the living room could use some life, y’know? I even ordered all these cool things last night — rugs, lamps, plants! It’s gonna be perfect! And wait — I was thinking about repainting the kitchen next! Maybe the bedroom! Do you think green would be too much? Maybe mint green? Or forest? Or—”
Bucky took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
“It’s… definitely lively,” he said softly, stepping in carefully. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
She beamed, eyes shining like the sun. “I have been! I feel incredible, Buck. I want to do everything. Fix everything. Make everything perfect.”
He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I know, sweetheart. I know you do.”
Her energy was infectious but overwhelming — the mania buzzing in the air like electricity.
Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and kept his voice low, steady. “How about we take a break soon? Maybe some water? I can help with the kitchen after breakfast?”
She hesitated, paintbrush midair, then nodded slowly.
As much as her fire was beautiful, he knew this spark could burn too bright. But he’d be here — steady as always — to catch her when she fell.
After agreeing to take a break, she finally set the paintbrush down and followed Bucky into the kitchen, where the morning sun cast a gentle glow over the counters. Bucky filled two glasses with water, and she took hers eagerly, the cold liquid grounding her buzzing senses.
They sat together at the small kitchen table. Bucky kept the conversation light, telling stories from his missions, recounting moments with Sam or Steve — nothing heavy, just steady, familiar voices. She laughed quietly at some of the memories, her energy softening from frenetic to calm.
As the hours passed, the wild flutter inside her chest slowed. She still moved quickly, but her bursts of movement became less urgent, more deliberate. Bucky helped her tidy the paint supplies, carefully folding up the new rugs and setting plants in the sunniest spots. The living room felt less chaotic, the colors less overwhelming when seen through calmer eyes.
She started to settle into the rhythm of normal again, her breathing deeper, her words less scattered. Bucky noticed the exhaustion behind her bright eyes, and when she paused to sit quietly on the couch, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
“Let’s just relax for a while,” he murmured.
She leaned into him, her body finally sinking into stillness.
The day moved on gently, and as evening fell, they found themselves curled up on the couch, a soft movie playing on the screen. The room was cozy now, the wild colors in the living room softened by dim lighting and quiet comfort.
But then her eyes started to roam — over the walls, the painted swirls, the bright yellows and teals she had chosen just hours ago.
Her brow furrowed.
“I hate this color,” she whispered, voice barely above the movie’s dialogue.
Bucky shifted, concern flickering in his eyes.
“What? Which one?”
“All of it,” she said, voice low and tight. “It’s too loud. Too much. I don’t know why I picked it… it feels like a mistake.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “Hey, it’s okay. We can change it. Whenever you’re ready.”
She let out a shaky breath, resting her head against his chest.
“I just want it to feel like us again.”
And in that quiet moment, with her slowly coming back to herself and him right there beside her, it felt like maybe they could find their way — color by color, moment by moment.
The next morning, sunlight spilled softly through the curtains, warming the room with a gentle glow. She woke slowly, feeling the familiar weight of peace settle over her like a comfortable blanket. No racing thoughts, no restless energy — just quiet, steady calm.
She stretched, the tension in her muscles gone. The color in her cheeks returned, her breath even and easy. Sitting up, she glanced over at Bucky, still peacefully asleep beside her. The steady rise and fall of his chest was a quiet reminder she wasn’t alone.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt truly like herself again.
She smiled softly and slid out of bed, the soft creak of the floor grounding her senses. The world outside was the same — but she was different. Balanced. Present.
Downstairs, she brewed coffee, savoring the simple ritual, feeling no urge to rush or retreat. Bucky joined her shortly, pulling her into a warm hug that felt like home.
No words were needed — this was the calm after the storm. The space where she was just her again. Strong, steady, and whole.
The soft thud of footsteps on the stairs pulled her attention just as she poured the last drop of coffee into her cup. Bucky appeared in the doorway, his hair still tousled from sleep, eyes warm and gentle as they settled on her.
“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep.
She smiled softly, setting the cup down on the counter. “Couldn’t sleep past sunrise.”
He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. The steady beat of his heart against her back was grounding, comforting. “Feels good, huh? Feeling… normal again?”
She leaned back into him, resting her head against his chest. “Yeah. Like I’m finally me.”
Bucky’s hand slid up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “I’m proud of you. For fighting through all of it. For being so strong.”
Her lips curved into a small, grateful smile. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He kissed the top of her head softly. “I’m always here. No matter what.”
They stood there a moment longer, wrapped in quiet warmth, letting the new day start with nothing but love and calm between them.
you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)
A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things.
One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.
Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.
And three, he didn’t want to be here.
He made no effort to hide that fact.
You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.
The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.
But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.
What even was normal?
This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.
There never would be again.
The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.
You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.
You hadn’t asked why.
Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil.
This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.
The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.
“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.
Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.
He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him.
Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves.
His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.
His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass.
He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.
Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.
You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next.
“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.
Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.
You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.
“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”
Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.
Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.
You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.
You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.
—
The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely.
Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.
Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.
The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food.
On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster.
You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today.
Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.
You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.
Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.
Mystery soup it was.
Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.
You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.
—
You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.
“Food. For you,” you said simply.
He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express.
“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.
You shot him a look.
“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.
“Sit down.”
You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.
“Bland.” He commented.
You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.
“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it.
It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up.
“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”
Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.
“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.”
“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.
Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.
You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”
He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.”
You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word.
Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.
“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”
You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.
“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing.
It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.
“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”
“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.
Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.
“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”
Your throat closed up.
He thought you were part of it.
He thought you were one of them.
“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.
You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.
Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity
You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting.
The cages.
The screaming—
Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.
“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.
“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”
You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.
Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him.
But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.
Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.
But the voice in your head always whispered something else.
You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving.
You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.
Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.
“Fuck you.” You seethed.
You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.
—
A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.
You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.
When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice.
You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own.
If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.
You already hated yourself enough.
The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour.
Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.
You wanted to scream.
It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.
You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.
You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.
It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”
You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”
He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.
“No.”
You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.
“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”
He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.
His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.
Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.
Interesting.
You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.
“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.
The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.
You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.
The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.
“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.
Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.
He was a storm.
Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.
This was your only shot.
“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop.
You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.
“What the fuck are you—”
But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.
The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.
You didn’t know where you were going.
You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.
And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—
The world tilted.
You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.
You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.
When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.
“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.
You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”
Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.
And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.
“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.
But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.
“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”
Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.
“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.
“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.
His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.
“Put me the fuck down!”
“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”
“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”
“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”
“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”
You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”
“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”
You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.
He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.
You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.
Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.
The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.
You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.
Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.
“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”
You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”
—
Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path.
He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.
You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked.
You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.
“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”
“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”
You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”
But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.
“Sit. Down.”
You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.
Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.
Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”
Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.
He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.
Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—
You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.
He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.
“Stop squirming.”
“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”
“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.
That shut you up.
You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.
He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.
Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.
“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”
A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise.
You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.
You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.
He stared at you.
“Are you even listening?” he barked.
You jumped. “Sorry—what?”
“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”
You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”
“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”
Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.
The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.
“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”
You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.
He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.
The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.
“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”
“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”
You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”
That stopped him cold.
His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.
“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.
You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash.
“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.
“...Yeah.”
You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.
“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”
You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.
He was flinching from you.
Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.
Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?
And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?
When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.
What if this was different?
What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.
Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?
Would it make you… better?
Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.
His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.
Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”
He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.
His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.
You didn’t dare look up at him.
Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen.
He didn’t flinch.
That was the point.
The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief.
He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.
You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.
“You’re a—”
“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”
The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.
“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”
You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.
“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.
“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his.
But he didn’t let it go.
Of course, he didn’t.
Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.
Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.
It was that he cared.
Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.
“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”
You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”
When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.
“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”
His brow creased. “Pain?”
“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—”
You drew in a breath, steadying yourself.
“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”
His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.
“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.”
You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.
Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.
“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.
“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.
His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece.
“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”
His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.
“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm.
“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”
You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.
He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”
That startled you more than it should have.
“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”
Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”
The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.
“No, I… I get it.”
Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.
“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”
He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.
“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”
You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.
—
Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.
Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.
It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.
And the weather wasn’t helping.
The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.
“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.
You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.
It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.
Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret.
His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.
He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.
But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile.
You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.
“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”
Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.
Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.
“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps.
With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.
You opened your mouth to argue—too late.
The hem of your dress was already lifted.
“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.
“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.
You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.
He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”
You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.
“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”
“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.
His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.
Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.
“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”
Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”
“I’m not babying you.”
“I feel like dead weight.”
His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”
“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”
That made him pause.
His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not.
Your heart kicked in your chest.
You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.
He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.
“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”
You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”
His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”
And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.
You bit your lip, cursing yourself.
His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.
And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—
You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.
He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.
Your face burned.
You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.
So much for subtle.
You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath.
He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.
He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.
Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”
Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.
“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”
The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.
“Shit—ah—”
A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.
“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”
You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.
“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”
You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”
You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.
His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.
“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”
You exhaled, long and slow.
“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”
He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”
You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.
—
Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.
You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.
So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.
He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.
Your breath caught mid-page.
You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.
And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.
You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher.
Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.
You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.
You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—
“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”
You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.
He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.
Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.
He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.
You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.
“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.
Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.
His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—
Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.
The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.
You jolted in fright.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.
Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put.
“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”
You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.
You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.
When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.
He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.
You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.
“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.
“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”
You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.
“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”
“I just—you let it burn you.”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”
But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.
You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.
Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm
“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”
Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.
“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”
You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.
You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.
And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.
“Can you feel that?” you breathed.
He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”
You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”
You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.
“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.
His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.
“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.”
His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.
“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”
Your brows furrowed.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”
You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.
“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”
His hand stilled against your face.
“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”
His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.
“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.
Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.
For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static.
“Come here.”
You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”
“Just... closer.”
You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.
When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”
Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.
God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.
You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away.
And then you took the plunge.
“Let me… let me show you something.”
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”
You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.
He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.
You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”
“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”
“Show me again.”
You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”
His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.
“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”
You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.
“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”
His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”
You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.
You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.
And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.
“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.
“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”
Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.
A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.
His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.
Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.
And then something snapped.
Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.
One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.
He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.
Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.
Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.
Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.
His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.
You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”
You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.
He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.
He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.
When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.
And when his pants came off—
You stopped, just for a second.
Your breath hitched.
He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.
“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.
Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.
His reaction was immediate.
A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.
The pleasure took him like a tide.
And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.
“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.
He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.
Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.
He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.
“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”
You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.
“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”
Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.
So you showed him.
Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.
You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.
You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.
“I… you fucking minx—”
His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.
He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.
For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—
But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.
With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.
He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.
“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”
You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.
“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.
That was all it took to break him.
“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”
You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.
“God, Bucky—”
He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.
“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”
Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.
Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.
“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”
Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.
“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.
But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.
Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.
Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”
His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”
“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering.
You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.
“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”
“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”
Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.
“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”
Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.
His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”
His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.
That was all it took.
Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.
Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.
Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”
He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks.
“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.
You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”
He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”
You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”
“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”
He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”
You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”
---
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Now, her body felt heavy, like grief had soaked into her bones. Bucky didn’t move from her side. Even as her tears quieted, even as her breathing evened out, he stayed — thumb brushing slow circles over the back of her hand.
Eventually, her voice cracked the silence again.
“I should… I should shower,” she murmured, barely audible.
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, standing slowly.
“Come on, then.”
She looked at him, fragile and unsure, but didn’t resist as he gently guided her to her feet. Her knees buckled slightly from weakness. Bucky caught her without a word.
In the bathroom, the light was soft. Muted.
Steam began to curl around the edges of the small space as warm water filled the tub. She sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at her hands in her lap. She didn’t move until he knelt in front of her again.
“Do you want me to help?”
Her lip quivered. She nodded once.
It wasn’t like it had been before. Not tender in the way lovers touched — but something deeper. More human. She stood slowly, and he helped her out of the oversized t-shirt she’d been wearing for days. Her skin was pale. Her frame fragile. The sharp angles of her shoulders, her hips, her ribs too visible. He bit the inside of his cheek.
She was disappearing.
He helped her step into the water, holding her steady, making sure it wasn’t too hot. She sank down slowly, closing her eyes. A breath escaped her lips — almost relief. Almost.
He sat beside the tub, sleeves rolled, knees up.
She leaned back against the wall of the tub.
His voice was barely a whisper.
“You were always beautiful. But this—”
His throat tightened.
“I did this. I let you fade.”
She opened her eyes. “I let myself.”
He shook his head. “No. You loved me. That’s not a fault. That’s not something to pay for.”
He reached for the cup, gently pouring warm water over her head. Again. And again. She blinked through the droplets, letting them soak her hair, her skin. She felt like she was thawing.
Bucky took the shampoo, rubbed it between his hands, and began to wash her hair with the gentlest fingers. He took his time. Not because it was necessary — but because it was sacred. A kind of penance. Every stroke an apology. Every rinse a promise.
She leaned into his touch without speaking.
When he was done, she rested her forehead on her knees.
Bucky didn’t push. He stayed beside her until the water went lukewarm.
“Let’s get you warm,” he said softly, holding out the towel.
She stepped out, letting him wrap her in it, his arms around her again.
And for the first time in weeks…
she didn’t feel quite so alone.
Morning crept in slowly, brushing pale sunlight through the gaps in the curtains.
The flat was still. Quiet. Fragile.
Bucky stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hands careful as he cracked two eggs into a pan. The toast popped up, slightly burnt, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t a chef — he just wanted her to eat something. Anything.
She sat on the sofa, legs curled beneath her in one of his old hoodies. Damp hair now dry but still tangled. Her eyes stared at the muted television screen, but she wasn’t watching. She was just existing.
He placed the plate in front of her — scrambled eggs, toast, and a small cup of tea. She looked at it.
He sat beside her, not touching her, just waiting.
Minutes passed.
She reached for the tea, took one small sip… and pushed the food gently away.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just… I can’t. It makes me feel sick.”
Bucky didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask her to try again. He just nodded, and moved the plate to the table.
Then he leaned back, lifted his arm slightly in invitation — and she went to him like it was instinct.
Curled into his chest, her legs over his lap, her fingers clutched into his shirt. He wrapped both arms around her and held her tightly.
“You don’t have to eat yet,” he said softly. “Not until you’re ready.”
She closed her eyes.
But she didn’t sleep.
Even with his arms around her, even with the steady rhythm of his breathing and the quiet flicker of the TV, her mind wouldn’t slow. It spun and spun, dragging her thoughts back to every moment of loneliness, every aching hour she had spent wondering why she wasn’t enough.
She tilted her head slightly. “Do you think I’m broken?”
Bucky looked down at her, brows drawn together. “No,” he said without hesitation. “I think you’re hurting. And I think… I want to help you carry it.”
Her throat tightened, eyes stinging again.
“But what if I never get better?”
“Then I’ll still be here.”
They sat there like that. Not moving. Not speaking.
Just breathing in the same rhythm, like somehow that would keep her grounded.
And for the first time in weeks, even though she didn’t sleep —
she closed her eyes, and didn’t feel like she was drowning.
“I’ll be back soon, doll,” Bucky said quietly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.
She didn’t answer.
Just a slow blink from her place on the sofa, her body curled beneath the blanket. Her hair was messily tied up, her cheeks hollow, lips cracked. She hadn’t left the flat in… Bucky didn’t even know how many days anymore.
He hesitated by the door.
“You’re safe,” he added, voice rough. “I’ll be back before you even miss me.”
Still nothing.
So he left. Locking the door behind him with a heavy heart.
⸻
The grocery store was silent in his mind. He walked the aisles like a ghost, filling the basket with soft foods, herbal teas, soups, and oat biscuits — things she used to like. Things that felt gentle. Things she might manage.
But his hands shook the whole time.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her eyes — that dull, quiet pain. How she didn’t flinch at her own reflection in the mirror. How she hadn’t eaten more than two bites of anything. How the bones of her wrists felt too sharp in his hands.
He couldn’t fix this on his own.
Which is how he found himself outside Dr. Reynolds’ office twenty minutes later, pacing the hallway, groceries still in the car.
She didn’t look surprised to see him when he walked in.
“James,” she said softly, motioning him to sit. “Talk to me.”
He sat. Stared at his hands. Swallowed hard.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said finally. “She’s—she’s just lying there. Not eating. Not sleeping. And I try. I make tea, I bring her food, I sit next to her every night but I can’t… I can’t fix it. I broke her.”
His voice cracked on the last words.
Dr. Reynolds leaned forward. “You didn’t break her.”
He shook his head. “I left her. I didn’t think it would do this to her. I thought I was doing the right thing. And now… she’s just disappearing right in front of me. And I—”
His voice gave out.
He rubbed at his eyes roughly, shoulders trembling. “She won’t eat. She won’t even look at food. I don’t know how to help her.”
The room was quiet for a moment before she spoke.
“Sometimes,” Dr. Reynolds said gently, “the goal isn’t to make someone eat. It’s to help them feel safe enough to want to. What she needs isn’t a solution, Bucky. It’s you. Present. Patient. Reassuring. Keep showing up.”
He exhaled sharply, nodding as tears traced slow paths down his cheeks.
“I’ll keep showing up,” he whispered. “Even if it kills me.”
And he meant it.
By the time Bucky made it back to the flat, the sun had dipped behind the clouds, leaving a cold grayness in its place. The air felt heavier, the silence inside even more so.
He slipped his key into the lock, opening the door as gently as he could.
She was still there. Same place. Same position. Curled up like she was trying to disappear.
Bucky’s chest ached.
He didn’t speak. Just quietly carried the groceries to the kitchen and began unpacking them with careful hands — oat biscuits, herbal teas, soft rolls, fruit, broth. He placed everything in the fridge or pantry like it meant something. Like it was a prayer.
He found her favorite mug, one she’d used in Wakanda with a chip in the rim and a faded sunflower design. He made chamomile tea — warm, not hot — and let it steep for too long, the way she always used to do.
Then, slowly, he brought it to her.
She hadn’t moved.
He crouched beside the sofa, holding it out gently. “Tea,” he said, voice soft. “Made it how you like.”
No response.
Just that same blankness in her eyes.
He didn’t push. He placed the mug on the table next to her and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was cool. Too cool.
“I went to see someone,” he murmured, fingers lingering near her temple. “Told them I don’t know how to fix this. Told them I’d keep showing up anyway.”
Still, she said nothing.
But her eyes fluttered closed for half a second — the first shift in hours.
“I miss your voice,” he said quietly. “I miss your laugh. I miss you.”
He leaned his forehead against the edge of the sofa, staying there, crouched, silent.
And even though she didn’t speak —
even though she didn’t move —
her fingers, weak and barely noticeable, reached out.
They brushed his knee.
Not enough to be strong.
But enough to say: I hear you. I’m still here.
Bucky didn’t move when he felt her fingers graze his knee. His breath caught. It was such a small thing — barely there — but it shattered the numbness that had settled in his chest.
He slowly lifted his head, eyes meeting hers. They were still dull, still tired, but focused now. On him.
He reached for the tea. “It’s not much,” he said gently. “But it’s warm.”
She blinked.
Then, quietly — like her voice hadn’t been used in days — she whispered, “I’m cold.”
Bucky’s heart cracked in two.
“Come here,” he said instantly, placing the tea back down.
He shifted to sit beside her on the couch, tugging the blanket around them both. She moved slowly, like every muscle was made of stone, but she came to him — tucked herself into his side like she used to, head resting on his chest.
His arm wrapped around her automatically. Like it never forgot.
They sat like that for a while, in the soft hum of silence. His heartbeat steady. Her breathing uneven.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “I tried.”
She tilted her head, eyes glassy but open. “I missed you. So much.”
Bucky swallowed hard, brushing his fingers through her hair. “I missed you,” he said. “Every second.”
He held her tighter, kissing the top of her head.
The tea sat on the table, untouched for now.
But her words stayed — soft and fragile, like the beginning of something trying to bloom again.
The moon crept higher in the sky, casting silver light through the slats of the blinds. The living room stayed dim, but warmer now. Still. Safe.
She rested against Bucky’s chest, her body half-draped over him, tucked beneath his arm like she belonged there. Like she always had. Her cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his henley, and with each breath, she felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Real. Constant. Anchoring her.
“I used to talk to Steve about you,” he said softly, fingers tracing gentle lines on her arm. “When you first disappeared. When I couldn’t find you. Told him I was sure you weren’t dead. That they didn’t kill you.”
She didn’t answer, but she shifted slightly — listening.
Bucky smiled faintly. “He said I was stubborn. Said maybe I was projecting. But I knew. I knew you weren’t gone. Not like that.”
Her voice came out hoarse, quiet. “I was scared.”
“I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I was too.”
He let the silence stretch for a moment, let her breathing match his before continuing.
“There was this mission once,” he said with a soft chuckle, “in Bucharest. You had to pretend to be a diplomat’s assistant. You wore those ridiculous glasses and kept pushing them up your nose to stay in character.”
A breath — almost a laugh — left her lips.
“God, you were so bad at pretending to be shy,” he said. “You were glowing. Everyone looked at you and saw sunlight, even in the dead of winter.”
“I remember that,” she whispered. “You made fun of me the whole time.”
“You stabbed a guy with a heel. My heel.”
“It was effective.”
Bucky smiled again, brushing a knuckle along her jaw. Her skin was still pale, fragile beneath his touch, but there was a little warmth now. A little life.
He kept talking — stories from Wakanda, memories of training together, nights watching old movies and arguing over the best ones. Her eyes fluttered now and then, not quite asleep, but resting. Safe.
“I missed this,” she murmured eventually, her fingers ghosting over his ribs. “You. Just talking.”
“I’ll talk as long as you need me to,” he said softly. “One word at a time. I’m not going anywhere.”
She nestled closer into his chest, a single tear slipping down her cheek. This time, she let it fall.
And Bucky just held her tighter, whispering the next memory like a lullaby.
She fell asleep on him just after four in the morning.
One moment, she was murmuring something half-formed about a quiet lake in Wakanda — and the next, her breathing had evened out, her hand going slack against his chest. Bucky didn’t move for a long time, afraid to shift and wake her.
But eventually, he stood, slow and careful.
She barely stirred as he lifted her in his arms.
She was so light.
It broke his heart all over again.
He carried her to the bedroom, pulled back the covers, and tucked her in with the gentleness of someone placing glass. He didn’t leave immediately. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, brushing her hair back from her face, just watching her sleep — peaceful for the first time in weeks.
Then he went to the couch and closed his eyes, though sleep never fully came.
—
The next morning was bright, a little too bright, but it smelled like something soft and warm — butter and eggs, faint cinnamon. The house was quiet, the air cool from open windows.
She woke slowly, confused for a moment by the comfort of being in a real bed. Her body ached in that heavy, post-breakdown way. But her heart… felt a little less tight.
She padded barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. Her steps were sluggish, cautious — and then she saw him.
Bucky stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back. He hadn’t heard her yet.
There was toast on a plate, cut diagonally the way she liked. A small bowl of sliced strawberries. Scrambled eggs — barely seasoned, the way she could stomach them when she was sick. And tea. Always tea.
She leaned against the doorway.
He turned, eyes meeting hers immediately.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”
She nodded, voice still rough from sleep. “You cooked.”
Bucky shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Wanted you to have something warm. You don’t have to eat it all. Just… try.”
She sat down slowly at the table. Picked up a strawberry. Bit it.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
She ate a little — a few pieces of fruit, one bite of toast, two forkfuls of egg. Her stomach twisted but didn’t revolt. Her body wasn’t used to this, but it wasn’t rejecting it either.
Bucky didn’t comment. He just sat across from her with his tea and let her eat at her own pace.
“You’re still here,” she said quietly.
He looked up, blue eyes steady. “Told you I would be.”
And for the first time in a long time, she believed him.
The day passed quietly. No pressure. No expectations.
She rested, mostly. Sometimes curled on the couch with a blanket and a book she didn’t read. Sometimes just staring out the window. Her body still felt hollowed out, like her insides hadn’t caught up to the fact she was alive again — that there was warmth, food, comfort.
Bucky never pushed. He stayed close, talked when she wanted him to, touched her only when she reached for him first.
By the time the sun was setting, casting honey-gold light over the walls, he looked over at her from the kitchen doorway.
“You want a bath?” he asked softly.
She nodded.
—
The bathroom was already warm, soft steam curling at the edges of the mirror. The bath was half full and waiting. He helped her in gently, his hand on hers, slow and steady. No rush. No shame.
He got in behind her, settling down so she could lean back against his chest. His legs bracketing hers. His arms loose around her middle. No pressure. Just… presence.
The water was quiet.
Her body was quiet.
For a long time, they just sat there.
His fingers eventually found her hair — wet and tangled — and began gently working through it, unwinding it with reverence. Slowly, carefully, he lathered shampoo, his hands shaking just a little as he moved through the motions. He didn’t speak.
And then she noticed it — the slight tremble in his chest. The hitch in his breath.
A tear dropped into the water.
Then another.
She tilted her head slightly, brushing her temple to his jaw. Her voice came quiet.
“You’re crying.”
He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Her hands rose from the water and rested over his. “Why?”
His voice was hoarse. “I didn’t want to believe I did this. But seeing you… what I let you become—”
“You didn’t do this,” she whispered, a small frown pulling between her brows. “I did.”
He shook his head. “You were always the strong one. And I left you when you needed someone to stay.”
She looked down at herself — her thinner frame, the shadows under her skin. Her voice was a mix of honesty and ache. “I look like I’m disappearing.”
“You’re still here,” he whispered back, wrapping his arms tighter around her. “You’re still here with me.”
She closed her eyes and leaned into him, letting him hold her, letting the tears fall quietly from both of them into the water.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And it was a beginning.
They didn’t speak much after the bath.
Bucky helped her out gently, wrapped her in a towel with the same care someone might use handling a page from an old book — precious, fragile, irreplaceable.
He dried her hair slowly. Helped her into one of his shirts — the one that used to be hers, really, from long ago. She didn’t protest. She just watched him, quiet eyes, exhausted body. He guided her to the bed like a ghost of the man who once fought wars, and laid down beside her without hesitation.
She turned on her side, back to his chest. His arm slid around her like it belonged there. They lay in silence for a long time.
Then she spoke.
“I used to have dreams where you never left.”
His breath caught slightly against her shoulder.
She continued, voice thin, low. “You were still mine. You still laughed with me. I used to wake up reaching for you.”
“I had them too,” he whispered, voice cracking.
“I know,” she said.
She turned slowly to face him, nose almost brushing his. The moonlight caught the shine in her eyes, and for once, her tears didn’t fall.
“I’m scared I’ll lose this again,” she admitted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away. His hand moved to rest over her cheek, thumb brushing beneath her eye. “Then I’ll stay. Even when you don’t want me to. Even when it’s hard.”
She didn’t answer.
She just moved closer, buried her face into the crook of his neck, and let his warmth pull her under — her first real sleep in weeks.
—
It was sometime after 3 a.m. when she stirred again.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, her forehead damp. But Bucky was still there. On his back now, arm resting on her waist.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured.
“I did,” she whispered, still groggy. “But I keep waking up thinking it’s not real.”
He turned his head toward her. “It is.”
Her lips parted, something caught between apology and longing. “Do you think I can be okay again?”
Bucky reached for her hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. “I don’t think it. I know it.”
She looked at their hands. His fingers had scars, hers were shaking.
But they were touching.
Alive.
Healing.
And still, somehow — together.
|
A few days later
I brushed my fingers over the edge of the coffee mug in my hands, feeling the faint heat still left in it. It was chamomile — Bucky had insisted I try it. Said it helped. I hadn’t told him I hated chamomile. But now? I kind of didn’t.
I was sitting at the little table by the kitchen window. The sun was soft today, not too bright. It lit the counter in a way that made the fruit bowl look prettier than it deserved to.
Half my plate was empty. Half eaten. Not all of it, but more than yesterday. More than the day before. That was something. I guess.
My body still felt strange. Not quite mine yet. But I wasn’t so cold anymore. The hollows under my eyes were still there, but my skin wasn’t as grey. I’d even managed to pull on one of my own t-shirts today. It was still too big, but it didn’t fall off my shoulder anymore.
I’d spoken more. Not full conversations — not laughter or stories — but I asked Bucky if he wanted tea last night. I asked if we could watch something that didn’t have explosions. I said thank you.
Progress.
He noticed. He didn’t say it out loud, but I caught it in the way he looked at me. Like he was afraid to blink in case I disappeared again.
I didn’t blame him.
Sometimes, I still feel like I could.
There were moments — quiet, brief — where it still ached like it did before. Where I remembered the sound of the door closing behind him all those months ago. Where I remembered what it felt like to wither.
But then I’d catch him talking about something dumb Sam did, or I’d see his eyes when I finished half a bowl of rice, and something in me would breathe again.
I’m still tired. I’m still not sleeping properly. But I’m trying.
That’s what I’m learning healing looks like. Not a burst of triumph. Not a cinematic recovery.
Just tiny choices.
One more bite.
One more cup of tea.
One more hour in the sun.
And him — still here — not fixing me, but waiting patiently for me to remember who I am.
I’m not there yet.
But I think… I will be.
The café hadn’t changed. Same creaky floorboards, same flickering string lights tangled around the windows, same old man behind the counter who still greeted everyone like they were family.
I hadn’t been here since that night. Our first real date.
Back then, I’d worn black jeans and stolen one of Bucky’s shirts. My hair had been clean, my eyes had shimmered with a nervous sort of joy. He’d smiled more that night than I’d ever seen him smile.
Now, I sat across from him at the same corner table by the window. My hair was tied back in a loose braid. My clothes didn’t hang as much anymore. My eyes were tired but not lifeless.
I was here.
I’d told him this morning, almost shyly, that I wanted to go somewhere. Anywhere. His gaze had flickered, careful and cautious, before he’d offered this place. I saw the hesitation in his face, wondering if it was too much too soon — but I’d nodded.
Because I wanted to remember what it felt like to fall in love.
The same server came over — she had remembered us. She smiled when she saw me, and her eyes softened. “It’s really good to see you again,” she said warmly.
I ordered peppermint tea. Bucky got his usual. He didn’t push me to order food. He didn’t say a word when I only picked at a small plate of fruit.
Instead, he told stories. About the guy who delivered firewood at Sam’s place and fell in the river. About Sarah threatening to shave Sam’s eyebrows in his sleep. About the twins drawing on his metal arm with permanent marker.
And I laughed.
Not loudly. Not for long. But I laughed.
It felt strange, and familiar.
He watched me like he was afraid to blink. Like if he closed his eyes for too long, I’d fade again.
I reached across the table, curling my fingers over his. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“You sure it wasn’t too much?” he asked, thumb brushing mine.
I shook my head. “No. It was… it’s where I remember feeling safe.”
He blinked, like he might cry. But didn’t. He just gave me that look — the one I used to dream about.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe I could have more moments like this.
Not perfect.
Not painless.
But real.
The house was quiet when we got back.
It was still warm from the day, the windows cracked open just enough to let in the soft hum of nighttime. Bucky had offered to make tea — he always did — but I’d said no this time. I didn’t want tea.
I just wanted him.
Not in the way that hurt. Not in the aching, desperate way it had before. But in the way that felt steady. Like I could reach for him and not fall apart.
We ended up in the living room, the soft lamplight casting long shadows over the rug. I sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath me, a blanket draped across my lap even though I wasn’t cold. He sat beside me, close but careful — always careful.
He told another story, voice low. Something about Steve, something about a motorcycle and a bet. I laughed again. It still surprised me every time.
And then the silence settled in. Not awkward — not anymore. It just was.
I looked at him. His profile in the golden light. The faint creases by his eyes. The way he always held himself like he was still waiting for something bad to happen.
“I missed you,” I said quietly.
He turned to me, something unreadable in his expression. “I missed you every damn day.”
I hesitated, fingers clutching the blanket tighter. “Do you think… do you think we could ever get back to what we were?”
He didn’t answer at first. Then he shifted a little closer, his voice gentle. “I don’t know if we ever can. But maybe we can make something new. Something better.”
I nodded, heart thudding. “I’d like that.”
He watched me for a long moment. Then, just barely above a whisper:
“Can I kiss you?”
My breath caught. But I didn’t look away. “Yeah,” I whispered back. “You can.”
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to change my mind. I didn’t. I leaned in, too.
And when his lips met mine, it was nothing like the last time.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was soft. Warm. Steady. The kind of kiss that said, We’re still here. The kind that said, I’m not going anywhere.
When we pulled apart, my forehead rested against his.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
“I am too,” he said softly. “But I’ve got you. This time, I’ve really got you.”
And I believed him.
|
A Few Months Later
I never thought peace would feel like this.
Soft, quiet. Like sunlight through a curtain on a slow morning. Like Bucky’s fingers trailing down my arm as we watched some documentary neither of us was really paying attention to.
The couch was the same. Our favorite throw blanket, still worn at the edges, wrapped around our legs. But everything else? It had changed.
I had changed.
It had taken work — God, so much work. Therapy twice a week. Journaling. The mirror, some mornings, still felt like a stranger. But I was eating. Sleeping. Laughing. I’d even landed the assistant manager role at Vanguard Security — a massive firm in the city. Interviewed with trembling hands, cried in the stairwell when I got it.
And Bucky…
He never let go of my hand through any of it.
He moved in last month — officially, finally, even though he’d practically already lived here. My drawers were his drawers. My bed had long since made space for his warmth.
And now? Now I was tucked under his arm, head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart while the faint glow of the TV flickered in the background.
“You smell like cinnamon,” he murmured into my hair.
I smiled. “That’s because I made apple crumble earlier. You inhaled most of it.”
“Fair,” he laughed softly. “It was really good.”
I tilted my head to look up at him. His face looked relaxed — the weight he used to carry in every furrowed brow, every tense jawline… it wasn’t gone, but it was quieter now. Lighter. Like he believed in tomorrow again.
“You okay?” I asked softly, sensing something buzzing in the air around him.
He hesitated. Then, carefully, he shifted so he could reach into his hoodie pocket.
“I’ve been carrying this around for a while,” he said. “Wanted to wait until you were… you again. Not because I needed you perfect. Just because I knew you’d want to remember this moment clearly. And you deserve that.”
My heart started to pound.
He pulled out a small, square box.
My breath caught. “Bucky…”
“I love you,” he said, voice raw and steady, eyes never leaving mine. “I loved you when we were broken. I loved you when you couldn’t look at yourself. I loved you when you didn’t speak for days. I loved you before, during, after — and I’ll love you every damn second I’m breathing.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks. He didn’t open the box yet. He just held it, giving me the choice.
“I want to marry you,” he said. “Not because it fixes anything. But because I want to wake up next to you when we’re wrinkled and grey. I want to hold your hand in grocery stores and watch you get mad when they don’t stock your tea. I want it all. Messy, beautiful, boring, real — I want it with you.”
I was already nodding before I could speak. “Yes,” I whispered. “God, yes.”
He opened the box then — a ring that wasn’t flashy but beautiful, simple and steady, like the man kneeling beside me.
When he slid it onto my finger, everything clicked. Like my heart had finally exhaled after holding its breath for years.
We sat on the floor after that, arms tangled, faces buried in one another’s necks, the TV long forgotten.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.
