Too many fandoms

Once upon a time, on an island in New York where the buildings stood uncomfortably close together, there was a neighborhood filled with peculiar people and small, ordinary miracles. It was crowded and noisy and occasionally troublesome, but there was something comforting about it all the same.

Hell’s Kitchen had always been that way.

The butcher knew the baker. The baker knew the bartender. The bartender knew the cop who lived three floors above the florist and the florist knew exactly which nights the old woman across the street would leave her windows open. People knew which children belonged to which families, which restaurants gave an extra helping to anyone who looked hungry, and which shopkeepers would let you run a tab when the week had been unkind. They knew when someone’s marriage was failing before the couple themselves even did.

It was not a quiet neighborhood and there were always sirens somewhere in the distance. Delivery trucks rumbled down the streets before sunrise. Music drifted from open windows, arguments spilled onto fire escapes, and somewhere, at nearly any hour, someone was shouting for someone else. Still, the Kitchen had its routines.

There was Nelson’s Meats, where the morning deliveries arrived before most of the neighborhood had poured its first cup of coffee. And there was the law office above it, where three attorneys spent their days arguing over things that had very little to do with meat and rather more to do with people. There was Franklin Nelson, who loved everybody and believed everybody ought to know it. There was Karen Page, the attorney-to-be and investigator who somehow always knew when something strange was afoot. And there was Matthew Murdock, who lately preferred not to know anyone at all. Besides his two best friends of course.

He had spent years learning the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen. The bells of Clinton Church and the subway trains deep beneath the pavement. He knew the neighborhood by heart and could identify the footsteps of countless people within it, without ever being able to see their faces. Which was why, when the wind changed one autumn morning, he noticed.

It came down the street, warm and strange, carrying with it the scent of something unfamiliar and sweet. By noon, there was a moving truck parked beside Nelson’s. By evening, the windows of the empty storefront next door were covered in brown paper.

No one knew who had chosen this particular shop or where they'd appeared from. But in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone, it was only a matter of time before someone found out.

You had lived in enough places to know that every city had its own sound. Some were quiet in the mornings and only came alive after dark. Some hummed constantly, a low, distant thrum that you eventually stopped noticing. Hell’s Kitchen seemed determined to make itself heard. It was loud, but not unpleasantly so. You stood on the sidewalk with one hand on your hip, while your daughter sat on the curb beside you, watching the moving men carry the last of your boxes through the front door.

“Are we actually staying here?”

You looked down at your daughter. There was hope in the question, and that was the part that made you hesitate. You’d never been very good at making promises about staying. “That’s the plan.” She narrowed her eyes. “The real plan?”

You laughed softly. “Yes baby, the real plan.”

She seemed satisfied with that for now. You looked up at the building. The brick was old, the windows needed washing, and the storefront downstairs had been empty long enough for the glass to gather a rather disgusting layer of grime. But it was yours now, and the little apartment above it was yours, too. One narrow staircase. a tiny kitchen, and two bedrooms. If you were being optimistic, it was just enough room for the life you had promised your daughter you were going to build.

It was more than you’d had in some places, but less than you’d had in others. But the two of you had learned a long time ago not to ask more a place when you didn't know how long it intended to keep you. You simply unpacked. After all, your family had never been particularly good at staying.

The women before you had followed the wind for generations. It began with a dream. Every woman in your family began having it when she came of age. The same dream and always the same words.

Cuando cambia el viento, cambia el camino. When the wind changes, the path changes.

Your mother had dreamed it and your grandmother had dreamed it. Eventually, so had you. The meaning had never been questioned, and when the wind changed, you moved.

There was always a reason afterward. A better opportunity. A suddenly terrible landlord or a town that stopped feeling right. A marriage that ended-you were especially grateful for that escape. A business that was doomed to fail or a new beginning that seemed to be waiting somewhere else. The women in your family had always been very good at beginnings. You were less certain about endings. But now you had Estrella to consider.

You glanced toward the storefront. Her nose was pressed against the glass. “Can I see?”

“You’ve been looking at it for twenty minutes.”

“I want to see better, pleaaaase ma?"

You smiled and crossed the sidewalk to the front door. The little bell above it gave a tired jingle as you pushed it open. "Come on."

Dust, old wood, stale air, and the faintest trace of whatever business had occupied the space before you flooded your nose. You stepped inside anyway. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, catching particles of dust in the air and turning them gold. She wandered ahead of you. “This is it?” she said as she turned in a slow circle, “Where will the chocolate de mesa and the cocoa powder go? And the trufas?”

You pointed toward the long checkout counter along the right side wall. “That's where we'll display the finished chocolates." She followed your finger as you then pointed toward the little corner, where you’d already decided the copper pots would go. “There will be our prep station." Her face brightened. "And I get to help now right? You said I'm old enough."

You laughed. “Estrella.”

“What?”

“We haven’t even cleaned yet.”

She considered this. “Can we clean fast?” You looked around the empty shop. At the dusty shelves, bare counters, and mountain of boxes stacked against the walls. The old floor that would need a heavy scrubbing until your back protested. Then you looked at your daughter.

She was already imagining it, you could see it in her face. People coming in from the street. Chocolate displayed beneath glass. Warm drinks steaming in little cups. Her sitting behind the counter after school, doing her homework while you worked. A place that belonged to both of you.

Maybe that was why you smiled and spoke your next words. “Yeah,” you said, rolling up your sleeves. “We can definitely clean fast mija.”

The next three days were filled with a plethora of dust bunnies and lavender soap. And the occasional argument over where a particular box was supposed to go.

By the second morning, you had learned that the floor in the shop creaked loudly whenever you stepped on the third plank from the counter. By the third, your daughter had learned exactly which floorboards complained and delighted in demonstrating them for you.

~Creaak~

Your head whipped around and she froze. You stared at her and she smiled apologetically. “Sorry mamá." You narrowed your eyes.

~Creaaak~

“Estrella.” She just dissolved into giggles and ran. You sighed, but you were smiling too.

The shop slowly began to look less like an abandoned storefront and more like something you could actually imagine people walking into. The shelves were polished and oiled until the wood regained some of its color. The windows were washed. The counters were wiped down. Boxes disappeared one by one, their contents finding places in the various cupboards and drawers. Your copper pots found their home near the back. The tempering slab was set up beside them.

Glass display cases arrived two days later, and Estrella insisted on helping you clean every single one. You let her. She was always careful. “Do you think people will come?” she asked while cleaning the last one.

You looked up from the stack of paper bags you were sorting. “People always come for chocolate.” She giggled at that. “Do you think the neighbors like chocolate?” You smiled. “I guess we’re about to find out, I'm thinking we'll open this weekend.” She squealed at that and started wiping the glass faster, while you stood and started tearing down the brown paper covering up the windows.

That afternoon you began experimenting. You didn't need to, you knew exactly what you wanted to sell. But there was something about a new place that made you want to understand it through food. So you made chocolate.

Dark chocolate truffles with cinnamon.

Cacao nib bark.

Small bonbons filled with dulce de leche.

And eventually, chocolate de metate. You ground the grainy mixture slowly until the cacao, cinnamon, and panela became a smooth paste. You formed the discs and set them aside on a sheet to harden. With the turning leaves it was inevitable that people would want something warm to drink, like hot chocolate. The shop finally began to smell familiar and homey.

Roasted cacao.

Cinnamon.

Vanilla.

Caramel.

A little chile de árbol.

The scent slipped beneath the door and onto the sidewalk. You had a feeling it wouldn't take long for people to notice.

The first customer came early the next morning, although technically you weren't open yet.

You noticed him because he stood outside the window for nearly five minutes before finally working up the courage to open the door. The little bell above it chimed, and you looked up from where you were arranging the chocolates behind the glass.

He was an older man, perhaps in his eighties, with a neatly pressed coat and a wool cap tucked beneath one arm. He paused just inside the doorway as though he had forgotten why he’d come in. His eyes moved slowly over the shop. He gazed at the polished wooden shelves, the copper pots, the rows of chocolates nestled into their little paper cups, and then finally landed on you. “Hello,” you said warmly. “Hello.” His voice was soft.

You smiled. “Welcome in, take your time and let me know if you'd like any suggestions." That seemed to help. His shoulders loosened a little, and he stepped farther inside. “It’s lovely,” he said.

“Thank you. We’re still getting everything together and we'll be officially open tomorrow.”

“Well, it looks finished to me.”

You laughed. “That’s because you’re being very kind.” He smiled at that, though he still seemed a little nervous. You had seen that particular sort of shyness before. People sometimes felt silly walking into a confectionery shop alone, especially when they didn’t know what they wanted. There was an expectation that they ought to know something about chocolate beyond I like it or I don’t like it, and you had never understood why. Chocolate was supposed to make people happy, not make them feel like they were on trial.

“I've kind of been waiting for you to open," he admitted quietly with a chuckle. “I’ve walked past several times.”

“Ohh yes, no wonder you looked familiar.”

That made him blush. You leaned your elbows lightly against the counter. “So what can I tempt you with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He glanced toward the display. “I’m not very adventurous.”

“That’s all right, most people don't think they are either. They just don’t like admitting it.”

That earned another quiet laugh. You started pointing things out, because giving him something to focus on seemed easier than leaving him standing there feeling watched. “We have dark chocolate with sea salt, milk chocolate with caramel, cinnamon truffles, a few filled bonbons, and those are ones made with dulce de leche.” You gestured toward the neat row of little chocolates. “The ones with the gold tops are orange.”

His gaze lingered there. Only for a second. But something in you tugged gently in that direction. “Actually,” you said, reaching beneath the glass. “I highly recommend you try this one.” You selected one of the orange chocolates.

He looked surprised. “That one? Why?”

You paused, not really having an answer. You’d been doing this for years, the little hunches, and the way you sometimes reached for something before you’d consciously decided why. You had always been pretty good at reading people once you got to chatting with them. “I just have a feeling you’ll like it.”

He smiled shyly, reaching out. “All right.” You placed the chocolate in his palm. He held it carefully before taking a small bite. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he stopped and his easy smile disappeared. His expression had suddenly gone somewhere far away. You waited as he swallowed. “That’s…” He looked down at the remaining piece in his fingers. “That’s orange peel." You smiled. “It is.”

“My wife used to make an orange cake.” There was something so tender in the way he said wife that you didn’t interrupt. “Every Christmas,” he continued. “She’d make it. Never bought one because she always insisted that the ones from the bakery weren’t right. And she would put an ungodly amount of orange zest in it, but it was the perfect balance of bitterness and sweet.... just like her."

You laughed softly. “She sounds particular.”

“Oh, she was.” His smile returned, but his eyes had grown damp. You reached for a napkin and offered it without making a fuss. He accepted it with a quiet thanks.

“She passed?” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” He looked down again. “It’s been… quite a few years now.” You didn’t tell him that you were sorry again. Wouldn't give him the usual empty condolences people offered when they didn’t know what else to say. Instead, you smiled. “Would she have approved of the orange in this?" He looked at you for a long moment. “I think she would have.”

From somewhere behind you came the faint scrape of a chair. You glanced toward the back of the shop. Estrella had been sitting at one of the little tables you’d put in the corner, coloring quietly. She had been quiet for several minutes now, which should have been your first clue that she was listening. The old man noticed her too. “Oh, hello. Is that your daughter?”

“Yes! Baby this is…” You paused, realizing you hadn’t actually asked his name. He smiled. “Stan.”

“Stan,” you repeated. “And this is my daughter, Estrella.”

She smiled politely. “Hello.”

“Hello, sweetheart.”

She studied him carefully. You recognized that look. Estrella tilted her head, then she looked at the chocolate in his hand. “You’re happy.” He blinked, seemingly taken aback by her observation. You closed your eyes for half a second, about to scold her. When you opened them you saw Stan looking between the two of you. Then, to your surprise, he smiled. “I suppose I am.”

She nodded as though that settled the matter. “You were sad before.” Ay, Dios mío. You gave her a look. “Estrella.”

“But he was mamá."

The old man’s smile softened. “She’s right.” He looked toward your daughter for another moment before turning back to you. “I haven’t spoken about my wife this much in a long time, I... I try not to think about her this much." You leaned against the counter. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Remembering."

“No.” He looked down at the little orange chocolate again. “I don’t suppose it is.”

He bought a small box. Twelve orange chocolates. When you handed them over, he hesitated, glancing toward your daughter briefly with an oddly contemplative look. “Do you think you could put a few of the cinnamon ones in there too?” Estrella tilted her head. She did that sometimes when she was feeling something you couldn’t. You just smiled. "Of course.”

By the time he stepped back onto the sidewalk, he was smiling. You watched him through the window as he tucked the little box carefully beneath his arm. Estrella came to stand beside you. “He’s gonna call his daughter." You looked down at her. “Is he?”

“Yes, soon.”

You glanced back through the glass. He had stopped halfway down the block and was standing with one hand in his coat pocket, staring at the box. Then he reached for his phone. You smiled. “How did you know that?”

Estrella shrugged. “He misses her too.”

You looked at your daughter for a moment. Then back at the man standing alone on the sidewalk. You didn’t know what to say to that. Always so perceptive, your little star was. So you simply reached down and smoothed her hair.

“Come on, mi estrella. Hay mucho que hacer.” There's a lot to do.

By late morning, the shop was still not quite finished, but close enough that you could stand outside and look at it without seeing all the work that remained.

You’d put the little chalkboard sign beside the door, written the day’s selection in neat white lettering, and arranged several boxes of chocolates in the front window. A small vase of flowers sat on the counter inside, something you’d picked up from the little market down the street because the storefront had just felt too bare without them. You were still fussing with the display outside when you heard the familiar sounds of the neighborhood settling into its afternoon rhythm.

A delivery truck groaned somewhere down the block. Someone shouted from an open window. A car horn answered another from the intersection and you smiled to yourself. You liked it here already. Maybe that was dangerous. You’d learned not to become too attached to places before.

But there was something comforting about this particular stretch of Hell’s Kitchen. People passed one another without hurrying quite so much as they did in other parts of the city. A woman walking a terrier had already stopped twice that morning to admire the chocolates through the window. The man from the laundromat across the street had introduced himself. Someone at the bakery had sent over two pastries with a note welcoming you to the neighborhood. You straightened the little chalkboard and stepped back to admire your work. “There,” you murmured.

“Looks good.”

You turned. The woman with the terrier was passing again. Wow, she walks a lot. “Thank you.” You were still smiling once she'd gone when you heard footsteps approaching from behind you again. You glanced up and promptly forgot what you had been doing.

The man walking toward you was very handsome.

That was your first thought. Your second was that he looked like he was in a terribly foul mood. He was dressed in a dark suit, his hair neatly combed, a leather briefcase in one hand, and a cane in the other. He moved with an almost irritating sort of confidence that suggested he knew exactly where he was going despite never looking in your direction. Or any direction for that matter, if the dark glasses were any indication. There was something almost severe about him. You stepped slightly aside to give him room. Then, because you were you, you smiled. “Good morning.”

He slowed. Barely. His head turned toward you, just enough that you realized he had heard you, though his expression didn’t change. Up close, you could see more of him. The sharp line of his jaw beneath the short stubble, the bruising on his cheekbone-geez, that looked really bad-and the little crease between his brows that suggested he had been frowning long before he’d come within ten feet of you. His red-tinted glasses hid his eyes completely, but somehow that only made his expression seem more intense.

“Morning,” he replied, the word completely flat. You smiled anyway and said, “You having a busy day?” That earned you an actual pause just past you. His head tilted a fraction over his shoulder toward you. “Something like that.” He didn’t elaborate. You weren’t sure why you had expected him to. “Well,” you said, still trying to be pleasant, “I hope it gets better-”

His mouth tightened. “I’m late.” And then he kept walking. You stood there blinking.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Didn’t offer so much as a sorry for brushing you off. The only acknowledgment you got was the steady tap of his cane against the pavement as he continued down the sidewalk, completely unaffected by the fact that he’d just managed to make you regret possessing basic social skills.

You watched him with a baffled smile cross the few feet between your shop and the one next door. And then he walked directly inside. You frowned and looked at the butcher shop's sign above. Nelson's Meats. “Okay” you scoffed, turning back toward your flowers. “Vete a comprar tu carne, cabrón.” Go buy your meat, asshole.

You picked up the little vase you’d been fussing with and moved it half an inch to the left. Then another half inch to the right, frowning at it. You were still thinking about him, which annoyed you more than the interaction itself. There was no reason for it. He was attractive, yes. But handsome men weren't exempt from being dicks. You had learned that one the hard way, your parting gift from that experience coming in the form of your beautiful daughter.

There was something about the way he’d spoken to you that had rubbed you particularly wrong. Not just because he had been in a hurry, you understood being in a hurry. It was the tone. That clipped interruption, as though the fact that he had somewhere to be meant the rest of the world had ceased to exist. You shook your head. Whatever. You were not going to waste another thought on a rude man who apparently bought his cuts of meat in the middle of the day, dressed in his Sunday Best.

You were shaken out of your thoughts as a customer wandered past the window and approached the open door. You smiled automatically. “Good morning!” They replied with a warm "Hello!"

Much better. You were going to like the people of Hell’s Kitchen. Just perhaps not that one.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant blur. By the time the sun had begun to sink lower between the buildings, you had sold more chocolate than you’d expected to sell before your official opening. Not enough to empty the cases, thankfully, but enough that you were beginning to think perhaps you’d been worrying for nothing.

People had come in curious. Some had asked what made your chocolate different. Others had simply said that it all looked good and trusted you to tell them what to get. You liked those customers best. There was something lovely about watching someone take that first bite and waiting to see how their expression changed.

You smiled at the thought as you began straightening the display cases. There was something satisfying about seeing little gaps where chocolates had been. Proof that people had come in. Proof that they'd liked something enough to take it home

Estrella had spent most of the afternoon coloring at the little table in the corner. Every so often, she’d come behind the counter to help you put chocolates into little boxes, taking the job very seriously.

By early evening, you were beginning to think about closing. The last of the day’s sunlight stretched across the floorboards in long golden stripes. You were wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimed.

You looked up as a man walked in first. He was broad shouldered, and dressed in a suit that looked as though it had seen considerably more use than it deserved. His tie was undone and slightly crooked, his sandy blonde hair a little mussed, and he had the sort of face that immediately put you at ease. A woman followed him. She was blonde, elegant without looking like she was trying to be, and had a quiet sort of attentiveness about her. Her eyes moved around the shop, taking in the shelves and displays before settling on you.

"Hi!" you greeted.

"Hi," the man said brightly. "Sorry. Are you still open?"

"Technically. I haven't closed up yet so you're safe."

"Excellent. Because we've been smelling chocolate all day and it's becoming a serious workplace distraction." The woman beside him laughed and you smiled. "Well, then I'm glad to be of service." He stepped closer to the counter. "We're your neighbors."

"Oh!" You looked past them toward the door. "Across the street?"

He laughed. "No, next door."

You blinked, confused, and he pointed toward the ceiling. "We're the law firm upstairs." Your eyebrows lifted. "There's a law firm upstairs?"

"Yep."

You looked toward the wall as though you might somehow see it through the plaster and brick. "I thought it was all part of the butcher shop."

"It is," he said, grinning when you stared at him with an increasingly bewildered expression. "Long story."

You laughed. "Well, I'm glad to finally meet you."

"Foggy." He offered his hand and you shook it, offering your own name. "Nice to meet you, Foggy." The woman smiled and extended her hand next. “Karen.”

“It’s lovely to meet you.”

Foggy looked around again. "We've been so stoked watching you set everything up the last few days. What do you recommend?" There was something immediately easy about them. You liked that. Foggy seemed to operate under the assumption that he’d be welcome everywhere he’d ever go, while Karen had this soft, quieter sort of confidence that made you feel as though you’d known her longer than just two minutes. You gestured toward the displays. “It depends, any preferences?”

“Chocolate.”

You laughed, still smiling as you reached for a small assortment box you’d prepared that morning. “Then I think you need to browse this.” You placed it on the counter and opened the lid. There were six chocolates inside.

A cinnamon truffle.

A salted dark chocolate bonbon.

Dulce de leche filled.

Orange zest.

A little chile infused dark chocolate.

And one milk chocolate filled with a cinnamon infused whiskey ganache.

Foggy stared at them. You pointed at the orange one. “This one is nice if you like something bright, and this one’s warmer," you said, gesturing to the cinnamon. You pointed toward the dark chocolate with chile. “That’s a little more adventurous.”

Foggy immediately reached for it, stopped when Karen caught his wrist. “No."

He looked offended. “Why not?”

“Because you have said many times that you’re a simple man, and that does not look simple.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m boring.”

You laughed again. “You can absolutely be adventurous, it's not that spicy I promise.” He gestured enthusiastically at you. “YES- thank you! I like you.” Foggy took the chile chocolate and Karen chose the liquor filled. You watched them both take their first bites. His eyebrows rose right as Karen hummed. “Oh, that’s good. This-" Foggy pointed at the chocolate, holding up the little half eaten piece “This is being stocked in the office. You’re gonna make a fortune off us.”

Karen rolled her eyes at him as you moved to put away the partially eaten assortment box. “Actually, I was making something for the neighbors nearby. I thought it might be nice.” You reached beneath the counter and brought out two boxes tied with twine. They weren’t elaborate. Just larger assortments you’d put together that morning, each containing a few of the chocolates you’d made and a card. You handed one to Foggy and then Karen accepted the second one. “This is really sweet," she said.

A small voice came from the corner. "Ma." You looked over and Estrella had abandoned her coloring. She was watching the two strangers with quiet interest. "Come say hello," you replied. She slid out of her chair and came over.

Foggy smiled. “Oh- is this your daughter?” You nodded. “Estrella.” She came closer, peeking around your side. “This is Foggy and Karen they’re our neighbors.”

Foggy crouched slightly so that he was closer to her height. “Hi, nice to meet you!” She stared, studying him. “Hi.” He smiled, his expression wavering slightly when he spoke again. “So, uh… Es-”

Her little brow furrowed. “Estrella.”

“Right. Es…tre-ya.”

She nodded. “That’s better.”

Karen covered an amused smile right as Foggy looked at you helplessly. “It’s a beautiful name. I’m just going to need a little practice.”

“Most people do," you offered consolingly.

Estrella thought about this and piped up, “You can call me Stella.” You glanced down at her. “Oh? So we like nicknames now?" She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Foggy brightened. “Stella. Perfect.” Estrella beamed back at him and, come on, you couldn’t help smiling too. There was something almost ridiculously sweet about watching your daughter decide, within thirty seconds, that someone was acceptable. Estrella had gone very still beside you and you glanced over. You knew that look.

Foggy stood to full height again. “Well, Stella, I think we’re gonna have to come back.” She nodded seriously. “Tomorrow?” Foggy looked at you. “See? She’s already bringing in the business.”

You chuckled and leaned against the counter. Foggy tucked the little box beneath his arm. “Guess we’ll see you guys tomorrow.” Karen gave you a small wave as they headed toward the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The bell chimed as they stepped outside. You watched them disappear down the sidewalk, Foggy already saying something animatedly while Karen laughed beside him. Estrella slipped her hand into yours. “You like them. Your heart was warm and happy I could feel it.” You looked down at her and huffed.

“Yeah, guess I do.”

notes: first of all, do you guys SEE these gorgeous dividers?! the biggest, fattest thank you and kiss to Elinor @peterftpercy for surprising me with them 🥹♥️

i hope you all enjoyed this chapter even tho we didn't get a whole lotta Matty in it just yet. if it isn't obvious i'm having way too much fun with this 😛 storybook vibes, food focused scenes, and Matt being an asshole. it's like a dog hearing it's favorite words. let me know what you guys think

general taglist: @sharksausages @ifyoulovemeletmebinge @alldayeverytae @patronsaintofthirst @ash-tuhn

Slumped over the opposite side of the table, your chin rested in the palm of your hand as you absently watched a droplet of condensation run down the side of your iced coffee. A wet ring had formed beneath it on the wooden table as the pair of you sat at a coffee shop on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen. You'd intentionally gone out of your way to stay outside of Matt's hearing range for these meet ups discussing Katy’s article with her, though you were actively being eaten alive with the guilt.

It felt wrong lying to Matt. You didn't like it. And not just about the story Katy was working on that you'd spent the past nearly two weeks helping her with in your downtime, but you'd also had a couple of self-defense training sessions with Karen and Frank already. Training sessions that you’d still not mentioned to him because you knew how Matt would react to learning that you were spending time with Frank Castle and having him teach you how to shoot a gun. 

Keeping the secrets hadn’t been difficult, though. Matt was rarely in the apartment lately, spending more time than usual out at the office to work. Even his usual off hours when you'd usually get to see him were now spent at Nelson, Murdock and Page if he wasn't out as Daredevil solely so that he could get away from the stench of skunk still lingering at home. Because while the scent had significantly faded for you, it hadn’t quite faded for Matt and his bloodhound nose. 

But with Matt not being around as much, it made avoiding telling him what you were doing far too easy. There was no need to hide why you came home covered in sweat and smelling like gun powder from a shooting range, because a simple shower while he was out washed away the evidence. Any residual scent lingering in the air was either masked by the skunk or you figured that he assumed it was from his own suit. Because not once had Matt suspected anything.

And not once had he inquired about all the extra time you'd been spending with Katy at The Bulletin, which only made the pit in your stomach grow into a gaping blackhole of guilt. Matt trusted you to be forthright and honest with him, to tell him if you ever found yourself chasing after a story that would put you in danger after what had happened the last time you did. Yet here you were keeping secrets from him once again, and it made you feel sick to your stomach. 

But the secrecy was only temporary, and it was just to keep him safe. You didn't plan to keep the story about an escaped prisoner from The Raft from him for too much longer, but that didn't alleviate the sinking feeling you carried around on a daily basis. 

Not that Matt noticed anything off with you. He hadn’t been around you long enough for that. 

Katy's fingers snapped twice in front of your face, and your head swiftly raised from your palm at the sound. You blinked back at her across the table as you were drawn from your thoughts, noticing the frown deepening on her lips.

“Are you overthinking on me again?” she asked. 

“Sorry,” you apologized. “Just got lost in my thoughts. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that digging through the old, physical copies of past papers isn't exactly cutting it,” Katy told you. “We don't even know what we're looking for besides some sort of big, publicized arrest. But with all the crazy shit that occurs in New York City, it's almost impossible to remember every out of the ordinary thing that’s happened here.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, trying to focus on the conversation and not your spiraling thoughts. “Especially when you work in the news and you're surrounded by it every day. It all starts to blur together.”

Katy’s eyes narrowed back at you from across the table as she raised the ceramic mug to her lips. She stared at you beneath the blunt cut of her dark bangs as she drank her coffee, the corners of her eyes creasing. You knew that look well, it was the look she always gave you when she was seeing straight through you. A unique skill of hers that was useful for journalism and frustrating when it came to your personal life.

Sighing heavily, you sat back in your chair, gaze dropping back down to the ice melting in your coffee. “I just feel guilty,” you confessed. “It doesn’t feel right not telling him what we're doing. Especially not with who he is.”

“You’re thinking about Matt again, aren’t you?” she pressed, lowering her cup to the table. “At some point during these meetups, you always get this broody, distant look on your face. You look like someone forced the bacteria-ridden tap water from Josie’s down your throat.”

“Look, I get it,” Katy soothed. “But you're only doing it so that he doesn't go running out into the streets at night and just jump headfirst into danger. Especially when it’s danger that we still know nothing about.” 

“I know,” you mumbled.

Katy leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table as she lowered her voice. This was not a conversation the rest of Black Out Coffee needed to eavesdrop on.

“What if the person we're looking for can raise the dead or control lightning?” Katy speculated. “Or shoot fireballs from their hands? Or, I don't fucking know, turn random objects into crazy explosives? Wouldn't you rather hand this over to Matt with something more for him to go on than the fact that they're enhanced? For all we know, this escaped prisoner could be Avenger-level scary. You want Matt running into that without–”

“I know,” you repeated more firmly. Eyes raising from the iced coffee in front of you, you met her stare. “I get it, Katy. That's why I haven't said anything. I'm scared for Matt. I'd rather risk his anger and ask for forgiveness later than have him just gone because something awful happened to him. But that doesn't mean I don't feel incredibly shitty hiding this from him.” 

A frown settled onto your face as you ran your index finger along the condensation of your cup, the pad of your fingertip growing damp. It was only months ago that you'd made that pinky promise with Matt about using your words and communicating with each other, and now here you were breaking it shortly after he finally proposed to you. 

“That's not what we're supposed to do,” you mumbled.

“You two are disgustingly perfect for each other,” Katy said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “He'll get over it. You both already had your big breakup, there's no way he'd be stupid enough to end things a second time.”

Looking up from your coffee, you shot Katy a flat look. While you admired how much faith she had in yours and Matt's relationship, you didn't fully believe it had already been fully tested to its limits, especially considering that Matt was Daredevil. His life was wrought with danger, and navigating it together as a couple wouldn't always be easy. Especially since there was no instruction manual on how to date a masked vigilante.

Bringing your coffee to your lips, you sipped the cold liquid through the straw as you glanced around the coffee shop. It was late afternoon now, and the sun shone through all the large windows lining the shop as it started inching towards the skyline. But as you absentmindedly looked around, you found yourself doing a double take back towards a man standing near the counter. He looked out of place in the shop with how well-dressed he was for a Saturday afternoon, wearing what looked like a designer suit in an uncommon color that you didn't see often–dark purple. 

A crease formed between your brows as you sat there staring at him, something strange scratching in the back of your mind as if you recognized him from somewhere. You watched as he spoke to the barista behind the counter making his drink, trying to place why he'd caught your attention.

“What?” Katy asked. She turned her head over her shoulder, her eyes openly following where your attention had gone. “You're looking at purple man?”

“Yeah,” you answered.

“Why?” she asked curiously. “Do you know him?”

You shook your head lightly, brows creasing together as you continued studying the man at the counter. Something about him just seemed off. Everyone near him was smiling, but considering the late rush at the coffee shop now that it was so late in the afternoon, the broad smiles on their faces looked out of place. They hadn't been smiling that wide when you and Katy had ordered.

“No,” you said, “but something about him seems familiar, right?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Katy tip her head to the side as she observed the man. He grabbed his coffee from the young woman behind the counter before turning around, and that odd feeling grew even stronger as you saw his entire face. But his eyes met yours from across the shop and he hesitated, catching both you and Katy openly staring at him. 

“Shit,” Katy whispered, ducking her head away. “That's not awkward.”

A chill crept up your spine as he stood there staring back at you, your hand tightening around your coffee cup. Before you could break the uncomfortable eye contact, the man in the purple suit began making his way towards your table near the window. 

“And now he's coming over,” you whispered, finally tearing your attention from him. “Maybe it's nothing, but I just have this weird feeling like he looks familiar. I just can't place why–”

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

You stiffened at the cheerful, accented voice. The sound of it seeped into your skin, sparking an unexplainable fear that you couldn't quite pinpoint as it squeezed itself into your veins. Something felt inexplicably off as you hesitantly glanced up at him now standing beside the table, his coffee in one hand and his attention fixed on you.

“You know they say it's rude to stare,” he stated, undeterred by the looks on yours' and Katie's faces. “So go on. Introduce yourselves.”

Your name fell out of your mouth as if it was dragged out by a magnetic pull at the same time Katy gave him hers. Eyes shifting towards her, you caught Katy giving you the same confused look from the opposite side of the table. What the hell had that just been, you hadn’t–

“Eyes on me.”

His voice cut through your thoughts, and your eyes abruptly snapped back towards him. His smile widened, but something sinister lurked beneath it, causing the hair on the back of your neck to bristle.

“Now why don't you tell me what caught your attention and had you so rudely gawking at me?” he demanded. 

“You looked familiar,” you answered automatically. 

One of his dark brows lifted at the comment, his eyes narrowing suspiciously down at you. You wanted to look at Katy, to gauge how she felt about this odd encounter, but for some reason you couldn't seem to look away from him. 

“So you know who I am?” he pressed.

“No.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly content with that answer. “And who would you happen to be? What do you both do?”

“We're journalists,” you replied, the answer falling off your tongue “For The Bulletin.”

His smile spread even wider in delight as a gleeful noise slipped out of him, and that only made you grow increasingly uneasy. Yet for some reason, you still couldn't look away from him. You tried to turn your head, desperate to know if Katy seemed to be experiencing whatever you were, but you simply couldn’t control the muscles of your neck. Your head remained fixed straight forward, your eyes focused on the man in the dark purple suit.

“Lovely!” he exclaimed, beaming down at the both of you. “I've heard that Devil git prefers The Bulletin. Good to know I've made some friends there now myself, hmm?”

You swallowed hard, eyes still stuck to him. You had no idea what he meant by making friends because this entire interaction was making your skin crawl and you definitely never wanted to see him again. But the mention of the Devil had your mind instantly conjuring up Matt's smiling face, and your heart thundered in your chest. Was he talking about Daredevil? Because it was well-known that Daredevil often gave story leaks specifically to The Bulletin in order to out criminals. Mostly because Matt favored you. 

“But unfortunately I need to cut our introductions short. I have other issues to deal with this evening. Shame, really. I imagine this could’ve been much more fun if I’d had more time,” he mused to himself. “Obviously you’ll both need to forget about this meeting when I leave,” he continued. “But before I do, I have to say that those frowns on your faces are rather upsetting. You both should smile more, be more excited. Today is a very good day after all, don’t you think?”

The second his accented voice mentioned smiling, your mouth moved on its own, sweeping up into a bright smile that made your cheeks ache. Across the table, you heard Katy abruptly agree with him about what a good day it was, and for some reason that you couldn't understand, you felt compelled to agree with her. 

The man in the purple suit turned and left your table, heading for the exit of the coffee shop as he took a drink of his coffee. Whatever had been holding your head in place seemed to release it, and you finally switched your attention over towards Katy. But just as you’d opened your mouth to say something, you completely forgot what you’d been about to say. The thought abruptly slipped from your mind as if it'd never been there.

Blinking at Katy a handful of times, your smile continued to stretch wide across your lips. Slightly confused about what you’d been about to tell her, you shook your head and picked up your coffee, raising the straw to your lips and taking a drink. Almost simultaneously you were struck with a sudden burst of excitement, not really in the mood to sit and discuss the story you'd both been chasing after for weeks.

“Let's not worry about the massive backlog of newspapers anymore today,” you told Katy. “It'll be fine. We'll figure it out. Besides, it's too nice of a day to complain about the out of date way Ellison stores them. We should go do something else that’s actually fun. Like shopping!” You instantly perked up in your seat as the idea burst out of you. “Do you want to go shopping instead?"

“Ugh, yes!” Katy eagerly agreed, pushing her chair back and standing up. “We should go find some cute outfits, I have a date coming up anyway. Seems too nice of a day to just sit here, right?”

Matt pushed open the rooftop access door, his tired feet dragging his battered body inside the apartment. After he'd gotten sprayed by that skunk a couple of weeks ago, he hadn't managed to successfully wash the scent out of the material of his old suit enough for it to not constantly interfere with his senses, which meant he'd been forced to toss it. He’d returned to wearing his “original” suit that provided absolutely no protection while he waited for a new suit to be finished as yet another favor. 

His nose instantly burned as he stepped inside, the repulsive scent of skunk once again slipping into his nose as his own guilt steadily uncoiled in his gut. He’d barely been here all week. The last time he’d had much of a conversation with you was days ago because he was always running in to grab his Daredevil suit after work before disappearing again. Or he was peeling it off of himself before taking a shower and climbing into bed with you, burying his face against your neck in an attempt to block out the smell so that he could get a few hours of sleep.

You hadn’t commented on his constant disappearances, but Matt knew that you were upset with him. He’d been vanishing on you frequently, leaving you alone more often than not. Of course he knew that you’d never actually say anything about his absence because you were always so understanding when it came to him, which only made him feel worse. You knew that the smell in the apartment burned the inside of his nose and gave him excruciating headaches just from sleeping here at night, and you were far too selfless to ever complain or demand that he stayed home knowing that. But Matt was well aware that it bothered you that he was never around even if you didn’t say it.

You’d been quieter than usual over the past couple of weeks. Your mood seemed off, as if that awkward brightness he loved so much had suddenly dimmed. He knew that it was solely his doing, and he’d been internally berating himself over it for the past few days, telling himself that he needed to make more time for you. Which was what he planned to do tonight, and it was why he’d come home a bit earlier from patrolling the city. He wanted to be more present, even if it meant enduring the rancid scent of skunk and the negative effects it’d leave him with. You at least deserved to be with someone who didn’t constantly leave you to yourself.

As he began descending the stairs to the living room, one hand removing the black mask from his sweaty head, his senses located you in the kitchen putting away clean dishes from the dishwasher. Matt made it only halfway down the stairs before he heard your high pitched voice squeal out an unexpected “Matty!” excitedly from across the room. Matt’s foot hesitated briefly on the next step, his head tipping slightly to the side as his dark brows pinched together. Seconds later, he caught the sound of your bare feet lightheartedly skipping across the apartment towards him.

That was…new.

“You’re home early!” you cheerfully trilled.

When he descended the last step, you didn't wait to check for injuries before flinging yourself forward at him. Encircling your arms around his neck, you latched onto him and abruptly planted three kisses to his cheek in quick succession. Matt’s hands hovered in the air at his sides in confusion, not entirely certain what was going on. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been happy to see him in the past when he came home, but he’d never experienced you quite so exuberant at his arrival before. And certainly not lately.

“I–yeah,” he replied. Recovering from the shock at your significantly altered mood, his arms finally wrapped around your waist, pulling you towards his chest for a hug. “I’m aware that I haven’t been around as much lately after the skunk incident, and I've been feeling guilty about it,” he admitted against the top of your head. “I missed you, sweetheart. Thought I'd come home earlier so we could actually spend some time together.”

“I missed you too, Matty,” you told him. “Which reminds me!”

You swiftly disentangled yourself from his embrace before quite literally hopping backwards two steps on your bare feet, the smile on your face apparent in your own voice. Though as Matt listened a little closer, he caught something peculiar about just how wide your smile actually sounded to his ears. The muscles of your face were strained, making a noise like that of sandpaper scratching against itself. Which meant you’d been doing a lot of smiling today, something Matt could only assume was an abnormal amount to cause that level of strain. He’d certainly never heard that from someone in all his years with his heightened senses. 

“I made you another batch of trail mix!” you excitedly relayed. “Or, well, like five batches, really. I know how much you’ve been going nonstop lately between work and Deviling. I figured it’d be a great way to make sure you’re keeping your body from depleting its energy levels. Can’t have the Devil going out on an empty stomach!”

The crease between Matt’s brows deepened further, his eyes fixing somewhere around your chest. Your heart rate was a little more elevated than usual, and your nervous system was in high gear, but not from anxiety. He could smell higher amounts of dopamine coming off of you, and Matt could guess that you had raised levels of serotonin and oxytocin in your bloodstream. Your body was reacting almost as similarly as it had done the night he’d proposed and you’d said yes, but why? What could have possibly occurred to make you quite this excited today?

“Sweetheart, did something happen today?” he asked hesitantly. “You seem…in a rather good mood tonight.”

You shrugged your shoulders, the smile still firmly planted on your lips despite how tired the rest of your body sounded. Something about it felt off to Matt, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The entirety of your body sounded like it usually did at the end of the day–tired and ready for sleep–yet you also seemed equally and uncharacteristically lively.

“Nope!” you chirped. “It’s just a very good day today, don’t you think, Matty?”

His senses snapped fully and completely onto your body, trying to search for a cause as to why you sounded so unlike yourself tonight. His gut was telling him something wasn't right, but he couldn’t seem to pinpoint anything being the cause of the strange juxtaposition occurring inside of you. You didn't sound sick or injured, and there weren't any signs leading him to think that Katy had gotten you high or that someone had unexpectedly drugged you with something. There was absolutely nothing noticeably wrong with you even if he could feel it. Maybe you really were just having an oddly good day? Still holding the mask in his left hand, Matt heard the air shift as you gestured a hand towards the bathroom down the short hallway. 

“Mhmm,” you hummed out, energetically nodding your head. “I’m perfectly fine. Great, actually.”

“Why don’t you go get showered and changed?” you suggested before tossing a thumb over your shoulder at the kitchen. “I can make you something for dinner, and then afterwards we can do whatever you want. Oh!” You exclaimed loudly, another burst of adrenaline shooting through you. “Do you want to go to that park nearby? It’s still open for a few more hours, and then we can get out of the house and away from the smell of skunk. We could go for a walk and you can–”

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Matt said, cutting you off as he raised a gloved hand to your shoulder. “You sound as if you’ve had fifteen coffees tonight, yet your body doesn’t seem to be matching up. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah?” he cautiously questioned.

You shrugged easily once more, the smile still drawn tight across your lips. “Yeah,” you agreed. “Today just feels like a very good day, don’t you think, Matty?”

Matt’s eyes narrowed back at you, catching the odd way you repeated yourself. It had that uncomfortable sensation in his gut screaming at him, something itching inside of him telling him that you weren’t acting like yourself. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find a reason for your unusualness this evening. 

With an abrupt shake of his head, he shifted his senses more outwards again, no longer focusing so intensely on just you. Maybe you really were just that excited to see him again with how he'd been neglecting you lately, and that thought had guilt and regret steadily filling him as he turned and headed towards the bathroom for a shower. He really had been a horrible fiancé lately, and he figured he’d try to make it up to you tonight. He wouldn't let himself destroy your good mood with his endless remorse.

When you got home from the studio, the penthouse was even tidier than usual. And quiet. You noticed it before you’d even slipped your shoes off.

The lights had been dimmed low, leaving the apartment washed in warm amber instead of its usual brightness. Somewhere deeper inside, soft soul music drifted from the turntable. One of your favorite vanilla candles was already burning, the familiar scent wafted gently into the entryway.

You frowned. “…Matt?”

No answer. God, he'd been acting so strange lately. Smiling to himself for no apparent reason. Randomly buying you artisan chocolate because he “felt like it.” Staring at you in his own way over breakfast this morning. Head tilted, with that soft, completely besotted expression until you finally asked if he could sense something on your face.

You rounded the corner toward the bedroom and stopped. Hanging carefully from the wardrobe door was a garment bag. Your heartbeat immediately stumbled. “Matty?”

Still nothing.

A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. He's being dramatic again. You stepped into the bedroom, reaching out to unzip the black bag. You froze completely when you peeked inside. “Oh my God.”

The dress hung against the wardrobe in rich plum silk, the color somewhere between a dark wine and crushed berries. It caught the afternoon light softly as though the fabric had been poured instead of sewn. Pure liquid. Luxurious without being heavy.

Soft draping fabric. Open shoulders. A flowing skirt that brushed just below your knees. Elegant enough that your stomach immediately flipped. Carefully arranged beneath it sat a pair of heels. And pinned to the garment bag itself was a folded note. Your heart sped up instantly and you picked it up with careful fingers.

Wear this for me tonight. And your hair like you did at dinner last week.

I'll be home at 8.

I love you.

— M

You stared at it for a long moment. Then smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “Hairstyle request?” you muttered to the empty room. “The audacity.” A tiny chirp interrupted you from the bed and you turned before inhaling sharply.

Dilly sat proudly in the middle of the comforter wearing a perfectly tied plum ribbon around her neck. The exact same shade as the dress. Your eyes probably looked like saucers. “No.” The kitten blinked at you. Entirely innocent. You crossed the room immediately, scooping her into your arms. “Did dad make you fancy too?”

Dilly answered with an enthusiastic purr. “I know,” you said, scratching beneath her chin. “I think he's sweet too.”

The soft chime of the elevator echoed through the penthouse and your stomach fluttered immediately. You smoothed your hands once down the sides of the silk dress before making your way toward the entryway.

The elevator doors at the end of the long private hallway slid open and Matt stepped inside. Dark suit, white shirt, and the tie you’d bought him for Christmas. He was sporting a much shorter beard than you remember him having this morning, very obviously groomed at some point today. Your mouth curved automatically. His surprisingly didn’t, not immediately. He stopped just inside the apartment, completely still.

“Matt?” A slow breath left him and you blinked. He crossed the apartment without another word. One hand settled carefully at your waist and the other brushed lightly over your shoulder, before his fingertips skimmed the silk of your dress. Like he was making sure you were really standing there.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

“Mhm.”

“You look like you’re thinking very hard.”

“I am.”

“About?”

His thumb drifted once across the fabric at your waist. “You.” Your heart gave one traitorous little squeeze. “That’s very smooth.”

“I’ve had some practice.”

You smiled. “So, how do I... feel?”

Matt let out the softest laugh. “You already know.”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

His hands settled a little more securely around your waist. “You feel beautiful.” The simplicity of it, even if coaxed out of him, somehow made your cheeks warm more than any elaborate compliment could have. You reached up automatically, smoothing the lapel of his jacket. “You clean up pretty well yourself." You studied him for another second. “…You trimmed your beard.” You smiled, reaching up to brush your thumb lightly across the silver threaded through his jaw. “I like it.”

His breath caught almost imperceptibly. Then he leaned down and kissed you. One hand still resting against your waist while the other settled gently beneath your jaw. There was nothing hurried about it. Nothing desperate. Just warmth.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close enough that your foreheads almost touched. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. You watched curiously. “What’s that?”

Instead of answering, he unfolded a length of familiar black silk. Your eyes widened immediately and the corner of his mouth lifted. “I thought you might recognize it.”

“You cannot possibly be serious.” You stared at the fabric and then back at him. “The last time you blindfolded me, you shut down the Met.”

“I did.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “I cannot believe we’re doing this again.”

He stepped closer. “So?” You looked from the blindfold back to him. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Just waiting patiently, the same way he had last year, on the sidewalk outside your former apartment. “Trust me?”

Your answer came without hesitation. “Always.” For the briefest moment, something in his expression softened so completely it almost stole your breath. He lifted the silk carefully. “Hey- I spent way too long on my hair, just like you asked," you warned him.

“I know.”

“So if you ruin it…”

He laughed quietly, then tied the blindfold gently behind your head. Darkness settled around you and immediately, the rest of the world disappeared. There was only Matt’s hand in yours. The familiar cedar scent of his cologne. The warmth of him standing impossibly close.

Your other hand found the front of his suit jacket instinctively, clutching it briefly. His fingers laced more securely through yours. “Ready?” You smiled into the darkness. “Mhm, yeah.” He squeezed your hand once, then led you toward the elevator.

He guided you carefully from the apartment, never letting go of your hand. The elevator hummed quietly beneath your feet. A few moments later, warm summer air brushed across your skin and the familiar sounds of Manhattan wrapped around you immediately. Traffic somewhere nearby. A distant siren. Laughter drifting from a restaurant patio. The muted thud of bass from a passing car. Someone walking a dog.

Everything sounded wonderfully, comfortingly alive.

Matt’s hand remained steady around yours as he opened the town car door. “Careful.” You ducked inside obediently. “This is very mysterious.”

He laughed quietly as the door shut behind you both Those first few minutes passed in comfortable silence. You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder, still blindfolded, listening to the rhythm of the city slipping past outside. Eventually curiosity won. “So… restaurant?”

“No.”

“Hm.” You thought for another second. “Broadway?”

“No.”

“A boat?”

Matt sounded genuinely offended. “Absolutely not.” You smiled. “You answered that awfully fast.”

“I’ve made my feelings about boats very clear, you know you'll never catch me voluntarily boarding one. Heightened senses and seasickness do not go together."

You laughed softly and decided to give up, he obviously wasn't going to tell you anything more. The car continued through the city for several more minutes before gradually slowing to a stop. Matt climbed out first before offering you his hand again. “Step down.” You carefully found the pavement beneath your heels. “Where are we?”

“You’ll see.” He began leading you forward again. Slowly. The sounds around you shifted with every step. Concrete beneath your heels became smooth stone and the noise of the city faded behind you once a door was opened for you. A gentle rush of warmer air brushed across your face and immediately felt different. The air. It wasn’t cooler. If anything it was warmer. Almost humid. Your brows knit together. “...Why does it feel tropical?”

He only squeezed your hand. The air also smelled different now. Green. Fresh. Earth after rain. Something floral. Just... alive. You inhaled again. "Flowers?”

“Mhm.”

Your heart skipped. Somewhere nearby water trickled softly. Not a fountain exactly. More like a gentle little stream. The sound echoed gently around the space, telling you the room had to be enormous. Your pace slowed instinctively. His thumb brushed once across the back of your hand. Birds. You could hear birds. Not city pigeons. Little chirps high overhead and leaves rustling somewhere above you. Above?

Your pulse began climbing. “Are we-”

“No questions.”

You smiled despite your impatient huff. He guided you another dozen steps before stopping completely. It was so peacefully quiet, the kind that existed in places built for people to simply exist. You became suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. Fast enough that you could hear the blood rushing in your ears.

Matt lifted both hands carefully toward the knot at the back of your head. His fingertips brushed lightly through your hair as he loosened the silk. His voice, when he finally spoke, was almost a whisper. “Okay, sweetheart.” A tiny pause. “You can look.”

The blindfold slipped away. Light flooded back all at once and you blinked a few times. Then you forgot how to breathe. “Oh…” Your eyes lifted instinctively. Glass. An enormous vaulted ceiling of glass stretched impossibly high overhead, catching the last golden light of evening while the glow of the moon began to appear beyond it. Everywhere beneath it, orchids. Thousands of them.

White orchids cascading from towering branches. Deep magenta blooms climbing elegant arches. Soft pink petals spilling from enormous arrangements. Delicate sprays of lavender flowers suspended like little clouds above winding stone paths. The entire conservatory glowed beneath hidden golden lights, every bloom illuminated so gently it looked almost painted.

Warm air wrapped around your bare shoulders. Water trickled quietly through a pool nearby. Somewhere farther inside, music drifted so softly you almost thought the room itself was just humming. It didn’t feel like New York anymore. It felt dreamlike, someone had folded summer into a building.

Your eyes wandered farther. And finally landed on the candlelit table waiting beneath an archway of orchids. You covered your mouth without thinking. “Matt.”

He was facing you when you turned. Waiting, almost holding his breath. You turned slowly in a circle, trying to take everything in at once. “This…” You laughed once in complete disbelief. “This can’t be real.” Your eyes found him again. “How did you even do this?”

Matt only smiled, one shoulder lifting in an almost sheepish shrug. You laughed, breathless, still turning slowly beneath the orchids. “Orchids are my favorite." He tilted his head and his smile softened. Matt’s answer came so naturally. “I know.”

Your smile faltered. Just for a second and warmth trickled through your chest. You reached for his hand without thinking. “Well,” You squeezed it once, "thank you.”

Matt’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He gestured toward the table waiting beneath the orchids. “Come on.”

Candles flickered between you, their reflections dancing across crystal glasses while soft jazz drifted lazily through the large conservatory.

The food arrived one course at a time. Fresh peaches. Honey whipped ricotta. Warm bread that Matt insisted on buttering for you. Handmade pasta that was bright with lemon and herbs. Everything tasted like summer. Everything smelled incredible and mixed with the scent of the flowers. You kept catching yourself looking around just to convince yourself it was real. “This is ridiculous.” Matt smiled over the rim of his wineglass. “You rented a botanical garden.”

“I rented one room.”

“Oh, excuse me.” You gestured broadly around you. “He only rented one room in the botanical garden.”

He chuckled, and conversation came easily. You told him about the studio earlier, and how your newest employee accidentally burnt an entire batch of lavender and gave Luis a heart attack.

Matt laughed. Asked questions and really listened. Every word out of your mouth still seemed endlessly interesting to him. Every now and then his hand found yours across the table. Sometimes your wrist. Sometimes your fingertips. Sometimes your knee beneath the linen tablecloth. You finally smiled. “You’re touchy tonight.”

“Hm?”

“You’ve held my hand through... like seventy two percent of dinner.”

"That's an oddly specific number." A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “But yeah I suppose I have.”

By the time dessert arrived, the candles had burned almost halfway down. You’d spent more time talking than eating. The orchids around you glowed beneath hidden lights, filling the conservatory with shades of ivory, blush, and deep violet. You rested your chin lightly against your hand. “I think this might be the prettiest place you’ve ever taken me.”

Matt smiled. “I hoped you’d like it.”

“I love it.”

His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. You reached across the table, slipping your fingers around his. “Thank you.” His thumb immediately stroked across the back of your hand.

“You never have to thank me for loving you.”

His words settled quietly between you and your chest tightened. “…That’s a very unfair thing to say to me in a room full of flowers. You’re making it very difficult not to kiss you across this table.”

“I can think of worse problems.”

You giggled, and a brief silence settled comfortably between you. Matt traced slow circles against your skin. Then, so quietly you almost wondered if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, “I love you... so much.”

Everything inside you softened, the words sounded almost involuntary. You smiled. “I love you too... you’re emotional tonight.” A quiet laugh escaped him and you added, “You gonna tell me why?”

Something shifted in his expression. His mouth opened. Closed again. Then he smiled, that small, warm smile that always made your chest ache. “…I’m just really happy.” You searched his face for another second, and you smiled back. “Well," you lifted your wineglass, "to really happy.”

Matt picked up his own. The crystal chimed softly between you. “To really happy.”

You took another sip of wine, smiling over the rim of the glass. The conservatory had grown quieter as late evening settled outside, the last traces of sunset long faded beyond the glass ceiling. Matt set his glass down first. He looked at you for a long moment. “Walk with me?”

You smiled immediately. “Yeah, course.”

He stood first, rounding the table before offering you his hand. You slipped your fingers into his automatically, letting him help you to your feet. He lingered for just a bit longer than necessary before he started leading you away from the candlelit table. The farther you wandered from dinner, the quieter everything became.

First you heard the faint clink of the dishes being cleared. Then the soft jazz faded behind you. Soon there was only the gentle trickle of water weaving through the conservatory and the quiet click of your heels against the winding stone path.

You found yourself slowing without even realizing it. “…This place is unbelievable.” You looked around again, still incapable of taking it all in. “You’ve completely ruined normal dates for the rest of my life.”

Matt chuckled beside you. “I was afraid of that.”

“No, seriously.” You laughed, looking over at him. “How am I supposed to enjoy dinner at some little Italian place after this?”

“I have faith in you.”

“I don’t."

His smile widened. and your shoulder bumped gently against his as the path curved around another enormous bed of orchids.

The farther you walked, the more the conservatory changed. Near the dining area everything had felt elegant and intentional. Now it felt almost wild. Long flowering vines spilled from towering branches overhead, white blossoms cascading toward the stone pathways while broad green leaves caught the moonlight filtering through the glass ceiling.

You stopped beside a cluster of orchids almost as tall as you were. “Oh…” Matt stopped beside you. “They’re beautiful.” You reached out carefully, brushing one fingertip along a smooth green leaf without disturbing the flowers. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“No?”

You shook your head. “I’ve seen orchids in planters. But not… this.” Your eyes wandered upward again and you smiled “I think I could stay here for hours.”

“I know... You’ve always liked quiet places.”

That made your chest warm. “I have, haven’t I?” You slipped your hand back into his. “I think… I think I forgot what quiet felt like.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You laughed softly. “It just feels like," you gestured vaguely around the conservatory, “everything’s been so busy lately. I don’t think we've stopped moving in months. And then you did this… It’s like somebody pressed pause.”

Matt didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter. "We both needed that.” You smiled. “We did.”

For a little while neither of you said anything. You simply walked. Hand in hand listening to the water, breathing in warm air scented with earth and flowers. The path curved gently around a long reflecting pool, its surface so still it mirrored the orchids hanging overhead almost perfectly.

You slowed without thinking, eyes welling up a little. “Matt.”

He smiled beside you. “I was wondering how long it would take.” You laughed softly, turning another slow circle beneath the flowers. “It’s…” You shook your head. “I don’t even have words.” Matt tipped his face upward, taking a slow breath through his nose.

“They're blooming all at once I can smell it,” he murmured. “The water and fresh soil.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And now you smell a little like the flowers too.” Warmth bloomed in your chest. “I think I love the way you see things.”

For just a second, he looked almost caught off guard. A faint flush climbed into his cheeks before he ducked his head with a quiet laugh.

Your hand remained tucked comfortably in his while you wandered slowly beside the water, stopping every few feet whenever another arrangement caught your attention. Eventually Matt cleared his throat. “Do you…” He stopped, and you glanced over at him.

“Hm?”

His thumb brushed once across the back of your hand. “Do you remember… what you said about the painting at the Met?” Your smile came immediately. “The Monet?”

“Mhm.”

You laughed softly. "Yes. Of course I remember.”

How could you ever forget? The quiet galleries. The way he’d somehow shut down an entire museum to let the two of you wander through it alone. The Monet lilies. Matt spoke again beside you. “You said something.” His voice faded again and you waited. “When we were standing in front of the water lilies.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You smiled sheepishly. “I talked your ear off. I remember telling you why I loved it.”

“You said…” He searched for the words. “You said it felt…” His sentence drifted away again. You watched him fondly for a moment before rescuing him. “Peaceful?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. And private.”

Another nod. “Like the rest of the world couldn’t quite reach it," you recalled. Your gaze drifted back toward the water. “I still think that’s true.” The reflection of the orchids barely rippled beneath the glass ceiling. “It feels like…” you searched for the feeling all over again, “like whoever painted it had found one tiny place where nothing bad could follow them.”

You smiled to yourself. “I think that’s when I realized I was in trouble.” Matt turned his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

You laughed under your breath. “I remember standing there thinking…” You shook your head at yourself. “Don’t do it.” A smile slowly spread across his face as you spoke. "Don’t fall in love with him." His expression softened so completely it made your chest ache. “And then I did anyway. Pretty spectacularly, actually.”

Matt let out a quiet breath through his nose, looking down at your joined hands. Then he spoke again. “When you said that painting felt…” His voice trailed off and he frowned ever so slightly. “…I thought…” Another pause. Then, after what felt like forever, he smiled again and gave the smallest shake of his head. “I-I don’t know, I forgot what I was going to say I'm sorry."

You looked up at him, amused. “You keep losing your train of thought tonight. That’s unlike you.”

“I know.”

A tiny giggle escaped you and you grinned, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Well, whatever it was…” You shrugged lightly. “It’ll come back to you.”

Matt smiled at that. “I hope so.” You smiled, giving his hand one last squeeze before turning your attention back toward the winding path ahead. “Come on,” you said lightly. “I want to see the rest of-”

You only made it a single step before your hand caught gently. You looked back over your shoulder to find that Matt hadn’t moved. He was still standing beside the reflecting pool, your fingers linked between you. “…Matt?”

He looked almost thoughtful and somewhere far away. You took a small step back toward him. “What is it?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His thumb brushed absently across your knuckles. “I had…” He let out the smallest breath. “I had something I wanted to say.”

You smiled. "Yes, I know. Did you remember?”

He laughed quietly at himself. “I’ve been trying to say it for about an hour.” That made you giggle. What is going on with him? You smiled, still holding his hand. “Well…” you tilted your head, studying him. “I’m officially curious now.”

“So am I.”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

Matt looked down with another quiet exhale, his thumb still moving absently across the back of your hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous.” He let out a slow breath. “I’ve been repeating what I wanted to say to myself all day.” You felt a tiny, inexplicable flutter low in your stomach. He laughed quietly under his breath, though there wasn’t much amusement in it. “And every time I hear your voice I forget everything."

Your pulse was loud enough you could hear it. Matt took one slow breath and closed his eyes for the briefest second. When they opened again he smiled, his bottom lip wobbling minutely. He let your hand slip from his, then took one careful step backward and reached slowly inside his suit jacket.

Your breath caught. No. Your heart slammed so hard it almost hurt. No, there was no way.

He turned his head up to face you again. The smallest shake of his head like he was laughing at himself. “I can’t remember a single word.” Your vision blurred instantly. Oh my God. Oh my God. “So…” he said softly. “I think I’m just going to tell you the truth instead.” And then he lowered himself onto one knee.

The world disappeared, everything blurring until there was only your Matthew. Looking up at you with tears already gathering in his eyes. Your own vision flooded so quickly you could barely make out his face.

His laugh came out shaky and he looked down for one brief second, collecting himself. When he looked back up again, his smile was small. Almost embarrassed.

“You were supposed to be temporary.”

The second the words left his mouth, he closed his eyes. “…Shit. I had a much better opening than that.” Your hand flew over your mouth and he shook his head at himself. “I told myself I wasn’t going to start there.” His voice caught. “But…” He looked back up at you. “…it’s true. You were supposed to be this…” he paused to release another shaky breath “...arrangement. This beautiful woman who was going to stay for a little while… and then leave.” Your tears spilled freely now.

Matt laughed once through the tears pooled in his own eyes. He looked down at the little velvet box in his hands, then back up at you. “I keep trying to find the right words.” Another quiet shake of his head. The conservatory was impossibly still, even the water seemed to hush around you.

“I don’t want temporary, I-I don't think I ever did.” His voice was quiet. Another tear slipped down his cheek. “I just…” His laugh broke again. “I want to wake up next to you when I'm eighty.” Matt's thumb brushed over the little velvet box. “You are the safest place I’ve ever known.” His tender and earnest words landed somewhere so deep inside you that breathing suddenly felt impossible. “I want every version of life that exists if you’re standing in it with me.” His voice had become almost impossibly soft.

Slowly, carefully, he opened the box. The diamond caught the warm conservatory lights, and tiny rubies glinted like scattered pomegranate seeds, nestled within the ornate filigree.

His unfocused eyes never left your chest. “Princess...” He took one shaky breath. “Would you let me spend the rest of my life with you?” The smallest smile trembled across his face.

Every feeling you’d ever had seemed to collide inside your chest at once. You couldn’t breathe or speak. You nodded. Once. Twice. The tears wouldn’t stop.

Matt stayed perfectly still and his brows knit together. “…Sweetheart?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I…” He laughed nervously, the sound almost apologetic. “I’m so fucking nervous I can’t tell.” Another tiny laugh escaped him, shaky with emotion. “Was that… was that a yes?”

A sob escaped you before you could stop it. “Yes-” Your voice cracked so badly it barely sounded like your own. "Yes, Matthew…” You huffed through another sob. “Of course it’s yes.”

The breath that left him sounded almost painful like he’d been holding it for hours instead of a couple seconds. His head dipped briefly, and when he looked back up he was crying openly.

A smile spread across his face so bright it almost didn’t look real. Your own laugh dissolved into another sob as you dropped to your knees in front of him, wrapping your arms around him before he could even think to stand. He caught you instantly, like he always did. The little velvet box was still clutched safely in one hand while the other wrapped around your back so tightly you wondered if he was afraid you might disappear.

He buried his face against your shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking completely, “so much.”

“So do I.” You pulled back just enough to cradle his face between your hands. “So much.” He leaned into your touch without thinking. Then, with a soft huff, he blinked.

“…I should probably put the ring on you.”

You laughed through another sob, holding out your shaking left hand without a word. Matt smiled so broadly it looked almost boyish. His own hands were trembling as badly as yours as he carefully slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly. Your fingers laced through his and he smiled so broadly, the kind of smile that only comes once in a lifetime. Finally, like he still couldn’t quite believe you’d said yes, he cupped your face and kissed you softly.

- FIVE YEARS LATER -

Morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains in soft bands of gold, warming the comforter where it had slipped down around your waist sometime during the night.

You stirred first not because of the light, but because someone was kissing your shoulder. Quite leisurely. A sleepy smile tugged at your mouth before your eyes had even opened. “Morning.”

A warm chuckle rumbled against your skin. “Morning, princess.”

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to find him only inches away. Matthew. A little more silver threaded through his hair now, a wash more at his temples. His beard was longer than it used to be, just rough enough that you always complained it scratched when he kissed your cheeks. You secretly loved it though and he knew that.

One elbow was propped beneath him as he looked down at you with that same expression he’d worn for years now. It always felt like he’d never gotten used to waking up beside you. You reached up automatically, your fingertips combing through the the side of his hair.

His hand found your waist beneath the blankets, warm and familiar, drawing lazy circles against your side. Then he kissed you properly. The kind of kiss that came after years together. Unhurried. Comfortable. You sighed happily into it, and when he pulled away, it was only far enough for his lips to brush your cheek. Then your jaw. Then slowly, your neck.

A breathy laugh escaped you. “Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“So that’s where this morning is headed?”

“I was hoping.” His mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear and you shivered immediately. “Matthew…”

“Hm?”

Your sentence dissolved into another sigh as his lips brushed lower. Warm and lingering. He kissed your neck once, twice, then smiled against your skin. “I miss you.”

You snorted. “We were literally asleep together.”

“I still miss you, we were both so busy yesterday."

“You're so clingy.”

“I'm aware and I’ve accepted that.”

“Hm, you should probably seek professional-”

He interrupted you with one tiny, playful bite against your neck. Just enough to make you gasp. “Matt!”

“What?” he chuckled, continuing to mouth at your neck.

“You better follow thro-”

He froze completely. The change was so sudden your brows furrowed with confusion. “Matt?” His head lifted slightly and tilted, obviously listening. A tiny smile spread slowly across his face. “They’re awake.” You groaned dramatically, tucking your forehead against his shoulder. “Already?”

“Mhm.”

“They were supposed to sleep until at least,” you squinted toward the clock, “eight.”

He laughed quietly, and then you could finally hear it. Tiny footsteps. Fast. Very fast. Pattering down the hallway, and you both looked toward the bedroom door at exactly the same moment. Matt’s grin widened and then the bedroom door flew open. Two little voices greeted you both in perfect, delighted unison.

"Mommy!"

“Daddy!"

Matt’s entire face transformed. You never gotten used to that. The Devil had long ago disappeared. But even the brilliant attorney disappeared briefly in this moment too, and all that remained was a father. Pure joy lighting up every inch of his face.

Two tiny bodies barreled toward the bed with absolutely no concern for you both. You barely had time to lift the blankets before they launched themselves onto the mattress. One crashed happily into your side and the other landed squarely across Matt’s chest with a dramatic little “Oof!”

The bed shook with his chuckles. “Easy there, buddy.”

“I jumped so high!”

“You did.”

The second little body wriggled over you and beneath your arm, immediately demanding what they both came here for. “Cuddle pile!”

“Cuddle pile!” the other echoed enthusiastically.

“Well,” Matt said gravely, wrapping one arm around both of them while reaching his free hand toward you, “I don’t believe we have much of a choice.” You giggled, sliding closer until all four of you were tangled together beneath the blankets.

Little arms and legs. Morning hair everywhere. Someone’s tiny foot was inexplicably in your ribs and one of them was giggling so hard you were worried if they could even breathe properly. Matt eventually found your hand beneath the comforter and his fingers laced through yours. He tilted his head, presumably taking in the beautiful chaos surrounding all of you before turning back to face you.

The corners of his mouth lifted into that soft, almost shy smile that still belonged only to you. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

You looked around at the four of you tangled beneath the blankets. At the littles, already arguing over whose turn it was to be in the middle. At the man beside you who still made every impossible dream of yours wonderfully real. You squeezed his hand. “Happy anniversary, Matty.”

He smiled. Then he leaned over and pressed one last kiss against your forehead.

🌸 THE END 🌸

notes: i don't even know where to start. but i'm so incredibly grateful for the love that this series has received. Never in a million years would i have imagined this beast of a fic existing anywhere but in a locked folder on my notes app. i genuinely can't believe or conceptualize that anyone wants to read my amateur writing 🥹 i hope this was a satisfying conclusion for all of you, and a big thanks to those who've been there since the beginning, and all your lovely comments on each chapter.

i will definitely be posting more! i'm extremely motivated right now and have been getting quite a bit of NEW writing done.🤭 and of course we have some epilogue and flashback content for these two still! i have a pretty lengthy bonus chapter about their children in the works if that's something that you all are interested in seeing at all. originally i was going to conclude their story after their wedding, but this proposal really felt like a full circle moment and the perfect place to end. if you are interested in seeing their wedding that's certainly something that can be explored in a bonus chapter. let me know what you all wanna see! sorry for the ramble, feeling a lot of feelings here.

taglist: @rowancp @princess-aurora-varient @quicksilver21 @superherosdystopiafreak @sa1ky @peterftpercy @miriamckle @margaret811 @cheleanortruther @gothy-froggy @mrmeowzalot @that1weirdweebgirl @moth-murdock @iamdarknessiamdeath @arigoldsblog @xjyuto @fallen-nine @muffinbrown @hellskitchenswhore @adelaidehawthorne17 @khonshuswill @sotragedynut @thegirlwiththeeyes1297 @whyareyoulookinguphere @sharksausages @m1sund3rst0od @sleepinginstardustwrites @nerdytrash-panda @addiiove @bigsloppycrush @akahlisworld @omicore @charmolipiiridia @ovryoon @aelladrift @ifyoulovemeletmebinge @ash-tuhn @mixedfandxms @prettyflowerlily @alldayeverytae @snowwythegloww @exhaustedfangirl

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting. That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you’ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”

Brooklyn was cracked sidewalks and too-loud radios, rain-slick alleyways and fire escapes that burned your palms in summer. It was the scent of bagels on Saturdays and garbage on Sundays. It was home.

And more than that—it was yours, because they were in it.

Steve Rogers was the kind of boy who’d give you his lunch and go hungry just to see you smile— he’d done it so many times when you were younger, pig tails bigger than you, teeth missing when you smiled. Always bruised, always bandaged, always burning to make the world better, even if it beat him bloody for trying.

And Bucky Barnes? He was swagger and shine. The fastest fists in five blocks and the softest smile in the world, if you knew where to look. And you always had— he was your pulse. Had understood you in a way no one else had. And he’d been on your mind since you were 6 years old playing house and he insisted he play your husband and Steve be your dog.

You were the spark between them. The girl with scraped knees, a quicker wit than most priests liked in a confession booth, and a mean right hook when someone called you sweetheart the wrong way.

You’d found each other young—after-school scuffles, shared detention, childhoods built on bare-knuckle loyalty. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t easy. But it was real.

You three had each other in a way that no one else ever could. Knew one another’s laughs and silences. In a glance the three of you could have a conversation that no one else could follow.

By seventeen, you were stitched into their lives like thread in a patchwork quilt—tight and permanent. Steve had the moral compass. Bucky had the charm. And you? You had the fire.

The three of you didn’t match, not on paper. But you matched where it mattered.

Most nights found you curled on the armchair in their tiny apartment with peeling wallpaper. Steve would be reading aloud, stubbornly serious, while Bucky flipped a bottlecap across the kitchen counter, bored out of his skull, making jokes of whatever Steve shared, and looking at you every third word.

Sometimes Bucky would fall asleep with his feet in your lap and your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt without realizing it. Other times, he’d ruffle your hair just to make you glare at him, grinning like the devil the whole time.

And sometimes—just sometimes—he’d touch you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. A hand on your wrist longer than it needed to be. Fingers tracing the side of your palm when you passed the popcorn at the movies.

Not like the girls he danced with on Saturday nights. With them, it was always a show.

With you? It was habit. It was instinct. Like he didn’t know another way to be around you.

-

“You gonna make a habit of putting your hand on my waist every time I walk ahead of you?” The words had come out sharp one evening, just to see what he’d do.

Bucky grinned, unbothered. “Wouldn’t have to if you didn’t look so good doing it.”

You elbowed him. He caught your wrist. His thumb brushed your pulse.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

“You’re predictable,” you shot back. But your breath hitched. Just slightly.

He felt it. You saw it in his eyes.

-

Your mother didn’t like either of them, but definitely preferred Steve. He at least called her ma’am and made sure you got home safe if you hung out at the dance hall too late. “That Bucky boy’s bad news with good hair,” she’d said once, scrubbing dishes like she meant to drown the memory of his smirk.

You never denied it.

But your mother hadn’t seen the way Bucky gave up his gloves so Steve wouldn’t get frostbite. Or the way he stopped dead in the street when he heard you crying once, and didn’t ask questions—just offered his shoulder, his coat, and his silence.

You’d seen those things.

You remembered everything.

-

It came fast, the summer storm. One minute the sky was teasing. The next, you were soaked to the bone, barefoot, dress clinging to your skin like a second breath. You pounded up the steps of their apartment, hair plastered to your cheeks, knocking like the world was ending.

Bucky opened the door shirtless.

Of course he did.

Stormlight flashed across his chest, his dog tags glinting.

“You tryna get sick?”

“You tryna lecture me half-naked?”

He threw a towel at your face.

Later, wrapped in flannel and curled under a borrowed blanket, you found yourself on the couch, your wet dress drying in the corner, your socked feet in Bucky’s lap, one hand absently massaging them. He didn’t say a word as he reached down with the other and started playing with your fingers, one by one.

“You always do that?” you asked after a long moment.

“Do what?”

“Touch me like you’re memorizing something.”

He looked at you. Eyes too blue. Voice too soft.

“Maybe I am.”

-

Steve never asked questions. He just gave you his half of dinner when you were short on tips and let you braid his hair once when your hands were shaking too much to hold still otherwise.

He was your protector. But Bucky?

Bucky was your undoing.

And because of that, maybe it was easier not to ask what it meant when he called you his girl in front of other people.

Maybe it was easier to pretend like this was nothing when he danced with someone else and winked at you from across the room.

Maybe it was easier to smile when he touched your lower back like a promise.

-

The diner door jingled behind you as you locked up, the smell of grease and burnt coffee still clinging to your apron. It was a part time job, something to try and help your ma afford rent. Your hands were raw from wiping counters, your feet aching from the double shift, and the wind had the nerve to slap straight through your cardigan like you hadn’t already had enough. Your teeth chattered as you muttered a curse under your breath and started toward the apartment. The street was mostly empty—everyone inside watching the ball game or pretending not to notice the war creeping closer with every headline.

But Bucky was waiting.

He leaned against the brick outside he and Steve’s shared apartment building like a scene from a magazine ad—shoulders slouched, hands in his pockets, collar popped against the wind. His short hair was messy in that deliberate way he somehow always pulled off, and he looked up like he’d known the second your shift ended and you’d be walking past their place to get to yours.

“You planning to freeze to death or just daring me to be chivalrous?” He grinned.

You shot him a look. “I’m planning to go home and sleep for a week.”

“Not dressed like that, you’re not.” He said, looking you up and down. And then, with an exaggerated sigh, he shrugged out of his varsity jacket.

He didn’t toss it. He stepped forward and wrapped it around your shoulders himself. The wool was heavy and warm, still carrying his body heat and the faint smell of soap and cologne.

His hands lingered on your arms. His fingers brushed the side of your neck.

“People are gonna get ideas,” you said, arching a brow.

“They already do,” he said, and smirked like he’d planned that answer for days.

-

You wore it to school the next morning. Told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But everyone knew it did.

The second you stepped through the doors, heads turned. A few girls did double takes. One of Bucky’s old flames narrowed her eyes so hard you could feel the heat of it across the hallway. Whispers were whirling around the cafeteria that “James Barnes was finally going steady— he gave her his letterman jacket.”

Steve spotted you first and immediately burst out laughing. “You really wearing that?”

“It was cold.”

“You don’t even like football. Can’t even name what position Bucky plays.” He sat down next to you, smiling as you huffed, crossing your arms..

“Don’t need to. Looks better on me anyway.”

Bucky joined you both a minute later, eyes tracking the way the jacket hung off your shoulders, sleeves too long, collar tucked up to your jawline. Barnes stitched in cursive over your heart. He looked smug.

“Guess everyone knows who you belong to now,” Bucky said.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re still wearing it.”

He was right.

-

Prom wasn’t supposed to matter to you.

You didn’t buy into the glitz, the promise of magic, the frantic rush for dates. You didn’t expect flowers or fairy-tale endings. You figured you’d go with the girls from work, maybe dance a little, maybe drink something you weren’t supposed to and laugh too hard with Steve.

But Bucky showed up on your stoop with Steve already in tow, both of them grinning, both of them dressed to the nines—hair slicked, ties crooked, their suits just a little too big and shoulders a little too square.

Bucky held out a soft pink corsage. “Figured if I didn’t get to you first, some fool would.”

Steve cleared his throat. “I said that was her decision.”

Bucky just winked. “Exactly. And I’m hoping she makes the right one.” You rolled your eyes. But you took the corsage.

You arrived as a unit—the three of you stepping through the ballroom doors like a living memory, like you belonged on either side of him. A camera flash caught the moment: your hand tucked through Bucky’s arm, Steve on your other side, the corsage ribbon too long and tied messily around your wrist.

The photographer laughed. “Sweetheart’s got two dates tonight?”

Steve blushed. You shrugged. Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

“She always has. She just likes me better.”

The music was loud, the band slightly off-key, and the air smelled like powder, punch, and too much cologne. You danced with Steve first—laughing, clumsy, trying not to step on each other. He was warm and steady, guiding you with gentle hands and soft smiles.

But then Bucky appeared beside you. “My turn,” he said, already taking your hand.

He pulled you close—closer than was polite. His palm pressed to the small of your back. Your hand landed on his chest, where you could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart beneath his starched shirt.

“You clean up nice,” you said, smirking.

“You should see me in uniform.”

“Think I like you better like this.”

He smiled, softer this time. His thumb brushed a line up your spine, and suddenly the space between you was nothing. The world fell away.

And then, in a voice low enough that no one else could hear, he said, “I’m gonna marry you someday, y’know.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That right?”

“Yeah. So you better stop dancing with Rogers before he steals you.”

You met his gaze then—really met it. “Steve’s not the one who calls me his girl.”

“Damn right he’s not.” He said with the widest grin you’d seen on him in years. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

The evening carried on as you stepped outside for air. The night was warm, breezy, thick with the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke. You leaned against the brick wall behind the gym, watching the stars blur slightly overhead. Your heels were off. Your feet ached. But your chest ached more.

Bucky found you five minutes later.

He looked flushed—tipsy maybe, definitely high on the night, his tie undone and jacket slung over one shoulder. The grin he wore slipped when he saw you.

“Y’know,” he said, voice lower than usual, “for two people who aren’t together, I get real possessive of you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Yeah. And I think I’m gonna do something stupid.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It was heat and claim and too many years of touching and not touching. His hand cupped your cheek. Yours fisted in his shirt. The brick was rough at your back. His mouth was soft against yours, but the kiss was anything but.

You kissed him back.

Desperate. Like you might not get the chance again.

Because deep down, you knew.

Something was shifting. War was looming. Time was thinning.

You didn’t talk about it the next day. He joked about the punch. You rolled your eyes. Steve said something about a chaperone catching a couple behind the gym, and Bucky winked at you across the room.

But the kiss stayed in your mouth like a secret, one that neither of you let go of.

And when Bucky brought a girl to the movie theater the next weekend—a blonde in a too-tight dress who laughed too loudly—you dropped your popcorn. Didn’t bother picking it up.

You weren’t together. Not officially.

But it still stung.

-

The heat had been unbearable all week—one of those sticky Brooklyn Julys where the sun felt personal. Shirts clung. Tempers frayed. The air tasted like smoke and warm asphalt.

You’d begged Bucky and Steve to take the long way home, past the orchard fields and the old creek trail you used to run barefoot as kids. The truck pulled to a stop at your request too. Somewhere along the road, nostalgia had kicked in. As you hopped out the car, you kicked off your shoes.

“I’ll race you!” you called over your shoulder, already halfway through the wild grass.

Bucky groaned. “Don’t make me chase you in this heat.”

“You won’t catch me anyway.”

Steve laughed behind you, breathless. “She’s gonna smoke us both.”

But you were already gone—dress hiked up in your fists, hair flying, the wind kissing your skin like freedom.

You reached the edge of the creek first. It shimmered under the late-afternoon sun—cool, glittering temptation. You barely hesitated.

“You won’t do it,” Bucky shouted from behind. “You won’t jump in!”

You looked back over your shoulder, wild-eyed, daring.

“Watch me.” And then—without ceremony, without warning—you unbuttoned your dress. Let it drop.

White cotton bloomers. Thin slip. Bra straps visible, skin flushed from the run.

Bucky choked on his breath. “Jesus,” he muttered, skidding to a stop.

Steve caught up, turned around so fast he nearly tripped. “I’m not looking!”

“Yeah, don’t,” Bucky growled. But he was looking.

You dove in. The water was cold—glorious. It shocked you to your bones and dragged a laugh from your lungs. You surfaced, hair slicked back, arms outstretched. Floating. Grinning.

Steve wandered off muttering something about looking for your shoes and bringing the car closer—like the gentleman he was.

But Bucky stood there frozen, shirt plastered to his chest with sweat, dog tags catching the sun.

“You coming in or what?” you called.

He shook his head. “You’re insane.”

“You’re scared.”

“Of you?” he barked. “Always.”

Then he yanked off his shirt.

You stopped breathing. You’d seen him shirtless before. When you were kids and went swimming. The apartment when you caught him after a bath. But this—under the sun, chest heaving, flushed and glowing—this was something else. He was a man. That much you couldn’t let yourself deny in this moment. He kicked off his boots and waded in.

You drifted toward him, weightless. Watching. Eyes half lidded. When you finally reached him, you splashed his back. “Took you long enough.”

“Could’ve given a guy some warning.”

You grinned. Then—on a whim, bold and stupid—you swam around behind him. Arms looped around his neck. He froze, brain freezing at the feel of your breasts against his back. A low noise came out of his throat; a sound he didn’t even recognize.

He turned around suddenly, and you stumbled forward, arms on either side of his shoulders.

He caught you automatically.

It was instinct. It was effortless. And it was dangerous.

Because suddenly you were wrapped around him in waist-high water, and his hands were on your thighs. His eyes were wide as they held yours. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you wrapped your arms more securely around his shoulders, face inching closer as you settled against him. Your breasts pressed against his chest, his dog tags cold against your skin, sending goosebumps on your arms.

Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat like he was drowning in more than just creekwater.

You stilled. So did he.

“Say something,” you whispered.

He looked at you like you weren’t real. “You’re beautiful,” he said, barely louder than the breeze.

You blinked. Then leaned in. The kiss was soft—uncertain. His mouth brushed yours, tentative, reverent. You kissed him back, eyes fluttering shut. His hands tightened on your hips. One of yours slid into his damp hair. The other curled around the nape of his neck.

And for one suspended moment, nothing existed but this.

Your body molded to his. Your hearts racing in tandem. His lips against yours like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed this. Your hips shifting against his, earning a whimper from the man beneath you.

Then—

Honk.

The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot. You jerked away. Steve’s beat-up truck sat at the top of the hill. He was behind the wheel, hand over his eyes.

“I told you I wasn’t looking!” he shouted, embarrassed. “You done swimming, or should I go find a blindfold?!”

You scrambled out of Bucky’s arms like he burned you.

You dressed quickly, heart thudding, hands trembling. Your clothes were soaked and heavy against your skin. Bucky didn’t meet your eyes. When you reached for your dress, he had handed it to you without a word. His knuckles brushed yours. You flinched.

The truck ride home was silent. Steve drove like he was trying not to exist. You sat in the middle. Bucky stared out the passenger window, leg bouncing.

He didn’t touch you. But his wet shirt clung to his chest, and your lips still tingled, and your skin—every inch of it—felt branded.

That night, you laid awake, the window cracked open to the sound of crickets and faraway horns. You told yourself it was just the heat. Just the creek. Just a kiss.

But it wasn’t. It was the kiss. Not like the one from prom when he had been tipsy and jealous of something stupid. This one had weight to it. And because he looked at you different the rest of the day. And the next one.

It was different because you couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of his hands on your thighs. Your legs still ached to wrap around him again.

You couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like if his hands had moved. Had touched you somewhere lower. Somewhere that friends definitely didn’t touch.

Something had changed. And there was no going back.

-

You saw him kiss her.

The redhead from homeroom. The one who laughed too loud and didn’t bother hiding the fact that she wanted him. You saw them through the soda shop window—her fingers curled around his collar, his hand braced on the counter beside her hip.

She kissed him first but he didn’t stop her. What he did do was open his eyes halfway through. Like he felt you watching from across the street.

And then he looked directly at you. You didn’t flinch. Just stared. Held it. Made sure he saw the way your chin lifted, the way your jaw set like you hadn’t just felt something inside you bruise.

The redhead didn’t notice.

But Bucky did.

And that look he gave you? It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t guilty. It was soft. Apologetic. Desperate. Like he was screaming something behind his eyes.

That night, the three of you went to the movies. A nickel to get in. One screen. Sticky floor. Flickering reel. You barely remember what played.

Steve dozed off halfway through, arms crossed, chin slumped to his chest. The tinny crackle of dialogue filled the theater, but your focus narrowed.

Because Bucky’s hand was on your thigh.

He hadn’t asked. He’d just reached over the armrest between your seats and settled his palm there, warm through the fabric of your dress, his thumb brushing lazy arcs like he was tracing a memory. His pinky grazed the inside seam just above your knee.

You didn’t stop him. You didn’t look at him, either. Your heart hammered so loudly in your chest you couldn’t hear Steve’s soft snores anymore.

He leaned over halfway through a battle scene and whispered, “You’re my girl. You always have been.”

Not just to you. To Steve, too—loud enough for your best friend to hear it through his sleep. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t believe him, not fully. Not when he’d kissed her. And others. Not when he let you see each girl. But that hand on your thigh said something else. So did his voice.

He didn’t move it the rest of the film.

The walk back to the apartment was quiet. Steve peeled off to check on his mother. Left you alone with Bucky.

Inside, the place smelled like heat and old laundry. The windows were cracked, barely. The two of you stood in the dim yellow of the entryway light, neither willing to speak first.

You sat on the couch. He followed. The silence stretched, warped, bent itself into something heavy.

“You gonna say anything?” you asked, arms crossed.

He sat back, elbows on his knees. “About what?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“She kissed me.”

“And you kissed her back.”

“Wasn’t the same.”

You scoffed. “Funny. You looked pretty into it.”

His eyes snapped to yours, sharp with something almost hurt. “I looked at you.”

That shut you up. Because he had. Because it hadn’t been smug. Because it hadn’t been for show. Because it had felt like he needed you to see it—needed you to know that you were the one who mattered, even if he was too much of a coward to prove it.

You looked away. “You always say I’m your girl.”

“Because it’s true.”

“But you don’t act like it.”

“Don’t I?”

And then he reached for you—fingers curling gently around your wrist. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t breathe.

“You started it,” he said, voice low.

You blinked. “Started what?”

“This.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You really think I started this?”

He leaned in. His forehead nearly brushed yours. “I’m about to end it.” Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like the creek. This was hotter. Rougher. Mouths slanting together like you were both angry. Like you needed to punish each other for all the silence, all the stolen looks and nights spent pretending.

His hands cradled your face like he’d never get to again, he pushed you down onto the couch, your back flush with the uncomfortable cushions. Yours fisted in the front of his shirt like you were sick of waiting, pulling him down on top of you.

He slotted between your thighs with ease. Your legs, your traitorous and aching legs, wrapped around his waist like instinct. His hand touched your bare thigh and you both shuddered.

He kissed you like he was daring you to leave him and you kissed him back like you couldn’t.

You only broke apart when the door creaked open. Steve stepped in, muttering something about the trains. Froze. You were still on the couch, him hovering over you—too close, flushed, guilty.

You looked like a live wire as Bucky leaned away slowly. Steve stared, face a little pink. His brows arched. But he didn’t say a word.

He just walked to the kitchen like he hadn’t seen anything at all. The silence between you and Bucky snapped taut.

Then you said it—without looking at him. “We don’t talk about this.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

And neither of you moved. But that kiss? It hung in the air like smoke. It wasn’t over.

-

It was one of those USO-sponsored community events meant to drum up morale and donations. You’d planned to go with a group of girls. But Bucky showed up at your door in uniform, holding a corsage and an expression you didn’t know how to read.

“You look like you’re about to confess a crime,” you told him.

He handed you the flower. “Only if asking you to dance when you’re down right awful at it counts.”

You laughed and took the flower. “Easy now, Barnes. Or your toes will be the next victim.”

Steve met you both there, and the three of you walked in together—like always. But everything felt different.

Because Bucky didn’t just walk beside you. He touched the small of your back when you moved through the crowd. He whispered jokes into your ear that made you laugh into your wrist, flower he picked out decorating it gently.

And when he took your hand to lead you to the dance floor, he held on like he had no intention of letting go.

You weren’t the best dancer. That much was painfully clear. Neither was he. But he made you feel like you were graceful. Spinning you under the fairy lights, pulling you close when the tempo slowed, letting his hand drift just a little lower than was strictly polite.

Someone tried to cut in—a navy cadet with teeth too white and a smile too practiced. He tapped Bucky’s shoulder, nodding toward you. “Mind if I cut in?”

“She’s taken,” Bucky said, voice calm but cold.

The cadet blinked. “I didn’t see a ring.”

Bucky leaned in. “Doesn’t need one. Corsage is mine. So’s the girl.”

Your heart stopped. The cadet shrugged and walked away. You, on the other hand, spun away from Bucky as soon as the song ended, dragging him toward the hallway behind the bandstand.

“You can’t say things like that,” you hissed. “We’re not—”

He stepped in. “You’re wearing my corsage. You kept my jacket. You’ve kissed me like a lifeline more than once.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” His voice was low. Tired. Honest. The cocky smile faded.

You stared at him. “Why do you keep doing this?” you asked.

“Because I can’t help it.” He said, sounding helpless.

“And what happens when you leave?”

“I’m not leaving you.” He said, voice final. You held his stare for a long moment, before turning on your heel and walking away.

Later, you danced with Steve—trying to cool off, calm down, breathe. He was warm and steady. Polite. Careful. He twirled you and let you lead when you got impatient with the beat.

“You and Bucky,” he said suddenly.

You looked up. “What about us?”

He smiled softly. “You’re good together.”

“We’re not together.”

“You’re the only ones who seem to think so.” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

And at the end of the night, you stepped outside to catch your breath. The air was cold, sharp with city wind, and you crossed your arms to keep Bucky’s jacket closed around you.

The man himself found you minutes later. “You looked beautiful in there,” Bucky said.

“You looked smug.”

“I was.” He stepped closer. You didn’t move. “I meant it,” he said. “What I said to that guy.”

You looked up. “Bucky—”

“You’re my girl.” He said it like it was a fact. Like no matter who else he’d kissed or danced with, it didn’t matter because this fact had always been true. Worse, he said it like he was done pretending it wasn’t.

You stared at him. His uniform jacket. His blue eyes. “Even if we’re never official?”

His voice didn’t shake. “Especially then.” He didn’t kiss you. But he touched your cheek, fingers brushing your skin like a prayer.

You let him. Because maybe… he was right. Maybe you had always been his. And maybe he was finally willing to claim it.

-

The city was quiet in that rare, sacred way it only managed after midnight—when the clatter of day had died down, and the wind moved like breath between buildings. You were barefoot, sitting on the roof of Bucky and Steve’s apartment building, legs swinging over the ledge, the flask in your hand already half-empty.

The stars were faint, blurred by smog and distance, but they were enough. Bucky sat beside you, knees bent, forearms resting across them, hair ruffled by the breeze. You passed the flask without looking. He took it without speaking.

Tomorrow—or the day after—he’d be gone. He said he wouldn’t leave you— but he had to. So did Steve.

So you didn’t talk about it. Not directly.

Instead, you talked about stupid things. The mailman who kept mixing up your neighbor’s letters. The kid on the corner who was trying to build a soapbox racer out of trash cans. The weird guy at the corner store who always asked if you wanted to buy “discount stockings.”

And then the silence came and stayed, grew heavy. A reminder that he would be gone soon, that time was running out, and before long your only companion would be the silence of the city when he wasn’t beside you.

“I ever tell you,” Bucky said suddenly, voice quiet, “how often I think about you?”

You didn’t turn your head. Your chest tightened. “Once or twice.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like this.”

You finally looked at him. His profile was lit by the glow of a distant streetlamp—sharp jaw, tired eyes, that mouth you’d kissed once or twice and never enough.

“I mean,” he went on, “all the time.” He took another sip. Cleared his throat. “I used to tell myself it didn’t matter. That the girls—the flirting, the dates—they were just fun. Easier.” You didn’t say anything. He kept going. “They didn’t scare me the way you did.”

That got your attention. “Scare you?”

He smiled without humor. “Because it’s always been you. And if I let that mean something—really mean something—and then I lost you? I wouldn’t come back from it.”

You blinked. Your heart punched the inside of your ribs.

“I tried,” he said, eyes now on the stars. “Tried to prove it didn’t have to be you. That anyone could make me forget. But I couldn’t.”

The quiet stretched. And then, softer, he said, “I’ve been sweet on you since we were six and you made us play house, and I nearly decked Steve ‘cause you picked him to be your husband.”

You laughed, startled and aching.

“I remember that,” you whispered.

“Yeah. And I remember thinking, No. It’s gotta be me. I’m gonna marry her someday, not Steve.”

You turned to face him fully. “You still believe that?”

His eyes met yours—dark, sure, soft. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You didn’t hesitate. You kissed him. You climbed into his lap, hands on either side of his face, mouth crashing into his. He grunted, arms coming around you immediately—tight, desperate, anchoring.

His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting years. Because he had. Because so had you. His hands gripped your waist and yours slid into his hair. You tilted your head and deepened the kiss, rolling your hips against him, and he groaned into your mouth like he was in pain from needing it too long.

You broke first, panting against his lips. “If I don’t come back…” he started, voice low.

“Don’t,” you said, shaking your head. “Don’t say that.”

“I have to.”

You pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “No. You don’t. Because you’re coming back. And when you do…” He waited. “When you do,” you whispered, “this won’t be a maybe anymore.”

His forehead fell to yours. “I’ll hold you to that,” he breathed.

You kissed again, slower this time. Sadder. But you didn’t let go. Not yet.

-

The apartment was too quiet.

Steve had gone to stay with his mother for a few days, giving Bucky space to pack, and maybe giving you space to say goodbye—though neither of you admitted it. His duffel bag was half full, strewn clothes tossed across the bed like a battle he didn’t want to finish.

You sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to your chest, watching him fold a shirt for the third time. He wasn’t looking at you but his shoulders were tense. His jaw tight.

“You’re folding that like it insulted you.”

He let out a quiet breath. “Trying to get it right.”

“You never fold your clothes.”

He looked up. Smiled a little. “Gotta make a good impression. It’s the army.”

“You made a better one in the creek.” His hands stilled. He looked at you for real then.

Something passed between you. Wordless. Unbearable.

You stood before he could speak and crossed the room slowly. You reached for his wrist, and his hand found yours like muscle memory.

“Can you… stay? Just a little longer?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, filling the space between you, until your chest pressed against his and you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

His forehead dropped to yours.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” you whispered.

“It won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.” Your voice broke.

“I do.” His hand slid up to cradle your cheek. His thumb traced beneath your eye, and for a second, you thought you might cry—but didn’t. Not yet. “I’m gonna come back,” he said, “and when I do…”

“When you do?” you breathed.

“I’m gonna marry you.”

You laughed—quiet and cracked. “You always say that.”

“I’ve always meant it. No matter what I did or who I was with, I’ve always known it was you.”

And then he kissed you. It started gentle. Mouths brushing. Breathing the same air. His hands shaking slightly where they cupped your face. Yours curled in the collar of his shirt.

Then he deepened it like he couldn’t hold back anymore. Like kissing you was the only way he remembered how to live.

You let him. You pulled him closer, backed toward the bed, tugging his shirt loose from his waistband. He followed willingly, stumbling a little as he reached for the buttons of your blouse.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about hunger.

It was about having. About knowing.

He kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, hip to hip. The heat between your legs bloomed fast, an ache you couldn’t hide as he slid his hands over your waist, down your back, gripping like he’d never get the chance again.

“Take this off,” you whispered, fingers tugging at his shirt.

He obeyed. Pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, dog tags falling forward to rest between his collarbones. His body was warm, hard—muscle and memory and home. You let your fingers roam. Let your mouth follow.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice gravel low, almost a whisper.

You nodded.

“I don’t want to stop once we start, doll.”

“Then don’t.”

Clothes vanished piece by piece. Kisses stole across skin like vows. He moved over you—slow and reverent—his palms skating up your ribs as he stared down at you like he’d never seen something so devastating.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “I’m gonna remember you like this for the rest of my life. Maybe even in the next one.”

His mouth was everywhere. He started slow—kisses down your breasts, your stomach, your hips. And then he lowered himself between your thighs. His mouth left marks on your inner thighs. You shivered at the scrape of his stubble. The heat of his breath.

When he finally licked up the seam of you, you arched clean off the bed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “You’re soaked for me.”

His tongue was slow at first, teasing, savoring. He licked you open—wide, flat, lazy strokes that had your toes curling. He circled your clit. Sucked. Flicked. Pressed a kiss right to the bundle of nerves that made you cry out.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he muttered. “Right on my tongue. Want to taste it—want to own it.”

You couldn’t respond. Not with how his mouth closed over your clit again and again, not with the way his tongue stroked the exact right spot like he’d mapped it from memory.

Your thighs shook around his head. Your hands fisted in his hair. You tried to hold on. You really did.

But then he groaned against you—“That’s my girl. Always knew you’d be good for me.”— like he needed it, like this was as much for him as it was for you—and you shattered.

You cried out his name as you came, hips grinding into his face, pleasure hitting so hard you couldn’t think.

He licked you through it, held you still with his strong hands. Then he hummed against your oversensitive clit like he wasn’t finished yet. You sagged back, boneless and wrecked, he kissed your thigh. “I’m not done,” he whispered. “Not even close.”

He moved back up your body, mouth slick, eyes dark with something deeper than lust.

He kissed you then—slow, dirty, letting you taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue—and slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped into his mouth.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered. “Tight, too. Jesus.” His fingers curled, slow and sure, hitting that spot that made your eyes flutter and your legs fall open wider.

He worked you methodically—thumb on your clit, fingers buried to the knuckle, curling and thrusting in perfect rhythm.

You were already trembling again.

“You’re gonna come on my hand now,” he told you, voice tight. “Gotta feel you squeeze me before I ever even get inside you.”

You came with a cry, back arching, clenching around his fingers so hard he cursed under his breath.

“Goddamn,” he growled. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby.”

He didn’t give you a break. As soon as your breathing slowed, he pulled his fingers free—slow, wet, watching your slick stretch and fall—and lined himself up.

His cock was thick and flushed, head leaking. You reached to touch him, but he caught your wrist and pressed it to the pillow, kissing the inside of your wrist.

“Later,” he rasped. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

He slid in slow. Inches at a time. Letting you feel every goddamn bit of him. You whimpered. He bit out a curse. “Fuck—so tight. So warm.”

When he bottomed out, he froze. Eyes locked on yours. Chest rising and falling like he couldn’t breathe. “This,” he said. “This is mine. You’re mine.”

You nodded, eyes glassy. “I’m yours.”

It hurt at first, and he held so still, kissing your tears from the corner of your eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your ear. “For giving your first to me. For trusting me with it. It’s mine too, doll. Saved it for you.” He panted. He wanted to move so badly it physically hurt. You were tight, squeezing him like a vice, and he was embarrassed to admit he could come just from this.

“Please,” you whimpered, rocking your hips up slightly, both of you crying out at the feeling. “Keep going, Bucky.”

He started to move—long, deep strokes that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his back. “Tell me this is good for you,” he breathed, sucking a bruise into your neck.

“It’s good. So good. Please, James.” You cried, hips rocking to meet his.

And he didn’t stop. He kissed you. Praised you. Whispered how perfect you felt, how good you were for him, how no one else had ever touched you like this and now they never would.

He rocked into you harder. Faster. His hand slid down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again. “I want you to come with me,” he growled. “Want to feel you fall apart while I’m inside you.”

You were already so close. “Please baby, need you,” he whined into your ear. You shattered again, sucking him in harder.

He followed with a guttural moan, burying himself deep, pulsing inside you. “God. Please. I hope it takes.” He whispered so softly that you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it.

You stilled for half a second but you didn’t ask what he meant. You knew.

He was hoping for something more. Something alive.

Something that might survive, even if he didn’t.

You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed him harder, held him tighter, and let him spill into you with a strangled cry.

Except he didn’t stop with one round. He kept going—slower this time. More focused. Drawing out every sound you made. Making love to you like it was the only night he’d ever have.

He kissed your chest. Your shoulders. Your hands. Said your name like it was his favorite prayer. Repeated that he needed to fuck you full until it sticks.

When you rode him in the moonlight—sweat-soaked, back arched, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline—he whispered, “I’d give you everything. Every piece of me. If I had forever…”

When he took you from behind, your chest pressed to the mattress, his hand tangled in your hair and his voice ragged in your ear, he said, “Still mine. Always mine.”

And when you collapsed in each other’s arms, tangled in blankets and breaths, he held you like time might stop moving.

Later, when you were wrapped together in the hush of the early morning, your head on his chest, his dog tags resting against your shoulder, you reached for something on your hand.

A small silver ring. Nothing fancy. Just your grandmother’s. A family piece with no diamonds, just a smooth band of soft metal and memory.

You took his hand. Pressed it into his palm. “Keep it,” you said. “Come back with it. Maybe you’ll even trade me for a better one.”

He stared at it for a long time. Then slid it onto the chain with his tags. Held it there over his heart.

“You’ll get the better one,” he said. “I promise.”

You almost believed him.

-

The USO hall was too bright.

Balloons bobbed on strings. Streamers hung limp above folding tables. The band played cheerful swing numbers no one really danced to. There were cookies, weak punch, and girls trying to pretend their lipstick wouldn’t smudge on a goodbye.

You stood near the back, heels clicking against the tile, dress pressed and hair curled in a way you hoped looked confident and not like the armor it was. You’d spent the afternoon memorizing how he kissed. The night before, memorizing how he felt.

This morning, you were trying to forget how it felt when the sheets went cold.

Steve found you first. He was clean-shaven, tie a little too tight, nerves showing in the way he adjusted it every ten seconds. He hugged you like family. Kissed your cheek like he might never get the chance again.

And then Bucky arrived. Grinning like the devil. Posture proud, uniform pressed, dog tags glinting alongside the ring you’d given him.

He saw you. And everything else faded. There were other girls in the room. Other friends. Officers. Commanders. But his eyes never left you.

You opened your mouth to speak. He beat you to it.

“You know I’m gonna marry you when I get back, right?” He shouted it so loud, half the room turned. He didn’t care.

He wanted everyone to hear. You saw the flash of mischief in his eyes. The way his chest rose and fell just a little faster as he waited.

Your lips parted. But nothing came out.

You didn’t answer. Because you couldn’t. Because your heart was already breaking. And if you said yes, if you let that hope take root, it would destroy you if he didn’t come back.

So you said nothing. You just looked at him—burned him into your memory. The tilt of his smile. The glint of gold in his hair under the cheap fluorescent light. The way he held himself like nothing could touch him. You offered him a smile in return. Tried not to sob when you saw him look at you like this might be the last time.

Steve laughed beside you. “That idiot always says that.”

But you knew better.

Because this time, it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a tease. It was a vow.

When the transport was ready, the hall started to clear.

There weren’t enough hugs. There weren’t enough seconds. Steve shook your hand like he didn’t trust himself to do more. You wrapped him in your arms anyway.

Bucky was the last one out the door.

He didn’t try to kiss you. Didn’t say goodbye.

He just brushed a hand over your waist as he passed, fingers grazing the spot on your back where he always touched you. The smallest touch. The deepest claim.

And then he was gone.

You stood in the empty hall long after the music stopped. Long after the doors closed. Long after the other girls dried their eyes and went home.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

You just placed your hand where his had been—on your waist. Held it there. Like maybe that would keep him tethered.

Like maybe that would be enough to bring him back.

-

The train rocked steadily beneath him, a lullaby of iron and motion that couldn’t quite drown out the thoughts.

Bucky sat with his back to the rattling wall, helmet resting on his knee, rifle propped beside his seat, the corner of his duffel brushing against his shin. The chatter around him was low—jokes, nervous laughter, boots creaking against metal flooring. Steve was asleep across from him, chin tilted toward his chest.

But Bucky wasn’t tired.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Not about the way you kissed him last night—or not just that. Not even the way you looked stretched out beneath him, whispering his name like a prayer, trembling on his mouth, his fingers, his cock.

It was all of it.

The way you touched his face like he was already a ghost.

The way you pressed that silver ring into his palm, like you knew he’d need something to hold onto.

The way you didn’t say “yes” when he said it—but didn’t say no either.

You hadn’t needed to. He could feel it in your hands. Your body. The way you clung to him like he was already gone.

He bent over slowly, pulling off his boot with care. The soldiers nearby wouldn’t notice. No one paid attention on a ride like this. From inside the soft lining of his sock, he pulled the tiny leather pouch.

Untied the knot.

Slipped the ring into his hand.

His mother’s.

Gold. Simple. Worn around the edges from years of being tucked away and waiting. She’d always told him to give it to a girl who’d love him even when he wasn’t easy to love.

And God, you had.

You loved him before he had medals or missions. Loved him when he was just the neighborhood flirt with calloused knuckles and a smart mouth. When he was still learning how to be good.

He curled his fingers around the ring. Then reached down, laced it tightly into the knot of his boot.

Tucked it against the curve of his ankle, the metal cold against his skin. Fitting. Grounding.

Because every step he took from this point on?

It wasn’t just toward the fight.

It was toward you.

Every march. Every drop from a plane. Every mission run. Every goddamn mile—

One step closer to home.

One step closer to you.

He leaned back against the train wall, heart hammering. Closed his eyes.

He imagined your face. The warmth of your laugh. The sigh you made when he kissed the underside of your jaw. The way you tasted.

He imagined slipping the ring onto your finger.

Not in a church. Not with fanfare.

Maybe just one morning over eggs. Or while you were brushing your hair. Or sitting on the edge of his bed in that old undershirt you stole from him last summer. Or as you held your son on your hip, your nose and his blue eyes. Definitely your smile.

“Still yours,” he’d say. “If you’ll have me.”

He’d make you say yes, eventually. Even if he had to beg.

Especially if he had to beg.

And so, with every rattle of the train, with every mile further from the city, with every breath that carried him deeper into the unknown—

Bucky Barnes reminded himself: He wasn’t going to war for glory.

He was going for you.

And he was going to come back with that ring.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw him.

Steve was standing on your stoop, hat in his hands, pale as snow. He looked older than he had when he left. Like whatever war he’d fought had aged him faster than time ever could. He was larger too. Not the same small guy he’d been when he left.

The envelope in his hand was damp from the cold. He didn’t say hello. Didn’t smile. Didn’t meet your eyes.

“He fell,” he said. Just that.

You blinked. Your fingers curled tighter around the doorframe.

“Off the train,” he added, like that made it make sense. Like that explained anything. “In the Alps. During the mission.”

You shook your head. Not in denial. Just… processing.

“They didn’t recover the body,” Steve said next. Quieter now. “The gorge was too deep. The ice too thick. They… they tried.”

He offered the envelope.

You didn’t take it.

You just stared at it, at the smudge of water across the return address. At the little black seal in the corner.

Steve cleared his throat. “It’s from his CO. I thought—” He stopped. Looked away. “I thought he’d want you to have it.”

That was the last time you saw Steve Rogers.

You didn’t remember taking the envelop or closing the door. You didn’t even remember walking to the kitchen.

You just remembered sitting. Hard tile against your spine. Your legs folding underneath you. Your fingers numb.

The jacket was still there—his letterman. Folded over the back of the kitchen chair like he’d just gone out for bread. You pulled it down, curled it into your lap. Buried your face in it.

It didn’t smell like him anymore.

It just smelled like gone.

You don’t remember how long you stayed there. Hours. Maybe days.

The envelope remained on the counter, unopened.

You didn’t need to read what you already knew.

You just sat on the floor in silence, jacket clutched in shaking hands, trying to keep from slipping under.

At one point—when the light had changed and your back ached from the position—you pressed your fingers to your stomach.

Soft. Curious. Hopeful.

Because you remembered what he said.

“God. Please. I hope it takes.”

You remembered the way he’d looked at you when he filled you with himself—like maybe that would keep a part of him here, no matter what.

So you waited.

You counted days.

You counted dreams.

You pressed your palm to your belly at night and whispered his name into the dark.

You hoped.

And then—

The bleeding came.

Quiet. Cruel.

And final.

The silence that followed wasn’t the absence of noise. It was something deeper. The kind of silence that seeped into your bones and stayed there.

That changed you.

That told you no one was coming home.

Not this time.

For the first time, you let yourself cry.

-

He doesn’t remember falling.

He remembers the moment before—the scream still trapped in his throat, the sight of Steve on the other car, just out of reach. He remembers the sound of the rail splitting, a sickening crack that felt personal. He remembers the light reflecting off the snow, impossibly bright. The sky, wide and uncaring.

And then—

Nothing.

As he falls, he doesn’t pray. Doesn’t scream. He thinks.

About you.

About your lips, parted under his. About your breath in his ear that night, trembling as you whispered his name like you were afraid it would be taken from you. About your hands in his hair, your thighs around his hips, your heartbeat stuttering against his chest.

God. Please. I hope it takes.

He thinks of that, too.

The way he whispered it into your neck like a wish. Like a dare. Like maybe if he left you with something of him—something living—it would keep him alive, too.

He sees a kitchen. A crooked little table. A pile of laundry on the floor. You brushing your hair in the mirror while he buttons a shirt, watching your reflection like a man still stunned you’re real. A baby cries. You roll your eyes. Mutter that he has his daddies attitude. He grins.

Steve and Peggy come over for dinner on Sundays. Peggy brings pie. Steve always forgets the wine. Your kids run barefoot through the hall, and Bucky catches one mid-sprint, lifts her high, presses a kiss to her temple.

He sees all of it.

He believes in all of it. It warms his heart, his body, his soul.

He was warm even when he felt the crack of the ice as his body struck it, louder than antiaircraft fire. Then cold. The kind of cold that steals things. First breath. Then thought. Then shape. The cold slides inside him. Not like a knife. Like rot. Like it’s taking root in his chest and curling around his ribs. He opens his mouth. Swallows ice. He had fallen hard but landed weightless, the world going white around him as he floated, too cold to swim, too cold to breathe. Too cold to do anything but die.

But he wasn’t dead, was he?

He wakes screaming. Except—he doesn’t know if it’s a scream. He thinks it is. His throat is raw. His body is fire. Everything is wrong. His chest spasms. He chokes.

He can’t see. His eyes are crusted shut and when he finally manages to crack them open, the light burns. Something hums. Something buzzes inside his skull.

Spectral clouds dot the corners of his vision, fog gathered and made flesh. Here are the ghosts coming to collect him. He can’t recall any names.

He’s afraid but doesn’t know why.

He wants to fight, but he doesn’t know what. He’s not sure he could, even if he tried. His limbs don’t feel like his own. His whole body is foreign, treacherous in its strangeness. There is pain in places that don’t exist. Weakness in muscles that never relax. The water is gone, but the cold remains.

“What is your name?” a ghost asks. He can’t see his legs, but he tries to move them— to go back to you.

One step closer to her.

One step closer to home.

The ring in his boot. It burns him with its memory. The only thing he knows— back.

He must go back.

To you.

But It’s like trying to break through a shell of thick ice.

“Do you understand me?” the ghost asks, and he does.

He understands the voice, but he still can’t move his legs. He tries his arms that once held you to his chest, but only one of them obeys. His fist closes and opens and closes again. Is it even his own?

“Bucky,” he hears your voice in his mind.

He tries to look for you, but something holds his head in place, and the light is still in his eyes. He wants to stand—he needs to get back to you. He can’t stop hearing you and seeing you. Your laugh. The way you leaned against the diner counter when you were mad at him. The way your fingers brushed his every time you handed him a cup of coffee. The way you kissed him behind the gym. In the creek. On the roof.

He thinks of your belly. Round. Carrying the piece of him he left behind.

You always joked that he’d die on his feet, rising to meet a bullet. But here he is, drowning in light and full of water, with nothing but a hand that isn’t his.

“What is your name?” the ghost asks again, and he knows the answer. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He tastes blood. Or chemicals. Or both.

Don’t say it, he thinks, as he clenches his jaw until he feels the pain. His whole body trembles with the effort it takes not to answer, to keep his head above the current when it would be so much easier to give in and let himself sink. Away from you. But he can’t. He promised. He still needed to make you his wife. Wanted to see what you named his son. Hopefully not James Junior. No, you wouldn’t do that.

“Almost finished,” the ghost says, and he feels the soothing press of fingers against his forehead, pushing back his hair. You had done that, once. But it wasn’t you. This hand is gloved. Precise.

Suddenly, though, the memory of your hand slipped away.

All he could recall was that someone had touched his hair with tenderness. He was sure of it. But when he reaches for the memory, there’s only empty air.

He can feel the absence of whoever once occupied that space inside him. It steals his breath, the enormity of that chasm. His heartbeat stutters, the tremor echoing in a rising electronic beep.

There are straps across his chest. Ice in his veins. Wires where his skin should be.

The voice is closer now. “Tell me your name,” the ghost says. “I’m going to help you,” it says, firmer this time. “But you have to let go.”

He clenches his jaw.

“Let go of your name.” The voice says again. Not— whose? Whose voice was he thinking about again?

They can’t have that. Not that. Not—

The ice cracks under him. The water funnels in, frothing and studded with glacial ice, and he can’t fight it. He can’t swim. He can’t wait on a tide that will never turn, and it’s not just water as far as he can see. It’s farther. It’s all that’s left.

“Tell me your name?” The cold voice demands.

He’s sitting up now. Sort of. His right arm hurts. Not sore. Wrong.

Heavy.

He looks down and sees metal.

Not a glove. Not a weapon.

A limb.

He screams.

“Tell me your name,” the voice insists.

He shakes his head. It hurts. God, it hurts. He tries to remember something. Anything.

A laugh. A rooftop. A pair of lips, soft and parted.

“Please,” he gasps. “I don’t—” Through a mouthful of cold water, the man gasps his reply, gagging up each word like it’s a sharp-edged fractal of frost.

“Tell me your name.”

He grits his teeth as mind continues to fracture. The memory of you is there, but it’s slipping.

He reaches. He claws for it. Your smile. The pressure of your thighs around his hips. The promise he made.

“I’m gonna marry you when I get back.”

But the cold takes it. The light. The voice.

All of it.

And through lips cracked with frost, through lungs filled with salt and smoke and suffering—

He gasps:

“I… I don’t know.”

Silence.

“Good,” the ghost replies. “Good, that’s perfect.”

-

Time shatters. Or maybe memory does. He’s awake. Then not. Then awake again.

Sometimes he’s in a tank. Floating. Alone. Sometimes he’s strapped to a chair, teeth biting down on a strap of leather, screaming, eyes wide as something drills into his skull.

Sometimes—rarely—he dreams of someone. Not your face, not completely. But the feeling of you. The taste of your kiss. The sound of your voice saying his name.

Bucky.

He tries to answer. Can’t.

He tries to hold on.

But you slip from him, becoming someone unknown.

-

“Soldat?” A ghost asks.

They put the mask on his face.

Slide a command into his skull.

“Gotov podchinyat’sya.” He hears his voice reply.

The lights dim.

The man who kissed you beneath the stars—the one who dreamed of Sunday dinners and your laugh in his kitchen—is gone.

But somewhere, buried under blood and ice, under bone and steel—

James Bucky Barnes still remembers the way your voice shook when you said his name. Still had a small golden ring tucked into his boots, a silver one hung on his dog tags.

warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.

word count: 43.2k

a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.

            Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.

            Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.

            “Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.

            “Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.

            Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.

            “Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.

            “I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.

            “Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.

            “Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.

            “I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”

            “Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.

            “I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.

            Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.

             Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.

            “A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”

            “You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.

            “I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?

            “The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.

            “I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.

            “You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”

            “I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.

            “I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.

            When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.

            The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.

            Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.

            “I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”

            Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.

            “The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”

            As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.

            “Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.

            “Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”

            “What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.

            “We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.

            “We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”

            It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.

            “Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.

            “I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.

            “Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.

            “I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.

            “Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”

            You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.

            Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.

            “It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.

            “Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.

            “Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.

            “Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.

            “Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.

            “It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?

            Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?

            He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.

            In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.

            “What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.

            “You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”

            “Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.

            “At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.

            “What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.

            “You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.

            “You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.

            “I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.

            “And I should? What do you want me to say?”

            “Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.

            “It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.

            “It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.

            “It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”

            “It’s not Sharon.”

            “Bucky—”

            “It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”

            His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.

            “You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.

            “You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.

            “What?”

            “I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.

“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky—”

            “It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.

            “You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.

            “I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”

            You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.

            “Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?

            “What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.

            “Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.

            “What the hell does—”

            “He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”

            “Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.

            The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.

            “You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.

            “Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”

            “You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.

            “So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.

            “My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”

            “Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.

            You can’t stand him.

            Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.

            “I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.

            “If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.

            “I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”

            “There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”

            “That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”

            “I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.

            Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?

            Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.

            He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.

            He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.

            He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.

            Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.

            He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.

            “Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.

            You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.

            You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.

            Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.

            He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.

            When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?

            Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.

            “You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”

            “Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.

            You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.

            “Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.

            “Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.

            “Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.

            “Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.

            Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.

            “Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.

            “I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.

            “I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”

            “I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.

            “I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.

            “Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.

He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.

“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.

            You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?

            As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.

            The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.

            “You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.

            “You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”

            “I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.

            “A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”

            “Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.

            “Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.

            “Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”

            As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.

            “I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.

            “Why are you looking at me when you say that?”

            “You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.

            “You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.

            “You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.

            “Aren’t we all?”

            Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.

            As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.

            “I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.

            “I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.

            “Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.

            Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.

            “They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.

            “Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.

            You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.

            The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.

            “I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.

            Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.

            Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.

            Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.

            Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.

            “Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.

            “What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”

            “Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

            Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.

            But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.

            “Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.

            With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?

            “Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.

            “You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.

            “You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.

            Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.

            With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.

            Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?

            As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.

            You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.

            “I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”

            “Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.

            “No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.

            “You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.

            “You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.

            “I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”

            “Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.

            “You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”

            Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.

            “Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”

            With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.

            Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.

            You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?

            The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.

            It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?

            Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.

            She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.

            The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.

            “We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”

            “Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.

            “Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.

            “Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.

            Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…

            “I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.

            “You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”

            As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.

            You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.

            Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.

            “You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.

            “But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.

            “Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.

            “They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.

            “Say it isn’t enough.”

            “Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.

            You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.

            Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in.  You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.

            He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.

            Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.

            “Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.

            “Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.

            “Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.

            “There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.

            “You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.

            “My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.

            “Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.”  You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.

            “Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.

            “But it looks so damn good on you.”  He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.

            “Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”

            “I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”

            “You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”

            With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?           

            You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.

            Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.

            One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.

            When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.

            Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.

            You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.

            Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?

            You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.

            When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.

            If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.

            Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.

            The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.

            Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.

            You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.

            Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.

            “We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”

            “It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”

            “As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.

            “Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”

            “They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.

            It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?

            “Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.

            “Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”

            “Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.

            “Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.

            “It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.

            “I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.

            His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.

            “Three, two, one…”

            With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.

             Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.

            She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.

            “Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.

            The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.

            “Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.

            “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”

            “Not at all.” You respond honestly.

            Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.

            The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.

            “Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.

            “What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.

            “I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.

            “Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.

            “Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.

            Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.

            You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.

            You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.

            “Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.

            “What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?

            “I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”

            “Can’t be?”

            “I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.

            “I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.

            “Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.

            “You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.

            “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.

            “He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.

            “He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.

            “You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”

            “I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.

            “I know.”

            “Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.

            “I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”

            “Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.

            “Like what?”

            “You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.

            “The lines have been blurred for a long time.”

            “Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.

            “I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.

            “That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.

            “How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.

            “Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”

            “You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.

            “The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?

            Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.

            Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.

            It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.

            “Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.

            “It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.

            Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.

            “Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.

            “If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.

            “I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.       

            “Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”

            As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.

            When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.

            “Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.

            “If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.

            “I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.

            “You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.

            “I was just thinking.”

            “About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.

            “Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.

            “That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.

            Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.

            “Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.

            Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.

            You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.

            You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow.  Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…

            A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.

            You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.

            “I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.

            “Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.

            “I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”

            “Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.

            “How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.

            “How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”

            “Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”

            “Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.

            “I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

            “We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.

            “I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”

            “You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”

            “I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”

            “You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.

            “Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”

            You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.

            “It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

            “Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.

            “You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.

            “Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.

            “Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”

            “Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”

            “Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”

            “No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.

            “You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”

            “I do not.”

            “That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”

            Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.

            There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.

            As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.

            You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.

            Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.

            Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.

            “You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.

            “You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.

            “Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.

            “I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”

            “That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.

            Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.

            “Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt.  “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.

            Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.

            “What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.

            “He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”

            You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.

            “It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.

            “You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.

            “If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.

            “Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.

            “He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.”  A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.

            “Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.

            You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.

            “Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.

            “Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.

            “How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.

            “I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.

            “You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.

            “Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.

            “I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.

            “How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.

            “Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.

            “Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.

            “Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.

            “I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.

            “Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.

            “Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”

            “Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.

            “That’s not an answer.”

            “It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.

            “Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”

            Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.

            You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.

            Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.

            “You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.

            “I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.

            “Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”

            “Peggy—”

            “Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.

            “I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.

            “I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”

            “My problem?”

            “You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”

            “You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.

            “It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”

            Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.

            “They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.

            “How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.

            “It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.

            He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.

            “Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure.  The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.

            “Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.

            “Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”

            “Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.               

            “I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.

            “You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.

            “I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

            “And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”

            “With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.

            “Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.

            Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.

            It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?

            Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?

            The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.

            “She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”

            “You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”

            “I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.

            “You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.

            “It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.  

            “If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”

            “Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.

            “I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.

            “How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.

            “Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.

            “Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.

            No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.

            “There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.  

            “Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?

            “Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.

            “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

            “You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.

            “You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.

            “You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.

            Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.

            You taste like honey.

            You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.

            “What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.

            “Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”

            “That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”

            Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?

            “Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.

            “He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.      

            “Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.

            “What makes you ask that?”

            “I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”

            “It’s different for me.”

            “How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.

            “It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.

            “You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”

            Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.

            When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.

            “The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.

            “I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.

            “Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.

            “Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”

            “How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.

            “Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.

            “It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”

            “That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.

            “He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Yeah, he did."

            “No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”

            “Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.

            “That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.

            “I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”

            You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.

            Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.

            “He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”

            It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.

            “That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.

            “You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.

            “I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.

            “Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”

            “I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.

            “What?”

            “I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.

            “No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.

            You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.

            “Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.

            “What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.

            “Sit.”

            The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.

            “You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.     

            “Why not?”

            “Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"

            “But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.

            “Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.

            “Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.

            “I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”

            Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.

            “You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.

            “Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.

            “Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”

            Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?

            Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

            “I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.

            You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.

            “He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.

            “Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.

            You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.

            Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.

            “Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.

            “What?”

            “Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”

            Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.

            “Bucky—”

            “You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.

            “Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.

            “If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”

            “Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.

            “This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.

            “Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.

            “Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.

            “It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”

            “I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.

            “I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.

            “You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.

            “That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”

            Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.

            “You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.

            “Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.

            “I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”

            Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.

            “I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.

            “You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.

            “I can’t, but still…”

            “You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.

            The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.

            “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”

            “Bucky, I love you.”

            He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.

            His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.

            “If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.

            “You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.

            “Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”

            “I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.

            “That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.

            “Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”

            “I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.

            “I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.

            “How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.

            “Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”

            As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.

tag list

It's Not The Same River by @goldiwrites summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.

Drive You Home by @navybrat817 summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well. He can’t help but fall for you. But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy. He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore. He wants to be someone you can come home to.

Guilt of the Quiet One by @fromsil summary: your life was unraveling, little by little. bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. nothing made it easier, especially when one of metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.

Jump Then Fall @mcrdvcks summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.

Longing in Lane Three by @sunday-bug summary: You're spending your summer working at the local bowling alley and thirsting over your ex-best friend's dad, Bucky.

Manchild by @houseofhyde summary: bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.

I feel it Turning into Addiction by @sinner-as-saint summary: He was too old for this. Crushing on his next door neighbour? Unbelievable. He should leave the poor girl alone. But fuck, he couldn’t. Could he? After all, you were so sweet, and gentle, and kind, and always baked things in the middle of the night and left boxes and baskets filled with sweet-smelling treats at his doorstep for him to find almost each morning. And what did he do in return? He imagined all the sinful ways he could make you whine and whimper for him. He was bad for you, he knew that. People called him all sorts of things: criminal, gang leader, outlaw. Bucky Barnes was bad news. But did that stop him? No. You being so forbidden just solidified his addiction. Bucky Barnes never claimed to be a good man, so he’d do whatever it takes to get whatever he wanted. And all he wanted was you. good girl by sinner-as-saint summary: You come home all sad and upset after a horrible date, and your two best friends cheer you up in the best way ever. 

dark desire and tainted bliss by sinner-as-saint summary: Hiring you as his assistant was the best and the worst thing Bucky had done. He knew he shouldn’t be doing the things he was doing. He knew he shouldn’t have offered you to just live in the tower because it’s easier. He knows that this obsession of his will only breed problems. But the heart wants what it wants. And what Bucky wants, he gets.

Declassified by @dreamwritesimagines (another fav congressman!bucky fic) summary: Politics is a game that requires secrets, just like love.

Red Star Bruise on Tour by w1nter-fairy (rockstar bucky is my guilty pleasure)

summary: So, you've found your way to Backstage. This is the kind of tour that leaves marks: good, bad. Depends on the night, really (and how much of Bucky Barnes you can handle when the house lights go down and the after party's just getting started) Different by @quiteamessbabes summary: Clark is different. Different from your ex he can't stop thinking about, different from the men who couldn't make you cum.

It's not what you think by @alrisyl summary: clark cancels on you again for ‘work’ but it was a lie..

but he doesn't like me, does he? by fromsil summary: there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

Partition by @kimoralov3 summary: bucky's campaign is going smoothly, or as smoothly as it could go for someone who technically was a former assassin. but the real crime is bucky standing in front of you and looking so good, when you couldn't get your hands on him yet.

Checks and Balances by @pellucid-constellations summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough.  If We Talked by pellucid-constellations summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.

who did this to you? by @buckysleftbicep summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

bent and bruised by buckysleftbicep

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears.

Washington's Finest by @flofaiiry summary: Congressman Barnes has heard the stories from his colleagues on committee, he knows the stereotype that politicians in Washington often hire women to pursue their extracurricular activities- but he never expected to be the one to be in the need of such... services, much less the kind of man who'd actually seek them out

I Thought We Were Already Dating by @danysdaughter summary: you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it). I think I Love You by danysdaughter summary: You agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. But when loving Bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.

still yours by danysdaughter summary: bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost. when the sun hits (it matters where you are) by @rosesaints summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!)

reckless fever, lover girl by rosesaints

summary:you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now.

all mine, baby by @buckyseternaldoll summary: You crossed a line to finish the mission. Bucky saw it. Now he’s going to remind you who that pussy belongs to—with his mouth, his cock, and his name on your lips. use me. you're all mine. by buckyseternaldoll

summary: You were too sore to move. Too fucked-out to think. Good thing Bucky never minded doing all the work. eighteen hours. by buckyseternaldoll summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release. Every Time We Almost by buckyseternaldoll

Summary: Every time you almost had a moment—life got in the way. Night shifts, missions, exhaustion, missed calls and missed chances. But tonight, the universe finally gave you the time. And Bucky? He’s not wasting a second of it.

sergeant's magic mouth by buckyseternaldoll

summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.

Dead-End Heat by buckyseternaldoll

summary: After his divorce, John Walker hides out at the end of a dead-end road — quiet, wrecked, and alone. Until his new neighbor starts dancing naked by the window. And he stops pretending he’s not watching.

We Couldn’t Stop by @societyfolklore summary:  During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.

heavy in your arms by @buckytakethewheel summary: Bucky has big arms. And you've been dreaming about losing yourself in them since you saw him for the first time.

research purposes by @cursedheartsclub summary: What starts as “sex ed” with your shy, curious best friend turns into something neither of you can deny. He wants to learn. You want to teach. But somewhere between the videos, the moans, and the way he says your name—it’s not just research anymore.

bound to burn by cursedheartsclub

summary: You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part?

bad idea by @barnesonly summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving. Yearning by barnesonly

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

me and my husband by @venusheartsyou2 summary: bucky asks a lot of you. like that time he asked you to marry him, no-strings-attached, of course.

Busy Woman by @wbellab summary: You’ve always had a soft spot for Bucky Barnes. Shamelessly flirted just to see that annoyed look that made him look so good. He never gave you more than those quiet stares, jaw tight like he was holding something back. Fine by you. You had better things to do than wait around for a man stuck in the 40s. At least, that’s what you told yourself. A Thousand Times Before @marvelstoriesepic Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore. A Star Without a Sky by @vunblr summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Wanted by vunblr summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.

come back to me, please @little-miss-dilf-lover summary: bucky would never return home late from a mission, not if he could help it anyway. he would always give you updates and little texts when he gets the chance. though tonight he doesn’t message and all your texts go undelivered. you immediately think the worst and are left to wallow in your made up grief for hours before he returns back home to you.

Wanna Be Yours by @daddyjackfrost

summary: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.

What's Left of Me is Yours by @pleasantlycrazyworld summary: You didn’t want Bucky to know about the stalking. Not just because you were scared but because you knew what it could cost him. What it would pull out of him. But the second he finds out someone’s been watching you… he gives you a truth that chills you deeper than the fear ever could.

Firsts by pleasantlycrazyworld

summary: Bucky takes your virginity.

With All My Heart @street-smarts00 summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.

come back to me @peterparkive summary: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did. mrs. walker, if you're nasty by cursedheartsclub

summary: You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you.

only you by cursedheartsclub

Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home. You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary. But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.

bucky trying to help you forget about your ex, but can’t hold back his feelings anymore by cursedheartsclub

where the quiet lives by cursedheartsclub

Summary: You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.

say it by cursedheartsclub

summary: You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you. Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Completely innocently. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you. (He does. He always has.)

outside by cursedheartsclub

Summary: Your ex used to talk shit about John Walker. You all ran in the same Army circle– never close, but you knew each other. Then one night at the bar, John saw you walk in wearing that dress… and decided that your ex didn’t deserve to say your name ever again.

sweetpea by @artficlly

summary: After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.

the art of pretending by artficlly

summary: being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.

Lust by @barnesonly

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

need a ride? by @barnesandashes

summary: save a horse, ride a congressman. after waiting for congressman james bucky barnes to finish his emergency meeting— which lasted the whole night, he offers you a ride home, at the back of his motorcycle. like, what could go wrong?

There is never a moment in which I do not adore you.

- Marie Antoinette

You knew it was going to be a bad day by about 3am. Mostly because you woke up convinced someone had stabbed you.

A soft sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, your eyes squeezing shut as a particularly vicious cramp twisted through your lower abdomen. Jesus Christ. For one disorienting moment, you couldn't tell what the heavy weight pressing into you was. Then your brain slowly caught up.