my multifandom obsession

Maya sits at the head of the table, spine straight, pen still. Face completely still and stony like she was judging whether to let you out on bail.

“Alright,” she says. “Go.”

You clasp your hands on the table. “We’ve sustained viewership through strong mid-season assets. Engagement peaked with episode seventeen. To close, we need a pivot. Something high-risk, high-resonance, with narrative permanence.”

Bucky sits beside you, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyebrow twitching. 

Maya flicks her eyes toward him. “Consent forms signed?”

“Fully,” you say. “He understands the liabilities.”

Bucky grunts, “Sitting right here,” but no one acknowledges it. His thumb picks at the seam of his jeans, an old nervous habit.

You take his irritability as a sign to spew on, “Novelty is old. They want catharsis. But we can provide both. Controlled environment, one take. No reshoots.”

Maya narrows her eyes. “Walk me through the risk profile.”

“High,” you say evenly. “Personal exposure, unpredictable optics, and the possibility of emotional contagion. But containment is possible with careful framing.”

Bucky rests his forehead on his fingers, digging into his skin to smoothen out a migraine, “Don’ like bein’ described as a containment issue.”

He’d helped throw ideas around last week, had even agreed when you framed it as the way forward, but now that it’s written in your voice, in front of Maya, his shoulders are iron bars.

You ignore him. “The deliverable is clean, consumable, and irreversible. It will work.”

He shifts, arms uncrossing, then crossing again. 

Maya steeples her fingers. “And what are we calling it?”

You slide the folder across the glass. Words stamped bold on the cover:

THE EXORCISM OF JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.

Bucky exhales sharply, “S not an exorcism. I’m not possessed.”

 She closes the folder, pushes it back to you.  

Ignores him, as to keep with tradition. 

“You have yourselves a finale.”

At finale, he looks at you again. Doesn’t even mean to. 

Just a flicker, but long enough that it costs him. His stomach drops all over again. 

Because this was always the plan, wasn’t it? 

The series ends. You leave. 

Curtain down.

You hit the supermarket at 10:43 p.m., a completely normal and recommended time to go there. 

Automatic doors whoosh. You grab a basket. Bucky plucks it from your hand and swaps in a trolley, no explanation,

He steers. You dangle off the side like a pirate ship, half expecting him to complain but instead he silently shifts his weight without breaking stride, letting you hang along for the ride.  

“Callsigns?” you say, purely to irritate.

“No,” he says, purely on instinct.

“Copy that, Negative.”

He exhales through his nose, but his hand tightens slightly on the trolley bar, like he’s hanging on harder than necessary. He has to remind himself not to get used to this. It won’t last past the finale.

Over the PA, a bored voice drones, “Cleanup on aisle seven.” 

You show him your list. He scans it at record speed and sets off.

Salt first, because it is the starting step to any good ritual. 

There are thirty types, all performing the same basic function.

Bucky reaches for a big blue box that says nothing except SALT, like reaching out for the most war-ration looking option is his instinct. You, of course, go for the small jar with an insufferable label reading out mineral content, origin story, childhood loves and the like.

He looks at your hand. You look at his. He puts both in the trolley. 

“Candles,” he says from memory. 

“You’re going to pick some unscented garbage,” you say, mournful.

“Probably,” he says. 

“Strange choice, for someone who buys cinnamon body wash.”

He blinks once, slow. “I don’t buy cinnamon body wash.”

“Sure,” you say.

“I don’t. Steve brings home so many fucking baked things, all my clothes smell like cinnamon.”

You bite back a smile.

“Fine. I’ll look for the unscented ones.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You gave in quick.”

“It’s your farewell ritual,” you dismiss. “You get to pick what you want.”

The word ritual makes him shift a little, like the floor just tilted. 

Still, he watches you try every wick, tilt, examine, estimate, burn, reject, and gives each one a onceover when you hand it to him.

You hold up a heart-shaped one with a wick where the thought should be.

“Absolutely not,” he says, before you finish raising your eyebrows.

“Statement piece?”

“My statement is, ‘no.’” He picks up a pack of plain church candles and checks the burn time like he’s buying a second-hand car. “These.”

You drop it into the cart. 

He doesn’t remove it. You grin only when you turn away.

“What if we get her something she’d like?” you say. “Maybe it’ll be more effective.”

“They got any jellybean flavoured candles?” he mumbles. 

“No, but we can get a bunch of them and melt them together.”

Bucky finally settles on something vaguely berry scented, but with glitter in it. 

Matches. Chalk. You pick the cheap white stuff as a compromise even though you eye the neon ones very strongly. 

You swing into the hardware aisle. 

“Bell?” you ask.

“That wasn’t on the list.”

“It’d be cute. Maybe she’ll like the noise.”

Bucky gives you a look. 

“Small,” you add. “Not obnoxious.”

He finds a plain brass bell the size of a thumb. Rings it once, soft. The air wraps itself around the sound.

“That one,” he says.

“Why did you say yes?” you ask.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s a bell.”

“No, not the bell,” you dismiss. “To this whole thing.” 

He keeps his eyes on the shelf too long, thumb rubbing the ridge of the bell until the skin goes pale. The first time you pitched it, it had sounded purposeful. But standing here under fluorescent lights, holding a bell for Becca, it feels different. Like he’s handing pieces of her over to strangers who’ll eat it and scroll on.

He picks up some thyme and holds it up under the light.

“Because you asked,” he says simply, examining it.

“That can’t be the standard. I ask you for nonsense three times a day.”

He looks at you in the harsh light of the grocery store. His eyes skip past you too quickly, like they’re not allowed to linger. 

“You could’ve said no.

“I tried that for a year,” he says. “Didn’t take.”

You give him a look. “Yeah, but not for this. I’m genuinely surprised you said yes.”

He keeps the trolley rolling another foot, stops, steadies his hands on the bar. He could tell you the truth– that it had sounded safe when it was only theory, that he hadn’t thought about the aftermath until the word finale was stamped in ink.

“She would’ve done it,” he says, “She’d have heard me out, called me an idiot, and then lit a candle herself.”

“She sounds persistent.” 

“Yeah. Turns out I tend to gravitate towards idiots like that in my life,” he glances at you. 

“Hey now,” Your throat has a line in it. “I’m not an idiot. I’m a moron. There’s a difference.”

He hums, putting the thyme back. 

You keep moving another half-step before you look back. 

He’s looking at the shelves, not you, expression doing that closed-lid thing it does when he’s choosing not to say what he’s thinking.

“What?” you say, softer than you meant.

He avoids your gaze when he says, “She’d have liked you.”

“Oh.” You swallow back a stone.

“She liked people who made rooms work.”

“High praise,” you say, and it doesn’t sound like a joke at all. 

Bucky pockets a sprig of rosemary without thinking, then pretends he didn’t. You pretend you didn’t see.

In cleaning products, there’s a bottle called Sunshine Water. 

“Does it do anything?”

“Makes the room think kindly of you.”

You dont know how useful it will be, but it goes in the cart. 

You drag him to the snack aisle. 

“Do we need offerings?” you ask, “She liked strawberries, right?”

“That was Steve,” he says, automatically. Then he hears himself. “But yeah. Becca liked strawberry jam on toast. When we had it.”

You pick up a jar of jam without comment and put it next to the bell.

You reach for chips in a colour best described as radioactive. 

He blocks you with the trolley, staring at your hand. “Not in the perimeter,” he says.

“Say ‘perimeter’ again,” you say, climbing onto the trolley’s lower bar. “Make it sexy.”

“You’re worse when you’re tired.”

“You’re worse when I’m awake,” you reply.

He tilts his head. “There’ll be crumbs.”

“Foresight. You are unreasonably good at this.”

“I am aggressively medium at everything,” he says.

You replace the chips with pretzels. He slides across a bag of roasted nuts. You add obscene marshmallows shaped like snowmen.

“We’re not four,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” you say, dropping a second bag in. “You can have some if you’re good.”

He pushes the trolley on, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth, which is unfair because he wins every argument by simply owning that mouth.

He lets you win more than he should, because he’s already on his way to acknowledging the fact that won’t get to lose to you anymore. 

The trolley rolls. You stick your arms out. 

“Feet down.”

“Why,” you sing, and then the trolley hits a tile seam and you wobble. His hand snaps to your hip, steady and unshowy. You feel it in three separate organs.

You step off like nothing happened. He keeps walking like nothing happened. You both fail to breathe for six paces.

You find the sour gummies. Put one bag in. He watches you do it. You put another bag in. He lifts one out and replaces it with a smaller bag.

You scowl. He doesn’t bother hiding the second smile.

“Something warm for after,” you remember, at the end of the aisle. “Brandy? Whiskey? Tequila, but then we’d have to invite Nat.”

A bottle of whiskey levitates towards you from god knows where.  

He doesn’t budge, “Hot chocolate.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Hot chocolate,” he repeats, and steers you toward the aisle.

“Fine,” you grumble, coming to a stop in front of the shelf. “Hot chocolate it is.”

“You’ll like it better.” 

“You’ll miss the whiskey when we’re stuck with hot chocolate at the end of the night.” 

“I’ll take that risk.” He leans in from your left to take it, one hand braced on the trolley’s bar.

You’re about to make a joke about ‘taking that whisk’ when he leans in and presses his mouth to your temple, brief and unthinking. The sort of kiss you give a person you’ve been brave around for a very long time.

You go quite still.

He doesn’t realise, for the span of a heartbeat, what he’s done. You feel the moment he does: the fractional withdrawal, the impulse to apologise or  throw it away.

He goes perfectly still, too, like the way not to startle a wild thing. He doesn’t even look like he knows which of you is the wild thing.

Bucky pushes the trolley ahead again because his hands remember how to do things when his brain has temporarily left the building. 

The trolley fills with sensible things and not. Somewhere by the end of Household Miscellaneous he peels off and returns with a cheap wooden frame. He doesn’t meet your eye. You don’t ask. He slides it under the salt and the rosemary, and leaves it face down.

Tea. He chooses mango, which you learn is what he likes the most now, and chamomile because it’s the most consistent.

 An older woman stares at Bucky like he’s a memory she can’t place.

“You’re that man,” she says, delighted.

“Unfortunately,” he replies, polite.

“You make the videos,” she tells her trolley, and wanders on, satisfied.

“Famous,” you whisper to him. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

He doesn’t smile. He is smiling.

You cut through the pet aisle for Alpine because you are weak. Bucky grabs heavy litter.  

“Are we forgetting anything?” you ask, doing the ritual pre-till scan. “Chalk, tape, salt, candles, bell, nails, thread, rosemary, jam, tea, cups, cloths, frame, butcher paper, soap, painkillers, pretzels.”

He taps the chain. That’s his answer.

At the tills, a teenager drops your items in front of the scanner.

“Party?” she asks, flat.

“Work,” Bucky says.

“Sorry,” she says.

When she lifts the bell, she rings it.  

You pay because the least you can do is fund his farewell ritual.  

 Bucky pockets the receipt because he will not let you pay for 15 candles alone. He is a gentleman. 

The marshmallows though, you are on your own.

The next night doesn’t begin with thunder or rain or anything out of the million movies you watched in preparation. 

It begins the way you promised it would: tidy, steady, everything in its place.  

Chalk circle down. Salt seam straight as a ruler. Iron nails at the four quarters, heads pointing in like compass points. Bell in the middle. Candles, unscented and assorted, set in a triangle and then left alone because it’s his call. 

You’ve wiped the table with Sunshine Water. Windows are closed, music off, phones away. 

You run your eyes over the list one last time, a habit more than a need. 

He stands just outside the circle, sleeves shoved to the elbow. His hands flex against his thighs, and he’s staring directly at the floor. 

“You good?” you ask, voice low

He nods once.  “Let’s do it.”

You’re about to strike the first match when something stops you. A flicker in your chest, an impulse that’s been nagging for weeks. 

“Hold on.”

Bucky’s brows knit, match still in his hand. He pinches out the flame before it can catch, gaze snapping to you like you’ve just called the whole thing off.

He can’t say he doesn’t feel a bit relieved. 

You dig into your pocket to find a small little bag. You’ve been carrying it around for three weeks. It’s been the wrong time every time since.

 You fish out it out and leave it out on his outstretched palm. 

“For you,” you say. 

He looks at the pouch and then at you, as if you’ve just placed a live wire on the bar and asked him to keep still. 

He opens it. A thin chain. A simple charm, ugly in a way that suggests it’s here to work, not to be photographed.

His breath leaves on a sound that’s closer to a laugh but not. “What is this?”

“From the charm lady at Paracon,” you explain softly. “She was a little intense, but she knew her stuff. Before you complain, yeah, I know there are stronger ways to do protection. But this one fits over your big head, so.”

He exhales. 

“May I?” you ask. 

He nods, dipping his head without theatre. You step in close, your fingers skim the side of his throat, warm skin over steady pulse, as you work the clasp. For a heartbeat too long you leave it there, knuckles brushing his collarbone, before the chain falls into place.

The clasp clicks; the charm settles against his sternum like punctuation finally arriving at the end of a sentence.

He breathes once, and the chain lifts with it. Neither of you step back. The silence is suddenly thick, reverent, fragile in a way you don’t want to break.

“Alright,” he says, very quietly.

He straightens. You step back. 

“Alright,” you echo, forcing yourself to move on

He stands inside the circle, sleeves pushed to the elbow, the thin chain you gave him sitting square against his sternum. 

He’s barefoot. It looks right.

“Alright,” you repeat, softer now. “We start small. We stop if you want to stop.”

He nods, eyes fixed on the bell in the center. He hasn’t looked at you in a full thirty seconds, like if he meets your gaze the whole fragile thing will collapse.

“Last chance to regret this,” you offer, because tradition is tradition.

His mouth tugs at one corner, though it doesn’t quite make it into a smile.  

The silence stretches after that, heavier than before. The house is too quiet. His bare toes flex against the chalk line, a restless tell. 

The matchbox is warm in his hand, but he doesn’t strike it yet.

You watch him, patient.

He finally drags in a breath. The match flares, sudden, spilling gold light over his face. The shadows carve him older.

The air thickens. He shifts his stance, shoulders pulling tight, and the thought comes sharp and unwelcome: God, what is he doing? 

He doesn’t say it out loud, instead watching as you light the candles, one and then the other. The kitchen looks immediately different, more menacing. 

You wet your fingers with the Sunshine Water and flick it over the circle, a soft hiss as drops hit warm wax.

“For those who love us and wish us well,” you read from the paper, steady. “For those who kept watch when we weren’t watching. You’re welcome here. You’re safe here. You can rest when you’re ready.”

The temperature eases down a notch. 

You glance at him. “Say her name?”

He swallows, then says it carefully, “Rebecca Barnes. Peanut. Bec if you’re in a hurry.”

“Bec,” you repeat, respectful. “We’re not sending you away. We’re making you a door and asking you to choose. If you’re here, you’re welcome. If you’re tired, we’ll make it easy. If you want him to stop guessing, say so.”

Bucky’s hand rests on the bell. His knuckles are white against the brass, but he doesn’t ring it yet. His chest rises, falls.

When he finally speaks, it’s unsteady but certain. 

“Hey, Becks. If you’re here… sit where you like. And then-- he glances at you, something wry and unbearably fond flickering across his face “--we’ll talk.”

The room exhales. Pressure shifts. The candles stand straighter, flames drawn tall and thin.

“Becca,” you add, lighter now, almost teasing. “I brought your brother to a sensible circle with sensible candles. I know you’d have opinions.”

The rosemary smokes without flame. A curl of grey, faint as breath. The fine hair at Bucky’s temple lifts, stirred by a current you can’t see.

The planchette twitches. A little scratch of wood against wood. It scoots sideways, stops, and then does a slow, deliberate circle that’s more flourish than necessary. Show-off.

You inhale. “I think she’s here.”

He doesn’t look surprised, just stricken. 

“Hi, kid,” he says, voice thinned to almost nothing.

The bell answers for him. One clear tap against the rim, like a polite child at a service counter. Bucky’s mouth shifts, a recognition more than a smile.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Come on then.”

At first it’s almost imperceptible.  The rosemary sprig slides an inch, then two, as if pulled by a string. 

The box of matches tilts, rights itself, then edges toward him with a stubborn little scrape. A cool draft skims your forearms.

You hold your breath and wait. 

Bucky’s eyes flick toward the far corner without turning his head. 

His voice changes, lighter, scolding out of habit. “Don’t even think about the kettle.”

The kettle, obedient for years, clicks on.

“Becca,” he warns, the tone all older brother.

It clicks off again.

Something weightless taps his shoulder. Nothing visible, but you catch the subtle shift as he angles his body, unconsciously making space for someone smaller.

Then it’s no longer subtle. A marshmallow arcs across the room with balletic spite, smacking his collarbone and leaving a sugar bloom on his shirt.

He blinks at the offending puff, then at the bag it came from, hand half-lifted in a useless “that’s enough” gesture that convinces precisely no one.

Two more marshmallows follow in quick succession.

A tea light scrapes sideways. The bell chimes once, sharp and impatient. Your pen rolls off the table, clattering to the floor and skittering to your foot like it’s joining in.

You bend, pick it up, and set it carefully back inside the circle. 

“Hi,” you say, as gently as you know how. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m your brother’s friend.”

The room’s cold edge softens a fraction.

Bucky’s fringe lifts, tugged by invisible fingers. He huffs, automatic. “We’ve talked about this. Do not pull my hair. Don’t wanna bald faster than I already am.”

The air tugs again, sharper, downright cheeky. He twitches, fighting a smile.

“Becca,” he whines, already this close to laughing. The sound makes him younger by years.

Something rattles near the sink.

“No crockery,” Bucky deadpans, without even looking.

A coaster slides across the island with neat precision and taps the back of his hand. He blinks, then taps it back with two fingers– a rhythm so simple it means nothing to you, but from the look on his face, you know it means a lot more to him.

“Alright, Peanut,” he says, voice caught between authority and affection. “Ground rules apply.”

You can’t help it: a smile breaks across your face at how different the whole evening was shaping up to be. After all, in the end, it was just a little sister doing what little sisters do best– annoying the hell out of her brother, even from the other side.

“Okay,” you say, biting your grin back because his mouth, traitor that it is, keeps trying to go soft. “This is going well.”

“Don’t encourage her,” he warns, deadpan, but his eyes betray him. They’re bright in a way you’ve never seen before.

A small gust swirls the salt line, playful as a finger through sand. The bell tips to one side, rights itself again, smug about it.

You unfold the makeshift board, the same one from the first night he swore she’d come through. You set it between the candles and the bell, balancing the shot glass over the center. Light as breath.

Bucky slides his fingers onto the wood. For a second, his hand hovers. You can see it in his shoulders: the pull to step back, to shut the door before it opens too wide.

But he doesn’t. He anchors the planchette with two fingers. 

The planchette drifts. It bumps his knuckle. You watch his mouth find something like the shape of a laugh and then give up, because laughing is less accurate than what’s happening.

“Throw your best shot if you’ve got it,” he says.

A pretzel flicks him in the ear from a ridiculous angle. The bell chimes once, sharp and pleased, like a kid clapping for herself.

His hoodie string tugs on its own and flicks him in the chin.

He scoffs, long-suffering but helplessly fond. “That’s very mature.”

The letters drag him toward J. He stills, the planchette trembling under his fingers. Then, with quiet certainty, it slides to A.

You keep your eyes on the board, not on him. You make yourself into furniture, because this isn’t yours.

M.

His breath leaves him. The tiny, private world you’ve been trying to build around him all year, suddenly older than both of you, suddenly full, not empty.

“Hey,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice. “I need to say some things. Sit still, would ya?”

The planchette stills. The flame nearest his wrist lifts tall and straight, like it’s listening.

He reaches under the island. You’d seen him tuck the envelope there earlier. Now he draws it out with hands that aren’t quite steady and sets it by the nearest candle, right on the seam of the circle.

“For you,” he says, to the table, to the air, to the three inches of space he hopes are occupied. “Read it when you’re bored of throwing things.”

The envelope lifts an inch, two. 

The air holds itself taut, like the whole room is holding its breath with you.

His throat bobs. His eyes stay fixed on the paper. 

“I’ve been… living the wrong way round.” The words are slow, deliberate. “Kept thinking if I ignored it long enough, it’d go away. But it didn’t. That’s not how it works.”

His jaw tightens, but the words keep coming. “I’m sorry I left you with all the difficult bits. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tell you I thought you were the best of us.” His voice dips rough, steadying itself against the edges. “I couldn’t have had your back, even though I really fuckin’ wish I did. I know that too. I still wish I had.”

The envelope tilts in the air like someone weighing it. The candle gutters once, recovers.

The planchette shivers, then pulls steady, letter by letter.

M. I. S. S. U.

It lingers there, like it’s catching its breath, deciding whether to say more. 

Then, with sudden certainty, it slides quick across the board: J. A. M.

Bucky goes still. His jaw locks; his fingers slide off the planchette and fall heavy to his thigh. For once he doesn’t bother to hide the wreckage on his face.

“Yeah,” he says, raw and unadorned. “Me too, Peanut.”

Something invisible flicks his hair again, softer this time.  

The bell chimes once, quiet as a nod.

The planchette drifts toward the edge of the board. Pauses, toeing the grain like a foot hovering at a doorway. Then it settles on the word you’d written months ago in uneven pen: goodbye.

Bucky’s chest rises once, long and deliberate. 

“Alright,” he says, steadying himself on the word. “We’re good.”

You clear your throat, practical because someone has to be. “Rules still stand. You can swing back if you want to tell him to knock it off, but you don’t have to keep carrying him. He’s heavier than he looks.”

 The candle nearest the envelope gutters, then steadies again.

Bucky leans back, but his eyes stay locked on the envelope. It’s as if he’s trying to read through the paper, through the wax seal, through time itself to all the words he put inside and the thousand he didn’t.

His knuckles tap gently against the table, the same rhythm he’d used on the coaster. 

A habit she’d recognise from breakfast tables eons ago. 

“Go on,” he says to the air, to the weight of it. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifts. The cold edge leaves, replaced by a warmth, the sort of warm that belongs to mugs and chairs. 

The planchette sits where you left it.  

You ring the bell once, and the sound feels final, like a line drawn under a paragraph.

“Close?” you ask.

“Close,” he agrees.

You sweep the salt inward, not out.  

“Do we have to… say anything to finish it?” he asks. His voice is worn but clean, stripped of everything except what’s necessary.

You glance at the planchette. It sits still, waiting. “We could say thank you,” you offer.

He nods once, eyes lowered to the circle at his feet. “Thanks for everything, Bec. I got it from here on.”

The words land with a quiet thud. 

You step forward, brush the chain at his throat with two fingers and then step out of the circle.

He rises after a long beat. There’s a brightness to him that isn’t relief so much as rightness, the kind that makes your chest ache. 

He lifts the envelope carefully, reverently, and tucks it into his hoodie pocket the same way he’d tucked the chain under his shirt earlier, like something belongs to him after all.

“Hot chocolate?” you remind him, though you both know you don’t need to.

“Thought you’d forgotten,” he says, though you both know you didn’t.

You hold out a hand. 

He takes it, and for a second his hand trembles. 

You keep your own steady, and say nothing about it.

“Thank you,” he says finally,  

“Don’t thank me. I just read the instructions,” you reply gently. “You were good. You didn’t make a speech at the air.”

A breath escapes him that’s almost a laugh. “She’d have laughed at me.”

You’re wiping a streak of salt from your sleeve when he opens his mouth again. Hesitates. Closes it. Then tries once more, quieter this time, stripped bare.

“You think she read it?” he asks finally, without the usual armour.

You look at him, at the tired brightness in his eyes. 

“I think she knew most of it already,” you say softly. “But yes.”

He nods, jaw working once, and lets it rest there.

You head toward the hall together. His fingers brush yours, then take hold properly. You let him.

Behind you, the planchette gives one last lazy nudge. Just leaving a fingerprint on clean glass. Proof she passed by, and that for a moment, she stayed.

Maya doesn’t bother with hello. She drops two paper cups on the glass table and taps the lid of one.

“Decaf for you,” she tells you. “Because you shake when you’re excited.”

Then she sits, opens her notebook to a page already half-destroyed by post-its, and exhales through her nose in the long-suffering way she usually does. 

Eventually, she does that flat-palmed tap on the glass table that means you’re already behind.

“Walk me through outcomes,” she says. 

You slide the laptop round so she can see the frame you opened on. Bucky can feel the meeting air con move past his wrist as he fiddles with his fingers.

“Closed loop on the season’s narrative debt,” you say, steady. “We promised an answer; we delivered one.”

Maya’s eyebrow does a half-centimetre. “Brand-safe, then. Good. Where did you land on disclaimers?”

“We open with context card,” you reply. “No ‘don’t try this at home,’ just ‘this is personal; viewer discretion is adviced.’ Legal won’t have hives.”

Bucky watches her, feeling that familiar prickle that means he’d like to be anywhere else, preferably on fire.

Personal, he thinks. That’s one word for it.  

But he keeps it quiet. He’d agreed. He’d sat in those early meetings, nodded along, even thrown in his own ideas. But sitting here now, watching his sister’s memory shrink down into bullet points and timelines, he feels it clawing wrong in his chest.

“Lift?” Maya asks.

“the subreddit’s already building the timeline. PR can seed three exclusives,” you say. 

Maya taps two knuckles twice. “Cadence.”

“T-3 trailer, T-1 micro, 8 p.m. Sunday drop, no live chat, stills Tuesday, then radio silence.”

“Good.” She clicks her pen. “Risks.”

“Derail into grief tourism if we let the wrong pull-quote out,” you say. “Counter is to let the work speak. Keep Bucky off live streams for seventy-two hours so he doesn’t ‘I’m fine’ himself into a hole.”

“I am literally here,” Bucky says, because someone has to.

“Which is why I plan,” Maya says, not unkindly. “Okay. What’s your trailer moment?”

You scrub forward: the pencilled letters, the planchette nudging. A line of text appears across the board: MISS U JAM.  

Maya watches it through once, eyes not once leaving the screen. 

“That,” she says, soft once and then brisk again, “is your finale.”

He hates the word. He’s been hating it for weeks.

She stands. No hugging. Just the nod you get when a skyscraper goes up on time.

“We’ll carry the press,” she adds, already ticking off the exit steps. “You keep your phones off. We’ll send the line for ‘what happens after this’ and you will stick to it. I don’t need either of you improvising on live television.”

You both nod. She tucks the pen into her notebook, closes it without looking, then looks at you because you still haven’t moved.

“I would say it was a pleasure working with the both of you…” she trails off.

You give her a big grin and she shakes her head. 

“Fine,” she says, making her way out the door. “Mastering by Friday. Credit lock by noon. If either of you changes a comma after that, I will come to your homes and strangle you.”

At the last split second, a smile upturns the corner of her mouth as she pauses by the door.

“For the record,” she says, quieter, “you did right by her. It’s… good work.” 

Bucky and you glance at each other. 

“I like you both more when you’re not talking,” she adds, before leaving

The door clicks behind her. . 

You’re still standing there, that wry smile in place, professional and terrible. 

Bucky stares at you, at the edges of your mouth that don’t quite match your eyes, at the way you hold your shoulders like you’re already halfway turned to leave. 

And it hits him – that’s the look you wear when you’re bracing to slip out of a room without anyone stopping you.

It makes his chest feel scraped raw.

Then you hold out your hand.

Bucky stares at it too long. His pulse thuds in his ears. It looks obscene and beautiful at once: a handshake at the end of a job, a curtain call, an exit. 

Something in his chest pulls tight, because he knows what it means.

He takes it anyway, 

“Well, partner, we made the numbers, you got your closure,” you drawl. “It appears our work here is done.”

The smile on your face doesn’t change, but he swears your eyes shutter. Just a flicker, like you’ve already filed this away as finished.

Bucky’s stomach gives that slow, awful roll, “Now what.”

“I don’t know,” you say, light, professional. “I’ll see you soon, I guess.”

What the fuck.

It doesn’t make a sound in the room. It’s just the way his fingers don’t close around anything. They just hover, useless.

“Catch you later?” he tries to ask. It does not come out steadily at all.

“Maybe,” you hum. “Don’t mope if you can’t find me.”

He searches your face for any crack, for hesitation, for anything that says that he’ll find you here the next morning. But all he finds is that same wry professionalism, practiced enough to be convincing.

It lands cleanly in his chest and then wrong, like a picture frame he can’t get level. He keeps moving anyway.

Silence drops in.

Alright, he tells himself, eyes on the varnished seam of the floor. If this is where it’s ending, he’ll let go. That’s the deal, isn’t it?  

He tries to make his mouth remember a joke. It doesn’t.

“You wish,” he says. 

That’s what you do when they look like they’re halfway out the door already. 

You grin, before cleanly escaping the room. 

Bucky’s left staring. 

Steve throws a party.

Bucky doesn’t clock the reason until the third time someone tells him. Everyone’s wrapped their seasons. A wrap party.

Sam’s on music and abusing the privilege. Clint’s wearing a hat that might actually be radioactive. Wanda asks where his “other half” is, and Bucky mutters “Busy,” like a placeholder.

You’re not here.

He excuses himself to the kitchen, pretending to eat something that may or may not be food. 

Really, he’s just trying to get his hands to stop twitching. He checks his phone. Again. No messages.

 Your thread glows back at him. His thumb hovers over the call button. He presses.

One ring. Two. Five. Voicemail.

By the time he looks up, Steve’s closing in, grinning, a tin under one arm.

“Congratulations,” Steve says. “I brought nonsense.”

“Always wanted nonsense,” Bucky answers, voice steadier than he feels. “What is it this time?”

“War cake,” Steve says proudly, lifting the towel. “Eggless, milkless, butterless. I had to boil the raisins.”

Bucky eyes the tin. “So it’s… cake with the cake left out.”

“Exactly,” Steve says, uncovering it with a flourish. The room fills with cinnamon and cloves. “Go on.”

Bucky breaks off a piece. 

He chews. He swallows. 

Then he gives a small, traitorous nod.

“Not terrible,” he admits.

Steve’s grin could power a block. He carves himself a wedge.

The cake is dense, sweet, oddly good.

“So,” Steve says around a mouthful, “end of the season. You did it.”

“Mm.”

Steve studies him. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Too fast.

Bucky picks at the edge of the tea towel. He’s thinking about the way your hand felt in his palm in that glass room. 

The words you used, and the way you said it.

I’ll see you soon.

Anodyne. Disposable. The kind of phrase that doesn’t mean anything when you’re already half-turned to leave.

He hasn’t checked if you’re gone yet. He can’t. He just knows he hasn’t seen you since you walked out that door.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks.

So Bucky relents, because he’s become strangely sentimental over the last few months. 

Steve leans a hip against the counter. “Soon as in…?”

“That’s the question,” Bucky says. “I don’t know.”

“Ask,” Steve says, like it’s easy. .

“That’s not–” He stops, huffs. “Ain’t this what you're supposed to do? Let someone go, if they want to.”

Steve turns the tin lid over in his hands, considers the shine. “Sometimes. Or you say what you mean and let them decide with all the information. Advice from the world’s leading authority on waiting too late to say things you want to.”

Bucky’s mouth pulls. “There’s nothin’ to say.””

“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” Steve says. “Maybe you’ll talk yourself into believing it like with everything else.”

That gets him, unexpected. 

A short, unwilling laugh leaves Bucky’s chest before he can lock it down. He shakes his head.

“I’m trying to be—” he gropes for a word, settles on the smallest one. “Good.”

“You are,” Steve says, no hesitation.  “Now stop hiding behind it.”

Bucky shifts, uncomfortable.

“You don’t want to risk hearing no,” Steve goes on, calm as ever. “You spent a century doin’ what you were told, and now that you can choose, you keep pretending you can’t. You’re being a little bitch.”

Bucky exhales hard through his nose.

Steve softens a hair, but only a hair. “You’re not some accident, Buck. You don’t just ‘happen’ to people. You get to say what you want.”

Bucky mutters, “What do you want me to say? ‘Stay?’ I’ve made it pretty fuckin’ obvious.”

Steve levels him with a look. “‘I want you to stay. If you don’t, I’ll survive. But I want you to stay.’ Not complicated. Try English instead of martyr.”

 .Bucky huffs a broken laugh. “You rehearse this?”

“I’ve known you since you were two feet tall,” Steve says. “I got a whole notebook.”

Bucky stares at the door. The door stares back.

“It’ll be fine,” Steve says.

Bucky nods, sharp. Turns. Hesitates. Turns back.

“Go.”

He goes.

He goes.

The corridor is the same length it’s always been, but it feels colder tonight. 

The corridor stretches the same length it always has, but tonight it feels endless. 

Cooler too, like the air itself is keeping him out.  

Every radiator that bangs, every scuff on the skirting– he knows them all by heart, but they feel like they’re counting him down. His boots make no sound at all, and that makes it worse.

He stops outside your door.

For a long second, he does what he’s always done: listens. 

Waits for the shuffle of feet, the hitch of breath, any sign you’re still on the other side. 

Nothing. 

Just stillness so complete it makes his pulse roar in his ears.

His stomach knots.

He breathes once. Knocks.

Nothing.

He knocks again, softer, as though gentleness will change the answer.

Still nothing.

Alright. That’s it. 

You’re gone. You slipped away clean, like you promised you would. 

He’s too late. He’s fucked it.

His chest feels like it’s folding in on itself. 

He waits anyway, stupidly, one more beat, just in case the universe feels generous.

The universe stays silent.

He turns, already rehearsing the fight he’ll pick with Steve for shoving him into this, already bracing himself for the hollow that’s about to open under his ribs.

But his feet don’t move.

He stands there frozen, the quiet pressing down on him, and then curses sharp and loud. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, his hand is on the handle. 

He shoves it down and pushes the door open.

The room is bare.

Bare in the same way it’s always been. No photos. No decoration. No fingerprints left behind. It looks less like a bedroom than a stage set.

His stomach hollows out. His throat tastes of metal. 

For one awful second, he thinks he’s staring at a crime scene: already emptied, already abandoned.

Then he sees it.

The lamp catches on the small wooden house sitting on the dresser.

His heart kicks hard against his ribs before his brain catches up. The house. The one he made you.

For a flicker of a moment, hope scrapes through him, but it sours fast. 

If you were gone, you’d have taken it. Wouldn’t you? Or maybe you left it behind because it didn’t matter.

He crosses the room anyway. His hand finds it before he can stop himself. Thumb along the roofline, forefinger against the porch rail he’d sanded too thin. He can smell cedar if he tries hard enough. He remembers the stupid satisfaction of pressing it into your hand.

The silence in the room is too final. Too still.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging both hands over his face. 

He paces once, twice. The window glares back at him, blank and black.

A book hits the floor behind him.

He turns.

Alpine is perched on the middle shelf, tail coiled neat around her paws. Her yellow eyes pin him in place, unblinking.

Before he can open his mouth, she lifts one paw and bats a book off the shelf. It lands spine-first with a crack.

“What,” Bucky snaps, frayed nerves showing.

She blinks once, then sets her paw on the next book. A deliberate pause. Then she shoves.

The thud echoes louder in the quiet room.

“Cut it out,” he barks. His chest is still tight from the silence in the hall. “Not in the mood.”

Alpine ignores him completely. Her paw slides to a third book. Push. Crash.

Bucky steps forward, half a mind to catch the next one, but her paw is already on the fourth.

“Alpine.” His voice cracks on it. “Enough.”

The fourth book hits the floor. She shifts her paw to the fifth.

And then finally, horribly it strikes him. 

His stomach flips.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. 

Her paw presses meaningfully against the sixth book.

“Jesus Christ, stop, I know what you’re saying,” he bites, louder now, panic bleeding through. “And you can literally talk.”

She does not move the paw.

The book drops anyway.

Alpine hops down, tail high, regal as ever. She passes him without a glance, smug in every step.

“I’m communicating in a medium you understand,” she radiates, “violence.”

Bucky exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

She flicks her tail toward the door, already done with him.

And then it sinks in fully.  

His pulse spikes all over again. 

His legs are already moving before the thought finishes forming.

Bucky, god bless him, arrives like a Category 5 weather event.

He slams the door with his shoulder, breath gone, hair a mess, eyes wild enough that the security camera would phone a friend. You blink at him over the spine.

You blink up from the carpeted corner, with an open book and a packet of high-res scans by your feet. 

“You good?” you ask, cautious, as if he might start speaking in tongues.

“You’re still here,” he gets out,

“I only just got here.” You glance at the clock. “Like, it’s been twenty minutes, man.”

He presses off the door and crosses to you on long, purposeful strides that are at odds with the way his chest is still working. He drops into his usual place beside you, shoulder to shoulder, boots in the same scuffed rectangle of carpet he’s worn in all year.

“Are you leaving?” he demands, low.

“I was going to get a snack later, but that’s the extent of my grand plan.” You close the book over a finger. “What do you look like that for?”

“Like what?” He drags a sleeve over his mouth, trying to corral his breath. 

“Well… unhinged.” You tip your head, taking him in. 

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Thought I missed you.”

“Missed me? Missed me wh– hold on.” You tip your head. “Did you think I was skipping town?”

He gestures vaguely at the ceiling, the floor, the entire concept of objects. “Yeah?”

“Oh.” You blink. “Well, I’m not.”

It’s physical, the way the tightness leaves him. 

He closes his eyes for a second. “Fine. Okay. Good.”

You snort. “And what, this was you bursting in to give me fifteen reasons to stay?”

“Fifteen is stretching it.”

“And then what? You kiss me?” you say, airy, testing.

He looks at you, steady now. “And what if I did? Would that be such a big problem?”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than is safe. “Well… no. I suppose not.”

He rolls his eyes at the ceiling.

“Never beating the ‘you have feelings for me’ allegations, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he says, slow, like you’re being dense on purpose. “Because I do. You know this.”

“God, there goes my leverage.” You sigh, theatrical. “How am I supposed to annoy you with that if you just admit it?”

“You’ll find a way.”

He says it like a fact and sits back. And ridiculously, stupidly, it feels like someone’s taken a weight off his chest and put it on the table where the light can see it. The room changes shape around it.

A quiet beat stretches.

“Me too, you know,” you say, almost casual.

“Figured.”

“I mean I have feelings for me, too.”

He has to bite the inside of his cheek. “Who else would you be talking about.”

You fiddle with the receipt you’ve used as a bookmark.

The air between you thins. His shoulder is warm against yours.

“Anything else you want to confess while you’re here?” you ask, half-light, half-daring.

He doesn’t answer right away. His throat works. His fingers flex against his knee, like he’s trying to bleed the nerves out of them.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower than before. “Actually… I don’t want to publish the video.”

Your head tips.

He keeps going, quick now, like if he stops he won’t start again. 

“I know I said I was fine, but I’m not. I don’t want it out there. I don’t want–” his breath snags, sharp, “--I just don’t want it.”

Silence, except for the sound of the printers breathing in the corner.

You nod once, like you were waiting for this exact moment. “I know.”

His eyes snap to yours.

“I already pulled it,” you say, calm. “Turned my phone off before Maya could reach through it and stab me after everything we spent on promo.”

He blinks, startled. It takes him a beat too long to process.

“It’s between you and Becca.” You give him a small, steady smile. “No one else needs to see it.”

He finds it in himself to give a small nod. 

“Anything else?” you ask, tone joking.   

“You can’t leave.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Compelling argument.”

He grimaces at himself. “That was a terrible sentence. Forget that. Look– in the clock tower, you asked how I knew. I knew you weren’t paying attention to the details. I know that because even then, months ago, you’d been here long enough for me to notice. That you’d probably missed something, because you always said details were a waste of time.”

Something flickers in your face.

He turns until you’re angled knee-to-knee, thighs almost brushing. His hand braces on the carpet close enough that your knuckles nearly touch. The proximity is ridiculous for a guy who, a year ago, spoke to you exclusively in grunts and prolonged glares. 

“You’ve already laid down roots,” he says, shoulders loosening in defeat. “So go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. But all I’m sayin’ is I’d like it if you came home at the end of the day.”

He looks away on purpose, like he can fake not caring for ten seconds. You watch him not succeed.

“What,” he barks, without heat, when he feels you smiling.

“You know,” you say quietly, “I wasn’t actually planning to move out.”

That rocks him. He looks up fast. “No?”

“No.” Your mouth tugs. “Sorry I stole your big moment.”

“I’ll find a way to forgive you.” He clears his throat. 

“You could still give me twenty-five reasons you want me to stay.”

“No.”

“Twenty, and we’ll call it eve—”

He leans in and kisses you. 

It knocks the air straight out of your ribs. His mouth catches yours in a soft, sure press, and you tilt into it without thinking, a sound caught low in your throat. He’s careful for exactly one heartbeat. And then you’re moving, answering, tugging him in by the front of his hoodie, knees knocking clumsily on the carpet.

The corner of his mouth catches your smile. You laugh once against his mouth, stupid, breathless, and he chases it like he’s been starved for it. You taste like mint, the electric edge of adrenaline. The warmth of him presses in until there’s no room left for air.  

“Didn’t miss this time,” you murmur, an echo from a different doorway, a different nearly.

“Thank god,” he huffs, helpless. 

He kisses you again, quick but just as sure. The whole world reduced to four square feet of carpet.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say into his mouth, “this is terrible for my eloping-with-a-ghost-bride agenda.”

He kisses you for that, too, because one, it’s so incredibly stupid, and two, now that he’s started he doesn’t seem to see the point of stopping. his one is slower, longer, his lips sliding against yours, your palm pressed to the back of his neck, holding him there.

One of your knees bumps the leg of the table; the printers choose that moment to cough a sheet into the tray. Neither of you looks. 

Time turns elastic until you finally peel apart, shaky with adrenaline, the kind of silence that only feels possible after a storm.

“Okay,” he says eventually, voice wrecked, eyes too bright.  “So what are you doing here, then? You’re missing Steve’s raisin vinegar cake.”

You tip your head, lips still parted, and tug a white sheet from the stack beside you. It glides across the carpet until it rests at his boot.

“I was researching,” you say. “You kinda need to do that if you want to pitch another season.”

His brow furrows, until he sees the title.

Renewal Agreement: The Graveyard Shift Season Two

The grin that blooms across his face isn’t careful at all. Hoodie tugged crooked from your fists, hair mussed from your hands, he looks nothing like careful anyway.

“But that’s secondary.” You push the paper aside for the moment. “I believe we were discussing twenty five reasons you want me to stay.”

He gives you a look that could undo a saint. “No.”

“No? Twenty and we’ll call it even–”

He kisses you again, deeper, slower. 

It seems to do the trick.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

The road is two lanes, sky washed colder.

You turn off where the stone wall dips, tyres crunching over gravel. 

The cemetery is small enough to miss if you weren’t looking. It isn’t grand, just sloped grass, old maples that creak in the wind, and a scatter of names.

You climb out first. Bucky follows, hands jammed deep into his jacket. The gate complains once and then lets you through.

He doesn’t need a map. He finds her on the second row like he always does, by the crooked birch, left of the angel with a wing the groundskeeper keeps meaning to mend.  You suspect he could walk here blind and still find the right patch of ground.

The letters are clean. Someone’s been here before you or maybe the weather’s been kind. Still, he brushes his thumb along the top edge of the stone, the old soldier’s ritual of removing what isn’t needed.

You take the box from under your arm and set it on the granite. The berries inside are dark and cold, still beaded from the chill of the car. He loosens the lid and slides it halfway off, like he’s making space for company.

“Hey, Peanut,” he says.

His voice roughens at the edges. He clears his throat, lowers himself into a crouch. His metal hand presses into the grass; the other steadies the box.

“Thought we’d stop by,” he adds, thumb worrying a cardboard seam. “Been a while.”

The wind lifts, flicks the string handle, lets it drop.

“We got you strawberries,” you tell her, because you’ve learned he likes it when you speak, too. “And we brought extra so you don’t have to share.”

That cracks a smile out of him. The kind that fades almost before it’s there.

The box lid taps once against the stone like an answer. Or the breeze. Neither of you are keeping score.

From his pocket, Bucky pulls a paper napkin, folded neat. He slides it under the box so the chill won’t bite into the granite. Little courtesies, carried from one life to another.

He lingers there a second longer, palm flat to the stone, before straightening and stepping back, making room for you.

You pat the lid once. “We’ll bring more next time.”

For a while, the two of you just stand there side by side, the grass bending at your boots, the trees shifting overhead. 

When you head back to the gate, he stops halfway and looks over his shoulder. The box sits neat against the grey. The napkin has decided to stay.

On the walk back, the wind picks up enough to make you tuck into his side. He opens the passenger door for you without show, 

“You good?” you ask, because it’s a question that never hurts to ask twice.

“Yeah.” He nods. Not the lie. You can tell the difference now.

On the road again, the heater finally starts warming his hands. The silence is soft, not heavy.

“Think she’ll mind if we’re late?” you ask.

“I think she knows by now we’re always going to be late,” he says, signalling.

“Last time she said she’d stop giving us the lemon glaze ones.”

“Just make your eyes at her. She’s got a soft spot for you.”

“You saying I make eyes? They work on you?”

He side-eyes you. “Not once.”

You grin at the windscreen. “Liar.”

He reaches across the console without looking, squeezes your knee once. The kind of touch that settles everything.

The miles start stitching again. Trees. A petrol station. A field with exactly one horse.

You rest your head against the glass and catch your reflection, soft-edged in the dark.

“We’re stealing two boxes this time,” you say. “No arguing.”

“It’s not stealing if she’s keeping them for you.”

“I just said no arguing.”

He huffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Ahead, the road leans toward a town that smells like butter and old sugar, and a woman who will pretend she didn’t keep your favourite aside.

He doesn’t come to this realization in any poetic, life-altering moment. He’s standing barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes bleary. Alpine is making herself tall by clawing at his calf.

“Cut it out,” he mutters, nudging her gently with his foot. 

She swipes at him. It barely registers.

It takes him another full minute to realize what's wrong. The chair across the kitchen table is empty.

He stares at it, hand wrapped around a mug that still hasn’t been poured. A week ago, that chair had a permanent resident every morning.  Usually with a bagel, sometimes with a half-open laptop. Always like there’s too much on your plate and not enough hands. And somehow, despite that, you still make yourself at home with a single glance acknowledging his presence before you steal whatever is in his hands. 

Bucky pours cereal into his mouth directly from the box because someone finished the milk and didn’t replace it. Again.

Alpine hops up onto the counter and gives him a look. Then she swipes the box out of his hand.

“Do you mind,” he mumbles. 

She swipes again, this time catching his wrist.

“Stop,” He shrugs her off. “You don’t even eat cereal.”

“I don’t,” Alpine replies evenly, knocking the box over. 

Bucky glares at her. Alpine licks her paw and pointedly turns away.

“You seen--” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Pretends it’s not because he doesn’t want to say your name out loud like some kind of heart-eyed loser. “You seen anyone else this morning?”

Alpine flicks an ear. “Already out of the house.”

He blinks. 

“Skipped breakfast. Left with that bag full of stuff.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face.

He’s trying to be chill. He is. He’s a grown man with a job and hobbies and everything.

It’s just-- well.

You’re usually around. You press your forehead to the fridge while deciding what you want. You wear his sweater sometimes like it’s no big deal.

Whatever. It’s not weird. You’ve got things to do. You’re a whole person. That’s good.

Still, he finds himself standing in the kitchen longer than he means to, bowl of dry cereal in hand, like maybe you’ll come walking back in with that same bag and tell him you forgot your keys or your lunch or your Bucky. 

You don’t.

Alpine’s tail flicks. “You’re being weird.”

Bucky scoffs but doesn’t respond.

He flips her off without looking. She licks her shoulder like she’s unbothered.

“You’re brooding,” Alpine says, hopping up onto the counter like she owns it.  

“Not brooding,” Bucky says.

“Uh-huh,” Alpine replies, licking a paw. “You gonna sigh while looking out the window again? You waiting for a telegram, Barnes?”

He glares at her.

 “It’s been three days of moping.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Either fight it out or move on.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You two should go on a date”

“No.”

“Die alone, then.”

It’s probably nothing. He tells himself that for the third  morning in a row.

She stares at him, then slowly and deliberately knocks the spoon off the counter.

He doesn’t move. Just sighs.

The spoon clatters on the tile floor and Alpine, appearing quite pleased, hops down to follow it, her claws clicking on the steel.

“You done?” he mutters.

“Not even a little bit,” she stares. “You’re gonna spiral.”

"I’m not spiraling."

"You’ve got your miserable eyes on again." She glances sideways. “You’re in love.”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Alpine.”

“Like, embarrassingly.”

“Alpine.”

“This is sad. It could have been cute if you did something about it, but you won’t so it’s mostly sad.”

He says nothing.

Bucky stalks out of the kitchen, leaving behind a cat very pleased at inventing mental distress for her reluctant owner. 

By Thursday, he’s taken to searching you out.  

Not in a weird way. Just… happening to pass your floor. Just checking if the studio lights are on. Or the espresso machine is still warm. Or if that playlist you always blast when you're in bed is drifting out from under the door.

Nothing.

The void becomes noticeable.

It’s disorienting.

It makes him feel like he’s missing something. Like music that cut out mid-song.

He just leans on the opposite wall like he’s starring in fucking Grease. Perhaps if he waits long enough, you’ll open the door and say something ridiculous and act like you didn’t miss a full week of doing absolutely nothing together.

Instead, it’s the stupid cat who strolls out, halting when she sees him. 

Bucky leaves before the comments start. 

The first time you're technically still there, but not really, it’s a Friday morning.

You're in the kitchen, nursing something hot from a chipped mug. His mouth immediately turns up into a smile, which he immediately gets rid of. 

On paper, everything looks normal. But something’s off.

You don’t say anything when he walks in.

Not even a throwaway line about how long he took to get out of bed. No snide remark about his slippers. Just a vague, distant nod in his direction, your gaze locked somewhere on the floor tiles like you’re trying to solve a problem he can’t see.

Bucky stands by the fridge for a second longer than he needs to. Watching.

He pours himself coffee, leans against the counter. Clears his throat.

"You sleep?"

A beat passes.

"Did I sleep?" You blink like you’re coming back into the room. "Sort of. You?”

"Why, what’s going on?"

"Hm?" Your brow furrows. Then you smile late, like a cue you forgot to hit on time. "Oh, nothing. Been watching a lot of Smallville. These teenagers are driving me nuts.”

“Do you want to–”

Your phone alarm rining cuts him off, and you glance at it before cursing softly.

“Sorry.” You give him an apologetic smile. “Raincheck?”

He nods, and you hop off the stool, clamouring off. 

Something nags at him. It's not that you're rushing. You've always rushed. It's the fact that you didn't try to rope him into whatever you're rushing for.

He stands there holding his coffee, stomach turning over with something he can’t name.

It happens again two days later.

You always do. You're a menace like that.

"Maybe you’re going to be assassinated soon," Alpine suggests, from atop the arm of the couch.

Bucky glances over.

"People are just busy sometimes," he mutters.

"Uh-huh." Alpine licks a paw, unimpressed. "People are just in denial sometimes."

He ignores that.

By Sunday, you do show up to movie night, late, disheveled, an apology tumbling from your mouth before you’re even through the door.

Bucky watches as you curl up into the corner of the couch, next to him like usual. A small thing. Maybe nothing.

You steal his popcorn only twice. Don’t quote the movie out loud, even though you’ve forced him to watch this with you thrice already. You just sit there, distracted, eyes glazed a little like you’re somewhere else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, your phone buzzes. You glance at it. Type something. Smile faintly.

Then you remember you’re in a room with someone else and look over.

“Sorry,” you murmur, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “Do you need me to rewind?”

He shakes his head. “You haven’t looked at the screen in forty minutes.”

You open your mouth, then close it. “Shit. Sorry. I’ve just– my brain’s kinda…” You do a circling gesture near your temple.

He doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything more either.

Eventually, the credits roll. You’re on your feet before the cast names fade.

“I gotta run,” you say. “I left something exporting.”

"You’re leaving now?" Usually you force him into a discussion of the themes and the narratives and how some character is literally him, half because you think they’re pretty.  

"Yeah. Just need to check on a few things."

He watches you go.

There’s an imprint in the cushion beside him, still warm.

Alpine jumps up into the empty spot seconds later. “Is this the part where you start crying quietly?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

The next morning, he finds a paper coffee cup on his doorstep.

No note. But the lid’s labeled with his name, written in your usual scribble. He stands there holding it for too long, thumb pressed against the warm cardboard.

For a moment, he forgets what he’d been brooding about.

Then he remembers.

Finally, when he does corner you, because that’s what it feels like at this point, you’re in the hallway outside the production suite with a file tucked under your arm and a cup of coffee he’s 85% sure is yours.

A smile brightens up your face when you see him and you open your mouth to say something but he speaks before he can stop himself.

“Are you avoiding me?”

You freeze, smile fading. “…What?”

“Just a question.”

There’s a pause. “I thought you’d be glad I was leaving you alone.”

“So you are,” he says.

“No. I’m not.”

“Then what the hell’s going on?” Bucky crosses his arms. “You’ve been MIA since–”

Since the conversation in the car where he told you he was being haunted. 

His eyebrows lift, just slightly. “You think I’m insane.”

“No,” comes the reply, steadier this time. “I do not.”

There’s a pause.

“I promise you, I do not think you’re insane,” you say again. “I’ll be back to normal soon. I’ve just been busy.”

He nods curtly, eyes avoiding looking at you. 

“So,” you add, “you are mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

He just doesn’t like disruptions to a working pattern. That’s all.

You eye him, one eyebrow raised. 

“It’s just weird.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m used to you talking my ear off with whatever bullshit is running through your head, and now you’ve disappeared.”

“I get it.” You shift the file in your hand from one arm to the other. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had something concrete.”

“About what?”

You look at him. “I’ve been trying to figure something out. I don’t want to talk about it in case it’s nothing. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a second, studying your face. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose and nods.

You reach past him and flick his nose gently. “Thought you were waiting for me to leave you alone all this while. Just say you’re in love with me and go.”

He huffs. “Go where? You’d track me down to tell me about season 7 of Love Island.”

“And I have so much to tell you on that front.” You grin, before your phone rings. 

You glance at the caller ID before flashing him a small smile. 

“Go,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Catch you soon,” you say, pressing a kiss to your fingertips before tapping his cheek. 

You bump your shoulder into his as you walk away, and the part of him that’s been aching lately, that raw sore space where you usually live, quiets down a little.

The next morning, he wakes up later than usual and immediately glances at his phone.

Nothing.

He walks into the kitchen. Still no you. Still just Alpine, licking the top of a yogurt someone left out.

He mutters something about bacteria.

She flicks her tail at him.

That afternoon, he does see you in passing, arms full of books, phone held between ear and shoulder, talking rapidly about something he can’t hear.

You don’t notice him.

Either way, he leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Wow,” Alpine drawls. “Snubbed.”

“We already talked.”

“You’re being avoided.”

“People have lives.”

“You used to be part of it.”

He watches you disappear around the corner and mutters, “Jesus, you’re an asshole.”

Alpine licks her paw. “Takes one to know one.”

It’s late enough that most of the lights in the tower have dimmed on their own. 

It’s past midnight, maybe closer to one. The TV is playing some rerun of a wildlife documentary, the sound down low. Alpine's tail flicks with irritation as Bucky scrolls aimlessly through an ancient recipe blog on his phone, looking for something he doesn’t plan to cook.

The door creaks open before he can even answer.

You step in, arms full with a laptop under one, a beat-up manila folder under the other, and something precariously balanced on top of both.

He’s on his bed, leaning against the headboard, reading something old and dog-eared. Alpine lifts her head from the windowsill, ears twitching.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” he blinks, getting off the bed to meet you midway. “You’re supposed to knock.”

“You’re supposed to lock your door,” you reply, already halfway inside.  “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in.”

“Yeah, but like-- can I come in come in?”

You’ve got a paper bag in one hand, a closed laptop under the other arm, and something tucked awkwardly under your chin that might be… a folder? It slips, and you catch it just before it hits the floor.

“Jesus,” Bucky says flatly. “You’re going to trip on your own feet.”

You kick the door shut with your heel.

“Won’t,” you say, confidently. Immediately stumble two steps in.

He catches you by the elbow, just a flicker of a touch, steadying.

“You’re fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You flash him a big smile, before dropping everything onto his bed, ungracefully claiming your space on it. He pretends not to notice the way his shoulders relax. 

Alpine lifts her head slightly, annoyed at first before climbing onto your lap.

“Okay,” you announce. “First things first. Cake.”

“Cake?”

You pull out a slice in a sad little plastic container. “I am nothing if not a master of apology.”

“You’re apologizing?”

“I am apologizing that you missed my face for seven straight days.”

He raises a brow.

“Sorry for making you cry.”

“No one cried.”

“Took to your bed. Covered the mirrors.”

“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

You fork into the cake, take a bite, and offer him the container without looking. 

“A peace offering,” you say. “Because I ghosted you like a little rat.”

He stares at it.

You stare at him. “This is where you accept my emotional olive branch.”

“That cake’s not emotional enough,” he mutters.

“I stole it from Steve’s fridge.”

“You know Steve’ fridge is my fridge, right?” But he takes it anyway.

You smile at him like you’ve won.

A few bites pass. You lean your head against the headrest, watching the TV like you were always here.

Bucky watches you as you settle in. You bump your knee into his lightly. 

He notices the details he’s trying not to. There’s a tiny streak of pen on your cheekbone. You look like you haven’t sat down in days.

You look fidgety. That big chaotic energy you always carry is muted, focused. There’s a nervous twitch in your fingers, a hesitance in the way you look at him.

“Sorry I’ve been gone.”

“You weren’t gone.”

You shift slightly, knee knocking into his. Neither of you moves away.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” you continue. “I just--” You gesture vaguely.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Still,” you say.

He watches you for a second. There’s something in his eyes that softens barely. Just a flicker at the corner.

He nudges the cake toward you. “Eat first. Explain after.”

For a few seconds, there’s only the quiet sound of forks against plastic. 

Then, without looking up, you speak, “I missed hanging out.”

His mouth twitches again with that near-smile, the one that always seems half-surprised by its own arrival.

You bump your knee against his. “Say it back or I’ll key your motorcycle.”

He mumbles something under his breath, all garbled.

“Louder.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

You smile, just slightly, before passing him the rest of the cake. “Here. Eat your feelings.”

He takes it. “You ate most of it.”

“That’s because I have more feelings.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You reach over, brush a crumb off his hoodie, and linger there a little longer than you need to.

Alpine has fully annexed your thigh, and Bucky, loser that he is, scratches her between the ears like he didn’t threaten to launch her into the sun last week.

You both watch the TV flicker for a second. Something explodes onscreen. Neither of you reacts.

Bucky watches the way you pick at the edge of the container. Your eyes are glazed over, the same way it has been this whole week. You’re not here with him, not really. 

“You’re thinking again,” he says, voice soft.

“No I’m not.” You huff. 

“You’ve been thinking since you walked in,” his gaze flicks between the TV, to your fork. Mostly, they seem to linger on your eyes.

You chew on your lip like you’re deciding on whether or not you want to let him in on a secret.

“Fine,” you say, “Can I say something, and you promise not to flip out?”

“No,” he says, knowing fully well that he was lying. 

You smile. “Fair.”

You pull the folder into your lap, the edge of it a little bent, a couple of post-it notes barely hanging on. He thinks it looks the way your brain probably does.

He holds up a hand to go on.

You fidget with the folder a second longer, then sigh and open it, rifling through a handful of pages before finding what you’re looking for.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to say anything until I had something real. So even this is just-- I don’t know.”

Bucky doesn’t look away. “What’s in the file?”

“Research.”

“Something for the show?”

“Something for us,” you say, and it slips out too fast. You blink, looking down. “I mean– like not us. Just you. Something for you.”

“Okay,” he says. “What is it?”

“Right,” you hesitate. “I thought about everything you said. About Becca. And I thought– I don’t know, that one day, if you’d ever want to know more, that you should be able to.”

It’s quiet again, but not the same quiet as before. This one is loaded with quiet anticipation. 

“I’m not pushing anything,” you say, turning your torso slightly toward him. “This is not a thing you have to deal with right now. Or ever. But you’ve been walking around like you’ve got a lead weight strapped to your ribs, and I didn’t know how to help.”

You gesture to the sheets basically spelling out of the binding.

“There’s a bunch of stuff in there, whatever I could find. Timelines, pictures, conversations with people who’ve met ghosts, mediums, tarot readers. My Instagram is basically only crystal ads now.”

You nudge the folder a little closer to him.

“You don’t have to look. You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do a single thing.” You smile softly. “But if you ever want to, it’s there.”

Bucky hasn’t moved, but his jaw’s tight, and you can see the thoughts behind his eyes, too fast to track. 

He doesn’t open the folder. Just nods once, sets it aside on the nightstand like it's a phone charger or a pair of keys. 

Something to deal with later. 

Maybe.

Eventually, the cake’s half gone. The air in the room is warm, soft, like a blanket that hasn’t slipped off your shoulders yet.

You're already halfway through a yawn when you ask, “What day is it?”

He checks his watch like it’ll give a better answer than his brain. “Tuesday. No. Wednesday.”

“Right.” You rub at your eyes with the back of your hand. “We’ve still got one episode left. We’re short one climax, Barnes.”

He exhales through his nose. “We got nothing?”

“I didn’t say nothing,” you reply, thumbing open your notes app. “I said we don’t have a plan.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You scroll. “Okay. Here’s the shortlist. Stuff we never shot, leads that went nowhere that I still think have potential.”

Bucky leans back against the headboard, arms folded. “Which ones do you like?”

“I don’t know yet. I want to see them. We’ll pick the dumbest ones.”

You hand him the phone.

“We’ll need B-roll,” you add, already planning. “If we hit three in five days, we’ll have raw footage by Sunday. I can cut a teaser next week.”

“You’re assuming they’re all worth shooting.”

“I’m assuming one is. The other two can be weird little day trips.”

He nods once, crisp. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Let’s go on your weird little field trips.”

You grin. “God, you’re soft. I wore you down in one season.”

He grumbles something that sounds like denial. You poke him in the side.

“Tomorrow,” you announce, “we start with the one that smells like cat piss.”

He groans.

You stretch out on the bed, arms flung overhead. “Okay, pick something else to watch. I can’t watch another bear kill a fish. It’s depressing me.”

“Remote’s somewhere.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Sucks to be you.”

His eyes flick toward the unopened folder on the nightstand, doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either, except when he looks back at you, you’ve got a stupid, lazy smile on your face.

It takes him a second to notice the both of you are levitating few inches off the bed.

“Found it,” you say, as the remote floats up between you.

He rolls his eyes.

You grin at him.

The first artifact is a heavy, leather-bound journal sealed behind glass.

A brass plaque reads: DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU’RE READY TO KNOW EVERYTHING.

So you open it in five seconds. No self-preservation whatsoever.

The pages are blank until Bucky reaches over, brushes the corner, and a line of red ink unfurls across the paper.

He reads aloud, flatly, “Once faked an injury to skip running laps and cried when a crabapple hit your knee.”

You don’t move.

He glances at you. “So it’s personal.”

The page turns itself.

Another line appears.

“Had a dream last week where you kissed in an elevator. It fell. You were mostly annoyed the kissing got cut short.”

You take the journal from his hands, silent. Snap it shut.

“I don’t have dreams,” he says, amused. “That one’s not about me.”

You place the book on the far end of the table. Like it might try again.

It does.

More ink creeps across the fucking cover. Bucky lunges for it, reading it before you can stop him.

“You like his face. Especially when he’s--"

You’re already standing. Already crossing the room with the damn thing in your hand.

You open a window that doesn’t need opening.

And then, smiling brightly, you fling the book out.

When you turn back, he’s still in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching you with the same expression he always wears during briefings; a little curious, vaguely entertained.

“Anything else?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t know who it was writing about. Wasn’t me.”

“Right,” he says, half-snort. “You just trashed our one viable video idea.”

“It was nonsense.”

That night, while brushing, you glance down to find the blasted thing near your toothbrush like Satan himself returned it to you. 

A green bookmark is wedged halfway through.

There’s a note on it in someone’s handwriting: For your reading pleasure. From, Not Bucky

You stare at it for a while.

Then you open to page one.

It’s not a haunted object, according to the label. It’s “psycho-reactive porcelain, late 19th century” which means nothing to either of you.

You hold it up to the light. It’s chipped. There’s a faint blue pattern around the rim.  

“It’s meant to do something if you drink from it,” you say.

Bucky stares at you over his jasmine citrus tea. “Define ‘something.’”

“Memory recall. Light clairvoyance.”

“Right.”

You tilt it toward him. “Want to go first?”

“No.”

You shrug. Fill the teacup from the sink. Take a careful sip.

Nothing.

You wait.

Still nothing.

Bucky glances at you. “How do you feel?”

“Like I drank tap water out of a very pretentious bowl.”

You hand it to him. He hesitates for a second, then downs the rest in one go like antibiotics.

Again, nothing.

You wait five minutes in silence.

When Bucky opens his mouth, you wait for the next snarky remark.

Instead, he asks with full sincerity, “Why is the light doing that.”

You frown. “What light.”

He gestures at the overheads. “They’re pulsing.”

You look up. They’re not.

You glance at him. He’s frowning slightly. His coffee mug is now three inches to the left of where it was.

Neither of you moved it.

You sit down. Slowly.

“It’s a delayed reaction,” you say.

“That or I’m having a stroke,” he murmurs. 

Alpine hops onto the counter. She looks taller than usual.

Not bigger. Just more vertical. As if someone stretched her slightly in post.

You both stare at her. She tilts her head. Her pupils are too wide.

Bucky leans toward you. “Is it possible to hallucinate in widescreen?”

You don’t answer. You’re watching the fridge breathe.

It’s subtle, in and out, like a sleeping animal.

“Okay,” you say calmly. “Might be time to lie down.”

He doesn’t argue. Just gets up and walks very carefully down the hall like gravity’s got new rules no one told him about.

You follow, passing Alpine, who now has three ears. You choose not to engage.

__________

You’ve both made it to bed, but you’re not sure whose bed it is. Or whether it is a bed. You’re lying very still.

There’s a low hum in the air, like a charger left plugged into a wall that hasn’t existed for years.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually Bucky says, “If I die…”

And then he doesn’t continue. It takes a good while to even register that he spoke. 

You’re staring at the ceiling. The ceiling is fine. The ceiling is a forest now. A very polite forest.

“Too late,” you mutter.

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

You turn yours. “Nothing.”

He closes his eyes. “I can hear colours.”

You stare at him.

“I’m hearing green.”

“What does green sound like?”

He’s silent for a long time.

“Wet,” he says.

You nod like that makes sense.

There’s a moment of peace. Then you start laughing. Not loudly. Just the kind of slow, broken laugh that happens when your brain lets go of structure.

 He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “Are we going to talk about the part where you’re lying on my arm.”

You look down.

You are, in fact, using his arm as a pillow.

You consider moving.

The light seems dimmer now. Or maybe the shadows are heavier. Either way, you can feel your pulse in your mouth.

“Should I move?” you ask, finally.

"Don’t." His voice is quiet. "Feels nice.”

You don’t move for another twenty minutes.

When you do finally sit up, the hallucinations are gone.

Alpine is asleep on the windowsill, back to her standard issue two ears.

The fridge has stopped breathing.

Bucky’s still on the bed, one hand covering his eyes.

You look at him.

He says nothing.

You leave the room with the teacup in your hand.

You drop it in the bin.

You miss.

Someone is supposed to drop off a haunted chair.

That’s what you thought, when you opened the door to Vincent. Vincent is wearing a waistcoat and fingerless gloves.

“You’ve got the look,” he says, stepping inside.

You blink. “The look? Am I gonna be a model?”

He brings his own clipboard.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this,” he says.

You stay standing. Bucky leans against the fridge, arms crossed.

Vincent glances between you. “You both died. Probably three, four days ago.”

You blink. “Right.”

Bucky says flatly, “Okay.”

“We’re breathing.”

“Depends on the cause of death. Sudden impact ghosts usually don’t. You two read as slow-burners.”

“What’s a slow-burner?” Bucky dares to ask.

“Emotional bleed-out. Takes years. You don’t even notice until you stop casting shadows.” He frowns. “There’s something very cold about this room.”

“That’s the air conditioner.”

“Ever feel like your body’s not yours anymore?”

“Capitalism.”

Vincent points his clipboard at you. “Denial is step one.”

You glance at Bucky. “He’s trying to gaslight us into being ghosts.”

“I clocked that.”

“You passed over quietly. Very dignified.”

You consider. “Okay. But if we’re dead, why are we still here?”

“Ah,” he says, tapping his nose. “Unfinished business. Usually regret. Or unspoken feelings. Or--”

“Sexual tension,” you offer.

He blinks.

You nudge Bucky’s boot. “Hey. Think we died in the middle of something?”

He doesn’t look up. “Probably.”

Vincent clears his throat. “You’re joking because you’re resisting transcendence.”

You nod, serious. “That’s right. I died before I got to see Bucky shirtless in daylight.”

“Exactly,” Vincent says, with a touch too much sincerity.

You turn to Bucky. “Do I look dead to you?”

He shrugs. “Define dead.”

Vincent closes his notebook. “Okay. You’re clearly not ready.”

You press on. “Hypothetically, are we separate ghosts, or do we haunt as a pair?”

His eyes light up. “Oh, tandem hauntings are extremely rare–”

“I’m going to stop you there,” Bucky says, already walking to the sink. “This is a waste of time.”

You trail after. “Let him finish. This might be the closest I get to a legally binding commitment from you.”

Vincent’s still going: “It would explain the EMF levels. The flickering lights. Your cat refusing eye contact–”

“She doesn’t respect anyone,” Bucky adds. “She hissed at the mirror this morning. I think it was at herself.”

Vincent reaches into his bag, pulls out two laminated cards.

“These are temporary death certificates. Just until you make peace with the transition. If anyone official asks, show them this.”

Vincent clasps his clipboard. “So. Are we ready to move on?”

You shake your head. “Absolutely not. Tell him to make out with me and I’ll transcend in three seconds.”

Vincent sighs. Pulls out a pen. “I’ll be back in a week. If you're still resisting, we escalate.”

“To what?” you ask.

“Spirit mediation,” he says grimly. Then brightens: “You’re probably not going to heaven, by the way. But you might have great lighting down there!”

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

You say, “If we’re dead, we’re doing it badly.”

He hums. “Speak for yourself. I was a professional ghost for 50 years.”

The bedroom was quiet. 

You’d left a while ago, citing the fifteen hours you’d stayed up to catch the haunted chair say something to you. 

Bucky stayed awke to make good on his promise to check whether any footage was actually usable.

He’s spent a good three hours going through tapes, watching every single interaction and joke between the both of you. Rewinded quite a few times to catch the way you said something particularly. It makes the whole process a lot longer than it had to be.

At nearly 12, he comes to the disheartening conclusion that none of what was filmed is worth a final video. 

He's not sure why. It just felt like it wasn’t worthy enough, not if that was the last video you were going to film together. 

He stares at the shared Google doc. It still said “no climax” in capital letters, underlined. 

Bucky lets out a breath through his nose, sits back in the chair, and opens the laptop.

There’s nothing urgent in his inbox. One polite reminder from the Maya, phrased like a threat. He clicked it open, skimmed, and clicked away again.

He tabs over to the edit queue and opens a Reddit tab while it loads. A habit he’d formed after relying on it as his main search engine for the last few years.  

If the internet was good for anything, it was telling him what his own face looked like under harsh lighting.

The subreddit was louder than usual, more posts, more upvotes, more speculation than he remembered. 

It’s mostly fluff: timestamps with vague noises, blurry screenshots of orbs that were probably dust, someone insisting that a static hiss in episode 23 was Morse code for “JACK WAS HERE.”

He scrolss, mildly bored, while the next set of videos transfer to the cloud.

Until he pauses on a specific title.

He clicks on it.

It was the clip in the woods where you’d gone searching for the Mothman, the one where the wind had knocked over the directional mic.

Bucky dismisses most of the footage. It was too thin, too chaotic. Too much wind, not enough ghosts.

Until he clicks on the link to the screenshot.

There, just at the edge of the frame, nearly obscured by shadow: a figure.

He frowns, returning to the video to play the clip.

Nothing obvious. Just wind and breath and him muttering something snide about the stupid forest.

He scrubs back to the frame, pauses it, zooming in.

The figure was there.

He leans closer.

He stares at it. At the shape. At the faint outline of something like a dress, like the one–

He opens another tab. Types fast.

His throat went dry.

There were screen grabs now. Threads inside threads. Cross-referencing. Timestamps. One video from episode seventeen, filmed in the abandoned greenhouse. A shape in the background, just behind the condensation. The same hair. The same profile.

He clicks faster. Traced it.

Episode 3: 12:47, near the tree Episode 4: 1:22, corner of the house Episode 6: 4:35, doorframe, briefly, mid-argument Episode 7: 9:10, window Episode 9: 11:12, blurred, reflected in the china 

He sits back, chest screwed tight.

The username of the original poster was something mundane: spectraldramaqueen23. But their eye for detail was nauseatingly good. They’d overlaid screenshots. Zoomed in. Used filters. 

His palms felt cold.

The room felt heavier than it had a moment ago, as if it, too, had read something it shouldn’t have.

He reaches out, slowly, and opens the laptop again.

Back to the footage.

There she was, in every clip from the last 25 videos you’d released, at exactly the timestamps the internet had told him. 

He sits back again, heart ticking slightly louder than he liked.

Another post blinked in on the sidebar. A new one.

"Ghost Girl identity: here are my theories"

Bucky slams the laptop shut, standing up too fast.

The chair rolls back to hit the wall.

The file wasn’t where he thought it would be.

Which made sense. He hadn’t exactly placed it down. More like hurled it into the back of the closet three weeks ago. Now he was on his knees in the dark, shoulder wedged behind a space heater, muttering curses at a collapsed tripod and an unopened pack of candles.

He finds it by accident.

The edge of the manila folder was bent in, crushed beneath an ancient hoodie and something that might’ve once been a gimbal. 

He stares at it before clawing it open it with both hands,

He doesn’t even sit, just starts flipping fast, skimming and not reading so much as consuming, eyes grazing past dates, screenshots, scans, your handwriting scrawled in the margins, circling things he’d looked at a dozen times and never seen.

He slammed the file shut before scrambling out his door.  

You open your door to find Bucky, panting slightly, face flushed like he’d run the entire flight of stairs.

You opened the door mid-knock, because he hadn’t really knocked. More just landed against it.

He looked– well. Not great.

He holds the file out you’d given him nearly two weeks ago and never spoke about since, like it was on fire. “She’s been in every single fucking episode.”

You exhale, like you knew this was coming, before stepping aside. “Come in.”

He’s breathing like he’d run from something. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, eyes wide and almost glassy.

“She’s been in every episode,” he says.

His voice cracked halfway through it. Like his chest hadn’t caught up to the rest of him.

“She’s been here the whole time. The whole goddamn time.”

You close the door gently. “Sit with me.”

He looks at you like he’d just remembered you were real.

“What have you found,” he said, “about her.”

You gesture, calmly. “I’m gonna make you some tea, and you can tell me what happened.”

He paces a tight, messy loop of your room. Hands on his hips, then arms folded, then rubbing his jaw like he’s trying to erase it.

You watch him with some alarm. This is not a man well-acquainted with emotions. Watching him come undone is a bit like watching a sink catch fire.

“I didn’t see it,” he says. “I didn’t notice. But she’s in the footage. And everyone else has been seeing it but me.”

You nod, slow, walking past him toward the kettle. It buys you time. He’s vibrating with something between panic and fury, and you need the anchor of making tea just to stay upright.

You call out as you fill the kettle. “You checked Reddit?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s in my shots. She’s following me.”

The kettle clicks on. You return. He’s standing where you left him, blinking like you hit him with a brick.

“Right,” you say.”

“Because she hates me.”

You blink. “That’s your takeaway?”

“She’s haunting me,” he snaps. “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she? I left her alone to go turn into something she’d fucking hate.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” you say, calm again. “That’s not what this is.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I missed her entire life. I missed her funeral.”

“You didn’t choose to do that,” you tell him, eyebrows knit together. “Sit with me. Please.”

Finally, he agrees. You give him a warm cup with a teabag floating in it. It’s more recreational than anything else. 

He doesn’t drink the tea, just holds it, only because you gave it to him. 

You sit across from him, watching the way he stares into the middle distance. Like the footage is still playing somewhere behind his eyes.

“I don’t think she hates you,” you break the silence. “Once you told me, I started compiling everything. Not just the clips she shows up in, but the places. It wasn’t random. You remember the ones you told me you saw her?”

He doesn’t look at you.

You go on anyway.

“The mansion that Jason said was haunted by his uncle. That piece of paper that hit you in the neck that had ‘PBJ’ scribbled on it.”

His thumb twitches against the mug.

“The cornfield,” you continue. “Where you said you heard her laugh and chased it down.”

“I know,” he mutters.

He nods. Doesn’t speak.

“The haunted ship, in the mirror fogged up and you heard her say ‘Leave.’.”

“You’re not making a great case for her not hating me,” he mutters.

“No,” you say softly. “But I think it makes her consistent.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, consistent in making sure I know I fucked up.”

You lean forward. “Bucky–”

“She’s told me to leave.” His voice rises, sharp and bitter. “She’s spelled out my name on a board.”

“Buck–”

He cuts you off, fast and loud. “I even talked to a fucking tarot reader about those cards in that potions episode. I explained the positions. And she told me I was screwed.”

You stare at him for a beat. “Bucky, what’d you tell her about the cards?”

“What.”

“Did you even look at the footage before you talked to her?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Of course you didn’t,” you mumble.

“I remembered which ones came out.” He shrugs, defensive. “Besides, I don’t like watching myself.”

“Liar,” you say, not unkindly, but some way to relieve the tension in him. “You love watching our videos. I’ve seen you watch them several times.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “I’m not looking at me in them.”

You ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “I figured you didn’t look at the footage before talking to her. But they were upright. All of them.”

You flip to the relevant page. Three photos: the cards exactly as they appeared on the table. You’ve annotated them, of course.  

“And if I’m not wrong,” you say, drawing the folder toward you, “she told you the meanings in reverse.”

You open the file. Pull out a thin, crumpled email printout, and slide it across the table to him.

He doesn’t touch it.

“I found Lillia. Took me two weeks, but I sent her the card photos. I asked her to read them again. She wrote me back. It’s all in there.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. He’s still holding the email in both hands,  the paper crumpling under the force.

You speak, finally, voice quiet, “Let’s walk through it.”

He doesn’t look up.

“The house,” you say. “Paper hitting you, with a nickname for both of you as kids. Furniture was moving without any of us having to do anything with it, bottles too.”

“Yeah.”

“She gave you a heads-up. Something small. Something harmless. Something that’d let you know she was there.”

He doesn’t respond.

You go on. “Then the cornfield. You were lost for like, half an hour. You said you heard a laugh, so you followed it.”

He nods, just barely.

“And it led you straight back to me,” you say. “To someone, so that you weren’t alone anymore.”

His throat works like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“The haunted ship,” you say. “The mirror where you saw her. Where she told you to leave.”

His voice is flat. “Yeah. That one wasn’t subtle.”

You look at him. “No. But the ship levitated that night. You were on the verge of passing out from the sway.”

“She knew I got sea sick,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Exactly.”

You pause.

“It doesn’t sound like she was trying to scare you, Buck,” you say, gently. “It sounds like she was trying to let you know she was there.”

He’s staring at the wall.

“She left you notes so you knew it was her,” you say. “Led you when you needed a way out. Told you to leave when it was dangerous. She showed up when no one else could see what was coming.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t sound like she’s haunting you. It sounds like she’s looking out for you.”

His jaw tightens. You can see him trying not to let it in.

“So,” you say. “When you say you feel like you’ve failed her… I have a feeling that maybe you're not the only one who thinks that.”

He turns his head, slow, like doing anything physically hurts. 

You look at him, steady. “Maybe she feels like she should’ve protected you.”

His eyes sting, glassy now. He looks down at his hands like they’re foreign, like they’ve done things he can’t bear to remember.

His voice comes rough, sanded down to the nerve: “Yeah.”

He doesn’t lower the email, clutching it like it’s burning through his fingers.

The room is so quiet you can hear the tea cooling in its cup. His shoulders fall, just slightly. Like something’s finally been set down.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, he looks like he doesn’t know how to carry it anymore. Not the guilt, not the love, not the sudden awful realisation that maybe she just wanted to make sure he got home. 

You stay where you are, knees folded on the couch, tea cold beside you. 

You watch him, gently, without speaking. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the printed email still loose in his fingers.

He turns it over, once. Just for something to do.

“Wanna pull a card?”

His eyes lift to yours.

You don’t smile, but your face is kind. 

He looks at the bed where you’ve placed an old tarot deck sits. He looks back at you.

“Yeah,” he says. Quietly. “Okay.”

You set the deck down in front of him and nod at it. “You shuffle.”

He hesitates, then picks it up. His hands are steady now. Not relaxed, but sure.

It’s clumsy but deliberate. When he’s done, you tap the top of the deck with one finger.

“Pull.”

He does.

One card.

He flips it over.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The card rests between you like a breath finally released.

Then, almost inaudibly, he says, “Huh.”

You lean forward, elbows on the table, and tilt your head at it.

“You know what it means?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“From what I’ve learnt in the last few weeks,” you begin, “It’s a beginning. An offering.”

He frowns slightly. “Doesn’t feel like a beginning.”

“It’s not that kind of beginning,” you say. “I've seen people compare it to the first breath after crying. What lets you know the worst is over.”

He watches you. 

“It means healing. Gently. Slowly, what you don’t notice until one day it doesn’t hurt to say her name out loud.”

You watch the muscle in his jaw flex.  

He looks at the card. Doesn’t touch it.  

You soften your voice.

“I think she’s here because she loved you too much to leave,” you say. “Even if you said you didn’t deserve it.”

He presses a hand to his face. Exhales through his palm.

“She’s not stuck,” you say. “You’re not, either.”

He nods, just once.

You watch him for a second longer. “How about we let her know that you’re taken care of, yeah?”

His head lifts. He meets your eyes.

You smile, small. Steady.

“And I think you should realise,” you add, “that she was taken care of too.”

He doesn't speak, eyes shining. 

But he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. IT'S STILL INCONCEIVABLE TO ME THAT YOU LIKED THIS ENOUGH TO PAY ME REAL MONEY FOR IT.

fun fact: the lil montage in there are all ideas i had that i never ended up including in chapters. haunted chairs, manuscripts, psychedelics, someone who convinces them that they're dead.

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing there like he’s already been up for hours. Hoodie, boots, duffel in one hand, a to-go cup in the other.

“You’re up,” he says.

You stare at him. “You just woke me.”

He tips his head. “We’re leaving in ten.”

You’re not even sure you heard this loser right, considering it was 5 in the fucking morning. 

Still, you ask as patiently as you can, “Where.”

“Route 7. There’s a ghost on the highway.”

You just look at him, wondering if he had been replaced in the middle of the night by an alien with a death wish, because what the fuck is this.

He looks back, steady. “Ghost bride. Wants to hitch a ride.”

“And she must hitch one at the ass crack of dawn? Not at like, 3pm?” 

He shrugs. “It’s a long drive.”

“I haven’t packed.”

He holds up the bag. “I did.”

You recognize it as the one you keep ready for field work, though you can’t remember where you last left it.

“…You packed for me.”

“Check it. I guessed on the jacket.”

You take it, slowly. “But the camera’s not charged.”

“I charged it.”

“Tripods?”

“Loaded.”

“SD cards?”

“In the glove box. Readers too.”

You can’t stop staring at him. “Is this a trap?”

“There’s a folder on the front seat,” he says. “Case notes. Highlighted.”

“Highlighted.”

“Active case sightings.”

“What is happening?” You stare at him. “Are you trying to impress me?”

His eyes flick to yours, just for a second. “Is it working?”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you point at the cup. “Is that coffee?”

“No. Peach mango tea.”

“…For me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “No.”

That is probably the most normal he’s been in this whole interaction.

You don’t say anything for a moment. He doesn’t fill the silence.

He looks like he might, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

Then he turns and walks down the hall.

“Your cup’s in the car,” he calls over his shoulder.

You glance down. The zipper’s already half open. Inside, you can see your camera, tucked into its spot like it’s been handled a hundred times. Neatly packed. Memory cards in their pouch. Gimbal foam-wrapped. Chargers coiled.

You don’t know what to do with any of this.

The road unwinds slowly in front of you, all gray light and low fog. He’s been driving for over an hour. 

Neither of you have spoken much since the first gas station, and even that was mostly about fuel grades. A lot, considering he dragged you out of bed to be here. 

Ghost bride, tragedy at the wedding leads to it being called off, dies on her way home. Now haunts the highway, shows up in people’s car, waiting for someone to drop her to her favourite diner. Stuff you’d dealt with before, which is why Bucky dragging you out of bed for this made no sense. 

The sun's just starting to bleed into the sky when you say it.

“Does this have anything to do with the meeting yesterday?”

He shifts his position. Not much, but enough.

“No,” he says, too flat. 

You hum quietly. “Right.” 

You let the silence stretch.

You glance at him. “You didn’t say much after it.”

“Didn’t have much to say.”

You haven’t seen this Bucky since the first meeting you had with him all those months ago, all monosyllabic and short sentences. 

He turns up the heat on the AC, one arm leaning on the window.   

You turn your head to the outside, watch the mist slide past the trees.

Something stretches tight between you. Like a drawer packed too carefully, threatening to spill.

You think about the look on his face yesterday after Maya logged off the call. How he just stared at the blank screen.

You think about the way he’d said, “Guess that’s that.”

You glance at him now, and he’s still got that same set to his jaw.  

He just keeps driving, hands steady and eyes on the horizon.

“There’s no way this road used to be called ‘Lover’s Bone Trail’,” you say instead, poking a hole into the tension in the air.

“That’s what all the articles said.”

“And we, as a community, have just decided to keep it?”

“It’s historical. Named in 1874.”

“It was the 1800s. Everything was like a euphemism for syphilis. Men wore ten layers of wool and died from looking at soup wrong. Why are we respecting that?”

Bucky has no answer to that.

“So,” you say, suddenly loud because you guess you had to do this the old fashioned way, “if she shows up, I’m pulling over. She’s coming with us.”

“You’re not the one driving.”

“Technicality.”

“No,” he says. “That’s literally how driving works.”

“She’s a bride,” you say, ignoring him entirely. “That means she’s into commitment. I think I have a shot.”

“You think she’s your type?”

“I think I’m her type. She keeps climbing into strangers’ cars in the middle of the night. She sounds fun. I think I could win her over before she disappears.”

“Win her over to what.”

“To our side. She could help us with b-roll.”

Bucky exhales. “She’s going to latch onto your soul and suck the nutrients out of your bones.”

“Great. Finally some passion in my relationship.” 

He doesn’t answer.

You grin. “You could just admit you’re jealous of my hypothetical ghost wife.”

He mutters something like “I’m begging you to shut up” but there’s the barest, traitorous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You lean your head back against the window, pleased. “If she asks what we are, I’m saying I’m single and looking.”

“You don’t even know what she looks like.”

“She’s a bride. How hard can it be.”

“You can’t just stop for every random on the street.”

“I can. And I will.”

“We are not putting a stranger in the car while it’s still dark.”

“If she’s dead, what’s she gonna do?”

“She could be a con artist.”

You grin. “So am I. We’ll get along great.”

You flash him a cheerful thumbs-up like that clears you of all responsibility.

Bucky shakes his head with a small tug at his lips. 

“Fine,” you say, “if she gets in the car and asks what we are, what do you want me to say?”

“Coworkers.”

You scoff. “We’re in a car at sunrise. You packed my jacket. This is essentially foreplay.”

He doesn’t look at you. “You’re deeply troubled.”

“You knew that when you signed the contract.”

He mutters something under his breath. You ignore it.

“I’m just saying,” you continue, “if she climbs in here and asks, I’m gonna say we’re eloping.”

“You’re gonna tell a dead bride that we’re eloping? You want to get us killed?”

“Yessir. You going to stop me?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back smugly. “Didn’t think so.”

He shakes his head, one hand adjusting the rearview mirror with resigned energy.

“Do you think we'd be one of those couples that get married and divorced over and over again? Because it’s fun and chic?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Like Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.”

He narrows his eyes. “We’re not even dating yet and you’re talking about divorce.”

“Dibs.”

“Dibs?”

“I’m calling dibs on being your first divorce. I don’t care you who you date–” blatant lie “--so long as I'm the one you're getting married and divorced to over and over.”

He doesn’t respond. But his ears are a little pink.

You’re sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat with your hoodie pulled over your face like evil Kermit. 

Bucky’s been pretending not to notice for fifteen miles.

He should be used to this by now. He is used to this. But he doesn’t look at you. Can’t.

Because the problem is that he’ll either lose his mind or kiss you so hard it resets both your trauma timelines.

So instead he stares straight ahead. 

“If we see her, I’m slamming on the brakes and proposing.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “You’re still not the one driving.”

You shift a little, pull your legs down, twist the sleeves of your hoodie into knots around your fingers

He sends a glance your way. “You should sleep.”

You look at him sideways. “You trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes.” Blatant lie.

Outside, the horizon’s cracking open with light. The fog’s burning off slow. The road stretches ahead like it’s daring you to say something next.

“If I die on this trip, I want you to taxidermy me.”

A beat passes as Bucky processes what you just said.. 

“No,” he says slowly, like it’s a boundary he’s had to establish before.

“I’m serious. Tasteful pose. Keep me in the studio.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Where would you put me then?”  

“I’m going to bury you in a ditch.”

“I’d crawl back up Michael Jackson style.” You sit up slowly and stretch with the smug satisfaction of someone who knows they’re an acquired taste and has already been acquired.

You’ve had enough caffeine to kill a Victorian child and still your brain refuses to slow down.

Still, you tediously continue, “If I die before you, you’re not allowed to get remarried.”

“We’re not married.”

“I just think if I die, you should live a quiet, devoted life. Maybe take up baking. Get weird about birds. But never move on.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Focuses on the road.

You keep going.

“If you die before me, I’m gonna be insufferable,” you say. “Wear your hoodie for five years. Cry at vacuum commercials. Start getting into knife-throwing or something.”

He lets out a breath.  

You smile, wicked and tired and radiant with nonsense. “Also, I’m going to lie about you. So much. You fought bears. You once ate glass to win a bar fight.”

“I’ve never even been in a bar fight.”

“Gotta fill in the gaps.”

And yet again, he doesn’t say anything. You’re sitting there with crumbs on your shirt spewing absolute madness without even blinking. 

He tells himself to focus on the horizon, on the mission.

But all he can feel is the heat of you next to him. The way you’re always like half-feral. And how every word you say has him unraveling by degrees. All he can think is that god, you’re annoying, and god, he wants to kiss you so bad he could drive you both off this road just to make it stop.

You turn to him suddenly, serious. “If I do die first, you can’t carry a picture of me in your wallet. That’s boring. You can carry my teeth. Like, in a pouch. Just in case.”

“In case of what.”

“You never know,” you say. “Might need them.”

He glances over. “You’re carrying your own teeth.”

“No,” you say. “I give you my teeth. It’s symbolic. A gesture of trust. Of love.”

“A bag of loose teeth is not love.”

“You just don’t get symbolism. Anyway. If you don’t do it, I’ll know you never really loved me.”

He finally glances over. 

Your grin widens. “See? That’s the look. Perfect. Do that when journalists ask if you still hear my voice.”

He doesn’t answer, eyes lingering over you for a second too long. 

“You’d look good with a parrot, by the way. For your widower era.”

He looks at you and it takes a millisecond to realise somehow this is– different. 

Messy. Like all the gears in his head are clanging against each other at once.

“You good?” you ask after a beat of him not moving.

He exhales sharply, before giving a curt nod. “Fine.”

You’re still watching him like you’re about to say something else when it happens.

You blink, and that’s when it flashes past the passenger window.

White and tall. Not a blur, but more like a flicker, the kind you catch just out of the corner of your eye. 

Pale fabric snapping in the wind. A veil, maybe. A dress.

You sit bolt upright.

“HEY.”

He jerks slightly, hand tensing on the wheel. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? You twist halfway in your seat, finger jabbing at the back window. “Did you not see that?!”

“What are you talking about?”

“We passed her.”

“Passed who.”

“The bride!”

He glances at the rearview mirror. “There’s no one there.”

“She was right there. You just— I told you to keep your eyes open!”

“I was watching the road.”

“You were looking at me.”

“You were trying to give me your teeth.”

You’re still facing backward, peering through the fog. “I think she posed. That’s so hot of her.” 

He squints. Checks the mirrors. Nothing. Just the stretch of empty road behind you. 

You turn in your seat, trying to spot her through the trees. “She probably thinks we’re rude.”

“She probably doesn’t exist.”

“She posed.”

“She didn’t pose.”

“I know a theatrical ghost when I see one, and that bitch was hitting angles.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He parks.

You’re already out of the car before he unbuckles. Camera bag over your shoulder, boots crunching on gravel, one hand raised.

“Miss Bride!” you call. “Sorry, my cameraman was too busy making googoo eyes at me to notice you the first time–”

“Shut up.”

“--but we’d love a second to talk if you’re free. Perhaps even consider holy matrimony.”

Bucky rolls down the window to watch you. 

“Turn around.”

Bucky, sitting in the car, door shut, hands on the wheel, does not even flinch.

“No.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not going back.”

You stomp over to his window. He hits the button and rolls it down.

““She was right there,” you say, stabbing a finger into the air.

“She’s not now.”

“Because we drove past her.”

He shrugs. “She’s got legs. She can catch up.”

“She doesn’t have legs, she’s floating.”

“She can float her way over.”

“Bucky.”

“If she’s that into this, she’ll show up again. Get in the car.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, marching around to the passenger side. “You’re so fucking difficult.”

You throw the door open, toss yourself in.

He starts driving, non-chalant, like he hasn’t just disrespected the very fabric of journalism.

You stare at him. He stares ahead.

“Can’t believe I saw a literal ghost bride and you’re acting like it was a pigeon.”

“Both of them are mobile. She can come over if she wants.” 

Your voice is all sullen when you say, “She liked me. We had a moment.”

“I’m sure she’ll tell all her friends.”

You glare out the window. 

He’s been driving for forty minutes.

The forest has thinned. The fog has burned off. The sun has the audacity to shine.

No sign of her.

You’re on your third rewatch of the dashcam footage you weren’t even filming at the time.

“There’s a shadow at timestamp 7:08,” you say, zooming in. “Could be a veil.”

Bucky doesn’t look. “Could be a bird.”

You turn to him. “You have no imagination.”

At another point, you put on music that is, frankly, emotionally manipulative. Minor keys. Whispery vocals.  

He turns the volume down without asking.

You turn it back up.

Another twenty minutes pass.

Still nothing.

Just road. Crows. One gas station.

You sigh.

“I think she broke up with me.”

“She was never dating you.”

“We had a moment.”

“Your entire moment lasted less than five seconds.”

“People fall in love in less.”

“Name one time.”

You stare pointedly at him, daring him to say it.

He does not.

Instead, he says: “We’ll stop at the next town. You can film the local haunted mailbox or whatever.”

Another mile passes.

You peer out the window one last time, hopeful.

Nothing.

“You’re buying me breakfast,” you say like it’s punishment.

As if that wasn’t the plan anyway.

Since it’s on Bucky’s dime, you order too much food. It’s half out of spite. Half because the menu actually looks good. 

Bucky’s halfway through his toast, mind elsewhere.

You point your fork at his plate. “What should our last video be about?”

Bucky’s mouth goes a bit dry but he swallows the bread nonetheless. 

“Don’ care. Pick whatever.”

“Wow, can you contain your excitement? I can't handle it.”

He gives you a brief smile.  

You take a sip from his mug. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a rash.”

“Charming.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table. He doesn’t flinch.

You lean back, stretching your arms over your head. “One more after this. That’s it.”

“It is.”

You eye him. 

He shrugs, picking a crumb off the table like it’s something to do.

“What next?” he asks you, tone casual but voice gruff. 

You watch him for a beat before saying, “I mean, I always figured I was gonna bounce after this. It was a fun gig.”

He nods once, making no motion to argue. Like you said you were going to pick up groceries.

“So, you know. Big change.”

“Guess so.”

You give him a look. “That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. ‘Wow, I’ll miss your witty insight and looking at how sexy you are." Something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “My mother raised me not to lie.”

You throw a balled up straw cover at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on his plate.

You pick up your fork again. “So what are you gonna do with your newfound freedom?”

He sets his cup down. “Sleep for a week. Punch the next person who says ‘content strategy.’”

“Bold of you to assume anyone talks to you voluntarily.”

“You never shut up.”

“I bet you had a countdown. Big red Xs on a calendar. ‘Only three more episodes with the loud one.’”

He doesn’t respond. You glance up.

His face is unreadable.  

You flag down the check with a raised hand.

“Anyway,” you say, lighter again. “One more, then I ride off into the sunset. You get your life back. Everybody wins.”

He watches you slide on your jacket, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “Is that what you think? I get my life back?”

You pause, one arm halfway in a sleeve.

He pays the bill without asking even though he very defiantly he said he wasn’t going to.  

You finish putting the jacket on. Adjust the collar like it’s suddenly very interesting.

Outside, the morning’s sharper now. Colder, even though the sun had taken its rightful place in the sky. 

You walk toward the car. He follows.

Just before you get in, you say, “I don’t think you hated all of it.”

He opens his door. Doesn’t look at you. “Some parts were tolerable.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I can take it back.”

“You won’t.”

The doors shut.  

Bucky turns the key. The engine grumbles awake. He checks the mirrors like he’s doing a final perimeter sweep before war.

And then he goes rigid.

“...Huh.”

You’re adjusting your seatbelt. “What.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just stares into the rearview, deadpan.

You lean over. “What.”

Still nothing.

“What?” you ask again, sharper. 

He sighs. “There’s someone in the back seat.”

You blink. “Sorry what?”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from the mirror.

You twist around.

White dress. Veil. Pale as moonlight.  

You turn back slowly. Face forward. Stare straight ahead.

“Is she... buckled in?”

“Nope,” he says, straight laced.

“She should be buckled in.”

“That’s not a priority right now.”

“I don’t care. That’s a moving violation.”

He adjusts the rearview. Avoids eye contact with her. 

You whip around again. She hasn’t moved. Just sits there, hands folded, gaze unfocused.

“Now what?”.

“She’s not screaming,” Bucky mutters. “So that’s a good start.”

“Oh great, we’ve upgraded from ‘screaming banshee’. Love that for us.” You stare at her a bit longer before deciding on, “She’s probably just hitching a ride.”

“A ride to where? Hell?” Bucky just adjusts the AC like that’ll fix the ambient death in the backseat.

She’s still there in the rearview. Still pale, still backlit like she brought her own horror movie fog. Face slack. Eyes a little too bloodshot, like she’s been awake since 1834.

You watch her for a second.

Then look at Bucky.

Then back at her.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “According to literally every story ever written about this woman, she just wants to be dropped off at the diner.”

He nods. “Which we’ve done.”

“Which we’re currently leaving.”

Another second passes while you both contemplate.

“What if she didn’t see it?” you pose.

“She’s sitting in this car. We’re in the parking lot. She has eyes.” 

“I’ve seen her eyes. She has bad eyes.”

You squint at her reflection. Her stare doesn’t waver. Doesn't blink.

“Okay. So if she saw the diner, and didn’t leave, does that mean–”

“She’s defective?”

“I was going to say she doesn’t have money.”

You reach down, grab the diner’s leftover bag from the floor and rifle through it.

You hold the takeout container up so she can see it in the mirror.

“Hey,” you say, “We have pancakes. They’re lukewarm, but edible.”

She stares.

“Real maple syrup,” you add, like that’s going to help. “I think.”

Still nothing.

Bucky glances in the mirror, then back to the road. “Well, you offered. Now what.”

You close the container, before twisting in your seat to face the back. “Okay, so what do you want?”

No answer. Just red-rimmed ghost eyes.

“Maybe she just wants to hang out.”

“She is bleeding from the eyes, Buck.” You lean forward, rub your hands over your face. “She wants something else.”

You glance back at the mirror. Her stare is heavier now. Expectant.

You squint. “What can we do for you? What will help?”

Her eyes narrow just a little.

You look at Bucky.

“She’s got that look,” you mutter. “The one you get when you think I’m about to say something stupid.”

Bucky nods. “That’s ninety percent of the time.”

“What if we brought her to the wrong diner?” You turn back to her. “Is that it?”

Nothing.

You lean back in your seat, defeated. “What the hell are we supposed to do with her? What’s the plan here?”

“I thought you wanted to marry her.”

You turn back around. “Girl, you wanna get married? I’ll do it, I don’t care. I love you.”

She doesn’t reply.

“Wow, rejected,” Bucky says flatly. “I thought you were soulmates.”

“Shut up.” You glance back at the mirror. The ghost bride stares, unmoved. Slightly annoyed. Still bleeding from the eye sockets.

You squint. “Try flirting with her.”

There’s a beat of silence so dense you can hear the engine hum in self-defense.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. Give her a little smolder. Ask if she, I don’t know, haunts here often.”

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s literally haunting us, Bucky. The least you could do is be polite about it.”

“She’s dead.”

“So’s your dating life. You have nothing to lose.”

He glares at you.

You grin. “She might respond to compliments. What’s the worst that happens? She leaves from embarrassment?”

He glances up at the mirror, then back at the road.

You can see the moment his soul gives up.

“Fine.”

You bite back a smile.

Bucky clears his throat. Just once.

Then, directed at the mirror with the bone-deep enthusiasm of a man being held at gunpoint, he turns around. 

“So, uh–”

You lean in, eyes gleaming.

“You... look nice. In white.”

A pause.

Nothing happens.

He presses on, deadpan. “Timeless. Very... Victorian. Suits you.”

You press your mouth closed so tight it hurts. God forbid you laugh. 

Still nothing.

The ghost bride doesn’t blink. Doesn’t so much as tilt her head. Like even in undeath, this is the worst pickup attempt she’s ever witnessed.

“Tell her she has... striking bone structure,” you whisper.

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s got cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, Barnes. Show some respect.”

“Fuck off.”

You both look at the mirror again.

“I think you offended her,” you say.

“I think she’s always looked like that.”

“She probably wanted something more old-fashioned. A sonnet. A duel. A goat sacrifice.”

“She got a compliment. That’s the most effort I’ve put into any relationship in the last decade.”

You hum. “Explains a lot.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “You want to flirt with her?”

“I can’t. I’m already married to the grind.”

He groans audibly.

“Well,” you say, “we tried.”

“She’s still here.”

You tilt your head. “Ma’am, are you lonely?”

Another beat of silence passes.

In a quick second, she raises her eyes to you. 

Bucky and you exchange glances. 

“It it because you miss your husband?” 

Her eyes grow more bloodshot. Your eyebrows furrow.

“So, not him. Do you not like him?”

She does something that looks somewhat similar to exhaling.

“You said there was a tragedy at the wedding,” you muse. “Did something happen between you both?”

She inhales, noise coming out like a wheeze. 

You only stare at her for a while.

“He left you at the altar?” you say, voice gentler now.  

Bucky’s brows furrow. 

A second goes by with no change.

The ghost lifts her head a fraction. Her mouth twitches, barely.

You almost miss it.

You hum. “So you walked out?”

Another blink.

“Let me guess,” you say. “Everyone else went home to gossip and you– what– ended up at the diner? That your favourite place?”

She doesn’t nod. But she doesn’t look away.

Bucky glances at you. “She died on the way. Heel got caught crossing the road. Truck didn’t stop.”

You wince, looking back at her.

“You didn’t get what you wanted, did you?”

She looks tired. Deflated even, from what you’ve known her in the last few minutes.

“Okay,” you say, after thinking for a second. “Alright.”

You don’t explain further. Simply open the door, step out, and head into the diner.

Bucky stays seated, watching the mirror.

She doesn’t move.

Just watches you through the glass.

You’re gone for a minute. Two.

Then the door swings open again.

You’ve got a receipt in hand as you walk around the back, open her door like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

She looks at you.

And for the first time, Bucky watches her move.

She slides out of the car in one smooth, silent motion. Her veil doesn’t rustle. Her feet don’t touch the ground.

She drifts toward the door.

You get there first, hold it open for her, but don't follow.

He sees the waitress behind the counter glance up, not surprised at all. She nods once, like it’s routine.

And when the faint trace of the ghost steps through, the waitress turns, grabs a menu without reading it, and just pulls out a chair. Pours syrup into a little ceramic pitcher. 

She sets a fresh plate of pancakes at the far booth in the corner.

You waits until the ghost is fully inside.

Then let the door shut, before walking back to the car.

Bucky twists in his seat.

There’s no one in the backseat. 

But unlike the mirror, the booth isn’t empty.

The ghost sits.

You climb back into the car. Quiet. Still watching her.

Bucky looks at you.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He turns back to the window.

Watch her cut into the stack, careful. 

And for a brief second, she looks young.

The road is long again.

You thumb the edge of a candy bar wrapper and let your foot rest against the dash. He hasn’t spoken in a while.

Eventually, Bucky shifts in his seat.

“How’d you know what she wanted?”

You glance over, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“I didn’t,” you admit. “If that didn’t work, I would’ve tried something else.”

He falls quiet again.

You watch the blur of trees sliding past the window. Shadows flickering over the dash.

“People don’t really try to figure it out, you know?” you say. “They just assume. Oh, she’s lingering, so she must be angry. Must be tragic. So let’s banish her, cleanse her, salt the windows. But I don’t know, maybe she wanted something else.”

He hums under his breath. A sound like he’s chewing on the thought.

You’re ten minutes down the road when it hits you.

“Fuck.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “What now.”

“I didn’t record it.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky drags a hand over his face. 

“I was moved,” you defend. 

“That’s not a setting on the camera.”

“Okay, well excuse me for having a heart.”

There’s a pause.

Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a laugh.  

 You stretch, bones cracking like old wood, and glance out the window. The sky’s brighter now, the sun finally winning the fight against the fog.

“So,” you say, casual. “I guess we’re heading home now.”

“No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You look over. He’s got the same expression he always has when he’s plotting something. His face is bare, unreadable, but with that slight tightness at the corner of his mouth.

You stare. “Are you kidnapping me?”

His eyes don’t leave the road. “Would I have bought you breakfast if I were?”

“That’s exactly what someone trying to trick me would say.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but in that direction.

You narrow your eyes. “Where are we going?”

He shrugs.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s actually the slogan of most kidnappers.”

“Most kidnappers don’t let you pick the music,” he says dryly. 

You pause before reaching over and switching the playlist to something you know he’d hate.

He doesn’t argue.

Suspicious.

He finally stops at a fucking cabin.

The sign isn’t even painted properly. 

Just a piece of sun-bleached wood swinging lopsided over the door. Letters barely legible. 

It’s a lodge or gift shop or something, with a coffee shop right next to it.  

“Why are we stopping?” you ask, brows raised as he turns off the ignition.

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just gets out, door shutting with a solid thunk, and starts walking toward the little building.

You scramble out after him. “Okay, I thought you ate lunch at like 5pm. Didn’t realise you were hungry.”

He doesn’t slow down. “Let’s go.”

You stare at the back of his head. “You’re being weird.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just pushes the door open and holds it for you. The little bell above it gives a jingle, bright and alive.

Inside, the air is warm and smells like baked apple, butter, and a little woodsmoke. A few tables. Worn chairs. Mismatched mugs on a shelf by the register. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Just walks toward the counter like he’s been here before.

You follow, slower now. Cautious. Trying to put pieces together that don’t quite fit yet.

There’s a small table near the window. Sunlight filters in like it’s being polite about it. He stops there. Waits.

“Okay, I want a croissant, if you’re buying,” you tell him. “And one extra one because you keep taking bites from mine even though you say you don’t want one-” 

Bucky knocks on the counter, pretty loudly for his standards. “Hello?”

You’re about to ask again what the hell is going on when the back door swings open.

You freeze.

Not metaphorically.  Your entire body stops moving like someone yanked the cord out.

She looks exactly the same.

Same cardigan. Same sleeves pushed up. Same towel draped over her shoulder, like she’s been mid-shift since the day you left.

“What the fuck,” you say quietly.

She stops just short of the counter and smiles like no time has passed. “Hey.”

Bucky, beside you, clears his throat. “Ma’am.”

Mrs. Mullens nods at him, warm and amused. “I was wondering when you were gonna make it.”

Your head whips toward him. “What on earth– what do you mean–”

She steps forward and folds the towel over one hand. “Well, he tracked me down. Told me what the plan was and so I invited him right over.”

You stare at him.

He stares somewhere over your head, suddenly very invested in the far corner of the café.

“This whole trip was… what?” you ask. “A set-up?”

“Don’t blame him,” Mrs. Mullens says gently. “Second I heard, I told him to get himself down here and bring you with.”

You don’t know what to do with your hands.

You don’t know what to do with your face.

Bucky shifts on his feet. “I’m, uh, gonna give you two a minute,” he mutters. “Wait in the car.”

He turns before you can stop him. Just raises one hand in a half-wave and heads for the door.

You feel like the floor’s been tilted, and everyone else got a headstart adjusting.

Mrs. Mullens watches you quietly, like she’s got all the time in the world. “You okay?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

Her expression doesn’t flicker as she reaches out to hold your forearms. 

“Well,” she says, scanning you up and down. “There you are.”

You feel something in your chest cinch tight and then loosen all at once.

“Hi,” you manage.

She still smells like flour and cloves, soft in the way that nothing else in your life ever quite let itself be.

“Come on,” she says. “Sit with me. Let me make you something.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” you say, voice hoarse.

“Still the same order?” she asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you say. “Still the same.”

She’s back a few minutes later with a plate, the way she used to make it when you were seventeen and underfed and too proud to admit it.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “You really stayed the same.”

“You look taller,” she says, sitting across from you.

“I’m not.”

“You sure? Your feet used to swing off that booth.”

“I was like, eighteen.”

“You were seventeen,” she corrects, smiling.

You blink. “You remember?”

“I remember everything,” she says, a little amused. “You showed up with two shirts and a backpack like you’d been chased cross-country.”

You laugh under your breath. “Sounds about right.”

“I gave you the Monday morning shifts because you were too twitchy on Sundays. You always smelled like metal. What were you even doing back then?”

“Nothing good,” you say, without really thinking. “But I liked being here.”

“Did you? You were terrified of the espresso machine. Thought it was gonna explode if you pressed the wrong button.”

“It hissed at me, Mags.”

She laughs, full-bellied and familiar.

It’s been years. You should feel different, older, hardened. But with her sitting across from you in that same cardigan and kind eyes, you feel like the same version of yourself that used to sneak biscotti from the back and cry in the walk-in freezer when everything felt too loud.

“I know,” she says. “But you needed something to keep your hands busy. Didn’t think you’d stay longer than a week.”

You lift one shoulder. “Didn’t plan to. It just happened.”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Sometimes that’s the best kind,” she says. “When you don’t notice it while it’s happening.”

“I still don’t know if I’m any good at staying.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.” She hums. “Some folks are just built for motion. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Never felt like I was built for anything.”

“Then I guess you get to make it up as you go.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t push.

You glance around the café. It’s not the same one you left, but it might as well be. Same vinyl booths. Same laminated menus that stick a little when you peel them open. The clock on the wall ticks one second behind, and the radio hums something mellow and familiar from a back room.

“I liked the old place,” you say eventually.

She doesn’t look up from where she’s stacking sugar packets. “So did I.”

“What happened?”

“Rent happened,” she says simply. “And my knees don’t like the city anymore.”

You nod. “This place is nice too.”

“I like the light,” she says, finally glancing out the wide front windows. “Good for the plants.”

There’s a little succulent lined up by the sill. A tiny herb pot, something leafy and stubborn. You remember the basil plant she used to keep behind the counter. It never survived more than a few weeks.

“I thought you might’ve moved further,” you say.

“I tried,” she replies. “Didn’t stick.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “Missed my regulars.”

“Do you ever think about moving again?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No. This feels right. Feels enough.”

You don’t know what to think about that. 

But something about the way she says it quietly and certain, makes you think maybe one day, it won’t feel so impossible.

She folds the towel in thirds, slow and deliberate, like she has all the time in the world.

“He said you spent the day driving,” she says, “showed up back home with half an hour left for the day to get done.”

You huff. “Snitch.”

She chuckles.

“And you just gave him the new address?” you ask.

“Well, I asked him who he was first.” Her eyes soften. “Then he told me he was with you, and that was enough.”

You fiddle with the edge of your napkin. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Or write. Or—”

“I know why you left,” she says, cutting in gently.

You blink.

“I figured you’d come when you were ready.”

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

She reaches across the table and sets her hand on yours.  

“You did what you needed to do,” she says. “And you survived. That was always the only thing I ever wanted for you.”

You look at her, the lump in your throat rising too fast.

“I thought about calling. A dozen times.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I told myself I would, after things settled. But they never really did.”

“I know.”

“I felt like I owed you more.”

“You didn’t owe me anything,” she says, gentle but firm. “You stayed as long as you could.”

You exhale, slow and tight. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.”

“I know,” she repeats with the same patience as the previous hundred times.

“It just–”

“I remember,” she says. “You got real quiet the last few weeks. Used to stare out the kitchen window like the world was shrinking on you.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t know how to make it easier,” she says. “So we did what we could.”

“I didn’t know how to thank you,” you add, quieter now.

“You just did.”

You laugh once, short, a little embarrassed. “It’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

“I left,” you say. “Just took off. No note.”

She tilts her head. “You think that erased everything before it?”

“No. But it– it undid it. I left the state,” you say, eyebrows pulling together in frustration. “Just because you offered me a room. That’s insane.”

“You were always going to leave. I knew that when you came in.”

You look up.

“You walked in that first day like someone who already had one foot out the door,” she smiles, hand still resting over yours. “You didn’t owe me anything. I was just glad I got to know you for the time I did. You were always my favorite.”

You scoff. “You said that to everyone.”

“I lied to everyone else.”

You blink.

“You knew that already.” 

“I hoped.”

You glance out the window to get your bearings.

Mrs. Mullens follows your gaze. “He’s still out there.”

You follow her gaze. Bucky’s slouched in the driver’s seat, arms crossed, sunglasses on. He looks like he’s trying to nap and also like he’s making sure he can see the door if it opens.

“Is that your…?”

“Friend,” you say quickly.

She lifts an eyebrow.

“He’s fine,” you add. “Mostly grumbles. Pretends he doesn’t like things.”

“He doesn’t talk much, huh?”

“Not unless he wants to argue.”

“He’s cute.”

You snort.

“He yours?” she asks, lightly.

You shrug, avoiding the question. “He drove me here.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says, grinning.

You look away.

“He seems steady,” she adds. “Even from here.”

“He is,” you admit. “More than he knows.”

“You always did pick the prickly ones,” she says, amused.

You huff a laugh, the ache in your throat a little lighter now.

“Why’d you say yes?” you ask. “When he called.”

She stirs her tea, quiet for a moment. “Because I missed you.”

You stare at her.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” she says. 

You nod slowly. You can’t meet her eyes.

She watches you for a beat too long. “You think you’ll stick where you are now?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Time’s almost up on this one. It was never supposed to be permanent.”

“Seems like you’ve got people now. Makes things easier.”

You stare at the guy in the car, shifting in his seat. 

“Not always.”

“No,” she agrees, “but it makes them worth the trouble.”

You both sit there a while, the sun warming the tabletop. The world doesn’t demand anything from you just yet.

She leans back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap. “You know, I’ve got a room upstairs here, too.”

You blink.

“Not fancy,” she adds. “Small.”

You don’t say anything.

“Could use the help. These joints aren’t what they used to be. I’ve got a dishwasher who always misses a spot and the young ones never sweep under the tables right.”

Your face pulls into a smile.

“Think about it,” she says, tone still easy. “Doesn’t have to be forever.”

You watch her, unsure if the ache in your chest is guilt or hope or something else entirely.

“It sounds good,” you say quietly. “Actually good.”

She tilts her head, like she’s trying to read your thoughts. “You don’t have to make the call right now. But if you need a soft landing, this is still one.”

“Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.”

You look down at your hands. “Why didn’t you get mad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She blinks like she’s surprised you’d even think that. “You were never mine to keep. I was just glad I got to know you while you were here.”

There’s a warmth in your ribs you didn’t know you were missing until it showed up again.

She reaches below and comes up with a little paper box, folds creased neatly at the corners.

“Take these,” she says, setting it down. “Eat them before they go stale. Or don’t. Your call.”

You reach for it. “You didn’t have to–”

“Don’t start,” she says lightly, ““I baked too much this morning.”

You open the box and peer inside.

Biscotti. Lemon glaze. Just like she used to make them.

“These still your favourite?”

Your chest stings.

“Thank you,” you say again, quieter now.

Outside, the sun’s starting to shift.

“I’m really glad I came,” you say, voice low.

“Don’t wait so long next time,” she says. “You come back when you want to. No pressure.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” she says.  

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She reaches over and gently pushes the box of biscotti toward you. “These’ll hold for a few days if you keep ‘em in a cool place.”

“I remember.”

“‘Course you do.”

You finally pick one up and take a bite.

It tastes exactly the same.

The screen door swings shut behind you with a thud and a jangle of the bell.

You stand still for a second outside the café. 

Gravel crunches gently beneath you. The sunlight’s warm, dappled. The smell of coffee and baked sugar lingers in your sleeves.  

It should be easier to walk away than this.

It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Not like you haven’t packed lighter and left faster. Sometimes with the door still swinging behind you. Sometimes before the people even noticed you were gone.

But you’re not moving.

You turn back briefly, gaze catching on the shape of her through the window, apron tied neat, still wiping down the counter like you were never even there.  

And for the first time in a while, you feel… stuck.

Not in the bad way.

Not Leviathan-trapped. Not time-loop-clocktower-stuck.

Anchored.

For a moment.

You drag yourself toward the car on legs that feel heavier than they should, biscotti box clutched under one arm like it’s going to make this easier.

Bucky watches you through the windshield but doesn’t move. His elbow is propped lazily on the open window frame.

He doesn’t ask, only looks.

You stop beside the car. Pull in a breath.

“Hey,” you say, a little quieter than you mean to.

He rolls the window down a little further. “Hi.”

You rest your forearms on the top of the window. Your eyes are a little tired. Your voice is a little warm.

“She asked me to stay,” you say.

His face doesn’t change, not really. But his grip on the steering wheel falters for a beat.

“Said I could pick this place as my next job, live upstairs if I wanted.”

A long second ticks by. Then another.

“Oh,” he says.

You finally look at him. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I mean, sounds nice.”

“It is,” you say, eyes drifting back to the building. “Peaceful. Kind of perfect, honestly.”

He nods slowly.

The wind whistles soft between you both.

“I told her it sounds great,” she says. “Told her I’d love to do it.”

Bucky’s jaw shifts. He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what would come out.

The world stills around the silence like it’s holding its breath. 

And then, quieter. “So… you’re staying?”

The words are small. Stiff. Like they don’t quite know how to fit in his mouth.

You don’t answer right away. Just tilt your head back and stare at the cloudless sky, lips pressed together like they’re holding something in.

Then you glance toward the café again. At the little chalkboard sign that’s still got the special written in cursive. At the potted plants by the door that have managed not to die.

At the open window, and the breeze that carries cinnamon and clove and lemon zest like a memory.

And you turn back to him.

“I told her I’d come back,” you say. “I’ve got some more videos to shoot.”

His shoulders relax just a fraction.

He swallows, nodding like it means nothing. Like it’s good to be reminded of obligations.

His hand comes off the steering wheel, flexes once. Settles again.

And then you lean in closer than you need to be.

And you press your mouth against his cheek in a long, steady press. A kiss that lingers just a second too long, enough to burn.

You feel his breath hitch.

“You’re kind of insane, Bucky Barnes,” you say when you pull back, voice rougher now. “Thanks.”

You hand him the box through the window. “I got you some biscotti”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just looks down at it like it’s heavier than it is.

He shifts it from one hand to the other, then looks up at you again.

You don’t look away.

“You seriously considered it?” he asks finally, like he’s trying to make it sound casual.

“Yeah.”

The answer’s easy. Too easy.

“You still thinking about it?”

You pause. Then nod. “A little.”

And you both sit in that silence.

The breeze kicks up again. A bird chirps somewhere in the trees nearby. The world keeps turning.

You let your fingers drum once along the car door. Then twice.

“I liked it there,” you say finally. “It was warm.”

He nods, barely perceptible. “It’s a nice place.”

You rest your chin on your arm and peer at him. “You ever want that? Quiet place, job that doesn’t involve crawling through basements looking for dead guys?”

He considers that.

Then shrugs. “I think I used to.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just like knowing where my shoes are.”

You grin at that.

You let your arms fall and step back. Gravel crunches. Sunlight warms your shoulders.

“I’ll come back,” you say again.

He just nods.

You start to walk around the car, toward the passenger side. You slide into your seat, pull the door shut. Clip your belt.

The car hums to life beneath you.

He pulls out of the lot slow and easy. 

The café disappears behind you.

The road hums under the tires. Pine trees slip past in long green blurs. 

You’ve both been quiet since the bakery. The box of biscotti sits unopened in your lap. You pick at the corner of the lid, folding it in and out.

You break the silence first.

“So.”

Bucky flicks his eyes over to you, then back to the road.

“Summoning the ghosts of Christmas past and all that,” you continue. “Worked.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts his position in the seat. 

Things have changed for him the past year. He’s come to realise that the world doesn’t follow the rules he was taught it ought to follow. 

You exhale, watching your reflection ripple in the window glass. “It was her. Ghost of Christmas past.”

He nods once, almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. “That’s why I went looking for her, you know. After. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thought if I found her again– I don’t know.”

He waits.

“I wasn’t thinking. I just left.” You glance at him. ”I didn’t start this series really expecting to find any. But I guess the world’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” 

He’s quiet. More than usual.

The muscles in his jaw twitch like they’re trying not to.

You turn slightly in your seat to look at him. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard.  

Then, after a minute that stretches too long: “I’ve been seeing one.”

You blink.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Months now,” he adds, softer. “Maybe longer.”

You don’t say anything at first.

“Is that what you were talking about on the ship?”

Bucky exhales, jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You wait.

He doesn’t meet your eye. Keeps his attention on the road ahead. “I didn’t want to say anything. Thought maybe it was in my head. Hallucination. Stress. Y’know. Old habits.”

“When did it start?”

“After that episode with that doll,” he says.

It falls quiet for a while as you piece it together. The comment about hallucinations, freaking out after the doll episode, the way he looked at the children’s ward–

“Bucky, is a kid haunting you?

He looks at you wearily. “You think I’m insane.”

You watch him for a second, eyebrows tugged together.

You reach over, hand resting on his face, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes close briefly under your touch.

“I believe you. Trust me, I do,” you say intently, before hesitantly asking, “This kid… are they yours?”

“No. No, I don’t have a kid.” He sighs. “It’s my sister.”

“You’ve been seeing Becca?”

“Yeah,” he glances at you. “You don’t think I’m lying?”  

You shake your head. “I don’t think you have any reason to lie.”

 The sun hits the edge of his cheekbone and shadows the rest of him.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice cracks slightly. “I didn’t know how to tell anyone.”

“How do you know it’s her?”

And so he tells you about the doll. The paper she threw at him in the mansion, the ouija board, the cornfield, the mirror on the ship.  

The fucking tarot cards.

“Tarot cards? From that stupid video?” you ask in confusion. 

“The Star, Six of Cups, The Hanged Man. I got in touch with this fuckin’ reader who said if you were haunted by someone, and couldn’t move on, it might be because we hadn’t made peace.”

He exhales, and you see it then. The look on his face like it’s been carved out of regret.

“I think she’s mad at me,” he admits. 

“Why would she be mad?”

“I don’t know. For dying. She had to figure it out without me. I wasn’t there for her.”

“You were just a kid too, Buck,” you say quietly. “You didn’t have a choice.”

He doesn’t respond.

You glance sideways. “You’ve never told anyone else, have you?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you think talking to Steve would help?” you ask. “He knew Becca too.”

“What’s he gonna think?” Bucky replies. “My brain’s been fried enough times. I don’t really know what’s real or not.”

You offer him a tired, lopsided smile. “It’s Steve. He’d believe you if you said you were a ghost.”

That earns a quiet huff of a laugh from him. Barely there, but it’s something.

You shift in your seat, grabbing onto his hand.

“We’ll figure this out,” you whisper. “Thank you for telling me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. 

He opens the door and steps inside.

He pauses just inside the entryway, eyes scanning a room he already knows by heart. No sound except the faint hum of the refrigerator and a distant car alarm outside. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the entire way back.

Alpine’s already on the table, licking her paw like she pays the mortgage.

“Do you want to know what it's like,” she says, in the dark, “living with a man who keeps all the lights off like it’s a crime scene?”

“Turn it on if it bothers you so much,” he grumbles. 

“You know what I did today?” she asks, still not moving.

Bucky doesn’t answer as he drops his keys in the bowl and shrugs off his jacket.

“I sat on the windowsill and watched the neighbour’s cat get fed twice,” she says. “They gave her actual tuna. Not the shredded cardboard you buy.”

He heads to the sink and fills a glass of water. The faucet squeals.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Just sips.

“Two full servings. A little parsley on top. I think there was lemon involved. Meanwhile, I have to beg for dry pellets like a Dickens orphan.”

He places the glass on the counter. She eyes the smudge it leaves.

“I get it,” she says. “Something tragic probably happened. But you live like you’re actively trying to make this place uninhabitable.”

“Because I am. I tell you to get out all the time, you clingy demon.”

He sits down in the nearest chair and rubs the back of his neck.

Walks to the fridge. Opens it. Closes it again.

“I’d ask if it was a long day but you look like this all the time,” she calls out. 

“Don’t start.”

She jumps down from the table, lands with a soft thud. “Bit late for that.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

Alpine watches with narrowed eyes. “You didn’t cry in public, did you? Because I can’t be seen with you if that’s–”

“Alpine.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He pours himself a glass of water, ignoring her.

She hops up beside the sink. “You look miserable.”

He points at her. “You’re supposed to be a support animal.”

“I support you being less lame. So far, complete failure.”

He drinks.

She sniffs at the glass. “Is that water? You okay? Should I call someone?”

He sighs, leans against the counter, and finally looks at her. “Why do I keep you around?”

She tilts her head. “Because I’m the only one here who doesn’t let you get away with your sad orphan Victorian chimney boy routine.”

He holds her stare for a moment longer, then turns away, muttering.

Alpine jumps back down, tail curling behind her. “Go on then, brooder. Back to your man-cave. Try not to repress anything new while you’re in there.”

Bucky flips her off without turning around.

The floor is quiet when he finally heads inside.  

He walks down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, head tipped forward just slightly. When he reaches the landing, he notices it.

A bowl of strawberries.

It’s on the little table outside his room, covered with a plate.  

He stares at it for a moment, then picks it up, turns it slowly in his hand. The fruit is fresh. Still cold from the fridge. He knows where it came from.

He doesn’t go inside his room.

He turns around and walks back down the hallway to the other door. Raises a hand, knocks twice.

Steve’s voice comes through, muffled as he pushes the door open. “Yeah? Oh, hi, Buck.”

Steve’s in his sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. He has his glasses on, one arm slung casually on the back of a chair like he was reading something before being interrupted.

“Didn’t see you all day,” Steve says, stepping aside to let him in.

“Busy,” Bucky mumbles, stepping in and holding up the bowl. “You left this outside.”

Steve glances at it. “I did. They’re fresh.”

Bucky doesn’t laugh, but he breathes a little easier. He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s forgotten what to do with himself.

Steve watches him. “Everything alright?”

“Can we talk?”

Steve straightens a bit. “Yeah, of course.”

They both sit. Steve curls one leg under himself. Bucky holds the bowl of strawberries in both hands.

For a long time, he doesn’t speak. The wall clock ticks quietly behind them. Somewhere, a car honks.

“You good?” Steve asks.

Bucky lets the silence stretch a second longer. 

“What do you do when you fail the ones you love?” he asks finally.

Steve doesn’t move. He just watches Bucky carefully, gaze quiet.

“Well,” he says, “you apologise the best you can.”

Bucky swallows. “How do you live with the guilt?”

Steve takes a moment. Then he leans forward, rests his arms on his knees.

“You bring them fruit,” he says. “And make reminders to ask them about things they care about. You show up in a way that lets them know they matter. And you hope that makes up for failing when they needed you.”

Bucky stares at the bowl in his hands.

There’s a lump in his throat that won’t budge. He’s not sure how long it’s been there. Days. Weeks. Longer.

“You think it’s enough?”

“I think it’s something,” Steve says. “Which is more than nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

They sit for a while longer.

Steve nudges the bowl slightly closer. “They’re fresh.”

Bucky picks one up.

They’re tangy. They stain his lips red.

He eats another. Then another.

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