Hyperfixated Lover

Because it shocked everyone so deeply, the Capitol decided to do something different with you. They called it rehabilitation. Snow called it necessary. And somewhere deep down, you called it freedom.

District 12 had never loved you much anyway. Not really. Not the way they loved your brother. Burdock had always been the good one, the easy one, the one people leaned toward without thinking. You, on the other hand, were sharper and quieter. You asked too many questions and noticed even more. After the Games, that kind of attention was dangerous.

So when you won, Snow knew exactly what to do with you. He wanted victors to seem untouchable, unrelatable, unreal. You were the example. When he suggested distance, silence, obedience, you did not fight it. You cut the thread clean. No visits. No letters. No looking back.

Your family made it easy. They did not try to contact you. Not before you were shipped off to the Capitol. Not after you won. Not even when you moved into the victor’s village.

It was easier this way, even if they never knew what it cost behind the scenes.

****

Life was fine. You were content, or at least as close to content as you allowed yourself to be. Everything sat exactly where it belonged. You lived alone in the Victor’s Village. You ignored the rest of District 12, and they returned the favor. No expectations. No attachments. Peace, fragile but real.

Then the next year came, and Haymitch Abernathy’s name was pulled from the bowl.

You did not attend the reaping. You did not have to. Victors rarely did, and since this was your first reaping since winning the Games, you gave yourself permission to avoid it. You told yourself it was self care. A day to stay inside. A day to breathe. The reaping would always bring the memories back, and you would have to face the tributes later anyway.

So you stayed home.

You sat at the small table in your kitchen, steam curling up from a bowl of soup as a Capitol soap opera flickered on the television. The colors were too bright, the smiles too wide. You barely watched it.

The pounding on your door came suddenly and violently enough to make you freeze.

You stared at the door for a long moment. No one ever came here. There was no reason for anyone to need you this quickly. Your escort would not arrive for hours.

With a quiet sigh, you set the spoon down and stood.

When you opened the door, the sight of Burdock stopped you cold.

He stood on your doorstep breathless, chest heaving, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were wide and frantic, the way they used to be when he was a boy running from trouble.

Your shoulders tensed immediately. “What are you doing here?”

Your mind raced ahead of your words. There was no way he had been reaped. Snow had promised. Your family would be left alone as long as you left them alone.

Burdock swallowed hard. “Haymitch. He was reaped.”

The words landed heavy and sharp, like a blow to the chest. His voice shook, desperation bleeding through every syllable.

You knew Haymitch. Of course you did. He had been glued to your brother’s side since childhood, always loud, always laughing, always impossible to ignore.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing slowly. “Okay,” you said, even though your heart had started to race. “What do you want me to do about that?”

Burdock stepped closer, his hands twisting together. “Please,” he said. “Please. You have to bring him home.”

You stared at him, disbelief rising hot and bitter in your chest. Then you laughed, sharp and humorless. “You came all this way for that?” you asked. “Burdock, you are asking the wrong person. So please leave.”

“You are the only one who can,” he insisted. “You are our first victor. You know how this works. You know what it takes to survive.”

“And in almost fifty years there has never been a District 12 victor,” you shot back, your voice tightening. “What makes you think two would win back to back? Especially during a Quarter Quell.”

He flinched but did not back down. “Because I know you,” he said quietly. “You are stubborn. You pretend you do not care, but you do. You always have. You survived the Games, and you are going to make sure he survives too.”

You clenched your jaw, looking away.

Barely, you wanted to say. You barely survived.

But Burdock was still standing there, eyes pleading, hope trembling on his face, and for the first time in years, you felt the careful distance you had built begin to crack.

*****

You hoped your first tributes would be easy. And you were way wrong. Your first year and you had four tributes. All of them were hard to control. You were all learning together. 

But Haymitch was interesting to say the least. Haymitch was fury wrapped in sarcasm and self destruction. He hated the Capitol. He hated the games. 

When you saw Haymitch after the reaping his jaw was set tight, his eyes scanning everything with open contempt. Then he saw you and froze.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “It’s you.”

You met his gaze without blinking “Congratulations,” you replied. “You survived the first step.”

Drusilla clapped her hands, “Why don’t we all board the train and get settled.”

Haymitch didn’t move just stared at you. “Your first year mentoring and look, all four of your tributes are going to die.”

You stepped closer lowering your voice. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” he snapped. “They’ll kill me faster?”

Your expression did not change. “They’ll kill you slower.”

And that got his attention. His lip then curled into a smirl. “So you’re really one of them now,” he said. “Capitol pet. All polished up.”

You felt the familiar sting, sharp and unwelcome. This is probably what everyone from their district thought. Still, you kept your tone even. “If you want to live, you’ll listen to me.”

He scoffed. “I don’t remember asking for your help.”

“You didn’t,” you said “My brother did.”

And that landed. His shoulders stiffened and for the first time, he looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, rougher. “He shouldn’t have come to you.” 

“Probably not, but he did.” You agreed. “And here we are.”

“You don’t have to pretend you care,” he muttered. “I know how this goes. You give advice, I die, and you go back to your nice empty house.”

You sat across from him folding your hands in your lap. “If you die,” you said calmly, “it will not be because I failed to warn you.”

He looked at you, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I know what it feels like to be this young and already written off.”

“Don’t get attached,” he said after a moment. “I’m not worth the trouble.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, smoothing the wrinkles from your clothes. “That is not your decision to make.” 

As you turned to leave, his voice followed you, quieter now. “You really think you can bring me home?”

You paused at the door. “I brought myself home,” you said. “Just try not to get in my way.”

****

The training center was loud in a way that scraped at your nerves.

Metal rang against metal, trainers barked orders, and the air hung heavy with sweat and frustration. You stood just outside the circle Haymitch had claimed, watching him hack at a practice dummy like it had personally wronged him. His swings were wild and furious, driven by anger instead of precision. Every strike landed too hard or too wide, the blade biting uselessly into padding instead of the marked targets.

“Stop,” you said.

Your voice cut cleanly through the noise.

Haymitch did not even look at you. He swung again, muscles straining, breath coming out in harsh bursts.

“Haymitch,” you said more sharply. “You are wasting energy.”

The blade slammed into the dummy with a hollow thud. He finally turned, sweat dripping down his temple, eyes blazing with something close to hatred.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he snapped. “Am I not doing it right? Should I smile more? Maybe they’ll like me if I look grateful.”

“They do not need to like you,” you replied, stepping closer. “They need to believe you are worth betting on.”

“I don’t want their money,” he shot back. “I don’t want their sponsors. I don’t want any of this.”

“You want to live,” you said calmly. “That should be enough.”

His laugh was sharp and ugly. “Easy for you to say. You already got your miracle.”

The word miracle landed like a slap.

You felt it in your chest, a familiar burn you had learned to swallow whole. You moved closer still, careful to keep your posture relaxed, your expression neutral. Anger was dangerous in this place.

“Do not confuse survival with luck,” you said.

He shook his head, sneering. “They loved you. That’s why you won. Tiny girl from Twelve who beat the odds. You were their favorite story.”

“They did not love me,” you said quietly. “They found me useful.”

He stepped toward you, invading your space. “And you really think you’re in control now? You think you beat them?”

Before he could swing again, you reached out and caught his wrist mid-motion. The blade stopped inches from your shoulder. His grip was strong, but your hold was steadier, your fingers pressing into the nerves you knew would make him hesitate.

“You are going to get yourself killed,” you said lowly.

He yanked his arm back, face flushed, chest heaving. “Then maybe that’s fine.”

The words were quieter, but they cut deeper.

“Say that again,” you demanded.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he shouted. Heads turned. Trainers paused. “They already took everything. My future. My family. My life. At least I get to choose how it ends.”

“That is not a choice,” you snapped. “That is giving up.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “You walked out of the arena. You got to go home.”

Something inside you finally broke.

“I did not go home,” you said, every word tight with control. “I walked into another cage. One that does not let you bleed where people can see it.”

The room seemed to shrink around you.

“You think I wake up grateful?” you continued. “You think I do not remember every face I had to put in the ground to survive? I was fourteen. Fourteen. And they never stopped watching me.”

His expression faltered, anger giving way to something raw and frightened.

“I am here,” you said, lowering your voice, “because my brother begged me. Because I promised him I would bring you home. And though you might think I couldn’t care less about them, you're wrong. And that’s why I’m here. Because he asked me.”

He stared at you, guilt and fear warring behind his eyes. His hands shook as he lowered the blade.

“I didn’t ask for your promise,” he muttered.

“No,” you said. “But you are going to live with it.”

Silence settled between you, heavy and electric. The trainers resumed their work. The other tributes slowly looked away.

After a long moment, Haymitch bent down and picked the blade up again. This time, he adjusted his grip, copying the way you had shown him earlier. His stance shifted, less reckless, more deliberate.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Show me again.”

You nodded once, turning back toward the dummy. You did not let him see the relief that loosened your chest or the faint, dangerous hope that flickered there.

For the first time, the fight had ended not in surrender, but in understanding.

***** 

They did not let you see him right away.

You stood in the sterile white hallway outside the medical wing, hands clasped behind your back so tightly your fingers ached. The air smelled sharp and clean, nothing like blood or smoke or fear, and somehow that made it worse. Capitol doctors moved past you without a glance, murmuring about stitches and internal bleeding and miraculous recoveries.

Miraculous.

You stared at the door at the end of the hall and waited.

When it finally opened, a nurse looked you over with something like pity. “You can go in now,” she said. “Briefly.”

The room was too bright.

Haymitch lay in the center of it, swallowed by white sheets and humming machines. Tubes ran from his arms and chest, bandages wrapped thickly around his torso and head. His face was pale beneath the bruises, lips cracked, lashes dark against skin that looked almost translucent.

For a terrifying second, you thought he was already gone.

Then his chest rose.

You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding and moved closer, footsteps careful, like you might wake something fragile. Up close, the damage was worse. Cuts stitched poorly beneath layers of ointment. Burns mottled his hands. One arm was immobilized completely, wrapped and suspended.

You had trained him for this. You told yourself that over and over. Still, guilt settled heavy in your stomach.

“Hey,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered.

It took a moment for them to focus, glassy and unfocused at first. When they finally landed on you, confusion crossed his face, followed by something softer. Relief, maybe.

“Did I…” His voice was hoarse, barely more than breath. “Did I make it?”

“You did,” you said quietly. “You won.”

A weak, disbelieving laugh slipped from him. “Figures.”

You pulled a chair closer and sat, careful not to touch him yet. You were afraid he might break if you did.

“They hated that,” he murmured. “The force field trick. You should have seen their faces.”

“I did,” you said. “They were furious.”

He smiled faintly, then winced as pain cut through it. “Worth it.”

You shook your head, throat tight. “You should not have had to be clever to survive.”

He studied you for a long moment, eyes sharper now despite the exhaustion. “You knew I would be.”

“I hoped,” you admitted. “I never assume with the Capitol.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with things neither of you knew how to say yet.

“You scared me,” you said after a moment. “More than you should have.”

He swallowed. “I thought about you…and Burdie” he admitted. “In the arena. Every time I wanted to give up.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time since the cannon had fired for the final tribute, you let yourself believe he was alive.

“You did not get lucky,” you said firmly. “You earned this.”

His gaze dropped. “They’re going to punish me for it.”

You did not deny it. “I know,” you said.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For not giving up on me. Even when I tried to.”

You covered his hand with yours before you could stop yourself. His skin was warm. Solid. Real.

“Get some rest,” you said softly. “You are not done yet.”

His eyes closed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Neither are you.”

As you sat there, machines humming steadily beside him, you understood something with sudden, aching clarity.

You had brought him home.

And in doing so, you had tethered your fates together in a way the Capitol could never fully sever.

****

He notices the patterns before he notices the bruises.

At first, it is timing. The way Capitol officials summon you at night, always after he has said something sharp on camera or refused to play along during an interview. The way you return hours later with your shoulders tight and your expression carefully blank. Too controlled. Too practiced.

He tells himself it is nothing. That this is just how victors live.

Then he starts noticing what you stop doing.

You no longer sit through his late-night rambling after interviews. You stop correcting his posture before cameras. You do not argue when he drinks. You watch him instead, like you are measuring something, counting something.

The first bruise he sees is small.

A fading purple bloom just above your collarbone, half hidden by the neckline of your dress. He catches it when you lean forward to adjust his tie before an interview. Your hands are steady. Yours always are.

His stomach drops.

“What happened to you?” he asks quietly.

You straighten immediately. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing.”

You meet his gaze, eyes sharp. “Do not ask me that again.”

The edge in your voice shuts him up, but it does not quiet the unease curling in his chest.

The second time, it is your wrist.

Wrapped in gauze. Poorly. Too tight.

He grabs your arm without thinking when you pass him in the hallway. You hiss softly before you can stop yourself.

Haymitch freezes.

“Who did this,” he demands.

You pull your arm free. “Let go.”

“Tell me.”

You lean in, lowering your voice so the cameras at the end of the hall cannot hear. “You broke a glass on stage,” you say calmly. “They do not like it when you scare the audience.”

The words do not make sense at first.

Then they do.

“No,” he says. “No. That’s not how this works.”

You look at him with something like pity. “That is exactly how it works.”

The realization hits him all at once, brutal and suffocating.

Every summons. Every late return. Every quiet flinch he pretended not to see.

“They’re hurting you,” he whispers. “Because of me.”

You do not deny it. “They would hurt someone,” you say. “I just make sure it is me.”

Something in him breaks. “I never asked you to do that,” he says hoarsely. “I never wanted that.”

“I know,” you reply. “That is why I do it.”

His hands shake. He does not bother hiding it. “You promised to bring me home. You didn’t promise to bleed for me.”

“I promised my brother,” you say. “And I promised myself.”

He laughs, broken and sharp. “You think this is protection? You think this saves me?”

“It does,” you say quietly. “You are still alive.”

The room feels too small. Too bright. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing like a trapped animal.

“They’ll kill you,” he says. “Slowly. And I’ll be standing there letting it happen.”

“You will survive,” you say firmly. “That is the only victory that matters.”

He stops in front of you, eyes burning. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”

“You don’t get to decide this at all,” you snap. “You are alive because you refuse to bend. Someone has to.”

Silence crashes down between you, heavy and merciless.

Finally, his voice drops to something raw. “Why me?”

You hesitate. Just for a second. “Because my brother came to me,” you say. “And because you deserve to live even if you do not believe it.”

He stares at you like he does not know how to exist with that truth.

That night, he does not drink.

The next day, he does not talk back during interviews.

The day after that, he stops smiling altogether.

*****

It does not happen all at once.

Haymitch does not announce it. He does not say goodbye. He simply starts disappearing.

The jokes stop first. Then the outbursts. Interviews become clipped, careful, painfully dull. When the cameras turn off, he does not linger. He does not drink with the others. He does not look for you in the corridors anymore.

At first, you think it is exhaustion. Then the summons stop.

No more late knocks on your door. No more carefully worded threats disguised as reminders. Days pass, then weeks, and your body begins to unlearn the tension it has carried for years.

That is when you understand. You find him on the train one night, sitting alone in the darkened dining car. No bottle. No audience. Just him and the hum of the rails.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you say.

He does not look up. “Go back to bed.”

“You stopped provoking them,” you continue. “You stopped being yourself.”

He exhales slowly. “I stopped giving them reasons.”

“You think they won’t find new ones?” you ask. “You think this ends it?”

“If it buys you time,” he says quietly, “it’s worth it.”

Anger flares sharp and sudden. “You do not get to make that choice for me.”

He finally looks at you then. His eyes are hollow, resolute. “I already did.”

You step closer. “You are erasing yourself.”

He swallows. “I’m protecting you.”

“You think isolation is protection?” you snap. “You think turning yourself into a ghost saves anyone?”

“It saves you,” he says. “And that’s enough.”

The words hit harder than any accusation.

“You cannot punish yourself for me,” you say. “That’s not how this works.”

He stands, towering over you now, voice low and fierce. “You taught me how this works. Every time I spoke out, they hurt you. So I stopped speaking.”

Silence stretches, unbearable.

“You didn’t have to,” you whisper.

“Yes,” he says. “I did.” He brushes past you, leaving you empty and cold.

****

Burdock finds you the next morning.

You are in the kitchen of your Victor’s house, staring at a cup of tea you have not touched. He does not knock. He never does anymore.

“This is your fault,” he says immediately.

You do not look up. “Say that again.”

“He won’t talk to anyone,” Burdock continues. “He won’t laugh. He won’t even come see me. He’s shutting himself away like he’s already dead.”

Your jaw tightens. “He’s alive.”

“Barely,” Burdock snaps. “And you let this happen.”

You stand slowly. “You begged me to bring him home.”

“I begged you to keep him alive,” Burdock says. “Not to turn him into this.”

“You think I wanted this?” you fire back. “You think I wanted him hollowed out just so Snow would look the other way?”

Burdock’s voice breaks. “You’re supposed to protect him.”

“I did,” you shout. “I am still doing it.”

He steps closer, eyes blazing. “By letting him destroy himself for you?”

Something in your chest cracks open. “I never asked him to,” you say. “I never wanted him to see what they were doing.”

“But he did,” Burdock says. “And now he’s paying the price.”

“So am I,” you whisper.

Burdock falters, anger flickering into something like guilt. “Then why does it feel like you’re the only one who gets to decide who bleeds?”

You swallow hard. “Because someone has to.”

The silence that follows is heavy and unresolved.

Burdock turns away first. “If he breaks,” he says quietly, “I won’t forgive you.”

The door closes behind him.

You sink back into the chair, hands shaking, and for the first time since the Games, you allow yourself to wonder whether survival always costs more than it gives.

And somewhere down the hall, Haymitch Abernathy sits alone, keeping his promise the only way he knows how.

By disappearing.

****

The fire burns itself out eventually.

What is left is smoke and ruin and the sickening quiet that follows something irreversible.

You do not remember walking away from the house. Only that at some point the heat fades, the air cools, and Haymitch is no longer shaking against you. He is rigid now. Too still. Like something dangerous has settled under his skin.

You bring him back to his place. Neither of you speaks.

Inside, he paces like a caged animal, boots tracking soot across the floor. His hands keep clenching and unclenching, like he is fighting the urge to break something. Or someone.

“Say something,” you whisper finally.

He stops so abruptly you nearly run into him.

“No,” he snaps. “You don’t get to tell me what to do tonight.”

“I’m not trying to control you,” you say. “I’m trying to keep you here.”

He laughs, sharp and furious. “Here? There is no here anymore.”

“You’re still alive,” you say. “That has to mean something.”

He turns on you then, eyes blazing. “It means nothing. Not without them. Not without any of it.”

“You don’t mean that. You have people. You have Burdock…”

“I do,” he says, voice rising. “I don’t care about Burdock. I don’t care about what he wanted or what he begged you to do. I did not survive that arena for him.”

The words hit hard.

“You shouldn’t say that,” you say quietly.

“I should say it because it’s true,” he fires back. “I couldn’t give less of a damn about him or anyone else who thinks they get a say in what I do now.”

You step closer, heart pounding. “Then why did you survive?”

He stares at you like the answer should be obvious.

“Because of you,” he shouts. “Because every time I thought about lying down and letting it end, I saw your face. I heard your voice telling me not to be stupid.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t survive for Twelve,” he continues, voice breaking into something raw and furious. “I didn’t survive for my family or my brother or some idea of being brave. I survived because I love you.”

The words crash into the room, uncontained and dangerous.

“I love you,” he repeats, stepping closer now, hands shaking. “I loved you when you dragged me through training like I was a problem you refused to give up on. I loved you when you took the pain I deserved and never told me. I loved you when you looked at me like I mattered.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you do not look away.

“I am done pretending I care about anyone else’s expectations,” he says hoarsely. “I understand why you pushed everyone away. They don’t get us. They don’t get what we’ve been through. How we changed. I am going to push everyone away. Burdock. The Capitol. District Twelve. All of them. I don’t care if they hate me for it.”

He stops inches from you. “But not you,” he says quietly. “Never you.”

Your voice trembles. “Haymitch, that kind of isolation will destroy you.”

He lifts a hand, brushing soot from your cheek with surprising gentleness. “Maybe. But losing you already would.”

“You can’t build a life out of rage,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees. “But I can survive it.”

Silence stretches, heavy and electric. “You don’t have to disappear for me,” you say. “You don’t have to burn everything down.”

“I already did,” he says softly, glancing toward the window where smoke still lingers in the night air. “This is all I have left.”

You take his shaking hands in yours, grounding him. “Then look at me,” you say. “If you’re going to stay, stay with me. Not just out of anger. Not just out of fear.”

His eyes soften just a fraction.

“I don’t know how to love you without it hurting,” he admits.

You step closer until your foreheads touch. “We’re victors,” you whisper. “Pain was never optional.”

He exhales, something fragile breaking loose in his chest. “I don’t care if the world burns,” he murmurs. “As long as you’re standing with me.”

You close your eyes. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since the fire, since the loss, since the Games, Haymitch Abernathy lets himself cling to something without apology. Love, furious and ruinous and real.

And this time, he does not let go.

**** 

From the outside, Haymitch Abernathy is exactly what everyone says he is.

A drunk.

An asshole.

A victor who gave up trying to look like one.

He smells like cheap liquor and old anger. He slurs through mentor meetings, mocks the Capitol on camera just enough to stay alive, and barely pretends to care when new tributes are thrown into his arms. People whisper that he is a disgrace. That he wasted his miracle. That he could have been something better.

They are not wrong.

They are also not seeing the whole picture.

Because Haymitch is never alone.

She is always there.

Not hovering. Not correcting him. Just there, steady as gravity. Sitting at the edge of the room during mentor briefings, hands folded, eyes sharp. Walking a half-step behind him through the Capitol corridors, ready to catch him if he stumbles, ready to disappear if he does not.

They do not touch much in public. Not in ways that cameras would notice. But Burdock sees the small things. The way Haymitch angles his body toward her without thinking. The way she always knows when he has had enough and steers him away before things turn dangerous. The way he listens to her when he listens to no one else.

When Haymitch drinks too much, she takes the bottle away without a word. When he snaps at an escort, she smooths it over later. When he says something that earns a Capitol glare, she is the one summoned. 

Burdock knows what that costs.

The Games took the first piece of her when she was fourteen. They took Haymitch a year later. And then, slowly and methodically, they took everything else.

They took Haymitch’s family in fire and smoke. They took her chance at ever being untouched again.

What remains is this strange, broken partnership the Capitol never quite understands. 

Haymitch does not protect anyone anymore. Not the tributes. Not District Twelve. Not Burdock. But he protects her. In the only ways he has left.

He keeps his worst rage aimed outward so it never turns on her. He makes himself unapproachable so the Capitol looks past her first. He leans into the stereotype, lets them believe he is careless and ruined, because ruined men are easier to control.

And through it all, she stays.

She does not ask him to be better. She does not ask him to stop drinking. She does not ask him to forgive the world that burned them both alive. She simply chooses him, again and again, in quiet ways that matter more than promises ever could.

Burdock watches them on reaping days.

Haymitch is cruel and drunk and impossible, barking orders at children he knows will probably die. The crowd hates him for it. Burdock hates him for it, sometimes.

But she stands at his side, eyes never leaving the tributes, absorbing the weight he refuses to carry anymore.

When the ceremony ends, Haymitch does not go home with the crowd.

He waits for her.

Always.

They walk back together, not touching, not talking much. Just two figures moving in sync through a district that no longer knows what to do with them.

Burdock knows he should resent her.

She was supposed to bring Haymitch home. She did. And in doing so, she lost him in a different way. Burdock lost them both to the Games. To the Capitol. To survival that looks nothing like living.

But when Burdock watches her steady Haymitch on the steps of the Victor’s Village, hears him mutter something sharp only for her to answer softly, sees the way his anger eases just a fraction when she is near, he understands something painful and true.

The Games took the two most important people in his life.

They hollowed them out. Scarred them. Bent them into shapes that no longer fit the world they came from.

But at least they have each other.

In a place built to isolate and destroy, they chose to stay.

Now you are thinking about it again, about how it will end. This time you will not face it with strangers, but with your friends, the people you love as family.

There is a bitter cruelty in surviving only to be asked to keep surviving, in learning that victory never meant escape at all.

You couldn't even blame Katniss. The Capitol had always planned to destroy the victors. Now they simply had an excuse.

Sleep never really came that night, but you had not expected it to. You lay awake with the weight of every what if pressing down on your chest.

What if you had never been reaped. What if you had died in the Games. What if you had never volunteered. What if tomorrow was the day it finally ended.

Your thoughts drifted to District Five, to the people who whispered your name in their prayers.

To your parents, who had already learned how to mourn a child who still breathed.

To your friends, the ones you were being asked to fight.

To Mason, who would choose you even at the cost of his own survival.

To Cash, a sister in another life.

To Finnick, who might have been spared so much if death had claimed him earlier.

To Mags, who spent decades trying to save the children of her district only to watch them die, or worse, live and lose themselves.

Even Katniss and Peeta, children carrying a revolution they never asked for.

And Haymitch. The one you wished you had been given more time with.

You did not know how the Games would end, but you knew one thing with terrible certainty. You were not going to make it out alive.

The only mercy you could hope for was timing. You hoped death would come quietly, when no one was awake to watch it happen.

Maybe then your parents would not have to see the light leave your eyes.

Maybe Haymitch would be spared the sound of a heart stopping again, another love lost to the Capitol.

You prayed it would be fast. You prayed it would not hurt. You even found yourself praying that it would come from the hands of someone you loved, because at least then it would be gentle. At least then it would be human.

The guards came for you in the morning. You barely registered the sound of their boots. You had cried yourself empty through the night, twisting in the sheets, choking on sobs until there was nothing left in you to give.

When the sun rose, the tears stopped. You felt hollowed out. You could still cry if you let yourself, but you would not. You would not give them that satisfaction.

When the guards stepped away and left you alone to change, the silence pressed in. That was when you noticed your hands. They were shaking so badly you had to curl them into fists, like you could hold yourself together by force alone.

"Y N?”

“Effie?” Your voice barely worked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m with Peeta,” she said, hands twisting together like she was afraid they might shake apart. “But I needed to see you first.” Her smile tried to appear and failed halfway through. “Haymitch wanted to come.” Her eyes flicked to the floor. “I told him it would only hurt you both.”

You nodded. The image hit you anyway. Haymitch standing in the doorway, seeing you dressed like this, knowing what it meant. Knowing he had already lived this ending once before. You could not survive watching him break again. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “I do.” The word came out sharp, desperate. “You stayed. When everyone else didn’t.” Your chest tightened. “You took care of him. You took care of those kids. You kept showing up even when it was unbearable.” Tears slipped free. “And I know I don’t have the right, but I need you to promise me something.”

Effie stilled.

“He’s going to fall apart,” you said. “Maybe not all at once. Maybe not where anyone can see it. But he will.” Your breath shook. “I need you to be there when he does. I need you to keep him standing. For the kids.” Your voice broke. “He will listen to you when he won’t listen to anyone else.”

Effie’s eyes filled instantly. “Oh, my dear,” she whispered. “You should not be worrying about him. You should be worrying about yourself.”

“There is no self left,” you said quietly. “Not after this.”

She made a sound then. Small. Broken. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around you like she was trying to hold you here. “You and Haymitch deserved more,” she sobbed into your shoulder. “You deserved a life. Quiet mornings. Growing old.” Her grip tightened. “This isn’t fair.”

“I know,” you murmured. “But it’s done.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her. “Just promise me you’ll keep him sober. Keep him angry if you have to. Anything but gone.” Tears blurred your vision. “Protect the kids. Even from him.” Your voice dropped to almost nothing. “Especially from him.”

Effie nodded, crying openly now. “I promise.”

You held up your pinky. It felt childish. Sacred. Necessary.

She linked hers with yours, trembling. “Pinky promise.”

The knock at the door made your heart jolt painfully against your ribs.

“I have to go,” Effie whispered. “I need to send Peeta off.”

“Go,” you said, forcing a smile that felt like it might tear your face apart.

She hesitated, then rummaged through her pocket. “I almost forgot.” She pressed something warm into your hand. “I gave everyone something gold. To remind us we were a team.” Her voice wavered. “And you are part of that. You always were.”

She placed it in your palm carefully, like it was something that could break.

A gold chain. Not flimsy. Not decorative. Something meant to last. At the end hung a small emblem, warm from her hand.

You stared at it like you did not understand what you were seeing. “A goose,” you whispered, and your laugh came out broken around a sob.

Effie nodded, swallowing hard. “He talks about it all the time. About wanting to raise a whole flock with you.” Her voice cracked. “He says the first one will be called—”

“Sunny,” you said softly.

The word hit you like a bruise you forgot you had. You closed your fingers around the chain, felt the weight of it, the cold of the gold against your skin.

“Whenever we were together,” you said, voice trembling, “we used to just… stand in the sun. Like if we let it touch us long enough, nothing else could.” Your eyes stung. “The heat. The warmth. It felt like something the Capitol couldn’t reach.”

Effie pressed a hand to her mouth. “That’s beautiful,” she wept.

“He used to say the reapings and the Games would happen no matter what,” you whispered. “Sure as the sun would rise tomorrow.” You looked down at the chain again, at the goose, at the bright gold that felt almost cruel in its beauty. “But he’s wrong.” A tear slipped free. “This time is different.”

Another knock, louder.

You clutched the chain tighter. “The sun isn’t rising for them,” you said, voice barely holding together. “It’s rising for us.”

Effie nodded, tears slipping freely now. “Gold doesn’t fade,” she whispered. “Neither does love.”

Your breath shattered. “And I love you all so much,” you said, the words breaking out of you in a laugh that hurt and a sob that would not stop.

“And we love you too,” Effie said at once.

Her eyes drifted to your chest, to the thin chain already warm against your skin. The ring hanging from it caught the light. Effie swallowed hard, then looked back at the heavier gold resting in your palm.

“This one’s stronger,” she said quietly. “It won’t snap.” Her voice trembled. “So you don’t have to worry about losing it.” She could not bring herself to say where.

You threaded the ring onto the chain with shaking fingers. The metal clicked softly, a tiny sound that felt enormous in the quiet. You pressed it to your palm like you could press it into your skin, like you could keep it there forever.

Effie made a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a breath.

Another knock, final.

“I have to go,” she whispered again.

“I know.” You swallowed hard. “Thank you. For everything. For him.” Your voice broke. “He’ll never say it, but you’re the best friend he’s ever had.”

Effie collapsed into you one last time, arms tight, desperate. “It has been a pleasure,” she cried, “Y/N Abernathy.”

When she pulled away, her face was wrecked. She tried to straighten her posture anyway, like she could still be your escort, like she could still make this manageable, like she could still make it pretty.

She turned, and you heard her try to swallow her sobs as she rushed out.

And when the door shut, you were alone with the chain in your fist and  the ring against your skin.

You shook yourself, forcing your mind back into place. There was no time to fall apart now.

You pulled your hair into a tight ponytail, hands steady only because you willed them to be. Then your gaze dropped to the chain resting in your palm.

You lifted the thin chain from around your neck, fingers brushing the ring that had never left your skin.

Carefully, almost reverently, you slid it onto the heavier gold chain. The ring slipped down until it rested against the goose emblem, metal touching metal. Something about it made you smile, just barely. Like a reminder that even here, even now, you were still loved.

You took a slow breath and looked around the room one last time. Then you tightened your ponytail again, squared your shoulders, and stepped onto the hovercraft. You sat down without speaking.

A guard stopped in front of you. “Your arm.”

You stared at him for a beat too long before holding it out. The needle pierced your skin. The tracker burned as it went in, sharp and unpleasant, but you barely reacted. Pain felt distant. Manageable.

After that, everything blurred. The world turned blue and hollow, like you were underwater. Voices washed over you without meaning. You could not focus on anything long enough for it to stick. You were terrified. There was no use pretending otherwise.

It was not going to be easy. But you had a purpose. No matter the cost, you had to keep Katniss and Peeta alive. That was the job. That was the promise.

When the hovercraft landed, you followed the Peacekeepers without resistance. Their boots echoed as they escorted you down the hall and into a small room. The door slammed shut behind you, the sound final and unforgiving.

“Sixty seconds until launch.”

The voice hit you like a memory you did not ask for. Suddenly you were young again.

Small. Standing in another room just like this one. For a fleeting moment, you wanted to run. To bolt for the door and keep going until your lungs gave out.

But no one ever made it far. And you could not leave behind an empty space where you had been. Not for them.

You stepped into the tube and closed your eyes.

You tried to force yourself back into the same headspace as the last time. The one where survival still felt possible. Where hope was something you could cling to. But the truth pressed in too quickly, too heavily. This time was different. This time, you already knew how it would end.

You were not walking toward survival

You were running toward your death.

So you stopped trying to pretend otherwise.

The platform shuddered beneath your feet and began to rise. Your stomach dropped with it. This was it. The final movement. The last moment before everything else was taken from you.

You opened your eyes, trying to slow your breathing, but your heart refused to listen. Darkness swallowed you first. Then light exploded around you, so bright it burned behind your eyes.

When your vision cleared, warmth crashed over you. Thick. Heavy. Almost suffocating. Trees stretched high into the sky, green and endless, while water surrounded the platform on all sides. It felt unreal. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.

You swayed slightly, disoriented, staring out at the water like it might swallow you whole. You turned to your right, desperate, searching for something familiar.

Mason.

He was not there.

Your throat tightened painfully. To your right stood someone from District Nine. To your left, Enobaria. She gave you a soft nod before looking straight ahead.

You scanned the area again, your pulse roaring in your ears. Everyone was scattered. Isolated. Platforms spaced just far enough apart to make reaching anyone impossible. Faces filled with confusion. Panic. The terrible realization setting in all at once.

“Let the Seventy Fifth Hunger Games begin.” The words slammed into you like a sentence being read aloud. You tried to steady your breathing. Failed. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

You searched again. Mason. Katniss. Peeta. Anyone. But the water and distance swallowed them all. “Ten.” Your hands trembled violently. “Nine.” You forced them still.

“Eight.”You curled your fingers into fists. “Seven.” Your hand found the chain at your chest. Six.”The familiar weight grounded you for half a second.

“Five.” You kissed the ring. Then the goose. Metal cold against your lips. “Four.” Haymitch’s face flashed in your mind. His voice. His hands. The way he looked at you like you were something he did not deserve.

“Three.” You wondered if he was watching. If he was already breaking.

“Two.” You inhaled deeply, the breath shaking in your lungs.

“One.” The cannon fired.

You dove into the water without hesitation, without looking back, leaving the platform behind as the water rushed up to meet you. 

The last thing you felt before it swallowed you was the weight of the chain against your chest and the certainty that there was no turning back.

*****

Author's Note:

Y’all, I wasn’t completely sure how I wanted to play the Games, which is why I held off on starting them. This update is shorter than what I usually post, but I hope you still enjoyed it. I had so much fun writing this and cannot wait to continue.

Pleaseeee continue commenting, it actually is my highlight!

ALSO PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT A TAG OR IF I MISSED YOU BY ACCIDENT!!!!!

Just three words. That’s all it took.

The moment the broadcast cut off and the cameras were shut down, the silence in the room was deafening.

For a breath, no one moved. No one spoke.

And then you did.

“What the hell, Mom?” Your voice cracked the silence like a whip. You stood there, eyes wide, hands clenched at your sides as you tried to wrap your head around what had just happened. “We are not the New Avengers. We’re not even a team. How could you just decide that for us?”

“Well, that’s not what a few hundred thousand people on the internet are currently tweeting—”

“Shut up, Mal,” you snapped without even looking at her. Your focus stayed locked on your mother. Everyone else fell silent.

“You know how deeply fucked up this is, right?” Your voice shook, not from fear, but fury raw, hurt, personal. “You knew what the team meant to me. What being an Avenger cost me. You knew, and you still went and did this. Without our consent, without even telling us, and in front of the entire goddamn world.”

Valentina tilted her head, her expression softening in that way that only ever made you feel more cornered. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss being the woman you used to be? Powerful. Untouchable. Out in the field, saving lives, leading missions you can’t tell me you didn’t love it.”

You took a slow step back. Something in your chest cracked. “No,” you said, quieter this time, but with far more weight. “I don’t miss it. I have a family now. A daughter who needs me. A husband who’s already given more than anyone ever should. I have a life, Mom…something you’ve never made room for in yours.”

There it was. The sting. You saw it hit her and just for a second her lips pressed together and her posture stiffened ever so slightly. But before she could answer, you turned and walked out away.

And for a while, no one moved.

“…Ouch,” Alexei muttered under his breath, drawing a chorus of glares from the rest of the team.

John cleared his throat awkwardly and looked around. “So, uh… what are we supposed to do now?”

That’s when Valentina’s voice cracked just barely. “Bucky… please.”

It wasn’t commanding. It wasn’t sharp or calculating or laced with manipulation like most things that came out of her mouth. It was low. Raw. Almost pleading.

The team collectively turned to look at Barnes, surprised to see her of all people look to him for help.

But Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just exhaled slowly staring at the space where you had been standing moments earlier.

He understood more than anyone what you were feeling, what it meant to be used, to be chosen for something you didn’t agree to, to have your agency stripped away by people who believed they were doing what was best. And he knew this hurt even more coming from your mother.

Bucky’s arms were folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched like he was holding back every word he wanted to say and only letting out what needed to be said.

“She needs space,” he said finally, voice low and deliberate, each word carefully measured. “You ambushed her on live television. You didn’t give her a choice. And if you know her at all, Val, you’d know that’s the one thing she’ll never forgive.”

Valentina’s mouth opened like she might push back, but then she caught the look in his eyes. Something in it stopped her cold. She closed her mouth, her expression flickering, but she said nothing.

Bucky exhaled slowly and pushed off the wall. His gaze swept over the rest of the group, still stunned, still silent, still waiting for someone to tell them what the hell to do next.

“There’s a lot we need to figure out,” he said, his voice softer now but still edged with that unmistakable weight he carried. “But not here. Not right now. We’re all tired, we’re all probably bleeding somewhere.”

“I’m hungry,” Alexei offered helpfully, only to grunt as Yelena elbowed him in the ribs.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Knowing Y/N, she’s probably stress-cooking something she swears is ‘therapeutic.’ There’ll be food.”

The team exchanged uncertain glances. It was clear now they were looking to him whether they meant to or not. 

He groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Just… get in the damn van. Don’t talk. Don’t argue. Don’t touch anything. We’ll sort it out when we get there.”

As the others moved toward the vehicle like reluctant kids on a field trip, John muttered behind a cough, “Bossy.”

Bucky’s glare shot over his shoulder. “Say that again, Walker, and you’re walking.”

John raised both hands, conceding without another word.

Alexei started veering toward the front passenger door until Bucky grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back without a word.

Bucky opened the driver-side door, then paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder at the woman still standing in the hallway.

“Val,” he said, not looking at her. Just the name, cold and clipped. “Get in the car.”

Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind him.

Valentina stood still for a moment longer, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. And yet… there was the faintest curve to her lips. Barely a smile. More like an echo of one.

She straightened her coat, composed her face, and walked toward the van. It wasn’t a victory. But it was something.

By the time they pulled up the long, winding drive, the van had gone quiet. The country house came into view just as the trees thinned, sunlight catching on the pale blue siding and wraparound porch like something out of an old novel.

A white picket fence framed the yard, an actual picket fence with tiny flower beds blooming stubbornly despite the season.

The van doors creaked open one by one as the team stepped out, blinking into the warm light.

“Holy hell,” Ava muttered, taking in the house. “It’s like a Norman Rockwell painting had a baby with Pinterest.”

“Is this a safe house?” John asked, blinking. “Because this feels… very unsafe. Emotionally.”

Bucky stepped out last, letting the gravel crunch under his boots. He didn’t say anything at first just stared up at the porch like it was a secret he’d never expected to share. It was the dream. His dream. The one he thought he’d buried somewhere back in 1943.

Unlike the rest of the team, he got it.

He turned back to them, arms crossed, face stone-serious. “Alright, ground rules,” he said. “No arguing. No touching anything. And if you’re bleeding, don’t ruin the carpet.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “So… same rules as before.”

“Wait, but can we talk this time? It was silent in the van and I can’t do that again.” Bob asked, genuinely confused.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Yes, you can talk. Just use your indoor voices. That includes you, Alexei.”

“I HAVE a very soft inside voice,” Alexei protested, loudly.

Bucky just gave him a long, deadpan stare before turning and opening the front door.

The house welcomed them with warmth. Actual warmth. The kind that smelled like cinnamon and clean linen and something baking faintly in the oven. The floors were hardwood, the walls a soft cream, photos lining the hall real ones. Family ones. You, Bucky, and your daughter.

For a moment, none of them moved.

“It’s… so normal,” Ava whispered.

“For an ex-Avenger and a reformed murder machine, this is aggressively wholesome,” Yelena added, eyes wide as she took in the fireplace, kids drawings pinned to the fridge, and a tiny pair of rain boots by the door.

They moved farther into the house, voices low and full of hesitant awe. The kitchen buzzed faintly with the smell of tomato sauce and something sweet and beyond the living room was a small play area filled with soft toys and building blocks.

“Oh my god,” Alexei said suddenly, pointing toward the stone chimney. “He has a fireplace. Does Santa Claus come here? Do you do Christmas? I want to light the fire!”

Bucky snapped his fingers. “No fires. No touching. No, anything, unless you want a time-out like a misbehaving five-year-old.”

“Do I get snacks during the time-out?” Alexei asked.

Before Bucky could respond, there was a sudden patter of little feet  quick, determined, chaotic.

Then—

“DAAADAAAAAA!!”

A blur of curls and giggles launched itself from the hallway at top speed.

Lily.

Wearing a tutu over leggings, one sock, a blanket tied around her neck like a cape, and a sticker on her forehead, she barreled across the hardwood floor in the unsteady gallop only a toddler could manage.

Bucky barely had time to crouch before she collided into his arms with full-force toddler enthusiasm, wrapping herself around his neck and squealing with delight.

He caught her with practiced ease, lifting her into the air and spinning her once just once, before settling her against his chest. His face, so often locked in that grumpy older-man scowl, softened in a way most of the team had never seen.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the side of her curly head. “You hear Daddy yelling?”

She nodded furiously, tiny fingers gripping the collar of his shirt. “No yelling in-da house,” she said with stern toddler authority, eyes wide.

He smiled. “You’re right. I broke the rule. I’m sorry.”

Lily beamed, arms wrapped tight around her father’s neck like a tiny, tutu-wearing koala. And the second her cheek pressed into Bucky’s shoulder, his entire body softened, shoulders relaxed, jaw unclenched, eyes crinkling with warmth he rarely let anyone see.

“There’s a baby soldier,” Alexei whispered, almost reverent.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “She looks like she’s two, not a KGB sleeper agent.”

“Same thing at that age,” he muttered.

Lily peeked out from the crook of Bucky’s neck and noticed the small crowd in her living room strangers, tall and loud and new. Instantly, her boldness shrank. She burrowed deeper into her father’s hoodie like a shy little mouse.

Bucky adjusted his grip and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “It’s alright, Lils,” he murmured gently, rubbing her back in slow circles. “Come say hi to some friends.”

Friends was a stretch. But she didn’t need to know that. He stepped closer to the team, shifting Lily so she could peek over his shoulder.

“This is Alexei, Yelena, Bob, Ava, John, and—”

“NANA!” Lily suddenly squealed, exploding into excited grabby hands.

Valentina’s face lit up in pure surprise and joy the cool, calculating woman they’d all known melted in an instant as she rushed forward and took Lily into her arms with practiced ease.

“My beautiful girl,” Valentina whispered, kissing her granddaughter all over her cheeks. “You’ve grown so much.” And she had. Lily was the perfect blend of both her parents ’ eyes, your smile, and more personality in one sparkly sneaker than half the team combined.”Say hi to Daddy’s friends,” Val coaxed, stroking her curls.

Lily looked over Valentina’s shoulder at the group of strangers in the room and gave a tiny wave, followed by a shy little “Hi…” that instantly disarmed every hardened assassin and battle-worn operative present.

Bob clutched his chest. “I think I just had a heart attack.”

“I didn’t know Bucky Barnes was capable of producing joy, especially one this adorable,” Ava whispered.

“I need to sit down,” John muttered.

“She waved at me,” Alexei said proudly. “She likes me.”

“No one likes you,” Yelena deadpanned.

Just then, your voice floated in from the hallway.

“When I walked away, it meant I wanted to be alone,” you said, folding your arms, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. You’d cleaned up since the earlier blowout, changed clothes, hair tied back, face calm. Still, your eyes sparkled the second they landed on Lily.

Bucky turned toward you, one brow raised, mouth tugging into the smallest smile. “By the way the house smells, I think part of you was hoping for company.”

You rolled your eyes with a small laugh. Then your gaze found your mother holding Lily.

Val took a cautious step forward. “Y/N—”

“Mom, don’t,” you cut in, gently but firmly, arms crossed again. “Not today.”

Val nodded once, the sting in her eyes well-hidden behind a diplomatic smile. You glanced at Lily, who now rested her head against Val’s shoulder like she belonged there. It twisted something in your chest, but you pushed it down.

“Right now, I want a glass of wine, some actual food, and only good vibes,” you said, voice calm but commanding. Val didn’t argue. She didn’t even try. You turned to the team, hands on your hips, a small but genuine smile creeping in.“Lasagna’s in the oven. Should be ready in twenty.”

The team blinked like you’d just offered them tickets to paradise.

“Homemade lasagna?” Bob asked, his voice cracking.

“Oh, this is a trap,” Ava whispered. “We’re gonna be poisoned.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alexei said, already moving toward the dining room. “I will fight for pasta.”

“Do you need help setting the table?” Yelena asked, only half-sarcastic.

“Only if you can manage it without stabbing someone,” you quipped.

“...no promises.”

~~~~

The team had slowly started spreading out across the living room in various states of exhaustion. They were all full from dinner.

Yelena curled up on the armchair with a throw blanket and a bowl of grapes that she claimed she needed as a dessert. Bob and Ava sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to beat each other at a half-finished card game. John sprawled on the couch, nursing a glass of something suspiciously non-water, while Alexei loudly snored with his head tipped back and mouth wide open nobody had the heart to wake him.

But the real show was on the rug.

Bucky hadn’t moved in a while still flat on his back, one arm slung lazily across his chest, the other now cradling a very sleepy Lily. She was curled up like a cat on his torso, little fingers tangled in the fabric of his henley, blinking up at him with heavy eyes.

No one in the room was talking anymore. The sight had quieted them. Lily reached up and gently squished Bucky’s nose with one hand. “Boop,” she whispered, barely awake.

Bucky chuckled softly. “Boop back,” he murmured, tapping her tiny nose with his finger.

“She’s gonna rule the world,” Yelena whispered with a smirk.

“She already does,” Ava replied, eyes soft.

“Barnes,” John called across the room, voice hushed. “You’re a complete marshmallow.”

“Yeah?” Bucky grunted, not even looking at him. “Say that again and I’ll throw you into the fire pit.”

Lily giggled sleepily.

“You wouldn’t,” John said, smirking.

Bucky finally glanced up, steel blue eyes sharp. “Try me.”

John held up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”

Valentina sat quietly at the edge of the room, watching her granddaughter with awe. That little girl was a piece of you. A living, breathing reminder of everything she'd never fully understood about her daughter… and everything she still longed to be part of.

She loved that little girl more than she ever thought possible. And for once, Val didn’t see legacy or strategy just family. She knew she’d messed up. The New Avengers had been her attempt to stay connected to you, even if it meant forcing it. She wanted to be part of your life. For Lily. For you. Even if she had no idea how to begin.

You stepped out from the hallway with a cozy knit blanket and crossed to where Bucky and Lily lay. You knelt beside them, laying the blanket over both their bodies. Lily instantly turned to burrow against you, one hand still holding onto Bucky’s sleeve like a lifeline.

“She out?” you asked softly.

Bucky nodded. “Mostly. Fighting it. She’s stubborn.”

“Wonder where she gets that from,” you teased.

“Pretty sure it’s the Barnes side,” Bob said without looking up.

“Definitely,” you smirked.

Bucky smiled faintly and leaned his head toward yours. “She’s the best of both of us,” he said softly, only for you.

You brushed Lily’s curls back from her forehead and leaned in to kiss her temple.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “She really is.”

The moment lingered, quiet and safe. Lily’s breathing evened out, and her grip on Bucky’s shirt finally loosened.

You looked around at the team, surprisingly still, still respectful. Valentina gave you a slight nod from across the room. Maybe things would never be perfect between you. But this…this could be a start.

You glanced back down to see that Bucky was still looking at you that quiet, unwavering gaze. “I missed this,” he murmured, voice low and real.

You reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “Me too.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles slowly. “Can’t believe they’re all here.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “They’re crazy, but not the worst. Lily’s basically adopted a dozen aunts and uncles overnight.”

Bucky gave you that rare, crooked smile the one that used to make your knees weak. His hand moved to Lily’s back, resting there like instinct.

From the corner, someone coughed loudly.

John. “Wow. So many emotions. Should we all leave or just… pretend to be asleep?”

“Shut up,” Ava muttered, launching a pillow at his face without looking.

Bucky didn’t even blink. He just closed his eyes, his daughter nestled against him, your hand in his, surrounded by the quiet hum of laughter, muffled conversation, and a warmth he hadn’t known he could have.

Chuck Taylors & Emotional Damage:  Slightly unhinged? Perfect. Turns out super soldiers love that. (AJ Lee Inspo)

The Quiet Between Us: Falling for Bucky was easy. The silence after? That's what hurt the most.

The Cost of Sides: You and Bucky seem to be on opposite sides

Everything's Just Perfect: You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.

In the Middle: Being caught in the middle is always hard.

You Caught Me: You're Valentina's assistant, and somehow, you manage to fall in love with a certain Congressman.

What Comes After War: Married to Bucky Barnes and raising their daughter, you thought the fighting was over until your mother had other plans.

Hunger Games

Haymitch Abernathy Fics

A Pawn Once More (2) (3): Haymitch has spent years hiding his love for the one Victor he couldn't lose. Then the Quarter Quell changes everything.

Silver Springs: The tragic yet beautiful love story of a District 12 Victor and a Capitol Princess.

Bread, Stew, and Tears: After Snow’s Quarter Quell announcement, you turn to cooking for comfort, but this time, even that can’t save you.

Finnick Odair Fics

The President's Daughter: Arianna Flemings-Snow, adopted daughter of Coriolanus Snow, volunteers for the 75th Hunger Games. But stepping into the arena means facing more than just danger; it means surviving alongside the man she loves.

The President's Daughter (2): Training Day

Criminal Minds

Spencer Reid Fics

My Girls: Six years ago, Spencer Reid vanished on his wedding day, leaving Eleanor Black behind in her dress. Now, a case drags him back to Vegas and straight into the past he thought he left behind.

Silver Springs: A murder case brings Spencer face-to-face with his ex. She's the victim. The past isn't dead after all.

Children of the Dark: The BAU investigates brutal family murders in Denver. For Agent Y/N, the case digs up a past in foster care she tried to bury.

Aaron Hotchner Fics

Bubblegum Bitch: Hotch never thought he'd fall in love again until he met Y/N.

Celebrities:

Tom Blythe Fics

"Y/N!" Yelena’s voice cut through the music like a knife. She wrapped her arms around you like she hadn’t seen you in years, and honestly? It had felt like that. "I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been too long."

You grinned against her shoulder and hugged her back just as hard. "Happy birthday, Lena. I got you something." You handed her a plain black gift bag, tissue paper hastily crumpled at the top.

She peeked inside, gasped, and pulled out a sleek pair of collapsible nunchucks with matte black handles and custom engravings.

"Oh my god...these are the nunchucks I wanted!" Her voice was pure chaos and glee. "I’ve missed you so much, we’re doing shots later."

"Only if you don’t cry this time."

"That was one time, Y/N!"

She laughed and slung an arm around your shoulder, dragging you toward a round booth filled with... the team. You felt them clock you the second you walked in six pairs of eyes and six levels of suspicion, amusement, and curiosity.

Yelena stopped in front of the table like she was presenting you to royalty. Or a firing squad. Could go either way.

"This is Y/N," she announced proudly, like she was showing off her favorite feral raccoon. "Y/N, this is John, Valentina, Bob, Alexei, Ava..." She gestured to each of them with casual flair before finishing, "And that’s Bucky."

You gave a little wave. "Really excited to officially meet you all."

John gave a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You the one who broke a guy’s nose with a pool cue at O’Malley’s last summer?"

You shrugged. "Allegedly."

Valentina tilted her head, assessing you like you were an interesting weapon she might use or dismantle. "Yelena's told us a lot about you. I didn’t think you'd actually show up."

"I get that a lot."

Bob raised his beer. "Anyone who gets Yelena nunchucks is cool in my book."

Alexei immediately pulled you into a too-tight bear hug. "It is amazing to meet the friend of my little Yelena. She has been moping without you. You are welcome in this family."

Ava just nodded silently, but you noticed a ghost of a smirk on her lips.

And then there was Bucky.

He hadn’t said a word. Just leaned back in the booth, blue eyes scanning you with a kind of lazy curiosity. Not judgmental, just observant. He took in the scuffed shoes, the leather jacket, the chipped black nail polish, and the way you didn’t flinch under their collective scrutiny.

"You always bring people weapons on their birthday?" he asked finally, voice low and smooth, with just the slightest edge of humor.

You turned your eyes to him and smiled. "Only the people I like."

Something flickered across his face, an almost-smile, quickly hidden behind his glass. "Good to know," he murmured, before taking a sip of his drink.

You felt Yelena nudge your ribs with her elbow and smirk. "He’s not usually this talkative."

You glanced back at Bucky, still watching you over the rim of his glass like he was trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

"Guess I bring out the best in people," you said casually, sliding into the booth beside Yelena, directly across from the former Winter Soldier.

"So," John said, setting down his beer, "Yelena says you used to run with some...colorful crowds."

"Colorful is one word for it," you replied, reaching across the table to grab one of the whiskey shots already waiting for you. "I prefer 'functionally unhinged.' Has a nice ring to it."

"More like ‘legally questionable,’” Yelena added with a grin. “She used to keep a bat in her trunk. Named it.”

"It was called Justice, and it never let me down."

Ava let out a soft snort of laughter, surprising even herself. "Okay, I like her."

Valentina raised a brow. "She’s got main character energy. Just chaotic main character energy."

You leaned back in your seat, smirking. "What can I say? Therapy didn’t fix me, just made me better at hiding the crazy."

That earned a few laughs around the table, some genuine, some uncertain.

Except Bucky. He didn’t laugh. But he did watch.

Still leaning back in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the booth, he didn’t bother hiding the way his eyes tracked you, curious, calculating, intrigued.

"So what’s your deal, Barnes?" you asked suddenly, locking eyes with him across the table. "Silent brooding type, or are you just allergic to people like me?"

A flicker of something crossed his face. He shrugged one shoulder. "I’ve met worse."

"That’s not a no."

"It’s not a yes, either."

Your grin widened. "Mysterious. I like that."

Yelena groaned from beside you. "Oh no. Not this again. Don’t flirt with the emotionally repressed super soldiers, you have a type, and it’s embarrassing."

She wasn’t wrong.

You’d been with your fair share of people. Yelena always said you were obsessed with men. You always told her you just loved love. Each broken heart (or broken nose) was just one chaotic step closer to finding your forever person.

"It’s not a type," you shot back, reaching for another shot. "It’s consistency. Big difference."

Bucky let out a low chuckle under his breath, shaking his head as he looked away, but not before you caught the shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth.

And just like that, you felt it again.

That familiar spark. The dangerous kind, the one that made your heart race, your smile stretch a little too wide, and your inner chaos stir like a storm about to break. That wild, reckless part of you that didn’t want to behave. That wanted to lean in, test limits, press buttons just to see how far they'd go.

But right before you could say or do something unmistakably you, something impulsive, flirty, or borderline regrettable, Yelena caught your eye.

She gave you that look. The one that said: don’t.

It wasn’t mean. It was protective. She knew behind all that crazy, you had a soft heart. And she wasn't going to let anyone, not even her teammate, hurt you.

So you bit back the grin, reined in the crazy, and leaned back in your seat instead...just a little closer to Bucky than before.

First Nickname

Since Yelena’s birthday, you’d been spending more time at the Tower. What started as occasional visits had turned into something more permanent more real. The team, in all their dysfunctional glory, had slowly started to feel like... family.

Which explained why you were currently knee-deep in chaos, in the middle of a full-blown cookie dough war with Yelena and Bob, making an absolute disaster of the kitchen.

Flour hung in the air like smoke. Cookie dough was smeared across the counters, the cabinets, and somehow the ceiling. Yelena had frosting on her cheek, Bob was covered in a cloud of white, and your hoodie was officially a biohazard.

“We’re definitely going to have to clean this up,” Bob said, grinning wide just as a fistful of flour exploded across his chest.

“I’m literally trying to bake,” Yelena laughed, ducking as a glob of dough whizzed past her head. “You two are ruining my masterpiece.”

“Correction,” you said, grabbing a handful of chocolate chip batter with zero remorse, “I’m enhancing the experience.” And then, grinning wickedly: “New rule, whoever ends up the dirtiest has to clean the whole kitchen.”

Without hesitation, you launched your next fistful of cookie dough at Bob, cackling like a madwoman, only for him to duck at the last second.

The dough flew right past him and landed smack on the chest of a very unsuspecting super soldier.

Bucky.

He stood frozen in the doorway, jaw tight, arms crossed, cookie dough now sliding down the front of his dark Henley.

He closed his eyes slowly, inhaled, and exhaled through his nose like he was counting to ten. When he opened them again, his glare settled on the three of you.

Yelena immediately turned back to her bowl, stirring like her life depended on it. Bob began aggressively wiping the counter.

You? You smiled the biggest, most unapologetic smile in your arsenal and skipped over to him like you were walking on sunshine.

“Hi, Buck,” you chirped sweetly, reaching out to “clean” the mess from his chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

You dabbed at the dough, but it just smeared more across the fabric. Not that you minded. Your hand lingered longer than necessary, your fingers tracing the muscles beneath the sticky mess.

Bucky’s hand shot up, gently grabbing your wrist firm, but not harsh. You looked up at him with a raised brow and a grin that said: guilty and loving it.

“I’m guessing this was your idea?” he asked, voice low, clearly trying not to smirk.

“Whaaaat? Me? Nooooo.” You batted your lashes, then winked. “Can I have my hand back, or were you planning on keeping it?”

He stared at you for a moment too long, really before releasing your wrist with a faint shake of his head.

You flashed him a triumphant smile.

Turning back to the others, Bucky sighed. “Please clean this up. I’m going to the store, do you guys need anything?”

“Oh! Milk. I like cookies with milk.” Bob chimed in cheerfully.

Bucky gave him a look that said you’ve gotta be kidding me, but eventually sighed and nodded. “Fine. Milk.”

You perked up. “Wait! I’ll come with. Just give me five minutes to change.” Without missing a beat, you leaned up on your toes, kissed his cheek, and skipped out of the kitchen leaving a stunned super soldier in your wake.

Bucky stood motionless, his hand slowly lifting to touch the spot where your lips had landed.

A pointed cough broke him out of it.

Bob’s mouth was hanging open. Yelena was smirking like the devil.

“Sooo…” she drawled, folding her arms. “Is this your first crazy girl, or is this like... a pattern for you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky muttered, but he was still touching his cheek.

Moments later, you returned wearing one of Yelena’s oversized hoodies, black leggings, and that same mischievous energy you wore better than any outfit.

“Okay, ready! Let’s go, hot stuff.” You tossed a playful wave to the others before bouncing toward the elevator.

Bucky followed, shaking his head but undeniably amused.

“Pray for him,” Bob whispered.

“Nah,” Yelena replied, grinning. “He’s already gone.”

~~~

The grocery run had been surprisingly normal. You only tried to sneak three unnecessary snacks into the cart, and Bucky only vetoed two of them.

Now, the two of you were walking back to the car, bags in hand, the late afternoon sun casting golden streaks across the pavement. You were mid-rant about how almond milk was a scam when you heard it.

"That's him. The Winter Soldier."

The words were whispered, but sharp. Like glass. You stiffened slightly.

"Isn’t he the one who murdered, like, a dozen people?"

"More than a dozen. And guess what? They let him into the Avengers."

"What?! Why would they let him walk around like a normal person let alone a hero?"

Bucky didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. He just kept walking, jaw tight, face unreadable. He was used to it.

You were not.

You stopped walking.

"Excuse me?" you called out, eyes narrowing as you turned toward the group of strangers huddled near the curb. "You got something to say?"

They blinked at you, surprised. One of them smirked. "Just facts. Maybe you should Google him before going shopping with a killer."

Your blood boiled. Your hands clenched at your sides. And then—

You lunged.

Bucky’s vibranium arm caught you mid-air like it was nothing, scooping you back against his side as your legs kicked at the air and your hoodie swung like a cape behind you.

"Let me go!" you snapped, wriggling. "I’m just gonna talk to them. With my fists."

Bucky was laughing softly, barely suppressing his grin as he turned you around and started guiding you toward the car.

"Okay, Crazy," he said under his breath. "Let’s get you back home."

You glared at the group over your shoulder, jabbing a finger in the air. "You better run! Next time I bring my bat and it's not for baseball!"

They clearly weren’t expecting the outburst. One guy looked like he was seriously reconsidering all his life choices.

Once you were back in the passenger seat, arms folded and brows furrowed, the adrenaline began to wear off, only to be replaced by a much deeper frustration.

You stared straight ahead as Bucky climbed in beside you and started the engine.

"You shouldn’t have stopped me," you muttered.

He glanced over. "I didn’t want you to get arrested. That would mean more court-mandated therapy sessions."

"I didn’t care. They don’t get to talk about you like that. Like you’re some monster." Your voice cracked slightly, but you powered through.

There was a pause. The kind that hung heavy in the air between two people who felt too much and said too little.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. "They’re not wrong, you know."

Your head snapped toward him. "Bullshit."

He didn’t meet your eyes, staring instead at the steering wheel like it held all the answers.

"I was the Winter Soldier. I did terrible things. I don’t blame them for being afraid."

You leaned closer, the anger still burning beneath your skin but now softened with something else.

"You were used, Bucky. Controlled. Tortured. You’re not that person. You never were."

He looked at you then, really looked at you. And for a second, you saw it, his guard slipping. The guilt, the grief, the longing to believe the words you just said.

His hand reached out slowly, hesitantly, and landed on top of yours. He didn’t grip it. Just rested there...gentle, grounding.

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles. The gesture was barely there, but it felt like everything.

You let the silence linger, letting it say what neither of you quite knew how to. Your fingers turned slowly, intertwining with his without a second thought.

First Kiss

It was almost 3AM.

The Tower was dead quiet everyone either asleep or passed out from too much pizza and Mario Kart. But you couldn’t sleep. You rarely could. Too many thoughts bouncing around in your head, too much noise you couldn’t turn off.

So you did what you always did: climbed as high as you could and disappeared into the quiet.

You sat barefoot on the roof, sleeves pulled over your hands, knees tucked to your chest, perched on the edge like some reckless little gargoyle with a death wish. The city below pulsed with life, cars, lights, sirens, but up here, it was just you and the wind. Everything felt softer, quieter. Like your brain could breathe.

You weren’t even sure what you were running from tonight. Maybe it was the insomnia. Maybe it was the feelings you’d been trying not to name. Or maybe it was just… him.

Bucky.

It had been months since Yelena’s birthday. Months since that grocery store incident. Since he caught you midair like a football and called you “crazy” with a smile that made your stomach flip.

Since then… things changed.

You held hands under blankets during movie nights. He always gave you extra mashed potatoes when it was his night to cook. Helped you dry the dishes when it was your turn to clean. He never said anything about it. He just did it. Like it was natural.

Like you were natural.

And that scared you more than anything.

You didn’t hear him come up, but you felt it. The shift in the air. The way the atmosphere seemed to settle when he was around, like gravity remembered how to work.

He said nothing as he walked over, just leaned on the railing beside you, arms resting casually as he looked out over the city like it was holding some kind of answer he’d been looking for.

The silence stretched, comfortable but heavy. Like both of you were waiting for something to give.

You nudged his elbow.

"Careful, Barnes. Stand too close and someone might think you like me."

"That’s assuming someone doesn’t already," he said, voice quiet just enough wind to make you wonder if you’d imagined it.

You blinked. Turned to look at him.

He didn’t look back. His jaw was clenched, shoulders tense. Like he was fighting himself. Like he was losing.

"You okay?" you asked, quieter now.

"I should be asking you that," he said, nodding toward the ledge. "You’re the one pretending she’s not afraid of heights."

"You look like you’ve got something on your mind," you replied. "What’s wrong?"

He finally turned to face you, and you knew that look. Because you’d seen every other version of it: the guarded one, the haunted one, the blank stare he wore like armor.

But this look? This was different.

Warm. Open. Careful, like he was holding something fragile between his hands. Like he was choosing to let you see it.

"You ever stop talking?" he asked, but there was no bite to it. Just a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You smirked. "You ever stop looking at me like that?"

His breath hitched. "Do you want me to?"

You paused. Let the moment breathe.

"No," you said quietly. "I don’t."

He held your gaze for a beat. Then held out his hand.

"Come back from the ledge."

You rolled your eyes, but stepped down. He didn’t let go of your hand.

He just watched you for a second, like he was trying to decide something. Then he took a step forward. And another. Until you were standing chest to chest.

His hand lifted. Hesitated.

Then brushed against your cheek.

It was soft. Barely there. Rough fingers, calloused from too many battles, treating you like you were something sacred.

Your heart was thundering in your chest, “Bucky…”

“Y/N…” And then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

It was gentle at first, uncertain. Like he was testing it. Testing you. Waiting to see if you'd pull away, if you’d laugh, if you'd ruin it the way you ruin most things.

You didn’t.

Your fingers fisted into the front of his hoodie and you kissed him back hungry and reckless and real. Like every joke, every smirk, every time you caught him staring and pretended not to notice had all led to this.

Because it had.

That kiss turned hot, urgent, like something cracked open between you. You could feel the silence he carried, the pain he didn’t talk about, the way his hands shook just a little when he let himself want something. And you gave him something back: the chaos in your chest, the wildness in your soul, the aching softness you never let anyone see.

When he finally pulled away, his lips still ghosted against yours, your breath tangled in the space between. His forehead leaned against yours, steadying both of you.

You opened your eyes just to make sure it was real.

His were already on you.

You grinned, breathless.

"Well damn, Buck. That was hot."

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, really smiling. Not the half-hearted, polite kind he gave to strangers. The kind that made you feel like the world could maybe be okay.

"You’re ridiculous."

"You love it."

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he slid his fingers through yours, easy, natural, like he’d always meant to.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let’s get you inside before you start climbing something and give me a heart attack."

You leaned into him, not letting go of his hand.

"I make no promises."

Telling the Team 

The medical wing of the Tower was way too quiet for a team who just landed from a mission.

Bucky sat shirtless on the exam table, one arm in a sling, the other braced on his thigh. A deep bruise was blooming along his ribs, and he was thoroughly ignoring the ice pack someone had handed him.

Yelena paced back and forth like a tiger in a cage. Bob munched trail mix like he was at the movies. Alexei had already told the story of his “much worse injury” twice. Valentina was Googling "can you die from a cracked rib". Ava was staring blankly at the ceiling, silently questioning her life choices while John was on his phone.

Then Bucky spoke up, calm but quiet. “Did you tell Y/N?”

Yelena paused mid-step, turning to him. “What?”

He looked at her, brows furrowed. “Did you tell her I got hurt?”

“Uh, yeah. Obviously. I texted her the second we landed. She was getting ready for game night, and I had to tell her why it was canceled. Why?”

He didn’t answer at first, just exhaled through his nose and looked down at the floor.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” Bucky muttered, sitting up straighter then immediately winced. “She just… reacts.”

And just as he said it, like destiny had been waiting for the perfect cue, the sound of someone sprinting down the hall echoed like thunder.

Then came the yelling.

“WHERE THE HELL IS HE?! WHO LET MY MAN GET BROKEN?!”

Bob choked on a peanut. Alexei jumped to his feet like he was under attack. Valentina dropped her phone with a clatter. Ava slowly grinned. And Bucky just closed his eyes and muttered, “Here we go.”

The doors flew open like you’d kicked them in. You stood there hair wild, eyes ablaze, oversized hoodie flapping behind you like you were the avenging angel of rage and vengeance. Your Converse squeaked as you skidded to a dramatic stop.

Your eyes zeroed in on Bucky’s bare chest, sling, and the angry bruise.

Your hands flew to your hips. “Oh HELL no.”

“I’m okay–” he tried.

“WHO let this happen?! Who was on ‘Bucky Watch’?!” You swung your gaze to the team like you were about to start naming names. “You guys leave for one mission, and this man breaks a whole bone?! I TOLD you people he can’t be left unsupervised!”

Yelena raised a brow and looked at Bucky. “Told you she’d react.”

Bob leaned toward Ava and whispered, “This is so much better than the trail mix.”

You pointed accusingly at the group. “Tell me who did it. I swear on my Converse, I will personally break their bones to match his!”

“There’s no one to fight,” Bucky said calmly. “It was just a mission thing. We took care of it.”

“Oh, then I’ll fight the mission. Square up, covert ops.”

“Sweetheart,” he said.

You blinked. He never called you that in front of people.

He patted the cot beside him. “C’mere.”

You crossed the room, climbing up beside him, eyes scanning every inch of his injury. You gently reached out to touch the edge of the sling.

“You’re really okay?” your voice dropped, barely above a whisper now.

“I’m fine, Crazy,” he murmured, eyes softening as they met yours. “Just a fracture. Doc says I’ll live.”

You frowned, gently brushing your knuckles along the bruise. “You better.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You still shouldn’t have any.”

“I told Yelena not to tell you so you wouldn’t freak out.”

You squinted at him. “And how’d that go for you?”

He chuckled low under his breath, and with his good arm, pulled you into him like it was second nature. Your head tucked under his chin, and your hand found his, resting gently over his.

That’s when the shift happened and the pair looked at the team.

Bob’s mouth dropped open. Valentina’s eyes narrowed like she was watching a plot twist. Alexei did a double take. Ava looked genuinely impressed. And Yelena?

Yelena smirked like she’d just won bingo.

“Ohhhhh,” Bob said slowly. “So this is like… a thing thing.”

Without lifting your head, you replied, “Nope. Not a thing. Totally subtle.”

“You just called him ‘my man’ and threatened to start a fight with an abstract concept,” Valentina said, unimpressed.

“I’m passionate,” you said sweetly.

“She kissed my cheek last week and threatened to seduce me just to make him jealous,” Yelena added casually. “It was wildly unconvincing but very entertaining.”

Bucky looked down at you. “Did you really?”

You grinned up at him. “Did it work?”

He smirked. “So jealous.”

You kissed his cheek again. “You look very handsome when you’re injured.”

“I try.”

The team stared as you curled even closer to Bucky, who didn’t seem to mind being used as a human pillow.

“I’m gonna need all of you to leave,” you said without looking up. “Bucky’s hurt. We’re going to cuddle.”

“Is that medically advisable?” Ava asked.

“No, but it’s emotionally necessary,” you shot back.

Yelena clapped her hands once. “Alright, party’s over. Let the emotionally unbalanced girl and the emotionally repressed man have their moment.”

“Thank you, Lena!” you called sweetly.

As the door closed behind them, Bucky rested his head lightly on yours.

“You’re really not mad I got hurt?” he asked softly.

“I mean, I’m a little mad,” you said, eyes still closed. “But I’m more mad you didn’t tell me yourself.”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, expression serious now. “I’m gonna worry either way. That’s what happens when you love someone.”

He stilled.

Then, slowly, his hand tightened around yours.

“I love you too,” he said, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue forever.

You smiled, leaning up to kiss him this time slow, deliberate, and just for him.

And just as you pulled away, the door creaked open again.

“…sooo like since when?!” Bob asked, poking his head back in.

You both turned your heads.

“Seriously,” Valentina added, stepping back in. “Since when were you two together?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s been a thing.”

“A secret thing?” Alexei asked, deeply offended. “This is betrayal.”

“We weren’t hiding it!” you said.

“You kissed him in front of us for the first time thirty seconds ago,” John replied.

Yelena waltzed back in, arms folded. “See? I knew you liked crazy girls.”

Bucky looked down at you, still curled against his good side. Then looked back at the team.

You didn’t feel like one. Not really. You still flinched at loud noises. Still checked the exits in every room. You were trained to disappear, not to stand in the light.

Now? You were under it.

It was overwhelming—being seen. Being known. But at least you weren’t alone.

You have a family. Yelena found her way back to you. You both would sit on the kitchen floor at 2 a.m. with melting ice cream and old music playing from the speaker. 

Alexei was a walking headache, but his heart was oddly pure. He treated you like his own, even if he had the emotional range of a brick.

Walker taught you control. He wasn’t soft, but he was fair. He never looked at you like a weapon. He looked at you like someone trying.

Ava didn’t talk much. But when she did, her words hit deep. You’d sit with her on the roof and watch the lights blink in the distance, sharing quiet like it was something sacred.

Valentina was… complicated. But she never asked you to be anything but yourself. You weren't sure if she cared or if she just enjoyed your presence. Either way, she kept you close.

Then sweet, quiet Bob. You’d sit with him in the sunroom where he painted—messy, colorful things that didn’t make much sense to anyone but him.

And then… there was him.

Bucky Barnes.

You knew of him before you met him. The whispers. The ghost stories. The living weapon with a metal arm and a haunted past.

You didn’t expect to fall in love the second you saw him—but life never cared about your plans.

He was quieter than you imagined. And softer. Not soft in the way that made him weak—soft in the way that made you ache. Everything about him felt careful. Deliberate. 

But when he looked at you? God. It was like time stopped.

You touched once. Just briefly. His fingers brushing your wrist after the fight with Sentry. He pulled you up and out of there. Your skin burned where he touched you—and not in a painful way. In a real way. Like something inside you had just… clicked.

You started to notice the little things. The way he waited for you at breakfast without saying it. The way his fingers would twitch toward yours like he was holding himself back. The way his voice softened when he said your name.

You started to let yourself believe he felt it too.

And then… he changed.

One day he was there—present, engaged, kind. The next, he was gone. Not physically, but emotionally. He avoided you. Stopped meeting your eyes. Conversations became one-word answers. He started taking different shifts. Leaving the room when you entered it.

At first, you told yourself you were imagining it. That he was just tired. Or overwhelmed.

But weeks passed. And the silence grew heavier.

You still have your new family. You still paint with Bob on Tuesdays and laugh with Yelena when she teases Walker too hard.

But there’s a hole in your chest where Bucky used to be.

You try to be strong. You’ve been through worse. You know how to survive without love.

But you don’t want to.

You just wanted someone to stay. To see the bruises under the surface and not flinch. To choose you when things got hard.

Maybe that was too much to hope for.

The team was spread across the common area—half on the couch, others in mismatched chairs and the edge of the coffee table. 

You sat tucked into the far end of the couch, elbow resting on the armrest, staring blankly ahead—your mind somewhere else. Somewhere quieter.

“Y/N.”

You flinched at the sound of your name. Your head snapped up, heart skipping. Yelena was watching you from across the room, brows slightly drawn.

“Can you stay with us, please?” she said, giving you a soft smile. “This is important.”

You blinked, nodding slightly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

She exchanged a look with Walker before continuing. “Val wants someone in Sam Wilson’s new group.”

That made everyone pause.

“She thinks they’re planning something bigger than they’re letting on,” Yelena added, pacing a little as she spoke. “We’ve been left out of too much lately. And she’s worried that we’re going to get blindsided. She wants us to be prepared. It could give us more credibility.”

The room fell into a tense hush.

Ava was the first to break it. “So… she wants one of us to spy?”

“Technically? She’d probably call it ‘intel gathering,’” Yelena replied, dryly. “But yeah. Someone would need to be on the inside. Get close. Listen.”

Walker frowned. “So… what, we’re voting someone off the island now?”

Yelena looked at you.

Your stomach dropped.

“She’s already picked,” Yelena said quietly. “Val thinks it should be Y/N.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“She said it makes the most sense. You’re the least visible. No PR trail. You’ve stayed in the shadows. You can slip in naturally, you’ll just have to pull the ‘I never fit in’ card She thinks the transition would be believable.”

You didn’t know what to say. You could feel everyone’s eyes on you, some curious, some hesitant. But then—

“No.”

The word was sharp, sudden, and heavy.

Everyone turned.

Bucky stood stiff near the back wall, arms folded, his eyes locked—not on you—but on Yelena.

“She’s not doing it,” he said flatly.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“She’s not joining Sam’s group,” Bucky repeated, tone cold. “That’s not happening.”

Yelena raised a brow. “It’s not really your decision, Barnes.”

“She’s not doing it,” he said again, louder now. “She’s not playing double agent. She’s not pretending to be something she’s not. And she’s not putting herself in that kind of danger.”

Your heart started to thud against your chest.

You stood slowly. “Why the hell are you talking about me like I’m not here?”

Still, he wouldn’t look at you.

“Bucky, seriously,” Ava said cautiously, sensing the tension rising, “you’re kind of… overstepping—”

“No, I’m not,” he snapped, jaw tight. “This is a bad idea. I won’t sit here and let it happen.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you muttered, stepping forward. “What is your problem?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you think I can’t handle it? That I’m what—fragile? Not cut out for this?”

Yelena’s voice cut in, trying to keep things from escalating. “She’s the best fit for this. That’s what Val said. And she wants to do it.”

“No,” Bucky said again, and this time there was something sharper under the surface—panic, maybe. “It’ll be someone else. Not her.”

You stared at him, eyes burning now.

“If you’ve got a problem with me taking this mission,” you said, voice rising, “then have the balls to say it to my face.”

His eyes flicked to you. Finally. Just for a second.

“I’m calling Val,” he said flatly. “This isn’t happening.”

That was it. The breaking point.

You stepped toward him. “Goddammit, Buck, look at me! You’re standing over there acting like you care—like you have a say in what I can and can’t do—but you won’t even look at me.”

The room had gone still. No one moved. The air felt thick.

His jaw clenched. His fists were curled tightly at his sides.

You dropped your voice, anger bleeding into hurt. “Why don’t you think I can do this? What is it really? Is it because I’m not good enough? Because I’m not you?”

He said nothing. His silence screamed louder than any insult could have.

You laughed bitterly, trying to hold it together. “You know what hurts the most? Not that you don’t believe in me. Not even that you’re trying to control this. It’s that I thought… I thought you saw me. This is the first time in weeks where you actually acknowledged my existence let alone actually talk to me. And now I realize you’ve just been looking past me the whole time.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a second—just a second—you saw something flicker there. Guilt. Fear. Maybe even something like regret.

But he didn’t say a word.

He just turned and walked out.

The door shut behind him like a punch to the chest.

You stood there, frozen in place. The silence in the room was deafening.

No one knew what to say.

You glanced at the others—Yelena’s mouth slightly open like she was holding back something, Ava looking uncomfortable, Bob frowning in that quiet way he always did, his sketchbook forgotten.

You swallowed hard, blinked quickly to keep the tears down, and ran a hand through your hair.

“I’ll do it,” you said, voice thin and sharp. “Tell Val I’m in.”

And then you turned, leaving the stunned silence behind you as you walked down the hall toward your room.

The door closed softly behind you.

But the ache in your chest didn’t.

You avoided Bucky.

He avoided you, too—but in the quiet way only he could. Slipping into rooms right after you’d left. Sitting on the opposite side of the table during meals. Eyes flickering to you, then away like it hurt to look.

But this time… you didn’t chase after him.

You were tired. Tired of caring so deeply only to be shut down like you didn’t matter. Like the moments you’d shared—those long glances, the quiet jokes, the almost-touches—were just in your head.

So you stopped hoping he’d say something. You stopped checking doorways for him, stopped waiting for your phone to light up with his name. He made it clear in that meeting. You were a liability to him. Not worth the risk.

You went through the motions: trained, ate, slept, locked yourself in your room for most of the day.

And now?

Now you were curled up in the sunroom with Bob, your head resting on your arms, your brush barely touching the canvas in front of you. He was working on something chaotic again—angry reds bleeding into deep purples, gold flicked across it like a desperate afterthought.

He didn’t ask why your eyes were glassy. Why your hands were shaking.

He just handed you a clean brush.

And for a little while, you let yourself just be. No pressure to explain the lump in your throat. No questions about your silence.

Just messy strokes. Quiet breath. Stillness.

Then came the tears.

They started slow—just a few that slipped down without permission. Then more. And more. Until you were shaking, tears falling so fast you had to put the brush down, covering your face with your sleeve.

Bob didn’t say anything. He just moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, warm and solid.

“It’s Bucky, isn’t it?” he murmured, rubbing your back. “He’s why you’re like this.”

You nodded, choking on the truth in your throat.

“I thought…” you started, swallowing hard, “I thought we were something. We were getting close. He made me think he felt something too.”

Bob listened.

“And then it’s like a switch flipped. Now he barely looks at me. I—I don’t even think he respects me as part of the team.”

You pulled away slightly, wiping your eyes. “He thinks I’m a mess. Like I can’t handle myself. Like I’m some kid trying to play hero.”

“That’s not true,” Bob said quietly.

“I like him. A lot. More than I should. But this? I can’t keep feeling like this. Like I’m not enough for him to even talk to.”

There was silence.

“Maybe the mission will help,” you said after a while. “Some space. Maybe I’ll finally stop feeling this way.”

“Or maybe it’ll make it worse,” Bob said gently.

You let out a watery laugh. “Thanks. Really uplifting.”

“I mean, ice cream’s still on the table,” he offered with a small smile. “I’ll get Yelena.”

You nodded, trying to pull yourself back together.

What you don’t see—what neither of you notice—is the shadow outside the doorway. Listening.

Bucky.

He didn’t come here to eavesdrop. He came to talk to Bob. Because Bob was the only one who wouldn’t make it a big thing. The only one who might actually help him sort through the mess in his chest.

But he hadn’t expected you to be here.

He definitely hadn’t expected to hear you crying over him.

And now that he has, he can’t move. Can’t look away. Can’t unhear the words that are tearing him apart.

God, no. That wasn’t what he wanted.

He thought he was protecting you. He thought if he kept his distance, he wouldn’t ruin things—wouldn’t ruin you.

But instead, he’s the reason you’re crying into someone else’s shoulder.

He presses a hand to his chest, trying to ground himself. Trying not to panic.

He wants you. He’s always wanted you.

But wanting has never led to good things in his life. People he loves leave. Or die. Or get hurt.

And if he lets you in—really lets you in—what happens when you disappear too?

Still. As much as he wants to turn around, to pretend he didn’t hear any of it…

He walks in.

You freeze when you hear the door open.

Standing there like a ghost. Hands shoved in his pockets, face unreadable, but eyes… hurting.

“Can I talk to her?” he asked. His voice was quieter than usual. Almost unsure.

Bob looked at you. You hesitated, then gave a small nod.

Bob gave Bucky a hard look on his way out—something between be gentle and don’t screw this up—and closed the door behind him.

Silence.

You didn’t look at Bucky. Just grabbed a tissue and wiped your face.

“If you’re here to say I’m not ready again, just save it,” you said, voice rough. “I’m going on the mission. You don’t get to decide that.”

“I’m not here for that,” he said.

You stood, crossing your arms over your chest. “Then what? Here to tell me you were just looking out for the team? That it wasn’t personal?”

He flinched. “No. It was personal. That’s the problem.”

You blinked at him.

“I like you too,” he said suddenly, his voice almost breaking. “I do. I did. I have—since the beginning.”

You froze.

“What?” you whispered.

“I like you,” he said again, more softly this time. “A lot. And it scared the hell out of me.”

You stared at him, jaw clenched. “So you humiliate me? In front of everyone?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly. “I was trying to push you away.”

You laughed, cold and bitter. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“I thought if I kept my distance, maybe it’d go away. Or maybe you’d move on. Because if you got too close—if you actually started to matter—and then something happened to you—” He cut himself off, eyes full of something broken. “I wouldn’t survive that.”

Your chest ached.

“You don’t get to decide how close I get,” you said tightly. “And you sure as hell don’t get to decide how strong I am. You don’t get to make me feel small just because you’re scared.”

“I know,” he said. “I know I messed up. I fucked it up completely. I was an idiot, and I hurt you, and I see that now. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just—needed to say it.”

He stepped closer, hands trembling slightly.

“I see you,” he said. “You’re not weak. You’re not reckless. You’re one of the strongest people on this team and I had no right to act like you weren’t.”

You looked down, lip trembling.

“And I miss you,” he said quietly. “Every day I ignored you, I missed you. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was lose you.”

You didn’t speak.

“I don’t deserve you,” he added. “But I want to try. I want to make it right. Even if that means starting over. Even if that means starting as friends.”

Your voice came out small. “You really hurt me, Bucky.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’ll spend however long it takes proving I can be better.”

You looked up at him. He was watching you like you were something sacred. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to breathe in your direction.

“I’m still going on the mission,” you said.

“I know.”

“But I’m coming back.”

“You better,” he said, a small, broken smile playing at his lips. “I’ve got months of groveling to do.”

“You do,” you said, voice softer now. “And I’m not making it easy.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You hesitated. “Friends first.”

“I’ll take whatever you’ll give me,” he said. “As long as I get to be near you again.”

You sighed, exhaustion still heavy in your bones, but something in your chest—something warm—cracked through the ache like sunlight through storm clouds.

“You’re buying the ice cream,” you muttered, voice still thick but a little lighter.

Bucky’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Obviously.”

There was a pause. The kind of pause that held weight. Like both of you were standing at the edge of something fragile and real.

And then, without a word, he stepped forward.

Slowly. Cautiously.

He didn’t pull you into his chest or hold you too tightly like he used to—not yet. He just opened his arms.

You hesitated, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

And then you stepped in.

His arms wrapped around you carefully, like you were still hurting—but like he wanted to be the one who helped carry it. You pressed your face into his shoulder, feeling his warmth, his breath catching a little as he held you like he was afraid to let go.

Not a romantic hug. Not yet.

But something even more intimate.

A promise.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again against your hair.

You didn’t answer, just closed your eyes and let yourself be held—for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. And for the first time in just as long, it didn’t feel like you were breaking.

It felt like the start of healing. Slow. Earned. Real.

****

Thank you so much for all the follows, kind messages, and lovely comments in the meantime. I see them all, and I’m genuinely so grateful for every one of you.

You met Bucky through Steve during the U.N. bombing fiasco—back when everything was falling apart and nothing felt safe.

From that moment on, you were in it with him. Every step, every fight, every quiet moment in the aftermath. He never had to ask; you were just there.

And when Steve died, when the weight of it all came crashing down, the two of you leaned on each other like you were the only solid thing left in the world. Somewhere in that grief, love happened. Slowly, then all at once.

After that, you were just… you and him. No big declarations. No drama. Just this steady, easy rhythm.

Sure, there were arguments—small ones, over stupid things like laundry or leaving dishes in the sink—but never real fights. Nothing that stuck. You could read each other so well it never got that far.

Until you played the video Sam sent you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers,”

And there was Bucky. In the center. Wearing his suit. Standing with them.

Your heart dropped so fast you couldn’t breathe for a second. Not because you thought he betrayed you or Sam though he definitely did—but because he let it happen. Because he stood there, quiet.

You didn’t want to pick sides. God, you really didn’t. But it felt like he already had.

He said he didn’t ask for it. Said he wasn’t even sure how it happened. But he kept showing up to their briefings, kept running missions with them, kept wearing that title like it didn’t burn.

And the worst part? The government—the government—was backing them. Funding them. Controlling them. You grew up watching them twist heroes into weapons. And now they had Bucky.

You tried to talk. At first, it was calm. Then it wasn’t.

Now it’s been fourteen months. And you barely recognize the way your fights stretch out, sharper, faster, more frequent. Less about the Avengers and more about everything that’s not being said.

You still love him. That’s not even a question. And he loves you. You know that. But sometimes love isn’t enough to close the space that’s growing between two people who don’t see the world the same way anymore.

You try. You both do. But it’s harder than it used to be. Way harder.

This morning, you show up at the compound with coffee in your hands, the paper tray trembling just slightly from lack of sleep—and everything else. It’s your way of saying sorry without saying the words. Not for what you fought about, but for the way it happened. For the silence after.

That’s how you find yourself stepping off the elevator and into the team’s living space chest still aching from the night before—just in time to hear it:

"Weren’t you going to talk to him?"

"I already did," Bucky says. His voice is low, tired. Like he’s already lived through the argument in his head too many times to want to say it again.

"And?"

"It went poorly."

You stop just past the doorway, your stomach twisting. You shouldn’t have heard that. But now that you have, you can't pretend you didn’t.

“You spoke to Sam?” you ask, stepping into the room fully.

Everyone looks up. The weight of too many eyes lands heavy on your skin. No one says anything. They don’t have to. Everyone knows what’s been going on—what’s been quietly breaking between you and Bucky for over a year now.

“I brought coffee for everyone,” you offer, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. It doesn’t hide the tension. It only highlights it.

Then, gently to Bob: “I got you decaffeinated tea.”

“Thank you,” Bob says, offering a soft smile, trying to smooth out the edges of the moment. But it doesn't do much.

You turn back to Bucky, heart in your throat. “You spoke to Sam?”

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?” you ask. You already know the answer. You’re just hoping it’s not the one you’re thinking.

“To see if he would stop all of this,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face.

You stare at him, jaw clenched. “I told you he wouldn’t. Ross is breathing down his neck. He basically has his hands tied.”

Bucky shakes his head, frustrated. “That doesn’t give him the right to make this whole thing hell for us. It’s not our fault that Valentina decided to do all of this.”

You feel the words catch in your chest before they come out. “But you didn’t fight it.”

The room is still. Even the air feels heavy.

Yelena, sitting off to the side, casually adds, “You do know that he filed for copyright of the name.”

Bucky turns toward her, caught off guard. “Did he?” Then his eyes swing back to you. “See? We're not doing anything. He’s taking it too far.”

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger exactly—something messier. “Look, the Avengers stay with the one who has the shield. He has the right to start up the team again. And don’t forget—you’re the one who told him he should.”

“I never said that.”

You glare at him, the words hitting before you can stop them. “He vented to you, Bucky. You gave him advice. You told him Steve didn’t make a mistake handing him the shield. You told him to lead—to build something new. The Avengers. And now not only is there a new team, but you’re in it. With the same government that once tried to erase him. And you didn’t even try to understand his side."

He scoffs, voice rising. “Sam’s side? He’s the one who doesn’t want to speak to me! He’s the one who’s blaming me like I planned this!”

“What happened during that call?” you ask, arms crossed tightly in front of you like it’s the only thing holding you together.

“I told him—” Bucky starts, then shrugs, eyes flicking away. “I told him he was being ridiculous. That there’s already an Avengers team. That there’s no reason to start a second one.”

Your lips part, but it takes a second for the words to come. “So you basically told him to back off.”

“He’s making this really difficult,” Bucky mutters.

You feel something in you crack—quietly. You can't keep arguing. You lost all willpower. You grab your purse off the counter. “I’m not doing this right now,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

But behind you, his voice calls out, rough and wounded. “You’re not even going to hear me out?”

You stop. You turn. Slowly. “I’ve been hearing you out for fourteen months, Bucky,” you say. “Every time. I’ve listened. I’ve tried to understand. But you signed on with them. What more is there to hear?”

He steps forward, like being closer might help you hear him better. “It’s not like that—”

“No?” Your voice trembles, but the anger in it keeps it from breaking. “Because it feels like exactly that. And fine, let’s say you didn’t sign up for the politics, but you’re still here. Standing next to them. Like that shield and that name didn’t come with blood and pain and history.”

His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. That flash of guilt flickers in his eyes again—but he swallows it down too fast. Again.

“This isn’t about Sam.”

You almost laugh. “Everything is about Sam.”

“I didn’t want this,” he snaps. “But sometimes we don’t get to wait for the perfect cause to show up. The world’s on fire. Sam had time—he could’ve acted. But now he’s creating this new team out of spite.”

You look at him like you don’t recognize him for a second. “And sometimes you don’t even realize you’re helping the very system that tried to erase your best friend from history...That tried to bury you.”

He flinches. That one lands. You can see it in the way he goes still.

You take a shaky breath. “Sam bled for that shield. He earned it. But they made him prove himself again and again. Until he was almost broken. And now you’re smiling for the cameras next to the same people who happily tried to hand that legacy to John.” You glance at Walker. “No offense.”

“Some taken,” Walker mumbles. You ignore him.

Bucky’s face darkens. “I haven’t forgotten what they did. But I haven’t forgotten the threats out there, either. This team… it’s not perfect. But we show up. Sam’s team haven’t shown up at all.”

“And when they do?” you say, stepping closer. “Are you really going to go up against Sam? Against his team? Over a name?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

It feels like a punch to the ribs. You stare at him, voice soft and hollow. “And what about me?”

That shatters something in his expression. You see it—the flicker of fear he tries to bury but can’t. Because this time, it’s different. You’ve fought before—circling this dilemma for months, both of you carefully pretending it lived outside your relationship. Like you could keep love and ideology in separate rooms. But this? This is the first time the line disappears. The first time it feels personal.

And you can’t pretend anymore.

“We’re a family, Bucky. After Steve, it’s always been us three. And now you're ready to go against him? Over a group name that we both know belongs to him.”

“I want to be where I can help,” he says, quieter now. “Sure, the government backs us up, but we're not letting them control us. We're on the right side."

Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall. “And what happens when the lines between right and wrong blur, Bucky? When the people you’re working with start justifying things again?"

He doesn’t answer right away.

You lower your voice, barely above a whisper now. “What happens when history repeats itself?”

He looks at you, offended. “You think I’d let that happen again?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “And that’s what scares me.”

The silence hung there like a bruise. No one said a word.

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the muffled sounds of the team whispering amongst themselves, trying not to be obvious, failing miserably.

You turned toward the window because it was easier than looking at him. Easier than seeing what was—or wasn’t—left in his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant, cracked at the edges.

“I can’t follow you into this, Buck.”

You heard him breathe in—sharp, like maybe he hadn’t expected that. Or maybe he had.

“I never asked you to,” he said. But there was something in his voice. A break. A catch. Something small but real.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You nodded, once. No drama. No grand speech. Just… done. Then you turned and walked toward the elevator.

No one stopped you.

You felt their eyes on your back. You felt his most of all.

The elevator dinged open, and you stepped in stiffly, trying to keep your hands from shaking and your heart from breaking right here in front of them.

The doors started to close.

He still didn’t move.

Still didn’t say your name.

And that? That was the part that broke you. He was letting you go.

Only when the doors shut and you were alone did your shoulders slump. Only then did the breath you'd been holding finally let go—and it came out shaky.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

You pulled out your phone, meaning to call Sam. Ask if you could crash for the night.

But your screen lit up before you could type.

Your lock screen.

That damn photo.

You and Bucky, wrapped up in each other, grinning like idiots. Some blurry picture someone else had snapped at some rooftop barbecue. He had his arm around you, his mouth near your ear. You were laughing like the world wasn’t ending.

Back when things still felt easy.

Before sides. Before names meant more than people.

Before all of this.

You stared at it, and your chest ached. Actually ached.

Different times. Different battles. Same man.

But maybe not the same love.

You’d followed him through hell and worse. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

But not this time.

Not into something that went against everything you believed. Not when it meant losing pieces of yourself just to stay close to him. Not when it meant standing against the memory of the only real family you've ever had.

Ahhh, I seriously love getting Bucky requests—they're always my favorite to write!

Also, I know this whole Sam vs. Bucky situation has stirred up a lot of emotions, but honestly, their friendship is so strong that I doubt it'll last long.

Anywhoooo I hope you enjoy this one! Love you all and thank you for all the support!!!!!

“So…” John groaned, slumping against a cracked brick wall. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline, and ash streaked his jaw like war paint. He held up what was left of his shield — warped, twisted, folded . “What now? Because we just got annihilated.”

“No shit,” Ava muttered, spitting dust from her mouth and flicking a burned scrap of fabric from her sleeve. Her split lip had swollen, and she could feel bruises blooming across her ribs. “I say every man for themselves. Bob’s gone full horror movie. This was fun — goodbye.”

She turned into the lingering smoke, already half-vanished — until Yelena’s voice cut through like a knife.

“We can’t leave him.”

Ava stopped, shoulders stiff. “Leave who? That wasn’t Bob back there. That was... I don’t even know what that was.” She turned, folding her arms. “Definitely not the guy who saved us.”

“No,” Yelena said, voice tight. “But he’s still in there. Somewhere.”

“Unless one of you has a secret anti-god laser in your back pocket,” Ava snapped, “what exactly is your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet,” Yelena admitted, stepping forward anyway. “But we’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

Alexei groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a half-shattered bench, which cracked under his weight. “If we go back in there, I need... at least ten minutes. And a cortisone shot. Maybe a priest.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Let me stretch, drink some water, and then we finish him.”

“We’re not finishing him,” Yelena snapped, rounding on him. “We’re going to help him.”

“Oh sure,” Ava muttered. “We’ll just hug the powers out of him.”

“He ripped Bucky’s arm off like it was a doll’s toy,” Alexei added. “We go in like this, we die.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky muttered as he calmly snapped the vibranium prosthetic back into place with a click. “Happens more than you think.”

John held up his bent shield, his face still a mix of shock and mild heartbreak. “He folded it. I mean—folded it. Like paper. Do you know what kind of force it takes to bend this thing?”

Ava raised a brow. “So… not vibranium?”

“It’s vibranium-adjacent,” John muttered defensively.

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Maybe if it was actual vibranium, it wouldn’t look like a gas station burrito.”

Alexei lit up. “I could go for a burrito. Or a taco. The ones with the cheese in the middle. Mmm. I want that now.”

John groaned. “Focus! We got curb-stomped by Bob! Bob! The shy nerdy one!"

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly, brushing ash from her arm. “He’s not shy or nerdy anymore.”

That shut them all up.

Bucky exhaled. They were beat to hell, and morale was tanking fast. But more than that, they were scared. And for good reason.

He looked at them — bruised, dirty, half-limping, yet still bickering like middle schoolers on a broken field trip — and made a decision he was definitely going to regret.

“There’s a place we can crash. It’s not far. We lay low, regroup. Heal. Then we figure out what the hell to do.”

Yelena eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and started walking.

The group hesitated, then followed — slow and shuffling.

A few blocks in, Ava broke the silence again, jabbing a thumb at John’s mangled shield. “So… can’t you, like, unfold it? You’ve got super strength, right?”

“I have super strength,” John snapped. “Not unfold-a-shield-bent-by-a-living-deity strength. It’s toast.”

Alexei squinted. “Is that, like… covered under warranty? Or do you have to mail it back?”

John gave him a deadpan look. “Do I look like I kept a receipt?”

“And you—” he pointed at Ava “—Ghost. Can you even do anything right now or are you just brooding professionally?”

Ava raised her brow. “I walked through a wall and saved your sorry ass five hours ago.”

“She literally did,” Yelena added, smirking.

“I-oh. Right. I forgot,” John said, flustered. “In my defense, I was the one who cut the power so she could walk through the wall.”

“How convenient,” Ava said flatly.

Their argument began escalating again — nonsense mixed with sarcasm, interrupted only by Alexei trying to convince someone to buy him tacos — until Bucky turned sharply on his heel.

“Enough.” His voice was low, tired, and just sharp enough to cut through the noise. “We’re almost there. If you keep yelling, she’s not going to open the door.”

They all stopped short.

“She?” they echoed, suspicious in unison.

“Yes. She. No more questions.” He resumed walking, jaw clenched.

Yelena sidled up next to him, grinning like a cat. “Is this a she-she, or a capital-She situation?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Alexei leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is she a friend-friend or a friendly friend?”

John nodded sagely. “I bet she’s way out of his league.”

“Maybe she's his girlfriend,” Yelena offered with a shrug.

“Highly doubtful,” Ava muttered.

“She’s not my—” Bucky stopped mid-sentence, face twitching. “Just... shut up. All of you. Or I will let Bob use you as a jump rope.”

They finally quieted.

The townhouse appeared as they turned the corner. It was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and an old record shop. String lights framed the little balcony, and a warm golden glow spilled from the upstairs window. Too calm. Too normal. It looked like the kind of place where people had tea and talked about their feelings — not where half-dead super-soldiers crawled in to sleep off a cosmic ass-kicking.

Bucky stopped in front of the door, hesitating. His jaw tightened as he raised his fist, his metal fist hovering before he knocked.

He hated this.

He hated that he’d brought them here — hated the pit growing in his stomach — hated that this was the only safe place he could think of. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. Not since they separated. And now he was dragging a human dumpster fire of a team to her doorstep.

Behind him, the others bickered in hushed tones.

“Does she cook?” “I hope she has a comfy couch.” “If she has tea, I’ll marry her.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He almost turned around — almost told them it was a bad idea and they should just sleep in a sewer.

But then he heard footsteps approaching the door.

Too late.

The door creaked open slowly, and there you were.

Your eyes landed on Bucky first — bruised, dirt-streaked, arm slightly disjointed, and he was holding his ribs with one hand.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. Your gaze swept across him, and the flicker of worry that crossed your face was brief, but real.

Then it was gone.

“What do you want?” you asked. Not cold exactly, but not welcoming either. Just guarded.

Bucky looked down for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low. Worn. “I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now. But we need your help.”

“I don’t play superhero anymore,” you replied, arms folding as you leaned slightly against the doorframe.

“I know,” he said quickly, “I’m not asking you to suit up or anything. We just need a place to lay low. For a night. Maybe two. We got our asses handed to us like ten minutes ago.” He gestured to the group behind him, and your eyes drifted over the chaos on your porch.

“Please, doll,” he added, quieter now. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other option.”

The silence stretched between you. He held your gaze, waiting — wounded pride barely masked beneath the plea.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening. Without a word, you stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in before the neighbors start watching.”

The team shuffled in, dragging in a trail of soot, broken egos, and exhaustion. Bucky paused as he stepped through, eyes flicking to the living room. It looked exactly like he remembered — warm, soft lighting, a shelf cluttered with books and candles. Homey. Safe.

Except the framed photos of you two were gone. Replaced by art. Abstract pieces. Beautiful, distant things.

Then something soft brushed against his leg.

He glanced down and froze.

A pristine white cat was weaving through his boots, its tail flicking with recognition. His expression shifted—stunned, tender.

“Hey, Alpine,” he murmured, crouching carefully. “Hi, pretty girl. I missed you.”

She meowed softly and launched into his arms, immediately purring as she burrowed into his chest. He cradled her like porcelain, one hand smoothing over her fur.

You watched from the kitchen threshold. You and Bucky had agreed Alpine would stay with you — your life was stable, his wasn’t. It had made sense. But it hadn’t been easy.

Behind Bucky, the team just… stared.

“Are you seeing this?” John whispered to Yelena.

Ava elbowed him without even looking. “Shut up.”

It was a surreal image: The Winter Soldier, dusty and battle-worn, cuddling a white fluffball like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took in the rest of them. They were strangers, mostly. Strangers who looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield and onto your rug.

The blonde woman leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The woman in the sleek suit by the door looked cool and dangerous in equal measure. Then there was the massive man in red. He smiled and gave a little wave when your eyes met. And then there was the guy with the folded shield and the “punch-me” face.

Bucky nodded toward the group. “Uh, yeah. That’s Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and... that’s John.”

They all gave awkward waves. Alexei’s was the most enthusiastic.

You nodded politely. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

They all looked like they were one nudge away from collapsing.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

“Water, please,” Yelena said quickly, her voice scratchy.

John raised his hand like a kid in class. “Same.”

Ava glanced at you, almost apologetic. “Do you have tea?”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Anything.”

You turned to Alexei.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” he asked, hopeful.

“How strong?”

“Very strong.”

You smirked. “Got it.” Then disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, all heads turned to Bucky — still petting Alpine, who had zero plans to move.

“So…” Yelena drawled. “You and her?”

Bucky tensed like someone lit a fuse in his spine.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

John leaned closer to Ava. “There’s definitely history here. Did you see the way she looked at him?”

“She also looked like she wanted to slam the door,” Ava replied.

“She likes him,” Alexei declared confidently. “There is affection. And the cat approved. Cats never lie.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “If you value your limbs, you’ll stop talking.”

Yelena held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. No shipping the grumpy soldier. Got it.”

A few moments later, you returned balancing a tray with glasses, a mug of tea, and a tumbler of something amber.

“Bucky, seriously?” you said, seeing them all still hovering like awkward ghosts. “You could’ve told them to sit down.”

He shrugged, still holding the cat like a teddy bear. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

You waved the team toward the couches. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

John and Yelena nearly collapsed into opposite ends of the same couch. Ava leaned against a windowsill, blowing gently on her tea. Alexei sniffed his drink, took a sip, then sat upright.

“You, my dear, are an angel,” he declared reverently. “Is this whiskey?”

“Only the best for unexpected guests,” you replied dryly. “I was meal-prepping earlier,” you added, glancing over your shoulder. “I’ve got a big pot of soup if anyone’s hungry. Showers are down the hall. Towels are in the closet. Clean shirts in the basket.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Soup would be heavenly,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

You gave a small smile and turned toward the kitchen again.

Bucky hesitated, gently placing Alpine down as she curled onto a throw pillow. Then he followed you, slow and quiet.

You were setting down a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder. Bucky stood quietly near the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light, his hands shoved in his pockets, posture stiff like he hadn’t quite decided if he should be there.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, keeping your voice steady. The soup was already simmering; your hands moved automatically to the ladle.

He offered a faint smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

You nodded, focusing on the steam rising from the pot instead of the way your chest clenched. “You all looked like hell. Someone had to be decent.”

“Look, Y/N—”

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant to. You turned to face him fully, hands still holding the ladle. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why you're here. Nearest safe house. Not personal. It’s fine. Really.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening before giving a slow nod. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just need some rest.”

“That's fine.” You turned back to fill the bowls. “Alpine misses you.”

His voice was softer this time. “I miss her too.”

You didn't answer right away. But when the bowls were full and the bread was out, you called out toward the hallway.

“Lunch.”

A few thuds and grunts later, the rest of the group shuffled in like survivors of a disaster movie. Everyone looked slightly cleaner than when they arrived — but still bruised, bandaged, and about ten seconds from passing out.

Everyone except Bucky, who instinctively sat down in the seat next to yours.

Yelena took a spot across the table, her hands wrapped around her water. Ava perched at the end, still sipping her tea slowly. Alexei helped himself to three rolls before anyone else had time to blink.

John hovered awkwardly before finally taking a seat beside Alexei, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Yelena again after their last round of bickering.

“And then—oh! Oh! Bob folded his shield like a freakin’ taco,” Alexei said mid-chew, nearly choking from laughter. “Just snapped it like paper!”

Yelena chuckled. Even Ava cracked a smirk.

John looked personally offended. “It’s not that funny.”

“And then—wait for it—he ripped off Bucky’s arm.” Alexei nearly doubled over at the memory.

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth. You turned your head so fast toward Bucky, it made your hair sway.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Alexei, but when he caught your expression — real concern flickering beneath practiced calm — his demeanor softened.

“It’s fine,” he said gently, lifting the vibranium arm a little. “Reattached it without a problem.”

“Are you sure?” You were already reaching out, ignoring the way your hand trembled just slightly. You turned his arm gently, inspecting the seam where metal met flesh, eyes scanning for dents or stress damage. “Did you check everything out?”

“I’m okay,” he said, holding your gaze. You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He squeezed your hand. “I promise. I’m okay.”

His eyes looked at your hand, and something flickered behind them — something like a punch to the gut. It was bare. There was no ring on her finger.

Automatically, he reached up to his chest, fingers ghosting over where the chain should’ve been.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped.

Bucky’s fingers frantically searched under his collar, pulling at his shirt, then dipping into his jacket pocket. Nothing.

No. No no no.

He never took it off. Ever.

His pulse spiked as he started checking every pocket.

“Bucky?” you asked, watching him unravel. “What’s wrong?”

“The chain,” he said hoarsely. “My chain. It’s gone.”

Panic etched across his face.

At the end of the table, Yelena blinked, frowning as she slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She felt the cool weight of something metallic there — something she had shoved away mid-battle and forgotten about.

When she pulled it out, her heart skipped.

It was a chain.

And dangling from it — a simple gold wedding band.

“Holy f—” she whispered, catching herself before the full curse slipped. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

She held the chain in her open palm like it was glowing. “This is yours.”

He surged forward before she could say another word and plucked it from her hand like it was oxygen. His breath shuddered as he slipped it back over his neck, the ring resting once again near his heart.

Relief washed over his features — raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes locked with his.

“You still have it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand brushed your ring finger again, almost absentmindedly.

“I—I…” Bucky swallowed hard, words failing. His throat felt too tight.

Alexei broke the silence like a sledgehammer. “Wait—you’re married?! Congratulations!” he bellowed, raising his glass. “That’s adorable.”

Bucky flinched like he'd been shot.

The silence that followed was very loud.

He looked at you again — the weight of everything unspoken between you crashing back in all at once — then abruptly stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He just left the room, Alpine trailing after him as the others watched, stunned.

“Did I…” Alexei frowned. “Did I say something wrong? Is that not a wedding ring?”

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temple. “We’re gonna need way more soup.”

“Uh… we’re not married anymore,” you whispered, and the air in the room seemed to shift.

Everyone went quiet. You could feel the weight of their stares settle on you like a spotlight, but you didn’t look back. You just stood, heart pounding, and walked out of the room — your feet already knowing where to go.

Of course you knew where he was.

You and Bucky had lived in this house together for two years before everything fell apart. The bones of the place hadn’t changed — not the layout, not the memories buried in each room. And especially not the basement.

You made your way downstairs, the air cooler, quieter. The moment your foot hit the last step, he spoke.

“You kept everything the same,” Bucky said, his voice low but clear. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

You crossed the room and slowly sat next to him on the old couch, the one you both used to fall asleep on watching bad movies. The cushions were still slightly sunken on his side.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice gentle. “It was our home. It felt wrong moving your things…changing your designs.”

Silence filled the space between you. Not heavy — just full. The muffled sound of the team arguing upstairs drifted down: something about dishes, someone calling someone a jackass.

“They’re a good bunch,” you murmured. “Very entertaining, too.”

Bucky let out a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Your eyes drifted to the chain around his neck — barely visible, but there.

“You kept the ring,” you said softly, watching him tense just slightly.

He nodded slowly, the admission coming with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

He finally turned to face you, eyes tired but sincere. “It helps me. Grounds me. I didn’t have much left to fight for after Steve left. But then there was you. And that ring… it gave me comfort. Protection, in a weird way. It became my good luck charm. I couldn’t get rid of it after the divorce. I didn’t want to.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you gave him a small, sad smile. “So you’ve been wearing it around your neck this whole time?”

He nodded again, this time more slowly. “Every damn day,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t take it off. It’s stupid, I know. Makes me look like a fool.”

You shook your head and stood up, walking to the cabinet on the far wall. He watched you with guarded curiosity as you pulled out a small, velvet box and returned to the couch.

“You’re not a fool,” you said gently. You opened the box and held it out to him. “I couldn’t get rid of mine either. Every time I tried, it felt wrong, like throwing away something sacred."

His gaze dropped to the ring in your fingers, and his throat tightened. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours again.

“I really wanted our marriage to work,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

“I know you did.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are.” You reached for his hand and held it. It still felt the same — steady, calloused, familiar. “You needed to find yourself, Buck. I should’ve understood. Everything was changing so fast. Steve died. Sam had the shield. Walker was Captain America for a minute. And then… you got into politics. You’re actually a congressman now.”

He let out a breath that was half-scoff, half-laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up,” you continued. “And that was on me.”

“No. It was on me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t prioritize your feelings. I kept shutting you out — thinking I was protecting you. You were right to divorce me. I wasn’t a good husband.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and shook your head.

“Bucky, no. You were an amazing husband. You just had things to work through. And I pushed myself aside instead of speaking up.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt effortless. Like no time had passed.

His arms went around you instantly, like they never forgot how.

“I’m also sorry,” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was soft and bitter. “What the hell happened to us?”

“I don’t really know,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you more.” He pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to survive. Alpine purred softly at your feet, curling between your legs.

And for a while, it was enough.

Peaceful. Quiet. Just the two of you and the cat you shared, back in a place that still remembered love.

And then—

CRASH.

You both jumped slightly at the loud clatter upstairs.

“Did you seriously just break their bowl?” John’s voice rang out, horrified.

“Well, if you think you can do better, then help me wash the dishes, Walker!” Ava snapped back.

You giggled, forehead still resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “We should go before they break more of our dishes.”

He smiled — a real one, one that reached his eyes. It lit up something in him when you said our. He tightened his hold. “A few more minutes. They’ll survive.”

You didn’t argue.

And without meaning to, both of you drifted off, curled into each other like no time had passed at all.

********

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Alexei. You’re being too loud.”

“We should wake him up, though. We haven’t even talked strategy.”

“We can’t. Look at them.”

“They look like a cute, happy family.”

“We should take a picture.”

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room, with the flash blinding all of them.

Bucky blinked awake, eyes adjusting slowly. There was warmth on his lap — Alpine, purring softly. And in his arms, still tucked close, was you.

For a second, he didn’t move.

This was what peace felt like. This was home.

“You woke him up,” Yelena hissed. “Seriously, Dad, turn off the flash and the sound!”

Bucky looked at them — bleary-eyed and still half-asleep — and his expression dropped into something flat and dangerous.

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to leave,” he said calmly, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And if you don’t… Bob will be the least of your problems.”

The team scrambled out of the room like they’d seen a ghost.

He sighed, then looked back down at you — just as you stirred.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, eyes meeting his. He braced himself, just for a second, wondering if you’d pull away. Regret it. Pretend none of it happened.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled sleepily, and snuggled closer.

“Is everything okay?” you murmured, reaching over to pat Alpine, who purred louder.

“Everything’s just perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I cannot believe this dude,” Sam says, pacing the living room like it personally offended him. His hands are moving almost as fast as his mouth. “I tell him Ross wants me to rebuild the Avengers, right? I open up—I mean really open up. I tell him I’m not sure I’m the guy for it. That maybe Steve made a mistake giving me the shield.”

He stops mid-step and points dramatically in the air, like he's building up his case.

“And you know what Bucky says? ‘No, he didn’t.’ That’s it. No discussion. Just—‘No, he didn’t.’ Point. Blank. Period. And I'm not gonna lie, that's all I needed to hear."

You open your mouth to say something, but Sam’s already spinning toward you.

“And I believed him! I believed him because I thought he was my best friend.”

"Hey!" you cut in, brows raised.

Sam waves you off. “Nah, nah—don’t ‘hey’ me. You know you’re like my sister. Ultimate mega best friend status and all that, but not the point right now. Lemme vent about your ugly boyfriend real quick.”

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you!” Sam claps once, then starts pacing again. “Then I find out there’s already a ‘New Avengers’—capital N, capital A—already up and running. And guess who’s right in the middle of it? Bucky! Like I wasn’t gonna find out!”

He stops again, staring at you like it’s your fault. “You know what I call that? Betrayal.” He jabs the air for emphasis. “Straight-up betrayal.”

You’re sitting on the sofa, letting him work through it. Honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Bucky had called not ten minutes ago to talk about—of all things—the copyright on the Avengers name.

Now Sam wants to sue them.

“Fourteen months,” Sam says, voice rising, “of back-and-forth with this man and his ‘new family.’ You remember what we went through? What he went through? Guess what? We were his family first. And now he’s calling me like I’m the one stepping on toes? Like I’m in the wrong for trying to do what Ross asked me to do?”

“He told you to back off?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Sam gives you a long-suffering look. “He wants me to give him the rights of the name."

"So it didn't end well..." You sighed, rubbing your temples.

"Y/N… if I’m venting like this, how do you think the call went?”

You try to offer something. “Can’t you just… I don’t know. Combine the teams? Be the MegaVengers or something? Steve literally said ‘Avengers, assemble’ and there were like a thousand people who showed up. We all kind of worked together then.”

Sam looks horrified. “No. No combining. It’s not about numbers—it’s about principle. That man knew what this meant to me. And now he’s trying to sidestep it like it’s nothing.”

He crosses his arms and looks at you with purpose. “You need to talk to him. Get him to step back.”

You shake your head. “Nope. Not getting in the middle of this.”

You meant it. You’ve known Sam for years—he was your ride-or-die, your day-one, the brother you got to choose. But through Sam, you met Bucky. And he became your favorite person. You were in between your best friend and the love of your life.

You learned about the ‘New Avengers’ team at the same time Sam did. The two of you had stared at the screen in disbelief.

But after hours of yelling at Bucky—tears, arguments, explanations—you got it. You understood that he hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. That Valentina made moves he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t betrayed you… not intentionally.

Still, the line between intention and impact? That’s where Sam lived.

He stares at you for a moment, then reaches into his jacket and hands you a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” you ask, skimming it. Then you stop. Your eyes widen.

“I want you to join my team,” he says simply. “The new Avengers.”

Your jaw drops. “Sam…”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says quickly. “You really think I’d build a team without you? Come on. We’ve never not been on a team together.”

“Sam, I… I can’t sign this,” you say, handing the paper back. “You know I can’t.”

He rolls his eyes. “You can. You should. Y/N, I’ve already started recruiting. I’ve got a plan, but I need my right hand. I need you.”

You stand, walking toward him. “And I can’t go against Bucky.”

He exhales sharply, then softens. “Just… think about it, okay? I don’t need a yes right now. Just don’t say no yet.”

“Sam…”

“Think about it,” he says again, looking at his watch. “Ugh—venting session’s over. Gotta go pitch Ross on the plan. Wish me luck.”

He leans in, presses a quick kiss to your cheek, "Please think about it," and walks out the door.

You sit back down, staring at the paper. Then you run a hand through your hair, heart pounding.

A few quiet moments pass.

Then you grab your bag and head straight for the other tower.

*****

“James Buchanan Barnes—you are in so much trouble.”

Your voice echoed through the tower as you dropped your bag with a thud. The team—scattered around the lounge doing everything from eating chips to watching TV—immediately snapped to attention.

A chorus of "Ooooooh!" broke out like a middle school lunchroom.

Bucky stood up fast, hands already in the air like he was facing down a SWAT team. “Okay, doll, don’t be mad.”

You marched forward, hands on your hips. “Don’t be mad? You asked Sam to drop the Avengers name.”

“He’s suing us!” Bucky shot back, already defensive. “We had the name first! Val got the jump on it—we just made it official.”

He crossed his arms like a stubborn teenager. Behind him, his teammates exchanged exasperated looks, a few shaking their heads like, here we go again.

“Are you both five?” you snapped. “You need to talk. Face to face. Not through lawyers. Not through phones. Like actual adults.”

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Bucky muttered. “And honestly, I don’t want to see him either.”

He tried to hold his glare, but it faltered when he looked at you. He could see it written all over your face: this was tearing you up. And he hated that he’d played a part in it.

“I saw Sam today,” you said quietly. “He asked me to join his team.”

The room fell completely silent. Even Yelena put down her snack.

Bucky blinked. “And… what’d you say?”

“I told him no. For now. But he asked me to think about it.”

Bucky scoffed like that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Think about it? What’s there to think about? You’re not joining them.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Every single person in the room physically cringed. Even Red Guardian mouthed oh no.

“You’re not serious right now,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “Did you just try to tell me what to do?”

“I’m saying Sam’s being irrational,” Bucky argued, digging his own grave. “He’s suing us, Y/N. You can’t join them. That’s not how this works.”

You stepped toward him, fire in your eyes. “He’s not being irrational. He’s hurt, Bucky. He thinks you betrayed him. And the truth? Even if it wasn’t on purpose—you kind of did.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I get it,” you added, softer now. “He shouldn’t have filed a lawsuit. It’s messy. But this—this whole thing—is a disaster. And you’re both too stubborn to fix it.”

Bucky slowly reached for you, pulling you into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I never wanted to put you in the middle of this. I just... I won’t give up on this team.”

You let him hold you, but your heart was heavy. “I know,” you whispered, then gave him a small kiss. “But I can’t keep being the bridge between you two.”

He pulled back, looking at you. “Then don’t be. Move in with me. You said you were thinking about it. And hell, you could just join us too. We’d be unstoppable.”

You stepped back, blinking. “Are you seriously asking me to join your team right after I told you Sam asked me the same thing? Are you kidding me, Bucky?”

“Not cool,” Yelena muttered, earning a death glare from Bucky.

Then your phone rang—loud and dramatic. Mariah Carey’s voice filled the room. You groaned and answered.

“What, Sam?”

“Figured you were over there,” he said. “So I’ll keep it short. Ross and I have a few new recruits saying yes already. We might fast-track things. So I need an answer. ASAP.”

“You gave me thirty minutes—”

“Thirty minutes for what?” Bucky leaned in, practically pressing his ear to your phone.

“Would you stop?” you muttered, pushing him back.

“Is that Barnes?” Sam asked over the line. “Yo, Barnes—fuck you.”

Bucky blinked. “What did he just say?”

You sighed. “He said—”

“I said fuck you,” Sam shouted, louder this time.

You snapped.

“That’s it!” you barked, stepping between the two of them. “Both of you, shut up.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“I am so done being in the middle of your pissing contest,” you said, voice shaking now. “You used to be a family. We used to be a family. And you two are tearing it apart like a couple of overgrown toddlers.”

Bucky looked like he’d been slapped. Sam was silent on the other end.

“You know what’s really messed up?” you added. “You both say you love me, you both trust me—but you’re trying to make me pick between you. And I won’t. I won’t.”

Everyone was still, barely breathing.

Then Sam, faint over the phone: “Wait… Did Barnes ask you to join the FAKEngers?”

“We’re the real Avengers, for the record,” Bucky muttered.

“Oh my god,” you said, throwing your hands up. “I’m done. Until you both grow up and get your shit together, I’m out. I’m not picking sides.”

You turned, grabbed your bag, and stormed toward the door.

“Wait—what do you mean?” Bucky called, chasing after you.

You turned back, pointing between him and your phone. “I love you, Bucky. And Sam—you’re my brother. But if you two can’t stop acting like enemies, then you don’t get to have me caught in the crossfire.”

And with that, you hung up the call and walked out.

Back in the room, Walker slowly picked up the paper. “Ouch,” he said, wincing. “Don’t you just hate when they walk away?”

Yelena smacked him in the head. “You’re not helping.”

***********

It had been a few days since everything exploded—and both Sam and Bucky were unraveling in their own ways.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt it: the quiet ache where you used to be. The texts left on read. The silence that said more than any shouting match ever could.

Eventually, they both found themselves doing the same thing—sitting alone, staring at their phones, thumbs hovering over each other's names.

Bucky sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and hit the contact.

Sam’s phone lit up. He stared at the screen for a long second before finally answering.

“Barnes,” Sam said flatly.

“Wilson,” Bucky replied, just as dry.

A beat.

Then Bucky exhaled. “I miss her.”

Sam’s voice was quieter this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

Another pause.

“We gotta fix this,” Bucky said. “This whole thing… it’s not worth losing her over.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam agreed. “We should talk. In person. Try to settle this."

“Tomorrow?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s good.”

“Alright.”

“Cool.”

“…Fine.”

“…Fine.”

They hung up.

No apologies yet. Not out loud.

But it was a start.

You worked your whole life to get here. Straight A’s, a top-tier college, a string of impressive jobs that made your parents brag to their friends.

But that wasn’t the point. You didn’t do all of that just to climb a ladder. You wanted to help people. To actually do good. To give the voiceless a voice, to step in where others wouldn’t. You wanted to make the world better, even if it was just piece by piece.

That’s what led you to OXE. And eventually, to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Or, more accurately, to being her assistant. Though calling it that feels like selling it short.

You’ve been working with her for a few years now. From the very beginning, she seemed to like you. Said you reminded her of herself. You’re still not sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Valentina can be cold. She’s sharp, calculated, sarcastic to the point of painful. Some of her decisions don’t exactly land on the moral high ground. But she took you in, brought you closer, taught you how to survive in a world most people don't even know exists. And you’ve done things others your age only dream about. You were actually making a difference.

But now everything’s falling apart.

She’s under investigation. Impeachment is on the table. And you’re left trying to put out fires.

You’d been tense the entire hearing. And not the kind of tension that goes away with a few deep breaths. This was chest-tightening, eye-twitching, every-decision-matters tension.

Your job was on the line. Everything you’d worked for — or convinced yourself was worth it — was balancing on Valentina’s ability to lie with a smile.

She was performing. You were managing the fallout.

Your eyes kept drifting — trying to find some kind of anchor. And that’s when you caught a pair of them.

Blue. Cold but curious. Watching.

Congressman Bucky Barnes.

You met his stare, held it a second longer than you should’ve, then forced yourself to look away. Whatever that was — whatever he was trying to read — you didn’t have time to entertain it.

Then Valentina dropped the line you’d been dreading: “By all means, dig as deep as you like. I promise—there’s nothing to find.”

You knew that tone. It meant you had twenty minutes to erase every breadcrumb.

By the time the hearing adjourned, you were already outside, typing fast, juggling secure files and decoy trails on your tablet. You barely noticed the footsteps until—

“Y/N?”

You looked up, and there he was. Again.

That same cool stare, now paired with a too-casual smile.

“Congressman Barnes,” you said smoothly, tucking the tablet under your arm. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve heard...great things.”

“I doubt it. Also, please just Bucky,” he said, offering a hand. “Unless you want to start talking tax policy — then I’ll put the tie back on.”

You cracked a smile and shook his hand. Firm. Warm. Too steady.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing back toward the hearing room. “I mean, what happened in there was... honestly? Kind of worrying. Extremely worrying. Kind of concerning if you ask me...in like a worrying way.”

You tilted your head. “You mean ‘concerning,’ or ‘I’m building a case against your boss’ worrying?”

He blinked. Didn’t expect you to hit back that fast.

You smiled politely. “No need to dance around it. I’m sure you’ve got a folder somewhere with Valentina's name on it.”

His grin crooked slightly. “Maybe. It’s a very organized folder. Color-coded tabs.”

“She always did love being underestimated,” you said with a shrug. “O.X.E. has nothing to hide, of course.”

He didn’t argue, but the look he gave you said he wasn’t buying it.

There was a beat of silence, and then he glanced over your shoulder — where Valentina was watching the two of you, pretending she wasn’t.

“She always stare like that?” he asked casually.

“Only when she thinks someone’s wasting my time.”

“And am I?”

“Depends on why you’re really here.”

He smiled. “Okay, fine. I’m new to D.C. First term, still finding my way. Thought maybe... you could give me a tour. Show me the non-corrupt parts.”

You laughed softly. “That’s a short list.”

“Still. Monuments, museums, a little fresh air — maybe a conversation?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Right. A conversation. Just two people talking. No ulterior motives, no recording devices, no traps.”

He held up his hands. “I left the wire at home.”

You smirked, but you didn’t let it reach your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” he said. “Just... improvising.”

You leaned in just enough for him to know you were done playing. “You’re fishing, Congressman. I’m just not the one you’ll catch.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to flirt again — but you stepped back as Valentina waved you over.

“You're a very good-looking man,” you added, softer now. “And I appreciate the effort. But whatever you’re hoping to dig up from me? You won’t get it over coffee and small talk.”

A beat passed between you.

Then you gave him one last smirk, turned, and walked back toward Valentina — leaving him standing there, watching.

And even though you didn’t look back, you knew those blue eyes hadn’t moved.

*******

You had three things on your mind.

Shut down headquarters.

Erase every trace of Project Sentry.

Clean up Valentina’s reputation before the whole thing implodes.

And somehow, you're doing all of that in a dress and heels at a fundraiser.

“Honestly, Y/N, you have such an amazing brain,” Valentina says, her smile more calculated than warm. “Putting this fundraiser together? Brilliant move. This has to sway at least some of the votes.”

“Thanks,” you reply, quickly scrolling through your tablet. “I’ve categorized the guest list: influencers, allies, and the undecideds. Left off the hard no’s. No point wasting time. I just sent the files to you.”

“Perfect. Do I need you for anything else?”

“No, you should be good. I’ll stay close though. Just in case.”

“Smart. Stay where I can see you. And hear you. Actually, just don’t go far,” she says, already turning to work the room. “Time to network.”

As soon as she walks away, you exhale, realizing you hadn’t even noticed you were holding your breath.

This job is not for the weak. Especially not under someone like her.

You glance around the room, taking in the glittering lights, expensive suits, and fake smiles. Your eyes find Valentina again, instinctively keeping track of her. Then they drift to the large Avengers logo on display at the front of the gala.

You were still a kid the first time you saw the Avengers on screen. They were larger than life. Heroes. They saved people. They made things right.

Now? You’ve seen the world fall apart more times than you can count. And more often than not, no one shows up to fix it.

That’s why you’ve stuck by Valentina. Why you’ve been willing to blur the lines. The world still needs saving. People still need heroes.

They just don’t always look the way you imagined.

“You know,” a voice says beside you, calm but unmistakably familiar, “this whole gala is impressive. The Avengers memorabilia is a nice touch.”

You turn and see him. Congressman Bucky Barnes, standing just a few feet away, his gaze locked on the towering Avengers "A" on display like it still meant something.

“Valentina thought it would help raise awareness,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral, polite. “Tie the past to the present. Nostalgia works.”

You’re careful with your words. You know why he’s here, what game he’s playing. And more importantly, you know where your loyalty lies.

He glances at you now, the full weight of those ice-blue eyes meeting yours. “Awareness for what, exactly?”

You offer a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “The mission has always been simple. Help the people. The world’s been falling apart, and heroes… they’ve disappeared. People need someone to believe in again.”

He nods slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “Again, call me Bucky. Also, that was good. Very rehearsed. Very polished. Bet Valentina was proud of that one.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just here for the hors d'oeuvres,” he says, voice smooth, but you catch the edge underneath it.

You take a step closer. “Look, Congressman Barnes. I know your history. And we both know what happens when evil comes and no one is there to stop it. OXE is trying to prevent that. Everything we do is for the people. Valentina’s impeachment? It won’t go anywhere.”

Even as you say it, there's a flicker of doubt. Small, but there.

He studies you for a moment before pulling a card from inside his jacket and holding it out.

“What’s this?” you ask, accepting it cautiously.

“My direct line. In case you remember something useful.”

You blink at him, caught slightly off guard by how calm he is. How sure.

You move closer, slow and deliberate, then reach up and tuck the card neatly into his chest pocket. “I don’t know what you think you’re implying, but I don’t appreciate it."

The two of you lock eyes, silence stretching between you. Not hostile, exactly. But charged. Neither of you blinks.

Then your phone buzzes.

You glance at your phone. Valentina. Of course.

You slip it back into your pocket and look up at him one more time.

“I have to go,” you say, steady. “Enjoy the rest of the gala, Bucky.”

Your smile is polite, but your eyes stay sharp. You turn and walk off without waiting for a response, the sound of your heels swallowed by the noise of the event.

Behind you, he watches you disappear into the crowd, quiet and thoughtful. Then, without a word, he finds himself slipping the card into your bag later in the night. Not for pressure. Not even for leverage.

Just in case.

And whether you used the card or not—that was your choice. Bucky just hoped he’d planted the seed.

Later that night, you sat beside Valentina in the back of a sleek black car, the city lights flickering across her face as she debriefed the night with a grin.

“I think that went incredibly well,” she said, proud and pleased with herself. “Honestly, I’m so proud of us. Oh—hand me my tablet. I gave it to you earlier when Gary started sniffing around asking too many questions.”

Your fingers found something thin. Smooth edges. Not the tablet.

The card.

Bucky’s card.

Your stomach tightened, just for a second.

He’d slipped it in without you noticing. Of course he had.

You stared at it between your fingers. You should’ve tossed it the second you felt it. Should’ve never looked at it again. But something kept your hand still.

“Y/N?” Valentina’s voice cuts in, sharp and expectant. “Tablet. Me. Now.”

You snap out of it, quickly pushing the card deeper into your bag before pulling out the tablet and handing it over.

She doesn’t notice. She’s already scrolling.

You tried to focus on the night’s success, the way people clapped when Valentina spoke, the headlines you knew would be glowing by morning. But that card was still in your bag. And the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About the look in his eyes.

About the weight of what he said.

Maybe—just maybe—he really did get in your head. And maybe that seed he planted was already starting to grow.

*********

You’d made a mistake. A big one.

And you knew it.

Your heart raced as you paced the cramped hallway, mind spiraling. You'd believed you were making a difference—helping Valentina clean up her reputation felt like part of that. She said she needed you. That this was how things got done. So you listened.

Then she told you to burn the loose ends. Literally burn them.

Human beings.

And still, you followed orders. You rationalized. You looked the other way.

But the plan didn’t go as expected. They didn’t go quietly.

They were fighting back.

And Valentina didn’t like that.

Now a SWAT team is going to finish the job.

You couldn't let them die. You knew their names. Their stories. You didn’t believe they deserved this—not like this. Maybe it was too late to save them all, but maybe you could help save others.

Maybe there was still a chance.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You dug into your bag, searching through the chaos until your fingers found it. That damn card.

You stared at it for a beat. Then you called.

It rang once. Then again. And then he picked up.

“This is Y/N,” you said before he could get a word in, your voice low, rushed, almost breathless. “I’ve, uh... been thinking. Remember that tour you wanted? You were right. Since you’re new to D.C., I figured—why not? Let’s hit the monuments. Maybe a museum. Or... I don’t know. Just talk. Just you and me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“A chat?” Bucky’s voice came through, teasingly. You started biting your nails, heart pounding. “Yeah. I’m down for a chat. When and where?”

Before you could answer, Valentina’s voice sliced through the hallway outside.

“I swear to god, Y/N, do I have to spell it out for you? You're coming with us. Get your ass in the car. Who else is going to make my coffee right? I swear, you Gen Zers make me want to throw myself off this damn building.”

You went silent, your jaw clenched. Bucky didn’t say anything either, but you knew he heard it.

Everything inside you was pulling in different directions. Guilt. Fear. Fury. Shame.

You swallowed hard.

“Look…” you whispered, voice shaking a little. “I’m sorry about the last few times. You were right. You were always right. I was so stupid. She doesn’t care about the world. She just wants the glory.”

You were rambling now. You always did when your anxiety started creeping up your throat.

“Whoa, hey—slow down, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just tell me what I need to know.”

But before you could speak again, Valentina shouted your name, louder this time.

You turned slightly, lowered your voice again.

“Do you have an iPhone?”

“No. Samsung.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course. “Do you know how to track a phone?”

“I mean, yeah. But I don’t really do that anymore.”

“Well... start doing it again.”

You paused, then added quietly, “I have to go. Track my location. You'll get your answer.”

Then you hung up.

You let out a long breath, pushed the card deep back into your bag, and ran toward Valentina’s voice.

Hoping Bucky understood.

**********

You were pacing again. Nerves buzzing. Mind racing. You were worried about the others. They escaped when Bob distracted them. Then they couldn't find them. But something told you Bucky had gotten to them first. You could feel it in your gut.

He pulled through. Of course he did.

But now… there was a new problem.

Bob.

The new guy. The unstable one.

He wasn’t like the others. Something about him was off from the start. Too volatile. Too quick to react. And now he had powers — real powers — thanks to Valentina.

She said he was the future. Said he was the key.

But all you saw was a ticking bomb with a name tag.

He didn’t need power or exposure. He needed help. And if no one stepped in soon, he was going to destroy everything — maybe even himself.

You ducked into a quiet hallway, slipped into an empty supply closet, and dialed Bucky’s number with shaking hands.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Y/N,” he said, breathless like he’d been mid-action. “We’re good. I got them. Everyone’s safe. I’m keeping them under wraps as witnesses, so we’re covered. You did the right thing calling me. Thank you.”

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall.

“No,” you said softly. “Bucky, there’s more. A lot more.”

There was a pause.

“Talk to me.”

“She did it,” you whispered. “She actually made one. A super soldier. His name’s Bob.”

“Bob?” he repeated, half in disbelief, half already bracing for what was coming next.

You could hear background chatter on his end — voices muttering “Yeah, Bob,”

“Yes. Bob the super soldier. He’s... not stable, Bucky. He’s got powers, strength, speed — but his head isn’t right. He’s spiraling, and Valentina’s using him like he’s a tool.

You were rambling now, the anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

“She’s restarting the entire program, and this guy — he’s the prototype. And if she gets away with this, there will be more. Stronger. You have to stop it before it turns into something we can’t come back from.”

There was silence on the line. Then you heard him moving, footsteps pacing across concrete.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m coming. I’ll handle it.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” his voice softened, “are you okay?”

“I... I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. “Everything I worked for is going to be for nothing. I'm freaking out.”

“You don’t have to carry this alone, you know.”

“I can't tell my friends or family.” you said, quieter now. “I already feel guilty and shameful enough. They would just make me feel worse.”

Another pause. Then softer, “Y/N... I meant what I said. You did the right thing. And I’m proud of you. Really.”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Thanks. That means more than you probably realize.”

“I realize it,” he said. And it was quiet, but it hit you harder than it should’ve.

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “Are they okay? The others?”

“They’re safe. A little roughed up, but they’re going to be fine.”

“Good. That’s good,” you said, exhaling. “I should go. I’ll keep feeding you updates when I can. Just… get here fast, alright?”

“Okay,” He finally whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your pocket before walking out the door. You immediately froze when your boss stared at you with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” she said coolly, “out of everyone, I never thought you would be the one second-guessing your work.”

You didn’t flinch. Not this time. “Giving Bob those powers? It’s reckless. And you know it.”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head like you were some disappointing intern instead of her right hand. “I’m not going to argue with you, kid. I like you. I really do. You’ve done exceptional work—with me. For us. That’s why I’m giving you a little time to get your head on straight.”

Your jaw clenched. You said nothing.

“But,” she added, stepping a little closer, lowering her voice, “don’t let Barnes cloud that beautiful brain of yours. He’s a distraction. A loud, inconvenient one. And he’s getting in the way.”

You met her gaze evenly, letting the silence stretch.

Then, without a word, you grabbed your purse and walked past her—heels clicking, spine straight.

You needed to find Bucky.

*********

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers."

After countless photos and a barrage of questions, you kept your smile steady, doing your job one last time.

“Thank you all for coming,” you said with calm finality. “Photos and questions will stop here. I’ll be in touch about the next press briefing soon. Seriously—thank you again.”

You gave a polite nod as Valentina waved beside you, her signature smirk in place.

As the crowd began to disperse, you turned your attention to the Thunderbolts. With a gentle but firm push, you guided them out of view, away from the cameras. And then—without thinking—you grabbed Bucky and pulled him into a hug.

You couldn’t stop yourself.

You’d been searching for him. Panicking. Lost. The last image you had was of him stepping into the Void. The moment his silhouette became just that—a shadow—you screamed his name. And then… nothing.

You thought you’d lost him.

But now, here he was. Alive. Solid. Real. And all the emotions you’d buried came rushing back.

You knew there was something between you—something electric, something raw and waiting. It had barely started, but it already meant something. And for a bit, you'd been mourning the future that never got a chance to begin.

Now, you didn’t have to mourn anymore.

The moment stretched. Everyone around you went quiet. You barely registered your boss muttering an uneasy, “Oh dear.”

Bucky froze, stiff in your arms. He glanced around, uncertain. John gave him a look before mimicking hugging someone. Alexei flashed a thumbs-up. The girls? They just smirked.

“I saw you,” you whispered, pulling back just slightly. “I saw you walk into the Void. You became a shadow. I—I was trying to find you, and then you pulled that crap. What the hell, Barnes?”

He opened his mouth, but you beat him to it—stepping back before he could even return the embrace.

“I’m okay,” he said gently. “I swear, I’m fine.” He just wanted you back into his arms.

“You still scared the hell out of me,” you said, your voice breaking just a little. “I thought you were gone for good.”

Bucky's expression softened. “I’m not going anywhere. You still owe me that tour, remember?”

You laughed—half out of relief, half because it suddenly felt so easy to breathe again. You stepped closer, pulled him into a kiss, and he kissed you back without hesitation. Sparks. Heat. Home.

When you finally pulled away, smiling, you whispered, “Looks like you caught me.”

He grinned. “Looks like I have.”

Then you kissed again.

A loud groan broke the moment. “I feel like I’m gonna barf,” Val muttered.

You’d heard it live, sitting next to Haymitch on the worn-down couch in his house. The two of you had been tense, uneasy, as you waited for the President’s address.

You had a bad feeling. You knew the Victors’ Tour hadn’t gone unnoticed. You could feel the Capitol’s eyes narrowing, feel the shift in the air. Katniss and Peeta had become more than just victors—they had become threats. And threats, in the Capitol, didn’t last long.

Still, even with all that dread festering in your gut, you never imagined this.

Shock didn’t even begin to cover what you felt when the words were spoken aloud. It was like the floor had caved in beneath you. Like you’d been hurled into ice-cold water, lungs filling with something heavy and impossible to breathe.

Dread and anguish clawed their way up your spine, wrapping around your throat until you could barely move. You slapped a hand over your mouth, the instinct to scream cut short by sheer disbelief.

You’d won your Games at eighteen. The 56th Hunger Games. You could still see it, still feel it under your skin. Haymitch had been your mentor then—twenty-two years old and already unraveling at the seams. You’d come out the other side shattered but breathing. He’d barely looked at you at first, too drunk or too bitter or maybe both. But you stuck around anyway.

You always stuck around.

After the Games, you fell into the role of caretaker almost naturally. Haymitch pushed you away, again and again, snarling and drinking and pretending he didn’t need anyone. But you stayed. You always stayed.

Even after everything, there was still a softness to you that hadn’t been burned out by the arena. A light he didn’t understand. A part of him—one he’d never admit out loud—sometimes wished you had died in those Games. Just to spare you this. Just to spare you him.

But you were stronger than he gave you credit for.

He still remembered the first time he saw you after your Victory Tour. You’d shown up at his door with a pot of soup—too much for one person, just enough for two. You smiled, awkward and hopeful, and he hadn’t had the strength to tell you to leave.

You latched onto him like a leech, he’d joked more than once. But somewhere along the line, he stopped trying to shake you off.

He grew to love you for it.

Nothing was ever official between you. No labels. No promises. But you both knew what it was. There were kisses sometimes, soft and rare and meaningful. Hugs that lasted just a little too long. Touches that lingered.

You were more than friends, even if neither of you had the courage to say it aloud.

Haymitch was terrified. Of letting you in. Of letting himself care. Of losing you. The Capitol had taken everyone else from him—family, friends, lovers. But you? He wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

He never said those things. But you knew.

You always knew.

You remembered the sound of his glass shattering when the announcement aired. It jolted you from your frozen state. His scream cracked through the silence, guttural and raw.

You rushed to him, wrapped your arms around him, held on as tight as you could. Your tears soaked into his shirt as his fury trembled beneath your hands.

At some point, exhaustion pulled you under. You woke up curled on the couch, head resting in his lap, his hand loosely tangled in your hair. He was already deep into his second bottle of whiskey when your eyes opened.

Then Peeta walked through the door.

And just like that, you knew it was time to go.

Haymitch needed to focus, to pull himself together—for them, for what was coming. And you needed to do the only thing that ever gave you peace.

You needed to cook. 

After hours in the kitchen, surrounded by boiling pots and the scent of fresh bread, you finally packed everything up. You’d made enough food to feed a battalion—stew, bread, potatoes, something sweet for afterward.

But none of it was really for you. It never was.

You headed to Haymitch’s house, balancing the food in your arms, knowing without a doubt he hadn’t eaten a damn thing all day. Maybe Peeta was still with him. Maybe Katniss should be there too. You were all caught in the same storm, walking the same nightmare in different shoes. The least you could do—the only thing you could do—was feed them through it.

As you lifted your foot to kick the door open, too burdened with containers to knock, it creaked open from the inside. Katniss stood there, coat on, about to step out.

“Katniss,” you breathed, a little surprised. “Hi. You're not staying for dinner?”

You adjusted a heavy dish nearly slipping from your grip. “You should. Bring Peeta, too. I cooked enough to make the Capitol jealous.”

She offered a faint, weary smile. “I was just heading out. But thank you.”

You studied her face—tight, drawn, eyes a little too empty. You knew that look. You’d worn it yourself.

“I’ll send some leftovers,” you said gently, lowering your voice. “After I deal with the old grump inside.”

She gave a soft huff, amused but sad. “Thanks,” she murmured, stepping aside to let you in.

Before she left, you paused.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” you said, eyes meeting hers. “Because that would be insulting. But I want you to know—I’m here. Whenever you need me.”

Katniss nodded. “I know,” she said softly. And then she was gone.

You nudged the door shut with your foot and carried the food into the kitchen, setting it all down with a relieved sigh.

“Mitch? I made way too much bread,” you called out. “And lamb stew. Still need to finish the potatoes, but—”

You stopped. Your words died as your eyes landed on him in the living room.

Haymitch sat slumped on the couch, a glass of liquor hanging from his hand, already halfway gone. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were heavy with something that felt like resignation.

“Hey,” you said carefully, “what did Katniss and Peeta want?”

He didn’t look at you right away. Just took a long, slow drink.

“Peeta came to ask me to protect Katniss,” he finally muttered. “And Katniss… she asked me to save Peeta.”

Your stomach twisted. You stepped closer. “Save him how?”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and shrugged like it meant nothing.

“If his name is drawn, I’m volunteering.”

The words hit you like a slap. You blinked, not understanding at first.

“There’s no way in hell you’re volunteering,” you snapped. “Are you serious? They both asked you to die for them?”

His silence was answer enough.

“Haymitch,” you hissed, voice sharp with disbelief, “you can’t be serious.”

“I promised her,” he said, so quietly it was almost a sigh.

You stared at him in disbelief. Rage and fear tangled inside you, hot and suffocating. You stormed toward him, snatching the bottle from his hand and slamming it on the table.

“You promised me, too,” you snapped. “Years ago. After my Games. You promised you wouldn’t do anything reckless. And guess what, Haymitch? You’re keeping that promise.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t yell. He didn’t even try to take the bottle back.

“Sweetheart,” he said, quiet and tired, “it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” Your voice cracked as tears welled in your eyes. “You can’t volunteer. You can’t go back. You can’t leave me.”

He stood abruptly, glass forgotten, and crossed the room in three strides. His hands came up to cradle your face, rough and trembling.

“I’m not losing you,” he said, eyes burning into yours.

“What?” you whispered, barely able to speak.

“I told Katniss I’d volunteer for Peeta,” he said. “But only if she swore to volunteer for you if your name is called.”

You froze. Tears slipped down your cheeks. “You… what?”

“You’re not going back in that arena. Not while I’m breathing. I won’t let them have you again.”

You were his first tribute. His first win. His first reason to feel something again after his own nightmare. And now, the thought of losing you—of watching you walk toward another arena—was something he physically couldn’t bear.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you whispered, voice shaking with anger and grief. “You’re being a hypocrite. You’re not playing fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” he snapped, his own voice raw. “But I don’t give a damn about fairness. I care about you. And keeping you out of that arena is the only thing I care about right now.”

You were shaking. “How could they even ask you to do that?”

He gave a bitter smile, small and broken. “Because they know the truth. I don’t have anything left. If I go, no one will care.”

Your heart shattered. “I’ll care,” you sobbed, gripping his shirt. “You have me. You can’t leave me. I won’t survive it, Haymitch. I can’t—”

He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapped around you like iron, grounding you, keeping you from unraveling completely.

“Shhhh, sweetheart,” he whispered, his own voice cracking. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’m right here.”

Your body trembled in his arms, his warmth the only thing tethering you to the earth.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still cupping your face. His eyes were misted over, his thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen.

His guilt lingered, heavy, but your safety outweighed it all. If there was one thing he knew he'd never regret, it was protecting you.

He pulled back slightly, his hands gentle as they cradled your face. “You know what?” he said softly. “I could really go for some chocolate cake. Let’s bake one.”He said it because he knew cooking calmed you, grounded you.

You let out a watery laugh through your tears. He was trying to make everything feel normal. Safe. Familiar.

But in that moment, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to cook.

You didn’t want distractions. You didn’t want stew or bread or cake.

You just wanted him.