Avengers Imagines and Preferences

There are all kinds of these events. Valentina drags the team around to parade like her own person diamonds, and you make sure the diamonds don’t stab or shoot anyone while being paraded.

You’ve already confiscated three guns, two knifes, and John’s shield—which you told him not to bring five fucking times—and you haven’t even seen Yelena or Bob yet.

Bucky, of course, is making your life stupidly easy. He’s smuggled no weapons—although you look at his arms, and his chest, and he’s the weapon, and that shouldn’t make you feel so fuzzy—and he’d been waiting obediently for you to come in, hands on his hips and a small smile on his face.

“You look nice.” He offers, and you laugh.

“The handler at the zoo does need to look presentable for the show.”

Bucky’s lips twitch a little higher, and you point your pen at his neck.

“Tie.”

He grunts, and gets to work in a second. The tie was fine. He’s just too perfect, and you needed to find something wrong for your sanity.

“Are you just hovering?” He asks, watching you carefully, and you shrug.

“I’m wherever the night needs me to be.”

“Hm.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he turns back to the mirror. “None of us like these things, you know.”

“I don’t like them either-“

“And sometimes.” He drawls. “They make us feel like meat-“

“Bucky.” You say firmly, and he meets your gaze in the mirror.

Drawls your name, an amused smirk on his face.

Your heart does a stupid little fumble, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Hard, to stop yourself from drooling.

The only person who must know about your… situation is Valentina. You don’t know how she knows. What she thinks of it. But she must be punishing you for being such a fool by making Bucky look like that.

Edible. The suit is too tight on his arms, perfectly fit on his torso, his hair long and soft and his eyes glimmering with teasing light, and you feel a little dizzy-  

Bucky says your name, sounding a little more concerned this time.

You pinch your wrist behind your back—fucking get it together—and stand a little taller.

“I’ve talked to her.” You say lightly, glancing over your shoulder to check no one’s in the hall. “I can’t try again too soon, she’ll get angry.”

Bucky grunts. “Let her be angry-“

“No. Not-“ You take a steadying breath. “Angry, angry. Like If  you can’t get them in line, I can start looking for someone who will.”

You echo Valentina’s words, a thin chill running up your spine. Bucky’s gone still, his hands hovering at his tie, and you wonder if he cares.

If the threat means nothing to him where it means the whole universe to you.

You need this job. You’ve worked for it, you survived brutal application process, the training period where the New Avengers were treating you like a rotten au pair they wanted to drive out of the house, the public scrutiny and surprising amount of foul press about your body, your hair, your personality and relationships.

Valentina threatens to fire you every month. You think it’s her way of saying she likes you.

But you’d gotten close to the team. They tell you their problems like you’re going to wave a magic wand and fix them, and you haven’t helped yourself by actually doing that.

From their point of view, they go to you and complain about something trivial. Alexei wants more missions in snowy areas, they remind him of Great Mother Russia. John needs everyone to stop calling his hat stupid. Ava thinks the tea in the kitchen tastes like ass, and would like it corrected, please.

Usually, you have to tell them to say please. The only ones who always say please are Bob and Bucky, and they barely ask for anything anyway.

But if you get that please, you wave a magic wand.

You research until you uncover a drug cartel in northmost Alaska for Alexei. You make threats and ambush column writers on the street for John, even run a fucking propaganda campaign to make his dumb beret come back in style. You rewrite a whole contract with the tea company for Ava, and barely get a thank you in return.

But you’re not magic. And even if you were, there’s one wish your magic wand can’t grant.

Changing Valentina’s mind.

Bucky had asked you to talk to her about the events. He asked because they send him for the big request, like he’s their fucking dad or something.

And you tried. You did.

Valentina said no. And her threat wasn’t a playful, look at how amazing I am for hiring you joke. It was real.

She won’t bend on it. And now you look at Bucky hopelessly, begging him to understand.

“I can try again in a few months.” You mumble, shifting on your feet. “But- Not now.”

“No, it’s fine. They’ll survive, but-“ Bucky frowns, turning around from the mirror. “Are you okay?”

You blink at him, a lump building in your throat. Something is stinging behind your eyes, your head spinning, and you nod weakly.

Bucky says your name, taking a step forward.

You take a step back.

You are not a damsel or foolish civilian girl for him to comfort. You are a grown woman, who can handle being in trouble with her boss alone. Bucky’s reaching out like he’s going to try and catch you, his eyes so strangely soft, and your stomach does a flip.

You don’t need his pity.

You don’t need him.

“I’m fine, James.” You snip, and Bucky’s hand freezes. “Fix your tie.”

“I- Uh-“ He glances down. “Already did?”

You shrug, raising your chin. “Then fix it again.”

You turn on your heels before he can say anything else, and march out of the dressing room.

It’s one of the rules you have for yourself. You’re not supposed to be alone with him. Not for more than ten minutes. Your hands get all sweaty, and he sees right through you, and it jeopardizes everything.

You can’t be in love with Bucky. You are, but you can’t be.

It puts your job at risk, and your job is your life. It’s getting you out of college debt, it gives you health insurance, it paid for your parent’s house and your sibling’s college, and soon it’s going to pay for you to have a home, which is almost unheard of in your generation.

Loving Bucky is a distraction. A pipe dream through a straw, flimsy and pointless. You will not risk your fucking life just so that the pretty, sweet, strong man will like you back.

Your dumb body and heart get all giddy in his presence, but you know better. You are better.

Love like this—mind numbing, world moving love—is for schoolgirls. You’re stronger.

Bucky does not need to be privy to the fact that you love him. He’s lucky he knows you like him. If you loved him a little less, you might’ve been able to pretend you didn’t care about his existence at all.

You’d tried that, when you felt the love start to bloom. There had been a whole week, where you ignored him entirely.

It had made you sick. Literally. You’d lost sleep and stopped eating, your thoughts entirely devoted to just missing him—his dry humor, his smile, his small, silent acts of kindness and his face, oh his face—and it had gotten so bad you’d called out with the flu by Friday.

Then you went to the doctor. And you didn’t have the flu. You just missed Bucky.

He’d visited you on Saturday, while you lay in your bed like some Shakespearian heroine, lamenting and tormented by your devotion. He brought you soup, his Ma’s recipe, because he hates you.

“Can I ask you something?” He’d said while you devoured the soup straight from the container, your stomach deciding to cooperate in his presence.

You’d hummed around a noddle, and his lips had twitched.

In the light, he’d been looking at you like you mattered to him. Like you were cute.

Bucky’s hand had flexed on the mattress, as you blinked up at him. He’d looked away, tongue darting over his lips, and spoken low words.

“Did I do somethin’ to you?”

You’d choked on a noodle. “What?”

“Just- before you got sick. We hadn’t been talking.” He’d sighed. “You left the room, when I walked in. And if I did somethin’, that make you uncomfortable or whatever, I’m sorry.”

That had been the moment. The out. If you were smart, you would’ve told him you needed space, or that he did make you uncomfortable, and it was best if you just didn’t speak for a while.

But he’d looked so sad. Almost nervous, his lips in a tight line and a flush on his ears.

So you’d shaken your head.

Because you’re weak, and so in love with him it’s pathetic, and if he asked you’d open up the sky with your bare hands, no please required.

“No. We’re okay.” You’d offered him a small smile. “Just really wasn’t feeling well.”

Bucky had nodded, and grinned. The kind of grin that lit up in his eyes and make your whole chest sing with delight. You made him happy. You made him smile.

“Alright. Good.” He’d kissed your sweaty brow, and lightning had sparked through your body.

You’d leaned into the touch, just barely.

Bucky, by a small mercy, hadn’t noticed at all.

“Feel better, doll.” He’d said before he left, his tone something close to tender and hopeful.

You had within the hour.

It had been the  last straw.,

You were in love with him. There was no outrunning it or stomping it down. But you don’t stay alone with him for too long. You don’t give him special treatment. You tell no one, and deny any accusations.

Jealousy isn’t allowed. He’s not yours to be possessive over.

That doesn’t stop the sting, as you watch him talk to some rich lady across the room. She’s dressed like a bird, all feathers, her lips more like a beak, long nails like talons. You fight off a sour expression, when she reaches up to brush something from his shoulder.

There’s nothing there. You pressed his suit, and he’s a clean man.

You could rip her talons off her fingers and feed them to her. That would be a nice lesson.

That you’re not allowed to teach.

He’s not yours.

You turn back to the bar, taking a heavy breath through your nose and ordering another drink. The only upside of these parties is that you’re allowed to get wasted. You’ve got the team trained on good behavior, the worst that happens anymore is Alexei trying to grab the band’s microphone so he can tell a story. You can handle that drunk or sober.

Right now, it’s going to need to be drunk. When you turn back to watch the party, Bucky’s still talking to the bird.

You down your glass in one gulp, and push off the bar. You won’t fall into this trap. It’s not her fault she got his attention. Not his fault he’s entertaining it.

It is entirely your fault, for daring to look and letting your heart tell you he’d stay silently loyal to a love he doesn’t even feel in return.

You glide through the crowd, putting as much distance as you can between yourself and them. You can get through this. You’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times again.

“You’re allowed to have fun at these, you know?”

You sigh, giving Yelena a flat look.

She materialized at your side. You’ve gotten used to it.

“I am having fun.”

That gets an amused smirk. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

“I’m tired-“

“We are all tired. That is why we drink.” She clinks her glass against yours. “But you are sad drunk. Be happy drunk.”

“I’m trying.” You grumble under your breath, taking another large swig, and Yelena laughs.

“You know what your problem is?”

“No.”

“You are angrier than Barnes at joy.” She points Bucky out in the crowd, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds.

You never lost track of him in the crowd. You don’t think you could if you tried. But it still feels like you’re being ripped open, to see that he’s letting the bird touch him. She’s tracing her finger over his tie, tilting her head and smiling like a wolf ready to eat him alive, and you’re going to fucking throw up-

“At least he is letting loose.” Yelena hums, and you force your face back into an indifferent mask. “Even if it is with a woman dressed like a duckling.”

You choke on your drink, covering your mouth with your hand. Yelena looks up at you with delight in her eyes, watching you try to wipe the bit of champagne that escaped your lips.

“She laughs! I have never seen you laugh, it is weird. Disturbing-“

“Shut up.” You mutter, wiping the last drops from your cheek. “You’ve heard me laugh before.”

“Have I? I think I would remember the witch experiencing joy.”

“I am not a witch-“

“You are magic and mean.”

“I’m not mean-“

“Not to us.” Yelena shrugs, grabbing some cheese off a wandering server. “But to everyone else. Bucky Barnes says you tried to talk to Valentia about these dummy parties.”

You swallow. “I did, but- Yelena-“

“It is okay. He says you tried, and though he is untrustworthy fool, I believe him.”

You nod, taking the cheese Yelena’s offering you, then frown. “Bucky’s not untrustworthy-“

“No. About most things.” She takes her cheese in one bite, speaking through the mouthful. “He will not be going home with duck-woman tonight. We will see you in the morning?”

“You’ll see me in an hour, I’m going back to the Watchtower with you-“

“Hm. No you are not.” Yelena smiles knowingly. “Turn on your location. It is safer.”

You gape at her, unable to get another word in before she’s walking away. You don’t know why you’re surprised she knows. Of course she does. She’s Yelena.

But it makes your fingers curl on your glass, your eyes darting back to Bucky and the duck.

She’s draped herself over him, cooing and batting her eyelashes. He’s barely looking at her at all.

Bucky’s scanning over the room, a tight frown on his face. Then, for a split second, your eyes meet.

You rip your gaze away, downing what little was left of your champagne. Yelena was right.

There’s no way you’re going home tonight.

Some would call it unhealthy. You call it a survival technique.

“Another one?” The bartender asks you as you return, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile and giggle, leaning over the counter, making your voice all airy and high. “You remember me?”

The bartender’s smiler widens, and you twirl your hair.

He’s nothing bad to look at. Rich skin and deep, gentle eyes. Nice, thick arms. Short hair. Smells like some thick, amber cologne that won’t give you a migraine.

He’ll do just fine.

By the time he’s done, you’ll still be thinking about Bucky. You’ll probably picture him, as this sweet bartender fucks you like an animal. You’ve gotten good at not calling Bucky’s name, too, so you can probably squeeze out two or three rounds.

It’s a band-aid on some internal bleeding. It’s a show that fixes nothing, but at least the illusion makes everyone else see what you need them to.

You don’t care about Bucky at all.

And you certainly don’t look for him one more time before the bartender takes you home.  

The bartender is the latest in a long, long line. It’s nothing you’re ashamed of, nothing you bother to hide.

Even if only Yelena will say it, the rest of the team certainly knows. Fuck, even Valentina and Mel know. Last summer you went to a conference, and Mel joked that you’ll tear your way though half the crowd before midnight.

“Do you think I’m some kind of slutty Cinderella?” You’d joked, and she’d smiled.

“Is it bad if I say yes?”

You’d laughed it off, and you know those kinds of jokes are supposed to hurt, but it’s barely even a paper cut. You know why you sleep around, and if people think you’re just a whoreing man-eater, there’s more power and mystique than being a starry-eyed, lovelorn idiot over one old man.

The system works. You fuck around, and no one even thinks you might be interested in romance.

In a life with Bucky, where you roll over and he’s always on the other side of the bed. Where morning sex is slow and loving, drizzled in honey and adoration, rather than just one more quick fuck before you march out the door.

He’d be soft. Gentle. You’ve seen how he handles fragile object, how he arranges everything so meticulously and touches everything he finds important with such care.

You’d like to be something he finds important. You’d like to be the most important thing in his life. His doll, smiling at him and leaning your chin on his shoulder, listening to all his problems and sitting in his lap to whine about your own. Finding yourself under him in bed with your arms pinned up, giggling while he kisses all over your neck then gasping when he moves to your breasts.

That’s the move Bartender pulled last night. And it felt fine. Nice enough. You’d moaned a little louder than you needed to—only slightly over-performing—but you really hadn’t hated it. Hadn’t hated him.

Eventually, you’d  gotten sick of it and flipped him over. Pinned his hands and rode his cock until you came with a tiny, pleasant shiver, then jerked him off until he stained your tits.

“Call me later?” Bartender asks, and you give him a sweet smile, looking up from your shoes.

“Sure. Bye!”

“Wait, you don’t have my number-“

You’re already out the door. Fixing the straps of your dress as you walk down the hall, calling your ride without a glance back.

Nobody says anything when you get back to the tower. Alexei high fives you, but that’s the only reaction at all.

Bucky isn’t there, though.

Why isn’t Bucky there.

“Where’s Barnes?” You say, causally as possible, and John grumbles.

“Thought being the keeper was your job, not ours-“

“He’s in the gym.” Ava drawls over John. “He’s been there all morning.”

You nod, grabbing your coffee, and mutter that you’re going to go get changed. You’re not going to check on him wearing the clothing. He’s not your top priority.

That’s the whole illusion.

You take a long, hot shower, and the Bartender really was good, but you’re still aching.

You’re thinking about Bucky.

About him in they gym all morning. How even a super soldier gets sweaty after a while, even if he doesn’t lose stamina. How he’s going to be panting and grunting, his hair stuck to his brow and neck, maybe his shirt will be off and you’ll get to see his broad, thick chest-

Your fingers had wandered between your thighs, and you’ve pressed yourself back up against the wall. Angled your hips up, your legs spread shamelessly wide, short moans falling from your lips as the water pelted against your clit. You slide two fingers in and out of your pussy, picturing Bucky in the shower with you.

“Needy fuckin’ baby.” He’d murmur in your ear, body folded over yours. “You’d be soaked without the water, wouldn’t you. Ready for me when I so much as look at you, my perfect little slut-“

You moan him name into the shower, and the Bucky in your head chuckles.

He’d graze his lips over your jaw, crook his thick fingers deep inside your weeping cunt, start to brutally rub on that gummy, sensitive spot. You’d call his name again and he’d kiss you, rough and deep, and your legs would give out as you came all over his hand-

You slump down to the floor, turning your head to avoid the fall of the water. Your clit throbs, your body still shaking, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

Fantasies help too. The tend you over, stop you from doing something stupid.

But they can be dangerous too. Because you get dressed and go to find Bucky—which is normal, because it’s your job—and find him twice the mess you pictured.

He’s shirtless alright. Shirtless and wearing loose shorts. There’s a feralness, to the way he’s punching the bags, a wild glint in his eyes and his hair flying around his face. He hasn’t even bothered to put it up, and with how his chest is heaving, he’s been at this a while.

All morning. Ava said.

You swallow the drool, letting your eyes rake over his flexing muscles, his shining skin, his sharp, clenched jaw. Christ, how you’d like all that brutal attention turned on you. He could throw you around like that punching bag, rearrange your guts and grab you until you bruised, just as long as he kissed the bruises after.

You’re supposed to be doing your job.

Just for today, you let yourself stare for more than a second before dragging yourself together and clearing your throat.

Bucky catches his punching bag, turning to you immediately. You smile at him, and his jaw flexes.

“You’re home.”

“Obviously.” You shrug, glancing at the bag. “Ava says you’ve been here all morning.”

He grunts, releasing the bag and slowly pulling off his gloves.

Bucky never wears gloves. Not when it’s just a workout. You’re surprised the bag isn’t broken.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He mutters, and you frown.

“Nightmares? I can get another appointment with Dr. Indira-“

“No. The meds are fine. Just-“ He sighs, giving you an unreadable look. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You blink at him, tilting your head slightly. Bucky’s spent years getting back to a tolerable sleep schedule. You helped with every appointment, with every new med and strategy. It took months to get right, and if it’s not working anymore-

“I’m fine.” Bucky repeats firmly, and you scowl.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Could hear you thinking, doll.”

You stick your tongue out, digging your nails into your arm. “Shut up.”

He chuckles dryly, unhooking the bag from the ceiling. “You back for the day?”

“I’m always back for the day, it’s my job-“

“You weren’t doin’ your job last night. Maybe you’re seein’ the guy again.”

You flush at that, turning your chin up to hide it. When Bucky turns to look at you, you glare at him, and his mouth twitches.

He raises his brows in silent challenge. You can’t help yourself. It’s Bucky giving you the bait.

“I don’t see people twice. You know that.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“Nothin’. I’m agreeing with you-“

“You didn’t say it like you were agreeing with me.” You snap. “You said it- You- Yeah. I do.”

You drop your voice to mimic his sardonic, dismissive tone, and Bucky gives you a look of almost mocking delight.

“You’re not good at impressions, are you?”

“I’m not- You just said it like an asshole-“

“You think I’m an asshole?”

“I think you’re like an asshole.” You sneer, and Bucky’s grin widens.

You don’t know what’s gotten into him this morning. You’ve been sleeping around for almost two years now. If he had a problem with it, he’s never so much as glared at you after.

He’s barely even looked at you. Everyone else teases or lets it go, but Bucky doesn’t even turn your way. Because you’re nothing but a friend to him, just like he’s supposed to be to you.

But now he’s taking a large step forward, looking at you with a strange glint in his eyes that makes your heartrate jumpstart. You take heavy breaths through your nose, trying to keep it together. You can keep it together.

Even with Bucky towering over you, all muscle and intense, blue eyes, you have to keep it together.

“That hurts my feelings, doll.” He mutters, leaning slightly down.

You’re not touching, but you can feel the heat rolling off his body. It’s almost an aesthetic, making your head empty and mouth hang slightly open.

Keep it together.

“Then stop being like an asshole.” You manage to snap. “And I’ll stop hurting your feelings.”

He laughs again, a low, deep sound that lights a fire in your gut. “Wouldn’t it be nice, if it were that damn easy.”

You blink at him, for once completely lost in the conversation. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He shrugs, leaning in a little closer.

His breath is warm and minty on your face. He takes up your whole vision, demanding every ounce of your attention, and all you can try to do is keep your breathing steady. Bucky’s eyes rake over your body like an inspection, landing near your throat.

On a hickey, you’d forgotten to cover with makeup.

You open your mouth to make a lame excuse, but he’s already moving.

Bucky reaches up his metal hand, and drags his thumb over the mark. Over your collarbone, then your sternum, then your neck. His touch is feather light and taunting. Your breath catches, your eyes fluttering against your will. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping fully around your throat. Your body reacts like a magnet, leaning into the touch.

He drags his attention back to your slack, hopeless face, your parted lips and glossy eyes.

His hand is just resting on your throat. His tongue darts over his lips, but you can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Why he’s doing this to you, when he’s never once looked at you like he is now.

Like you’re something tantalizing he needs to taste.

Like he’s hanging onto himself by a thread, and isn’t sure if his grip will slip before the string just snaps.

You try to say his name, to make him realize what he’s doing. How close he’s gotten, how your knees are threatening to give, if he doesn’t look away now. But it just comes out a shaky exhale, and Bucky looks hungrier.

Bucky doesn’t do this kind of thing. Not to you. He’s your friend—you cling so desperately to the fact that at least he’s your friend, at least he doesn’t hate or desire you, at least you’re the only one being broken—but now his breath is fanning over your flushed  face, his eyes blown out like he’s just as stranded in the dark as you are, his fingers digging into the nape of your neck like he’s trying to leave a mark.

All you’d have to do is lean a little forward and your lips would meet. Every secret fantasy—in the dead of night, until the shower so even the walls don’t hear your shame—would be real.

You can’t let this be real.

Bucky’s eyes flick down to your lips. His nostrils flare, moving slightly forward until your knees and chests bump.

With every bit of resolve you’ve got, you move a hand up to his chest.

He goes rigid. Frozen like he’s waiting for you to shove him or drag him closer. Your fingers curl in the cloth of his shirt, as his grip slackens on your neck.

“Bucky…” You whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for.

He makes the hard choice for you.

Bucky lets go of you, stumbling back as if repelled. He frowns, blinks at you once, then just… leaves.

Walks out of the gym without another glance in your direction, swaying and stranded in the room.

Alone. Just like you wanted.

The air around you so, so cold.

You don’t stop thinking about it.

A week passes. Work resumes like normal, and Bucky behaves as if nothing happened at all.

Technically it wasn’t anything. Nothing HR would care about, at least. In a workplace of assassins and mercenaries, getting choked is more of a don’t be such a fucking pussy thing.

Which isn’t amazing legally. But Bucky didn’t hurt you. If you’d shoved him, you’re sure he would’ve let go.

But you hadn’t shoved him. He’d just stared at you with that look—the one now seared into your memory, that makes your thighs press together and thoughts work overtime—then left.

On missions he’s treating you the same as ever. Small grins and low, sarcastic jokes that make you both smile. Once in the kitchen he taps your shoulder and passes you tea without a word. John walks in a second later, shouting about how he wants a better parking spot—which is ridiculous, you don’t have parking spots, it’s a limited garage with two hundred parking spots and like eight people who use them—and Bucky puts a firm hand on your shoulder before you can stand up and start fixing it.

“Make him ask.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “You gotta start makin’ them say please.”

You snort, breaking off a piece of your muffin. “You ever teach a toddler raised by wolves manners?”

He frowns. “Children don’t get raised by wolves-“

“They do in stories.”

“What stories-“

“The Jungle Book. Phineas and Ferb, but- Those are ocelots.”

Bucky hums, tongue flicking over his lip. “Y’know I met an ocelot once-“

“You met an ocelot-“

“In 19… 86?”

You snort. “Old man.”

“Shut up.” He nudges your knee with his, and the whole world stops for a second. “But yeah, I met one. Reminds me of someone.”

“Yeah?” You give him an expectant look, and he smirks.

“Walker.”

You giggle.

Like a fucking ditzy idiot, you giggle, and John cuts off his rant to look at you like you just vomited.

“What was that sound.”

“She laughed, John.” Bucky says dryly, taking a long drink of his coffee, and John frowns.

“No, I’ve heard her laugh, she laughs like a swamp witch-“

Your mouth falls open. “I do not-“

“Yes, you do, it’s all-“

“Walker.” Bucky grunts, giving John a silent, firm glare.

John scowls. “Whatever. Stop flirting with her so she can fix my damn parking spot.”

You flush, the usual biting tactic not working at all. Beside you, Bucky doesn’t even talk. He excuses himself as soon as John starts asking why Yelena’s scooter even needs a spot over his bike, leaving the space next to you just as empty and cold as before.

He probably just didn’t want to listen to John. You don’t either, you’re just being paid a disgusting amount of money that depends on going to Yelena and buying her five cakes in exchange for her moving her scooter five feet to the left.

Bucky might’ve already forgotten about the gym. Everything would be easier if he did. No complex conversations or dynamic. Just your livelihood safe, and Bucky not thinking about you.

Which is fine. Everything, as always, is perfectly fine.

You go out that weekend. There’s a club several blocks over where you know the bartenders and you usually get free drinks. You just need to not be in the tower. To not be near him, and remember that you are, in fact, capable of surviving silent love.

“You’re dressed up.” Bucky mutters as you stand at the elevator, and you laugh.

“Look at you, being observational.”

You only get a grunt in return.

“I won’t be out late,” you sound like a fucking mom, sliding on your heels and giving instructions about how to care for four grown adults. “Bob might forget where his meds are, in the new spot-“

“Top right cabinet.” Bucky mutters, and you nod.

“Don’t let Yelena drink coffee past seven, she’ll be up all night. Switch her to tea. If Alexei is looking for me, tell him I rented all the movies on the TV, and tell John I ordered his gun part-“

“We’ve got an event tomorrow.” Bucky says suddenly. “Save the seals. In Philly. We gotta leave early-“

“No, we don’t.” You grab your bag, not looking him in the eyes.

That always makes you want to stay. Forgetting Bucky—the point of this whole thing—is impossible when you look in his stupid, beautiful eyes.

“I got us out of it.” You tuck your phone in your bag, rolling out a crink in your neck. “And it was Save the Sea Lions.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. You usually don’t let yourself look back, but then he says your name.

“What time are you gonna be home?”

You swallow. His eyes are shining on yours. There’s a pull in your chest, that hurts to ignore.

But you’re good at it. And if you drink enough, you won’t be able to feel it at all.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Don’t wait up.”

You turn and walk away. He can’t be allowed to call you back. You’d always return to his side.

The night is just as awful as you expect. You drink too much, and find someone with blue eyes that can artificially feed the love ringing in your ears. It’s under the beat of every song, and on the tip of your tongue as they fuck you into a mattress.

You leave long before dawn, and far after midnight. Call a car and fix your hair in the backseat, like anything matters at all.

When the elevator dings, you touch the wall to keep yourself walking steady.

There’s a lamp on, in the living area. You poke your head in to check it’s not Bob.

It’s not.

It’s Bucky.

He looks you up and down, taking in the disaster like it’s a book. You smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.

His eyes land on a hickey near your jaw. His tongue flick, his brows knit.

And you thought you were good. That even after the gym, you were good.

But Bucky stares at you like you’re nothing. Not gutter trash or a buzzing fly.

Just thin air he’s trying to look right through.

He turns off the light, and walks past you again. Your shoulders brush, and the world shakes.

And you’re alone again. Which isn’t the end of the world.

Your heart is doing this strange, boiling roll about how it is the end of the world. Burning and howling like you’re flaying it alive, when it is perfectly fine.

Everything, even as your chest starts to absorb that cold, hollow space, is fine.

It’s not fine on the roof.

Everything is all in it’s perfect place, and then… the roof.

You go up there to listen to the city. To lean over the edge and watch the lights blink, and wonder if you’re really this small. It’s where you get dramatic, and listen music and pretend you’re important. Where you cry when you need it, your tears carried away in the wind. Where you whine to the sky about how much you love Bucky, and how pathetic it is, then go back inside and go about your business.

It’s a good thing you hadn’t quite gotten to that last stage yet, when you heard the door close behind you.

That’s where everything started to crumble apart.

Bucky says your name, and you glance over your shoulder, not hiding your surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” He shrugs, holding up his phone. “Called three times.”

“Oh. No service-“

“Yeah, figured that out.” He stops at your side, leaning over the wall. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here.” You pause. “Where did you think I was?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you need something-“

“Not really.”

“Bucky-“

“Just wanted to know where you were.” He mutters, glaring out at the city. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. You try, opening and closing your mouth, but everything you can think of is mean. You don’t like being mean to Bucky, not when something in the air feels raw. Looking at his shoulders, it’s like he’s about to snap. You want to help. To make it better for him.

For this, you’re not sure how.

“You like it up here?” He asks, and you nod.

“I- I like seeing the people.”

“Course you do.” He mutters, dragging his gaze up to the sky.

“Wha-“

“There used to be more stars.” He cuts you off, brows knitting tight. “You woulda liked that too.”

You stare at him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was drunk. “I like the stars now just fine. All three of them.”

That gets a low laugh, even if he shakes his head. “Nah. In the 40s, it was different. You woulda loved that.”

“The 40s? Where I would’ve been property-“

“Not that part, but- The sky. The water was cleaner, the air-“ He sighs, looking back down to the city. “Never mind. Forget it.”

You swallow, trying to make your voice softer. “Do you ever want to go back?”

“To the 40s?” He snorts. “Fuck no. There are just- Some things. That I think that you would’ve liked.”

“Oh.” You watch his jaw clench in the dark, fidgeting with your fingers. “What would Yelena have liked?”

Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.”

You blink, lost for words again. Bucky takes over the silence first.

“You really never see any of them twice?”

“Any- Huh?”

“Your… people.” He clarifies, a bitter look on his face. You frown.

“My hookups?”

He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No? I don’t even get their names.”

“But you fuck them?”

“Oh- Um-“ You flush, looking back out to the city. “Yeah?”

“Hm. Seems unsafe.”

“I share my location with Yelena, and I’m pretty sure Valentina put an implant in me, so I think I’m safe.”

It’s a joke. Bucky doesn’t laugh. “Why don’t you bother to date ‘em?”

You feel his gaze burning into you. It’s hard to speak in an even voice. “I- I don’t know-“

“They gotta have something for your attention.” He mutters, but it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “The hell are they doing that isn’t up to your bar? What is up to your bar?”

It’s impossible not to look at him now. His gaze is demanding, and your heart starts to flutter under the attention.

“Why do you care?” You try to snap. It sounds weak.

Bucky chuckles to himself. “Why do I care, doll? You got the fix for everything.” He leans a little forward.

Your lips are inches away. His forearm is pressed against yours, and the sky is so big over your head but it’s all narrowing down.

It’s Bucky. Just Bucky. So close, closer than before, close like he wants to be touched. Like that could be allowed.

His eyes shining on yours in the dark.

His voice, deep and mocking and enchanting you like a bee to flowers.

“What’s my fix for this?” He looks back to your lips, his tongue flicking out. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, ‘cause I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

You stare at him, voice small. “Bucky, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I know.” He sighs. “Just- Tell me no.”

“No-“

He reaches up, thumb brushing over your lips, and your whole head goes quiet.

“Tell me to walk.” He mutters, gaze dragging back to yours. “Now. Please.”

You should. If your brain was working, it would’ve given him what he wanted.

But every thought but Bucky has left the building. And now it’s just your heart, singing his name.

You kiss him. It’s a movement like a wave, rising up until your lips are comfortably pressed together, every movement so natural you’d think you’d kissed a million times before.

Bucky cups your face, return every bit of passion in a second. You melt into him, your bodies moving like you were made for this, the heat spreading from his touch and taste straight to your core.

You grind forward, and Bucky moans your name.

It flips a switch. You’re not just a flame, kindled and alight in his arms.

You’re not supposed to do this.

You pull back, and Bucky freezes. You open your mouth, trying to find an apology, to beg him to convince you that this is a good idea.

But Bucky just lets you go.

You both stare at each other. You take a small step closer, asking him to catch you.

It’s not fine. You can’t breathe, if he walks away. You’re supposed to be stronger than that, but the world is going to fucking end, if Bucky leaves you here alone again.

“Why.” He rasps, and you shake your head.

“Bucky-“

“If you’re not- If this isn’t what I’ve been reading-“

“No, it’s-“

“You kissed me-“

“I know-“

“And you-“

“I know!” You scream, taking a stumbling step back. “I know, Bucky, I know- I just can’t!”

“Can’t what?” He takes a step forward. “Just tell me you’re not interested, I told you I’d walk-“

“But-“ Your hands wring, unsure what to do if they’re not allowed to touch him. “I don’t want you to walk.”

“But you shoved me-“

“I know.” You whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky just stares at you, and you bow your head, hugging your chest tight. He’s going to walk. This time, he’s going to walk away-

“Can you give me the reason?” He mutters, and when you risk a look up, he’s hunched into himself like a kicked puppy. “I mean- I can try and help work it out, maybe change something-“

“No, it’s not-“ You swallow. “You don’t need to change anything Bucky.” Tears prick at your eyes. “You’re perfect.”

He nods, then mutters, “But you don’t want me.”

“I just- It’s-“ You take a shaking breath, looking up to the sky before you speak. “I’m negotiable, okay. I worked really hard to get where I am, and I- I’m not like you. Valentina can find another version of me, who doesn’t fall in love with her superheroes, and then everything- everything- That I have worked for is gone.”

You give him a pleading look, begging him to understand.

Bucky looks like you shot him. You don’t realize why until it’s too late.

“You love me?” His voice is rough, and your heart drops to your stomach.

“I- That’s- That wasn’t my point-“

“But you do-“

“I’m trying to say I shouldn’t-“

“But you do.” He mutters. He says it like it’s a miracle, and not your greatest curse. “You love me.”

“Well, don’t fucking say it like that.” You snap. “Of course I- You’re you.”

“And you’re you.” He counters, taking a step forward.

Your legs can’t seem to will themselves to step back. “Yeah. That’s my whole point-“

“It’s allowed.” He mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Us. Dating.” His eyes might be searing into your soul. “I checked.”

“Oh- Okay.” You frown slightly. “Why did you check?”

“Because.” Bucky’s hovering over you again. Both of you clear under the open sky, the heat from his body radiating onto yours, his hand slowly rising up to trace your waste. You want to murmur his name, but you can’t remember how words work.

Again, it’s all just Bucky.

“I can’t survive another hour.” He mutters, tracing a hand over your face. “Pretending I don’t need you like oxygen.”

Your mouth falls open. Bucky presses closer.

“It kills me, doll. Bein’ your friend kills me, ‘cause I’m lucky you’re just nice enough to pretend we’re better than a pack of feral animals with muscles and powers, but then you’re strong and kind and always so goddamn pretty, and I’m your friend but you’re my whole damn world.”

“Bucky-“

“I don’t ask you for anything.” He mutters, leaning down until your lips brush. “’Cause there’s nothing I want from you that I got any right to have. I want all your smiles, doll. Those cute snorts and glares, when you’re sad and hide it like it’s not making the whole place feel wrong, when you’re getting lost and you need someone to hold onto, hold onto me. Anything you need, I’d get. Anything. I’ll even let you keep fucking around with all that asses that can’t keep you satisfied for more than a night, if that’s what you need. But,” he drops his brow against yours, voice thick. “I want your mornings. Please.”

You can’t think enough to speak. If you do, you’ll break the moment and you want it to last forever.

“We can keep it secret.” He’s sinking down. Getting on his knees. “Or if Valentina threatens to sack you, I’ll threaten to walk. Just-“

“Bucky.” You whisper, because there’s only one answer you can give.

He stares at you desperately, your fingers combing through his hair. You’re tired of being alone.

And his body, pressed against yours is so warm.

“Okay.” You whisper, and his throat bobs.

“Okay?”

You nod, and smile.

Bucky smiles back.

And you’re under open sky, but you don’t really care who knows.

You fall into him, just as he rises into you. And this is even better than the kiss. This is hungry. Urgent and made of a fever you’re finally just letting sweep you away.

Bucky grabs at your hips, one arm sliding around your back as the other cradles the back of your head. Your arms wrap around his neck, your leg hiking up to his hip, and your kisses are urgent and sloppy. Open mouths pressed over each other, tongues tangled together with moans, Bucky’s hand dropping to your ass as your nails dig into his neck.

He squeezes, and you can’t stop the moan. Your fingers scramble to tangle in his hair, and he grunts at the pull, picking you fully up off the ground.

He’s getting hard, against your core. You grind down, trailing kisses over his jaw and trying to spur him into action.

Bucky moans in your ear, squeezing your ass again.

“Doll, you’re startin’ something-“

“Good.” You whisper, nipping at his throat. “Want it. Want it so bad, Bucky, wanted you forever-“

He groans, grabbing your jaw and slamming your lips back together. You make a high noise of delight, grinding faster and faster, the fractured pressure winding you tight like an electrical coil about to snap.

Bucky stumbles blindly back to the door, his mouth never fully leaving yours. His grip on you is possessive, and he stops every few feet, to kiss you deeper, squeezing your ass again. His hand slips further down, his fingers brushing over your core through your pants, and you whine into his mouth.

You barely make it into the stairwell.

Bucky kicks the door closed behind you, pauses for a split second, then whirls around and pins you against the wall. You start to pull at his shirt, but he’s got a single mind.

His mouth slots over yours, swallowing every single breath and gasp of his name. One hand grabs your wrists, pinning them over your head, and the other starts to tease down your body. Over your collarbone, up and down your sides, under your shirt to palm your breasts.

“Bucky…” You whine against his lips, and he only grunts, pinching at your nipple. “No- No teasing-“

“’M not teasing.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, dragging his hand back down to your waist. “I’m takin’ my time, doll. There’s a difference.”

“It- It just feels-“ Stars spark behind your eyes, when he switches to the other nipple. “God, Bucky-“

“Feels what?” He mocks, leaning back just enough to watch your expression. “Gonna use your words like a good girl.”

You try to snap back, but Bucky pinches the sensitive bud and your mouth falls stupidly open. Your breathing is coming short and fast, your head spinning with desire, and Bucky’s just playing with you like his favorite toy.

But God, being his favorite anything is paradise.

When he’s done with your breasts, your short breathless pleas for more completely ignored, he starts to kiss you again.

You just think he wants to taste your moan, when he finally shoves down your pants.

“Fuck.” He groans, dragging his fingers between your pussy lips, your head falling back against the door with a squeak. “You’re soaked. You always walk around this soaked for me, baby? Always wondering when I’ll finally be the one to take care of this pretty fuckin’ mess, fuck you so dumb you can’t even remember how to stand?”

You nod, straining at his hold on your wrists. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed, but you need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, for the cool, metal fingers brushing teasing touches over your clit to just get inside of you, to let the release boiling over inside of you explode. They way you’re reacting to his light touches, you’d think you were a blushing virgin. You certainly feel like one.

You want to touch him. You need to touch him-

“Hey.” He spanks your pussy, and your whole body rushes with heat. “Asked you a question-“

“Yes.” You moan, giving him your best, doe-eyed stare. “Please, Bucky, fill me, I- I need it- Need you-“

That does it for him. He groans, and two fingers tease at your entrance. Bucky watches your reaction carefully, your legs spreading in offering, eyes still soft and pleading on his.

“Bet you’re gonna taste good.” He mutters, smearing your arousal all over your pussy, knuckles grazing your clit. “Think when I’m done with this, I’ll sit you on my face. Let you ride it until I’m drowning in it. You can touch me all you want, like that. But I’m not lettin’ you up until you’re begging.”

Bucky slides one finger in, slow and taunting. You squeeze around him, and he groans.

“Goddamnit, babydoll, you’re perfect.” He kisses all over your face, your lust glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter with desire. “My pretty girl, mine-“

Another finger. Then a third. He starts to pump slowly, and you make a sound like his name.

“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, the pace picking up. “I know, but you’re takin’ it so good. Jesus, look at you.”

He yanks his hand out, spanking your pussy before shoving them back in, and you scream with pleasure.

“This fucking dumb on my hand, you’re gonna be drooling on my cock. I’ll fuck that smart head empty, keep you all pretty and relaxed in my bed for a month-“

You moan again, dropping your brow against his, and Bucky chuckles.

“Oh, you fuckin’ like that. Like the idea of bein’ nothing but a pretty slut for me, spending every day being fed and stuffed full of cock. You can put in your mouth, doll, take it how ever you want. Touch yourself  in front of me, jerk me off, just get on your hands and knees and I’ll take you, just spank your pretty fuckin’ ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you-“

His fingers are drilling into your cunt now, the wet sounds echoing through the stairwell. He’s going faster than a machine, abusing your pussy until it’s fluttering and dripping down your thighs, slamming against that deep spot and driving you right up to the edge. When he chuckles the sound rolls through you, and when his cold thumb starts to rub furious circles on your clit, you open your mouth in a silent scream.

“That’s it, baby, there you go. All relaxed and happy.” He kisses you gently, and you whine.

Bucky smirks, twisting his fingers as his pace hits an impossible, skin-slapping high.

“Come for me.” He mutters in your ear, thumb working your clit into a frenzy. “Give it to me, baby, c’mon-“

Your release hits your with a scream. Your body goes limp as the stimulation turns into a blinding rush of pleasure, your pussy clenching wildly around Bucky’s fingers and a hot, wet gushing sound hitting your ears as your grind onto his hand.

Bucky pulls out slowly, keeping your hands above your head.

Then he cleans his fingers, holding your gaze the whole time.

Your hips buck, your fingers itching to hold onto more than just his wrist, and he grins. Leans down to kiss you sweetly, his lips tasting of your own arousal and making the heat in you spark up even faster than before.

“My room?” He mutters, and you nod.

“It’s closer.”

He hums, drawing back just enough to look you in the eyes. “And you’re staying the night?”

There’s the weight in his words. The silent promise, that he’s asking for.

It’s so easy to make it. There will be things to deal with, in the morning.

You’d rather deal with them, having Bucky at your side.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I am.”

He coached your city's hockey team, The Shield and had just won their second game of the playoffs. 

"Mr. Stark." You put your hand up to ask your question. 

Tony glanced at the crowd of reporters and rolled his eyes. It was a well-known fact that he hated doing any kind of interview but was always forced to because of his position. Usually, the assistant coach covered for him, but Phil Coulson was still in the locker room, and everyone in the media room was getting restless. 

"Ms. Y/ln." Tony pointed to you.

"Yes, thank you coach. Congratulations on your win tonight. How do you prepare the team going into tomorrow night's game knowing you're up two games to none and heading into an environment that is hard to play in?" 

"Hydra isn't a team to be taken lightly. They attack the neutral zone strong, their defense is solid, and their fanbase are rabid. We're ready and looking forward to playing there." Tony smirked at you. 

You nodded and let the press conference finish.

Once he left the podium, you waited to see what two players the team was going to send out. You adjusted your microphone and looked at Scott who gave you the thumbs up when you saw two players come out and sit at the table. 

Steve Rogers, Captain, and James Barnes, assistant captain. 

Of course it was them. 

The only player in the entire league that made you more nervous than Steve Rogers was James 'Bucky' Barnes. James was always a relentless flirt whenever you interviewed him, having to keep yourself composed and neutral was the hardest part of your job. None of the other guys on the team and in the league for that matter made you stutter, fumble with your microphone, or blush more than him and it annoyed you. 

You were a professional and having a star athlete make you nervous was a rookie move. 

Seeing them both freshly showered with dripping hair and flushed faces only made your insides contract and face heat while they settled themselves in the chairs. You looked over your questions you wanted to ask and sighed before you raised your hand up.

"Yes?" James winked at you while Steve chuckled. 

"How do you prepare for the next two games knowing you're going to be playing in a hostile environment?" 

Steve shrugged and said, "We're prepared just fine. Their arena and fans don't bother us one bit." 

Steve looked over at James who agreed making the people in the room chuckle. 

Cocky bastards. 

A few more questions were asked by other reporters when you raised your hand up again. 

"Yes?" Steve asked. 

"Question for James. You took a puck to the ankle in the 2nd with that nasty slapshot you blocked. Do you have any concerns with it for the next game?" 

James glared at you for a brief second before he scoffed and said, "It's all good. Nothing to worry about." 

You glanced at one of their trainers who was in the room and he rolled his eyes. You made a note to probe further once the press conference was done.

🏒🍫🍁

"Did you see Y/n sniffing around Parker, asking him about your ankle?" Steve asked Bucky who was putting some things away in his locker. 

"No, I didn't." 

Bucky side-eyed his friend and captain wondering why he was watching you. Of course you were asking about the puck he blocked, or rather his ankle accidentally getting in front of a slap shot from the point. 

His ankle was currently swollen like a balloon and was showing off the colours of the rainbow in which he would need to ice the shit out of it when he got home. Peter and the training staff cautioned him not to mention the injury to anyone. 

James smiled to himself. 

You had been in the back of his thoughts all god damn season with your shiny hair, expressive eyes, and pretty smile, but you're off limits. He doesn't date reporters or anyone close to the hockey world as he likes to keep that separate from his private life, but you were proving to be a challenge for his self-imposed rule. 

"Probably looking at digging up information to expose your weakness to Hydra. Be careful with that one." Steve cautioned making Bucky chuckle. 

"It's not fucking espionage Steve, it's hockey. They know I got dinged in the ankle so they may go after me next game. It's payoff hockey." Bucky shrugged, putting a few things in a bag then locking his cubbie in his locker stall. 

The team was flying out the following afternoon to Jersey, so he had made sure to give the equipment guys what they needed to pack before he left the arena.

🏒🍫🍁

"You're all packed then?" Scott asked while you lingered in the hallway of the arena. 

"Looks like it." 

You were looking over your itinerary for the away games you were going to be covering. You stood with a few other reporters and radio announcers while waiting for your bus to the airport. Reporters, media, and team employees usually travelled with the team and for the playoffs, there seemed to be a few more who were along for the trip. You looked at the time and saw you had about 10 minutes before the bus was scheduled to pull up. 

"I'm just going to check my blood sugar." 

You stepped aside and used your scanner on your arm. The beep of the app sounded, and you looked at the screen and saw it read 5.6. 

"Thank god." You mumbled. You had been having a hard time with your sugar levels lately so seeing a normal readout for the first time in a while was a relief. 

"Bus is here." Scott announced down the hall.

🏒🍫🍁

You boarded the plane and sat in the front where media had their assigned seats. You watched as the players boarded in their suits; some acknowledged you and some walked by. Even though the league has relaxed their dress code rules, the team still travels wearing suits, something they decided to do as a group. 

You had to admit, seeing the players in their suits was the highlight whenever you travelled with them. An even better perk to the job that no one knows about was, once the players boarded the plane, most, if not all, stripped out of their suits and changed into comfy clothes in the middle of the aisle for the flight.

When you first started with the team, you had sat down in your seat, but you forgot your notebook in your carryon, so you got up to get your bag in the overhead bin. You stood and looked to the back of the plane where a few of the guys stood shirtless in the aisle and were changing. 

You almost dropped your bag on Scott seeing their toned bare chests and underwear clad bottoms in the aisle. You immediately sat in your seat clutching your bag to your chest with a red face making Scott chuckle at your reaction. He thought it would be funny not to tell you they did that for your first away game. 

Yeah, really hilarious Scott, but you're used to it now. 

Now, you try not to sneak a peek when the assistant captain shucks off his white dress shirt exposing his tattooed left arm sleeve, then slowly folds it and places it in his bag while making eye contact you the entire time; something he does on every flight. 

Like you told yourself countless times before, cocky bastard.

🏒🍫🍁

You watched the practise at the Hydra arena in Jersey with Tony Stark barking plays and line combinations out to the players while they skated. From your observation the team looks dialed in and ready as they skated their drills. 

"Y/n?" Wanda Maximoff tapped you on the shoulder. 

"Hi Wanda." 

She stood next to you with her tablet and cell phone in hand. For being the teams head of PR and social media, she was remarkably always put together. 

"I've secured you a one-on-one interview tomorrow after the game. We want it to be fun and playful for our socials" 

"Oh? With whom?" 

Inside, you were wishing it was ANYONE but James Barnes. 

"Barnes." 

Crap. 

"Sounds good."

 You usually liked doing one-non-one interviews with the players but anytime you interview James Barnes one-on-one, it was always challenging for you since he flirted relentlessly with you. 

"I'll email you the list of questions later." She tapped on her iPad and then headed down the hall to the dressing room.

🏒🍫🍁

You sat in your hotel room and went over the questions for the one-on-one Wanda had sent. The questions were straight forward, mostly cute personal ones which should be an easy breeze for you to ask. You had a bunch of food in front of you, mainly some juice boxes and chocolate bars seeing as how your blood sugar levels were lower lately. 

You had made reminders in your phone to check your blood sugar levels more often for the following day since it was a game day which usually means lots of on-camera reporting and filing reports before, during, and after the game. 

Add in the new interview Wanda asked you to do, and it was going to be a long day.

🏒🍫🍁

"You got all your snacks in there?" Scott pointed to your tote bag. 

"Think so. I feel good today, so I'm sure I'll be ok. I just want to get my readings back to normal." 

Scott knew you were diabetic and was always looking out for you. You had set yourself up for your pre-game coach's interview.

You saw James Barnes saunter down the hall in his workout shorts, flip flops, and long-sleeved black compression top looking mischievous. 

"Y/n." He nodded at you. 

"Hello." You squeaked out. 

He stopped and leaned into you and said, "I'm looking forward to our one-on-one after the game." He flashed a wink at you before disappearing into the players locker room. 

Scott chuckled at the face you made because it looked like shock mixed with a grimace and maybe a blush. 

"Let's just get this over with." You shook that interaction off, following Scott to the interview room.

🏒🍫🍁

You had jammed a granola bar in your mouth while you went over notes, players, lines, and the pre-interview requests but it wasn't enough. 

"Here." 

Scott handed you half a turkey sandwich he found in the dressing room, so you managed to eat a little of it. 

"Thanks." 

You pushed on and did a few sound checks, reports, repositioned the camera, and did a small interview with the radio team on what to expect for the third game in the series, and by the time you had finished, the game was starting. 

"You good?" Scott looked over at you, and you shrugged, saying, "I feel fine. Your sandwich helped from earlier. I'll get something after the game." 

You hadn't checked your sugar levels, but you felt fine, just as you replied to a few texts from the network and started your game notes.

🏒🍫🍁

"Overtime?" You groaned watching the players from both teams exit the ice surface. 

You had almost filed your game report, but Hydra scored with 2 minutes left in regulation, tying it up. Your phone was dinging with new requests for small updates to the sports shows, so you were busy filming a few of those followed by a live interview. 

"You, ok?" Scott asked when he heard you groan. 

"I think so." 

"Let me get you something to eat..." 

"There you are." Came a booming voice from behind you. 

"Nick." You bravely smiled at the network executive standing in front of you even though you were starting to feel a little funny. Nick Fury owned the network you worked for, so he was technically your boss' boss and anytime he came to a game, he always wanted to meet with the reporters and media. 

"Hello sir." 

"Y/n. How are things going on the road for you?" 

You inwardly cringed at having to stop and chat with him. He was always nice to you, but you never wanted to make him angry; he knew too many people. Scott watched you take a few steps to the side and chat with him while he ordered some food for you.

🏒🍫🍁

"Did I miss anything?" You asked, heading back to your spot after your conversation with Nick Fury. 

"Nah, you're just in time." Scott replied, looking around for the food he ordered. 

You settled in for the puck drop but Scott got called away by the radio crew needing him to fix something, so you were left alone. The more you watched the overtime, the more you're convinced James is injured since he didn't look like himself on the ice. Every stride and push-off he did on his skates seemed to make him wince more. 

Overtime lasted only 9 minutes when Clint Barton ended up knocking in a rebound from Bruce Banner's slapshot, ending the game. The bench cleared while you watched the team celebrate on the ice with boos reigning down from the agitated Hydra crowd. 

"Thank god." You said, stomach grumbling while you made you way to the hallway for the post game interviews.

🏒🍫🍁

The team sent out OT goal scorer Clint Barton and Bruce Banner, for their post game interview so you managed to ask them some questions and got your answers you were looking for. 

You looked at your watch and that's when it hit you. 

"Crap." 

"What?" Scott looked over. 

"I should eat..." 

"Shit, I forgot I ordered food for you, but they must not have dropped it off since I wasn't there..." 

"There you are!" Wanda smiled wide. 

"Shall we?" 

She escorted you to an empty room that had two chairs, a camera, and lighting set up. You had wobbled a little on your feet when you walked with her, telling yourself you were unsteady for it being late.

"I figured we may as well start now." She grasped her iPad tight. 

"Right...I was about to go and get..." 

"Where do you want me, ladies?" James strolled into the room, looking fresh as a daisy from the grueling game he just played. 

Your eyes focused on his ankle, but you didn't see him limping or hobbling. The trainers must be magicians. 

"Right here." Wanda pointed to the chair. 

"And Y/n will be there." She gestured to the other chair, smiling wide. 

"We'll be over there." She waved to the corner of the room where a few more social media people were. 

"Right then." You cleared your voice and fumbled with your notes. 

You were starting to get a little shaky. 

"You, ok?" 

James watched you sit but there was something off about you. 

"I'm fine James." You plastered on a smile. 

"Call me Bucky." He winked at you. 

Your vision started blurring but you quickly blinked and the feeling had passed. 

Everyone was watching you and waiting for the interview that would quickly be edited so it could get out the following day to the team's social media pages. 

You cleared your throat and settled yourself in. From the questions, you figured it would only take you about 30 minutes at the most to get through all of them so you could run and grab something to eat from the restaurant at the hotel lobby before you settled in your room for the night.

🏒🍫🍁

You were listening to James reminisce about some of his playing days on his junior team when you felt your heartbeat start to race and your vision was starting to blur. 

Fuck no, not now, please God. 

Your shakes were getting worse and the anxious feeling mixed with dizziness had come on strong. You gripped the arm rests of the chair you were on intensely while trying to keep it together. 

"So, James...telllll meeeeeeeee..." 

You swayed slightly then slumped over, dropping your notes as you went down with the darkness that surrounded your vision.

"Holy shit!" Bucky blurted out. 

When he walked into the room, he noticed your face was pale and you were quieter than normal. He figured you were tired from working and the slight time change, but he never thought this would happen. When he first discovered you would be the one to interview him, he was excited because it meant he got to spend more time with you. 

Even though he has a self-imposed rule of no dating media or people in the business, he somehow can't seem to get you out of his head. He watched you grimace as you smiled to Wanda before starting the interview and he couldn't help but feel a little defensive thinking you were not excited about interviewing him, but he quickly realised that wasn't the case at all. 

Something was off about you. 

Bucky looked over at you when he was finished and he saw you sway slightly, but then your face paled then you slumped over mid-question, collapsing in the chair you sat in, notes crashing to the floor. He quickly sprang into action, helping you down to the ground, careful not to injure you. 

"What's wrong with her?" 

Scott came running into the room and he froze. 

"Shit!" He yelled, running towards you. 

"Do you know what's wrong?" 

"She's diabetic. Probably low blood sugar, which can be dangerous." 

He looked you over. The team doctor came running in and assessed you with the paramedics following. 

"She's diabetic?" Bucky asked, looking you over. 

He held your hand in his while the doctor checked on you. When the doctor lifted your arm, Bucky saw the small round disc attached to the back of your arm. He'd never noticed it before. He looked at your face and he was worried. 

You were so pale and you weren't responding well to anything since you were so out of it. The paramedics strapped you to the stretcher, and you were whisked away to the hospital. 

"Go with her." Wanda waved to Scott who nodded. 

He followed the stretcher, leaving Bucky in the room. 

"I'm sure she'll be fine." Wanda patted his arm before she left to answer some calls. 

"What hospital is she going to be taken to?" Bucky asked, but no one seemed to know. 

He groaned and ran a hand over his face before he ran back to the locker room, grabbing his wallet. 

"Where are you off to?" Steve asked. 

Bucky replied with, "I'll text you when I get there." Then he was off, typing frantically on his phone for an Uber.

🏒🍫🍁

You smelled the sterile cleaning products and instantly knew you were at the hospital. Your eyes were heavy as you struggled to open them. 

"Mmfph..." 

You moved slightly but it felt like your limbs weighed triple what they did. 

"...Low blood sugar" 

"...Dangerous..."

 "...Take better care..."

 Deep voices and words came in spotty patches while your mind tried to clear itself and wake up. 

You moved a little more and wanted to sit up, but your right hand was blocked. You had a hard time moving it.

 "...waking up..." 

Your eyes fluttered open and the bright sterile room you were in came into view. 

"There she is." You heard Scott's voice from your left side. 

"Scott?" You mumbled. 

Your eyes focused on him while you took in the view. He sat on your left side, his eyes seeming to have dark circles around them. 

"You gave us quite the scare." 

You blinked a few times, clearing your vision but was squinting. 

"Oh, let me turn these lights down a little." 

He got up and headed to the door to where a light switch was and flicked it down. 

"Thanks." 

You smiled at your friend and co-worker. You heard a throat clear on your right, so you looked over and froze, eyes wide. 

"Bucky?" You blurted out. 

"I'll go and get the doctor..." Scott tapped your side then he left the room. 

"Wh-what are..." You tried sitting up but felt weak. 

Why is he here? 

You looked down at your right hand that he held in his, fingers laced together. 

"Shh...here, let me help..." 

He let go of your hand and managed to help you sit up a little in the uncomfortable hospital bed you were laying in. 

"Better?" He asked, making sure your pillow was fluffed. 

"Y-yeah..." 

You were still confused on why the assistant captain for the Shield was next to your hospital bed, holding your hand and watching you. 

"You scared me." He softly said, moving a strand of your hair from your face. 

"H-how...why are you here?" 

"We still have to finish our interview silly..." He smiled wide. 

"Interview?" 

You thought back and that's when it hit you. You passed out when you were in the middle of asking him questions.

 "Our interview? Now?" 

You were confused and Bucky felt bad for teasing you. 

"Just teasing you sweetheart. I wanted to make sure you were ok."

You glanced out the window and found the daylight creeping through the blinds. 

"What time is it?" 

Bucky looked around and shrugged.

 "Around 7:30 am?" 

"How long..." 

"Hey, hey, shh...the doctor's coming back, he can explain everything." 

"You sat at my side?" 

"Had nothing else going on." 

"Really? You guys won in OT, no bars to visit, or parties to go to and celebrate?" 

Bucky shook his head no. 

"Playoffs doll. We only have one thing in mind and that's to win the cup. No parties for us until this is all over. Team pact and everything." He stated proudly. 

You knew Steve Rogers and him commanded the locker room and whatever they said, the team followed which is why they've been so successful this year. 

"Then why are you here? You must be so tired..." 

"Surprisingly, this chair is comfortable." He adjusted his large body in it which groaned under his weight making you chuckle.

Scott walked into the room followed by a nurse and the doctor. 

"Hello." 

"Oh, I should head out. I've got a morning radio session to help with." Scott looked over at you and smiled. 

"Glad you're back with us. I'll see you later." 

He patted your foot through the blanket and left the room, leaving you there with Bucky and the hospital staff. 

"You gave us all quite the scare with that low sugar level." 

The doctor seemed to scold you while he was typing on his laptop. 

"We managed to correct it and adjust some things, but overall, you're going to be fine. I've already sent your chart to your own doctor, and you have an appointment with them when you get back, but other than that, you should be good to leave here this afternoon." 

"Ok." You lamely replied, still confused why Bucky was at your side. 

"Good thing your boyfriend was here with you to keep you company."

 You looked at the door where Scott was, then over at Bucky who gave you a sheepish smile. "Right, boyfriend." 

Bucky reached out and held your hand in his. His very big, calloused hand that felt somehow soft in yours. 

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone. I'll be by in a few to check on you again." 

The doctor flashed you a wink then tapped his nose before he left the room with the nurse following.

"I didn't know you were diabetic." Bucky quietly said. 

"Yeah, well...surprise." You waved your left hand up and wiggled it like 'jazz hands' making him chuckle. 

"So, boyfriend?" You raised your eyebrows up at him. 

"It was the only way I could stay with you." 

"You could have just left..." 

"Pfft, nope. You passed out in front of me so I felt it wouldn't be right if I left you alone." 

"Oh, well, thanks." 

Your face flushed at his little confession. 

"Everyone's going to he happy you're ok." 

"Everyone?" 

"You gave us all quite the scare back at the arena..." 

"Sorry..." You mumbled. 

"It's all good." He lifted a shoulder and sighed. "Well, I should head to the hotel to catch a little rest. Coach Stark gave me the morning practise off today." 

"Sorry you had to miss that..." 

You felt bad Bucky was with you all night. 

Bucky squeezed your hand and made sure to get you some water on your side table before he left. 

"I'll see you later." He nodded at you then headed towards the door. 

An orderly had walked into the room carrying a food tray then left it on your table.

 "Make sure you eat that." Bucky pointed to the tray before he left the room, leaving you alone.

🏒🍫🍁

"So, he was with me the whole night?" You asked Scott who had picked you up from the hospital. 

"Yup." 

"Huh." 

"He had gone to two other hospitals before he found where you were. When he came into the room, he was frantic, asking the doctors about your condition and why you were still asleep. Seemed really concerned." 

You were shocked. 

"He told the staff he was your boyfriend so he could stay with you all night. I was there, but then I left for a few hours. When I returned shortly before you woke, he was sitting at your bed, watching you." 

Scott pulled into the covered entranceway to the lobby of the hotel and stopped, helping you out. 

"You don't have anything scheduled tonight. Game four is tomorrow and Fury said you don't have to cover it if you aren't feeling it. He can have someone else fill in for you..."

 "I'll be there Scott. I feel fine right now. All I want to do is rest a little more, but I should be good to go for the game tomorrow." 

Scott looked you over but agreed. Your colour was back and you seemed more alert and focused. Your latest sugar levels were fine from the reading you did at the hospital before you were discharged. 

"Ok. Schedule is still the same. The bus will pick us up in the morning. Text me later so I know you're still ok and if you feel funky, let me know and I can get you back to the hospital, so this doesn't happen again." 

"I know, and thanks Scott." 

"We've upped the food and snacks for you tomorrow so you should be ok." 

"I appreciate it." You waved then headed to the bank of elevators to take you to your room. You wanted a shower, to eat something, then you were ready to flop into bed for the rest of the day.

You got into your room and dropped your purse at the door, locking it. You turned and froze, seeing a giant bouquet of red roses sitting on the desk in the room. You walked to it and smiled, smelling one when you took the card and read who it was from. 

"Hope you're feeling better. From Fury and associates." 

You looked at the bouquet then turned and was startled. On the bedside table was a giant gift basket full of food, snacks, fruit, crackers, and drinks. 

"Woah." There was a card taped to the cellophane. 

"This should be enough to get you through for tomorrow. Remember to take care of yourself. Bucky. PS – We still have to finish our interview."

You smiled and chuckled, examining the basket of food. Well, between this and the food Scott has ordered, you should be ready to go.

🏒🍫🍁

You worked game four without issue seeing the Shield win and sweep their playoff series with Hydra. Scott had almost over ordered on food and snacks for you and made sure you updated him on your sugar levels which were back to normal thanks to the time you made yourself. You scolded yourself for not taking care of your condition since you have lived with it most of your life. 

You did your post game interviews and filed your reports as normal when you saw Bucky walk up to you in the hallway. 

"Are you doing, ok?" He asked, his blue eyes searching your face. 

"I'm fine, thank you. And thanks for the basket of food. I hope I can get it all packed in my bag to take home with me." You teased making him chuckle. 

"Good, I'm glad." 

He leaned in close when an equipment manager wheeled a large crate behind you. You were able to smell his cologne from his shower. 

"Congrats on the win again." You said before you turned to head to the bus to take you to the terminal. 

"See you on the plane." He called after you making you wave over your shoulder.

🏒🍫🍁

"Why aren't you sitting with me?" You asked Scott who was in the row behind you. 

"Figured you could lie down and relax for the flight back." 

"Scott, I'm fine, really. Maybe a little tired, but I'm feeling good, honestly." 

You threw your carryon in the overhead bin. Just as you sat at the window seat, you saw the players board, excited from their win and to get home to their families. You buckled yourself in and waited until everyone was seated, grateful to Scott for giving you some extra room. 

You had dreams of stretching out and reading your book, but those thoughts ended when you saw a large body standing in the aisle in your row.

 "Bucky?" 

"Hey." He said, placing his carryon on the seat next to you. 

"What are you doing?" 

Players always sit at the back of the plane and only come to the front if they have a question for the medical staff or coaches. 

"Sitting here." He shrugged off his black suit jacket. 

"But...but why?" You watched as he started slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt.

 "Figured, I'd keep you company." 

He shook off his shirt exposing his toned chest you always admired and grabbed a black t-shirt from his bag and slipped it on. Once he was set, he placed his bag in the overhead bin and flopped down next to you. 

You turned and looked over your shoulder at Scott who hid a chuckle. 

"Ok..." 

Bucky settled in the seat and did up the seatbelt, leaning over you to look out the window. His shoulder brushed your arm when he did, making you feel his warm body heat. 

"Should be a smooth flight." He said, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 

"Right." You were still frozen in your seat gawking at Bucky, unsure what to say or do with this large hockey player in your space. 

No one else seemed to care that he was sitting at the front of the plane, so you just went along with it. As the plane taxied down the runway, then got set for takeoff, Bucky reached for your left hand and held it, lacing your fingers together while the plane lifted off. You didn't dare say anything or move your hand seeing as how it was firmly in his for the entire flight. It felt like you were floating as he held your hand; like you were back in middle school with a crush.

Bucky made sure you were feeling fine, asking you every so often if you were ok, it was almost getting annoying, but you understood his concern. You would be worried if you witnessed someone pass out in front of you, then see them being whisked away to the hospital by an ambulance.

The plane landed and Bucky finally let go of your hand when it came to a stop. He got up and grabbed his carryon as everyone deplaned. You got your suitcase and had ordered an Uber when Bucky came up to you. 

"So, you'll be ok then?" 

"Yes, I will, thanks. I've got an Uber on the way, so I'll be fine." 

You stuffed your phone in your pocket. He watched you carefully, almost like he was committing you to memory then he nodded, seeming to be ok with your answer.

🏒🍫🍁

You finally finished your interview with Bucky, the one where you passed out in the middle of it. Shield had made it into the finals playing against the Commandos and you had been busier than ever. 

Your sugar levels were good, and you had no other issues apart from learning how to deal with an over-protective assistant captain who has been constantly checking in on you every chance he gets. 

"Bucky, I'm fine, really." You insisted while going over your game notes. 

The series was tied with game seven at the Shield arena, when you spied Bucky watching you from the doorway to the locker room like he didn't believe you. 

"I'm fine." You assured him with a glare. 

"Ok, sheesh, put the knife down doll." He teased, holding up his hands and slipped into the dressing room to prepare for their warm-ups. 

"He's been obsessed with you lately." Scott teased. 

"Ugh, I know. It's..."

 "Cute? Romantic?" 

"Crazy." You huffed making your hair flutter around your face.

🏒🍫🍁

"You ok over there?" Steve asked his assistant captain. 

"All good."

 "Hmm..." 

"What?" Bucky glared at his friend. 

"You've been obsessing over the reporter lately." 

"Have not." Bucky snorted while Steve gave him a look. 

"Since she was hospitalized."

 "Just making sure she's ok." 

Bucky put his shoulder pads on and did up his elbow ones. 

"You know I have my rule..." 

"Fuck your rule. You're head over heels for her, so why not ask her out?" Steve shook his head at his stubborn friend. 

Bucky finished putting on his shin pads and pulled up his socks, all while thinking Steve may be right. He'd been low-key obsessing over you for a while and the hospital visit seemed to put everything in perspective for him. 

He only had another year or two left to play out his contract and retire as a member of the Shield, so why not go for it? He's fairly certain you like him back, but would you accept a date with him if he asks you?

🏒🍫🍁

"Holy crap, they won the cup!" 

Scott gave you a side hug while the team celebrated on the ice. The fans were going crazy in the stands with the win which only made it louder in the arena for you to concentrate. You watched the team celebrate, hug each other and laugh while the trophy was brought onto the ice. 

You had your press pass out and showed it, allowing you on the ice with Scott following. You had gotten a lot of celebratory shots of everyone and a few on-ice interviews from the excited players, when you had Scott get into position while the trophy was going to be presented. 

"There." You pointed to a spot next to another news crew who were setting up. 

The players were handed their Championship hats while they skated around the ice. Some were holding onto each other, and others were waving to their friends and family in the stands when you felt a body stand behind you. 

Scott had a small hand-held camera he had started, getting you candid shots the network's social media team could use. 

You turned and smiled wide at Bucky who was sweaty and red from celebrating; his hat on slightly crooked. 

You shoved the microphone at him and said, "How do you feel right now?" Which made him smile wide. 

"I feel amazing doll." He winked at you. 

You froze at his term of endearment he had been using on you lately, unsure how to respond. 

"Right, well... We can't use that Scott..." 

You looked over at Scott who gave you an eye roll. 

"Why not?" Bucky asked. 

"Well...I..." You couldn't think of anything to say while he watched you try to find words. 

The team was getting into place as the commissioner was heading to the ice to present the team the trophy. 

You stood with your microphone, unsure of what else to say when Bucky leaned down and planted a kiss on your lips. 

A few catcalls and whoops were heard while his lips devoured yours. You dropped the microphone and grabbed his sweaty jersey, kissing him back. 

You finally separated when you saw Steve Rogers whistle and smile wide at the two of you. He placed his arms around your shoulders and said, "Finally!" Before he let go to head to where the trophy was. 

You snapped out of it and composed yourself, picking your microphone up from the ice. 

"You can edit that out." You said to Scott who shook his head no. 

"Actually, we're live." He mouthed making your face pale. 

Frig. 

"You ok?" 

Bucky was suddenly focused on you, seeing you pale. 

"Did you eat? How are your sugar levels?" 

"I-I'm fine. We're live. That was live. Everyone saw." You mumbled, face turning red. 

"Yeah they did." Bucky smiled wide, leaning over to kiss you again. 

"Bucky!" You blushed. 

"Anything you want to ask me?" 

"Uh..." 

Your mind was soup at what he did, but you quickly composed yourself. 

"What are your plans with the offseason?" 

That was the stupidest question to ask you chastised yourself. There would be no way any of the players would be thinking that at this moment in time. 

He leaned back, a little caught off guard but he smiled. 

"I plan on celebrating the whole night with my team and hopefully you at my side. Then, tomorrow, I plan on taking you out on a date, THEN I plan on volunteering my time with the Diabetes Association in the off-season." 

He faced the camera as he spoke. 

"Someone important to me has diabetes and I want to help in every way I can." 

Your mouth was open in shock before he skated away with a wink and joined Steve where they accepted the trophy. The fans were cheering loud as they watched the team hoist the cup in the air with Scott giving you a thumbs up from behind the camera. 

This was going to be an interesting off season.

Bucky isn’t entirely sure if he should punch Sam or thank him for the face cut he inflicted on him during training. For one, it stung like a bitch when Wilson’s combat boot went right into his cheek and split a gash into it. However, on the much brighter side, after training is over, you approach Bucky with squinted eyes laced in concern.

“You’ll have to clean it.” You hum, examining the cut with a sympathetic smile. “You’re bleeding.”

Bucky brushes it off with a shrug, his expression flat like the gash actually doesn’t bother him at all. “I’ll be alright.”

You figure that. He’s endured a lot more pain in his past than a simple boot to the face, but you’re far too caring to let his stubborn nature win in this case.

“C’mon.” You say, ushering him to follow as you begin walking out of the Avenger’s Tower training room and towards the nearest bathroom.

Bucky is going to protest—to insist that you don’t have to stress over him and that he can patch himself up. However, you’re already walking down the hallway, not bothering to glance over your shoulder because you know he’ll eventually follow. Follow he does and if he wasn’t so distracted by the way your hips swish while you walk, he’d have noticed the teasing smirks Natasha and Wanda give each other as you both leave.

When the two of you slip into the floor’s bathroom, you shut the door behind you and immediately kneel down to fetch the first aid kit from beneath the sink. “Sit, Buck.” You order.

Wordlessly, he finds himself obeying and plopping down on the closed toilet seat lid. His eyes are trained on your every move, finding it difficult to look anywhere else, as you shut the cabinet and rummage through the kit searching for the proper materials.

It’s one of those moments where he doesn’t feel as if he needs to say anything—most of the time he spends with you is like that. You’d don’t expect him to converse or entertain because sometimes, merely sitting in silence with him is enough. It’s comfortable and equally as rich as any conversation would be.

Ripping open an alcohol wipe, you narrow your gaze at the feeling of his eyes on you. Your lips curl up at the corner sweetly. “What?” You ask, your voice gentle.

“Nothin’.” Bucky blinks, shaking his head. “You don’t have to, y’know? More than capable of cleaning it myself.”

You smile even more at his relentlessly headstrong mindset. “Would you? Remember last time you got hurt on a mission?“

At the time, Bucky didn’t tell anyone his non-metal arm was in pain for days because he simply didn’t feel like burdening them with his problem. It only came to your attention when you accidentally brushed his shoulder in the kitchen, and he flinched—just a tiny twitch, barely noticeable.

But you’d noticed. You always seem to notice.

You scolded him for not telling anyone he’d been hurting and then again for not taking care of it properly himself. Then you dragged him into the medical room to wrap it up comfortably, much to his chagrin.

Now, sitting across from you again, he nods slowly. “Yeah,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over the cut on his cheek. “I remember.”

Quickly, you lightly smack his hand down so he can’t touch it before shifting over to stand in front of him. “Exactly, so let me do this for you, yeah?” He doesn’t have time to answer because then you’re holding up the alcohol wipe in front of his face. “This might sting.”

Bucky doesn’t so much as flinch when you press the wipe against his cut, but finds your warning endearing anyways. He’s more focused on the way you position yourself in between his spread open legs and lean down to get a better look at his cut.

“How hard did Sam kick you in your face?” You let out a small chuckle, the noise echoing off the walls of the bathroom. “He mad at you or something?”

The corners of Bucky’s lips threaten to curl up at your comment. “I took the last pancake Wanda made this morning, that might be it.”

You smile, laughing breathily as you reach over to grab some antiseptic cream from the first aid kit. “Makes sense. I would’ve kicked you in the face too.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raise, watching you unscrew the lid to squeeze some onto your fingertip. “Oh, would you have?” When you nod, he hums. “I think I would’ve preferred a kick in the face from you instead of him anyway.”

Pursing your lips, you tilt your head teasingly. “Don’t let him hear you say that, Barnes. He might think I’m taking his spot as your best friend.”

“He’d never recover.” Bucky grins, but stills to a silence when you place your fingers on his cheek lightly.

His attention drifts up to your face, observing the way that your eyebrows knit together softly and lips twist in focus. You’re close to him now, so much so that he can smell your cherry perfume and he wonders how it’s managed to stay on despite having just returned from practice.

When his head tilts too far up as he looks at you, you gently grab his jaw and guide his head back down. The action is small, but sends a course of shivers down his spine, a feeling so rare and one he only ever experiences with you.

He doubts you know the effect you have on him. After all, he’s been trying his absolute hardest to conceal these newfound and confusing emotions until he can begin to understand them himself.

He knows something is off, though, when he catches himself smiling as your loud laughter echoes through the walls of the Tower during your and Natasha’s weekly movie nights, or when he wakes up early for coffee and finds you already in the kitchen, packing Peter a lunch for school with a bright smile on your face.

It’s the little things you do—like saving him a spot at the dinner table, handing him a fresh towel before he can even ask on sparring days, or patching up his wounds despite his grumpy protests—that make him worry he’s developing feelings no friend should have. It terrifies him, truly. But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t feel good all the same.

You unwrap a butterfly bandaid and lay it carefully on his cheek, leaning your head back to admire your hard work. “Lookin’ good. Keep this with you,” You hold the antiseptic cream for him to take. “And put it on everyday so it doesn’t scab.”

Bucky takes the bottle from your hand, his calloused fingers brushing against your soft ones. “Yes ma’am.” He answers yet doesn’t get up from where he sits.

Suddenly, you become hyper-aware of the position you find yourself in—you’re still in between his legs and he’s still looking up at you like he can’t bear to pry his eyes away. It’s compromising and oddly intimate in a way you can’t determine if you like or hate, yet the warmth you feel in the pit of your stomach is answer enough.

“All done.” You remind him, your voice coming out more quiet than you intend.

A sudden tension seems to wash over the room as Bucky’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

“Right,” He nods, then faster than you can register, he’s pushing himself to a standing position. His eyes are on you the entire time he rises, towering over you to look down with an expression you can’t quite decipher—one that makes your knees feel wobbly. “Thank you, Y/N.”

Your name sounds rich on his tongue like saying it is sacred to him. It makes your heart thump in your chest. “Anytime, Buck.”

The way you look up at him, through your softly kitted eyebrows, makes Bucky hesitate. His stare quickly travels across your face like trying to memorize it in its close proximity. His focus lands on your lips before flickering back up to your eyes. Now he’s aware of just how much he’d like to kiss you and just how much he probably shouldn’t.

You open your mouth to say something when a knock at the door interrupts, snapping your attention away from each other. You clear your throat, stepping back and increasing the distance between the two of you. Bucky hates how it feels colder without you close to him.

“Hey guys!” A squeaky voice belonging to Peter Parker echoes from the other side. “Sorry if you’re busy in there or something, but I really have to go and Vision’s fixing the elevator so I really don’t wanna have to run all the way upstairs!”

You let out a small chuckle, shaking your head. “We’re all done in here, Pete.” You turn to Bucky, offering him a sweet smile, back to your usual demeanor. “Don’t get kicked in the face again, ‘kay?”

His grin widens and with a nod of his head, he responds. “Not unless it’s by you, remember?”

You purse your lips to prevent your smile from stretching, then swing the door open. Bucky’s eyes are only trained on you as you walk, even when a desperate Peter runs inside and shoos him away with intentional shoves.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Everything was on fire. Quite literally.

The mission the team is on has gone sideways fast and now, all that matters is getting out of there. The extraction SUV comes into view just beyond the crumbling warehouse gates, engine revving as the back doors fly open.

“Move! Move! Move!” Steve barks into comms as he sprints towards the vehicle.

Natasha is right behind him, dragging a limping Sam who’s still cracking jokes through gritted teeth. You and Bucky follow close behind with Peter in tow—grounded and grumbling without any buildings to swing from. Natasha helps get Sam into the backseat before joining Steve in the front, which means the rest of you are to squeeze.

“You first, Pete!” You order and he obliges, quickly shoving himself inside.

Bucky follows suit and once he’s sat, he turns back, motioning for you to come in.

Your fingers grip the edge of the door, glancing around inside the car at the lack of seats left. Craning your neck behind you, you watch as more explosions occur and enemies emerge, dead-set on the car that you can’t get inside of. “Fuck! Guys, there’s no more room!”

“What?” Peter shouts. “Sam, why couldn’t you have flown?”

“I’m injured, you little asshole!” Sam hisses back.

“What do I do?” You emphasize. “Seriously, there’s—”

“There’s room.” Bucky speaks up.

You blink. “Where?!”

He doesn’t answer but instead, grabs your wrist and pulls. You yelp as he tugs you into the car, the door slamming shut behind you. You barely have time to process that you’re safely inside before the car peels away from the curb with a screech.

Then you realize, you’re in his lap—legs draped over his, your weight settling against him as the car jostles over cracked pavement. His arm instinctively wraps around your waist, holding you steady and secure. Suddenly, there’s no space or distance. Just you and him.

You freeze and so does he.

Nat’s arguing with Tony over comms, snapping at him to tell F.R.I.D.A.Y to reroute traffic. Steve chimes in every few seconds, telling them both to calm down, but he’s way too focused on weaving through cars like a getaway driver. Beside you, Peter’s whining about Sam’s wing-pack jabbing into his side, but Sam just grits his teeth and tells him to quit complaining.

It’s complete chaos in the car but Bucky? He doesn’t hear any of it.

Because you’re right there, pressing up against him in a way that makes it hard for him to breathe, a pressure blooming tightly in his throat. One of your hands clutches the side of his vest, knuckles brushing against his chest as you stabilize yourself for the wobbly car ride. Your face is close—almost too close—and you have to duck your head slightly, settling into a stomach churning position near his shoulder and jaw. For a second, he thinks he can feel the warmth of your breath against his neck and suddenly, every bump in the road is utter torture.

“I’m sorry,” He mutters, his voice low. “It was the only option.”

You nod quickly, trying to brush it off like this wasn’t the closest the two of you have ever been—like it wasn’t physically compromising in a way that makes your head pulse. “Yeah, I get it. It makes sense. Practical.”

Practical. Right.

Heat radiates off of your body as you adjust yourself on top of him, sinking into his lap like some cruel test of his self control.

“Is this okay?” He mumbles, his voice just above a whisper, reserving the question for only the two of you.

“Yes.” It’s the only word you manage to get out, too distracted by the way his fingers curl around your waist—grounding and almost possessive. He squeezes you closer with each sharp turn Steve takes, like holding you in place steadies something inside of him too.

Bucky swallows hard and risks a glance at you. There’s a smudge of dirt on your jaw and a thin line of blood on your lip from where it somehow split during combat. Your chest rises and falls with exhaustion, cheeks flushed and eyes still burning with adrenaline. And yet, despite it all, you look unbelievably gorgeous, like the chaos has only made you even more breathtaking.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, though his eyes have already scanned you twice for any injuries.

“No, I’m alright.” You answer, fingers fiddling with the edge of his utility vest out of what he assumed to be nerves with no place to go.

He nods but then pauses the moment your eyes flicker up to meet his. There’s a major shift in the air and for what feels like minutes, everything else fades away—the rambunctiousness of the car, the shouting from your teammates, the smell of smoke and metal from the mission. It stills to a stop.

Because you’re looking at him like you might feel it too; the same sensation he’s been drowning in for months whenever he’s around you.

And in that moment, Bucky Barnes wants to kiss you more than he’s wanted to do anything in years. Maybe ever. There you are; warm, gentle and in his lap like it’s normal, like your bodies were meant to be this close together. It sends a heatwave through his body that he supposes can only dissipate when his lips meet yours.

Then, Peter accidentally elbows him in his side while he argues with Sam, and Bucky is robbed of that idea as quickly as he obtains it.

“Are you,” You say, eyes flickering over his face like he might disappear if you don’t look hard enough. “Okay?”

“I’m fine.” He nods, assuringly but you can read it all over his face. There’s something there—something heavy and sincere—so similar to the pulsing you’re experiencing in your own chest.

Bucky leans back, putting some distance between the two of you, though it’s extremely difficult both physically and mentally. His gaze locks outside the car window, focusing on the trees as they pass instead of the way your eyes still fixate on him. More than he could ever admit, he wants to reach out, pull you closer, and press his lips to yours. But this wasn’t the time, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for something so real, so permanent.

So instead, he holds himself back and swallows the feeling.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

You’re confident you don’t need to look at the recipe, but the more you mix the contents of your bowl, the more it looks suspicious.

The dough is too sticky, and there’s definitely more flour on your crewneck than there is in the bowl. You’re starting to think that you somehow missed a step while you were jamming out to the music playing from the small speaker in the kitchen of the Tower. However, you persevere, determined to manifest your grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie magic through sheer force and determination.

Over the quiet music and your own soft humming, you don’t notice the sound of someone entering the kitchen until a sudden shift in the air draws your attention. Your eyes flicker up and meet his electric blue ones.

Bucky stands in the doorway, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie with hair still damp from the shower. There’s tiredness in his face, sure, but also something tender—deep in the way that he looks at you. It was almost as if seeing you here, bobbing your head to the music on the radio and mixing the contents of the bowl like you’re in your own little world, was the first time he allowed himself to breathe all day.

“Heard you were making cookies.” He says, his voice gruff with sleep.

“Who said?” You smile, mixing your dough again in hopes that it would make it better.

Bucky steps closer, moving to stand on the opposite side of the island to you. “Steve,” He answers. “Said I’d better check on you before you burn the kitchen down with yourself inside of it.”

You let out a playful scoff, rolling your eyes. “Just for that, he doesn’t get any.”

Bucky grins, leaning against the countertop and examining the situation before him. There’s powder all over the table and ingredients sprawled about that he isn’t entirely sure you even need for chocolate chip cookies. His eyes trial up to you and your pajamas that display remnants of your mixture. Not only that but there are splotches of flour on your cheeks, and when he looks up at the top of your head, some there too.

He lets out a small chuckle at the sight and the noise has you glancing up at him briefly. “What?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Didn’t know chocolate chip cookies were this messy. You’ve got flour all over your face, Doll.”

Your hand instinctively flies up to wipe it away, swiping at your cheek blindly.

“That made it worse.” He squints, sympathetically.

You shrug, not caring much about how you looked in front of the soldier. “A little mess is the price I’m willing to pay for these cookies,” You say at the same time you suddenly realize what’s missing from your recipe. “Hey, since you’re here, can you do me a favor?”

He hums, the noise rumbling from the back of his throat and sounding oddly attractive to your ears.

“Could you find me the chocolate chips? I’m sure they’re somewhere in that cabinet.” You ask, nodding in the direction of one of the top shelves.

Bucky, who is positive he’ll do anything you ask of him, pushes himself off of the counter to walk over towards the cabinets. “Don’t tell me you started making the cookies before you checked if we even have chocolate chips.”

You shrug, sprinkling a little more flour into your bowl. “I was choosing to be optimistic.”

He rummages around before effortlessly grabbing a bag of chocolate chips from the highest shelf. Then he’s walking over to you, joining you on your side of the table to pass you the bag and smile at your workspace. “These are gonna be quite the cookies, huh?”

“Family recipe.” You nod confidently, opening the bag to drop plenty of chocolate chips into your mixing bowl. Bucky watches as you stir, your eyebrows knitting together in concentration. “Wanna taste?”

His shoulder brushes against yours as you turn to him, holding the bowl up to his face. It smells delicious and with how excited you are, he can’t exactly resist. “Sure.”

Your eyes follow him as he swoops his index finger into the bowl, runs it around the edge to collect stray dough and pops it into his mouth. Then slowly and almost absentmindedly, he licks the dough off of his finger.

His eyes flick up to yours, catching you mid-stare. You try to play it off, try not to let the warmth rising in your chest crawl all the way to your cheeks. It’s just cookie dough and just Bucky—your very handsome teammate casually doing something that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.

“Good?” You ask, and your voice is a little too light to be natural.

He hums, nodding. “Very.”

In satisfaction, you quirk your chin up and will yourself to turn away from him, no longer able to dwell on how horribly good he looks beneath the yellow light of the kitchen.

“You need my help?” He asks, watching you reach into a cabinet for a baking sheet.

You knit your brows, shaking your head. “Oh, no, it’s okay, you don’t have to.”

He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, his metal hand glimmering in a way that makes your stomach twist, and he takes the sheet from your hands. “I want to.”

You can’t find words to say as he immediately gets to work scooping the dough into balls and placing them on the tray, so you murmur a simple, “Thank you” and twist around to occupy yourself with cleaning your mess.

The kitchen falls into a domestically relaxed quiet, save for the sound of you doing the dishes and Bucky organizing the cookies on the sheet with an adorably concentrated precision. Every once in a while, you glance over your shoulder to get a glimpse of him as he rolls. Unknowingly to you, he does the same—twisting around when you aren’t looking to furrow his brows in admiration.

After you finish the dishes, you wipe your hands off on a dishrag and make your way back to the island where Bucky works. With a mindless grin, you lean against the counter, arms crossed as you watch him with your head in your palm.

There’s something about it—the sight of Bucky Barnes rolling cookie dough in his pajamas, damp strands of hair falling into his face as he leans over the counter. The notoriously brooding man had stepped into the kitchen wearing the softest smile, his hands now moving with a kind of gentleness, like the dough was a treasure you’d entrusted him with.

You can’t help but watch, hoping your heart-eyes aren’t as visible as you imagine they are in your head.

His gaze flickers to you, a small smile threatening to tear at the sides of his lips under the pressure of your attention. “You alright?”

You blink and nod, but don’t shy away. “I’m fine. Jus’ thinking.”

His head tilts in curiosity as he finishes rolling the last cookie. “About what?”

“About how no one would believe me if I told them Sergeant Barnes was helping me make chocolate chip cookies.” You purse your lips playfully.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, carrying the cookie tray to the oven with his metal hand and placing it on the rack. “I’ll have you know, I’m a man of many talents.”

“Hmm,” you nod. “And baking is one of them?”

“Kinda had to be,” He straightens up and gives you a crooked smile, dusting his hands off. “My sister always made me bake with her every Sunday night—said I was useless unless I was mixing the batter. She’d dance around the kitchen to the music from the radio, and boss me around like she ran the place. I got pretty good at it after a while.”

You smile, fighting with your insides to keep them from turning to mush. “That’s sweet.”

For a moment, he just looks at you as if he’s seeing a piece of that memory reflected in you, like something about this moment brings it back to life in the gentlest way. It’s delicately warm and wonderfully familiar, feeling like home in a way that means the world to him.

His smile softens briefly like he’s letting himself sit in it, in you, in the quiet comfort of something good. Then, with a small huff that sounds suspiciously like fondness, he shakes his head. “Don’t go spreadin’ that around. I’ve got a reputation to maintain here.”

You grin, eyes sparkling mischievously. “How’d you know? I was actually planning on leaving a note next to the cookie plate,” You say, motioning in the air with your hands. “‘Rolled by James Buchanan Barnes. Carefully. With love. Lots of it.’”

Bucky rolls his eyes at your response, but grins anyway. “Cause you’ve got a big mouth, that’s how.”

You scoff, hand against your chest in offense. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s face doesn’t budge. It’s flat and neutral as he says, “You heard me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Jerk.”

Then without thinking, you dip your hand into the nearby flour jar—fingers curling around the soft powder—and flick it towards his chest in one swiftly impulsive motion. A white puff blooms across the dark fabric of his hoodie that he stares down at in a stunned silence.

You cover your mouth, a soft laugh slipping past it before you can even help it.

“Really?” He says.

You open your mouth to say something but then Bucky moves suddenly, reaching for the flour with a speed that ignites your fight or flight instincts.

“Alright, then.” He tilts.

You yelp, bolting around the kitchen island as he grabs a handful. “Bucky, no—”

“You started this.” He teases, following you in a confident sort of chase.

Circling the counter again, you attempt to increase the distance but as you round the far side, a cloud of flour explodes against your back.

“Hey!” You exclaim, eyeing the streak of white powder covering your crewneck.

Bucky just smirks, eyebrows raised in mock concern so in return, you reach into the flour jar again, desperate to get him back.

And for a sincere moment, the kitchen fills with laughter—yours bright and effortless; his, rough and warm, in a way it hasn’t been in years. For a full minute, nothing else exists but the sound of feet padding against the tiled floor as flour flies across the air in a ridiculous food fight. You’re both smiling like complete idiots despite the mess you’re making and Bucky realizes, suddenly and quietly, that this might be the happiest he’s been in a long time.

You lunge forward to circle the table again but this time, instead of running away from him, you run past him. It’s a drive-by attack, your arm shooting out as you pass to sprinkle flour directly onto his head.

A satisfying puff coats his dark hair and you let out a laugh of success. You attempt to make a run for it but then his fingers wrap around your wrist and in one fluid motion, he gently tugs you back towards him. Faster than you can process, your body spins around and your chest collides directly with his own.

Your feet stumble to a stop.

The both of you still.

Your head tilts up but his gaze is already on yours, staring at you with a longing look you only wish you can decipher.

Yet, before either of you can say anything, he lifts his hand and drops a handful of flour on the top of your head. The powder puffs out, sprinkling over your forehead and acting as glitter on your eyelashes.

Your mouth parts in shock, and Bucky, he’s grinning like he’s just won first place. “Got you.”

“You cheater.” You huff at the same time flour trickles from your hair in a silly fog of smoke onto the two of you.

He laughs, deep and sincere. “We didn’t establish any rules.”

You try to glare up at him but suddenly, you’re entirely hyper-aware of his hand that still holds your wrist gently, keeping you tucked against him. You swallow, eyes flickering across his face like you were trying to determine if he felt it too—that warmth pooling at the bottom of your stomach.

Some quiet song hums low from the kitchen speaker, delicate and slow, the kind of melody that makes everything feel like it’s moving in slow motion.

“You good?” He tilts his head, smiling crookedly.

His voice is too close, too gruff, that you almost melt into a puddle on the kitchen floor.

“Fine,” You say, the word coming out a lot quieter than you intend it to. “You win.”

Suddenly, Bucky gets trapped in the sincerity you watch him with. Your eyes are soft, puppy-like almost—wide and searching as they stare at him like they’re trying to figure him out without saying a word. Surely you don’t mean to, but he’s not positive he can handle the way you peer up with knitted eyebrows of velvety vulnerability. They’re gentle, so much so that it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

A guttural ache curls at his insides, burning with a longing desire that he doesn’t know how to put out. For a split second, he thinks about leaning in to close the distance that is so obviously being pulled taut, like an invisible string, between the two of you. And in that same second, he thinks he might read it on your face too.

Would it be so horrible if his lips met yours beneath the gentle light of the Tower’s kitchen; where flour coats the counters, and your eyelashes, like snow. Where your laughter lingers in the air like a song he heard once and could never get enough of. Where the smell of warm, chocolate chip cookies in the oven dances around you and makes you feel like home. Would it be so terrible to give in to something so soft, so tender?

Bucky isn’t sure but, god, he wants to. He’s wanted to, for as long as he can remember. And he almost does.

Until his grip loosens and the weight of who he is pulls him back down to earth from the clouds you have him floating in.

His hand slips from your wrist and just like that, the window of opportunity passes. For a beat, he thinks he catches a glimpse of disappointment in those eyes of yours but then he’s forcing himself out of it, clearing his throat free of the tension and words he doesn’t say.

“I’ll check on the cookies.” He says, coming off confidently like usual, though he was far from it.

“Good idea.” You nod, far too quickly for it to be casual. “Don’t want them to burn and have everyone know Bucky Barnes isn’t as good at baking as he says he is.”

He smiles, the flutter stuck in his chest like the smoke after a flame is put out.

“They won’t burn,” He tilts his head. “Not when they were rolled carefully with love. Lots of it.”

And just like that, you’re back—the two of you falling into that easy, mutual rhythm as if the longing stares and gentle touches mean nothing. You move around each other like you always have, in that seamless and unspoken way despite the unsaid that lingers. It hovers, just beneath the surface waiting for one of you to finally put a name to it.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It was supposed to be a low-level recon mission at a nearby Hydra facility—one where the team got in and out with no problem. No combat. Just surveillance and intel retrieval. Easy enough for you, Natasha, and Sam to handle on your own. The rest of the team had stayed behind to run tactical. It was one of those missions—quick, clean, no surprises.

Except something did happen. And now, no one can reach you.

“It was an ambush,” Natasha’s voice says through comms, sharp with static and urgency. “We didn’t see them coming.”

The facility had been more than just abandoned—it was bait. Seconds after infiltration, the place locked down, alarms blared, and drones swarmed the exits. A blast took out part of the structure, and in the chaos, the three of you got separated.

“Nat,” Steve speaks through the comms after a few minutes pass, his voice calm despite the circumstances. “Have you found each other yet?”

It takes a second but then Nat’s voice is echoing through the speaker. “I’m with Wilson but we can’t find Y/N. She’s still not responding to us on comms.”

Bucky leans against the control panel, his jaw clenched in worry. Guilt washes over his body in a wave because before you’d left, he insisted on going with you all. Something about the idea of you walking into an ex-hydra base, even one that’s been shut down for years, didn’t feel right to him. Yet you’d insisted he stayed.

“I’ll be fine, Barnes.” You had said.

“I don’t trust it.” He responded.

Placing a gentle hand on his metal arm, you continued. “Just trust me.”

So he did and while he’d never doubt your ability to take care of yourself, he’s more mad at himself for knowing something was suspicious about the ex-Hydra base and letting the three of you go alone anyways.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y,” Tony’s voice breaks Bucky out of his head. The Stark man sits across from Steve, observing the map and the way your location has been pinging in the same spot for the past five minutes. “Any intel on Y/N’s location or activity from her suit?”

miss y/n’s current location cannot be updated. her suit appears to have lost connection.

Bucky watches in real time as your location on the map flashes red before blinking away completely.

“Fuck!” He growls, slamming his fist down on the table before backing away, pacing like the movement might ease him of the frustration coiled in his chest.

Steve glances at his best friend, jaw tight. He understands the anger, he feels it too, but knows better than to try and talk Bucky down. Instead, he turns back to comms and speaks, low but urgent, “Nat, her location has gone off the grid completely. Any sign of her?”

“No! We can’t,” Natasha’s voice comes out in a panic before static ensues. It takes a moment amidst all of the chaos before she speaks again, “We can’t find her! Steve, the building’s gonna collapse, we’ve got to get out of here!”

With those words, Bucky’s heart sinks to the bottom of his chest, sudden and harsh like the drop on a roller coaster. “No.” He says, his voice loud and stern as he approaches the panel and leans over Steve to speak to Natasha himself. “You’re not leaving without her.”

“Buck.” Steve glances up at him.

“Her location last said she was in the building.” Bucky presses his index finger against the map. “If it collapses and she’s—”

“Hey,” Steve says more firmly, turning towards his friend. “We don’t know that she’s still in there.”

“We don’t know that she’s not!” Bucky’s voice rises before he can stop it, words tearing out of him louder than he means, but the release feels necessary.

“Steve,” Sam speaks through his earpiece. “We’ve scoured the entire building, Redwing too—nothing. The damn ceiling’s gonna fall!”

“What if they took her?” Bucky proposes, standing up to run a hand over his head in worry. It’s not an idea far out the picture, after all, Bucky knew a lot about how capable they were of doing so.

Steve rubs his forehead. He knew there was a chance Bucky was right. While you were more than capable of holding your own, he also understood the dangerous of you being forced to fend yourself off against a bunch of ex-Hydra operatives.

Steve’s silence might be enough to send Bucky into a full on crash-out. He can feel the anxiety coursing through his body—knowing that you’re out there by yourself, surrounded by the same people who once broke him. It’s a fear unlike anything he’s experienced before and when that thought hits, it doesn’t feel like a freight train, but something worse.

His whole life, Bucky had endured so much that pushing people away became the only way to keep them safe—from both the people that hurt him and himself. He hadn’t allowed himself comfort, hadn’t dared to reach for happiness because deep down, he didn’t feel he deserved it. And worse, he feared those who did veer close enough would come out exactly as he had.

But you—in all your warmth and kindness—had somehow snuck through the cracks in his armour and settled into his soul. He couldn’t keep himself away from you, no matter how much he tried. Sometimes, it made him feel selfish to want you as much as he did. You were good, far too good to be crushed under the burdens he carried. Yet, you had a way of imprinting yourself into his heart, where the damage was irreversible and Bucky hadn’t done a single thing to stop you.

And now, he is living that consequence.

He’s prepared to rain hell on anyone who might’ve taken you, who might’ve hurt you. With clenched fists, he readies himself to go out there and search for as long as it takes just so he can bring you home.

But then Sam’s comms crackle. “Guys! I think we found her!”

Bucky perks up, as Steve and Tony share glances of hope. They gather around the panel, waiting for Sam to speak up again or for your location to flash back on.

“Guys, we found her!” Sam shouts, his voice filled with relief. “We’re—”

But then his comms disconnect. Urgently, Steve tries to get back in contact with them, any of them, but it’s radio silence.

Bucky doesn’t know whether to be thankful or even more worried, and the knot in his stomach remains tight the entire time the tower awaits your return. They spend thirty minutes monitoring Sam and Natasha’s location as it maneuvers through the city, just hoping they’re coming back with you.

It feels like the longest wait Bucky has ever had to endure, like time was moving slowly just to fuck with him. He sits on a chair in the corner, leaning his hand back against the wall as his knee bounces up and down anxiously.

Then Tony speaks. “They’re back.”

Bucky looks up, eyes set on the map where Sam and Natasha’s location is pinned at the Avengers Tower. Without thinking, he pushes himself off of his chair and marches out of the control room. Tony and Steve are right behind him as he storms straight towards the elevators to greet you downstairs himself, but just as he enters the living room, the elevator door dings on their floor.

He blinks and there you are, limping in with Sam at your side and Natasha rushing into the kitchen to fill you up a glass of water.

Bucky freezes, observing the many scratches and scrapes on your face. Your suit is disheveled, reflecting a battle you seem to have clearly put up. For some reason, he can’t move. He just stands off to the side, watching with a distant expression.

Steve rushes over to your other side, though you insist you’re fine, and he and Sam guide you to sit on the couch. You hiss in pain as you do so, clutching your hip where you’d injured it during the collapse. Natasha makes her way over with the water cup, handing it to you and you drink it down almost immediately.

“We need to get you checked.” Natasha orders.

“No,” You say, shaking your head quickly. “I mean, yes but I just need a minute, just to catch my breath, please.”

Steve’s eyes flicker up to Bucky, who’s standing to the side like he’s afraid to get too close. He can see the longing on his best friend’s face, all of the unspoken words that are threatening to spill over the surface if he doesn’t say them soon.

“You two mind telling us what happened?” Steve turns to Natasha and Sam who nod almost instantly. Then he looks back at you and with a much softer voice, asks. “You gonna be alright for a bit?”

At his worry, your lips curl up into a weak smile—your attempt at lifting a weight off their shoulders. “Why? You wanna stay to babysit me?”

A few of the others let out small laughs, your usual positive attitude giving them some relief. All but Bucky, whose jaw clenches with a feeling he can’t determine.

Everyone moves to head towards the meeting room, leaving you on the couch to lean your head back in exhaustion. As they walk, Steve claps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder with a look that says, “If you don’t tell her now, I will.”

Soon, the team is out of the room, and it’s just you and Bucky remaining. You feel his presence before you look up to see him, but when you do, you’re met with devastated eyes that tell you just how much your absence has bothered him.

With a head tilt, your raspy voice speaks, “Buck—”

“You scared the shit out of me.” He admits faster than you can process. His words hang in the air, tension suddenly pulsing through the walls of the tower.

“I’m sorry,” You say. “The blast knocked me out and when I got up, I tried to radio but it crushed my earpiece.”

Bucky remains silent for a beat, but you can tell his brain is running a mile a minute. “They could’ve taken you.”

“They didn’t.” You answer, with a small shrug.

“They could have.” He emphasizes.

“But they didn’t.” You say honestly but gently, understanding how jarring this must’ve been for him considering his history. “I mean, I think,” You pause. “I think they tried to. I fought them off though, I took care of it. I don’t even think they were really a match for me.”

Your attempt at lightening the conversation doesn’t go unnoticed, and for a second, the ends of his lips twitch like he wants to smile, before dropping back to an unreadable expression.

To say you feel horrible would be an understatement. It wasn’t your fault—both of you know that—but it rattled him nonetheless. Even now, he’s staring at you like you’re some half-pretend haze in his mind, like he’s not sure if you’re even real.

With a deep breath, you start to push yourself off the couch, wobbling under the weight of pain and imbalance. Bucky is at your side in an instant leaning down to help. His hands find your hips with practiced care, gentle and respectful, as he helps guide you upright.

“What’re you doing?” He asks.

“Standing so I can talk to you.” You answer, wincing a bit as your back straightens but ultimately relaxing your shoulders once you meet his weary eyes.

“How badly are you hurt?” Bucky says, gaze examining you in your entirety, hands never leaving your hips as if he was afraid you’ll disappear once he lets go.

“My back’s sore, and I’m pretty sure I tore something in my hip but it’s alright.” You answer, your hands clutching his arms to stabilize yourself though you feel perfectly okay to stand on your feet. He doesn’t seem convinced and you duck your head to catch his gaze better. “I’m fine, Buck, see. I’ll be okay.”

Bucky is focused on the scrapes on your cheeks, resisting the urge he has to lift his finger and brush against them.

You’re okay.

He tries to remind himself—You’re standing in front of him talking, smiling, breathing. You’re okay. For a second, he almost can’t understand why he’s still so shaken up, until his eyes meet yours and everything makes sense.

“I thought I lost you.” He speaks before he thinks, the words slipping from his mouth like it takes all of his energy just to mutter.

Your own breath seems to get lodged in your throat because suddenly, you have no idea what to say. Despite its sadness, his admission feels like a swarm of butterflies is fluttering against the insides of your stomach—warm and fuzzy.

The way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters to him beneath the soft light of the Tower’s living room, nearly makes your legs give out underneath you. You clutch onto his arms tighter, fighting how deeply you wish to tug him against you.

Your mouth opens like you want to say something but then you close it with a shake of your head. Seconds pass of the two of you only holding each other’s gaze before you work up the courage to mumble out a response.

“I’m here.” Your voice is quiet, just above a whisper.

Bucky feels it before he can even process it—that warmth flooding his chest in an overwhelming way only you’re capable of causing. It’s a twist deep in his core that somehow makes him feel light on his feet, and suddenly, the only thing of any importance is your gentle eyes as they blink up at him.

He’ll hate himself forever if he doesn’t take this opportunity—if he lets his fear of vulnerability control him any longer. Bucky Barnes has wanted to kiss you so many times, and all of those times have ended with him pulling away because comfort and love are things he’s been robbed of for years—things he doesn’t feel like he deserves.

But god, he wants it, and he wants you. More than you can even begin to comprehend.

With a singular blink, and a desire strong enough to destroy buildings, he’s moving to close the distance.

You almost don’t realize it’s happening until his mouth meets yours with a feverish want.

Undeniably, you’ve dreamt of this moment for as long as you can remember—Bucky’s lips against yours, your bodies pressed together closely. You’d almost believe you’re dreaming if not for the feeling of his warm fingertips at the skin on your hips. Your eyes flutter shut and your arms instinctively move to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

Bucky’s brain becomes a foggy mess the moment you start kissing him back. His hands move from your hips to wrap around your lower back, in an attempt to help you maintain your balance and, at the same time, draw you closer. As your lips move against his, he can’t help but wonder how something so soft can feel so earth-shattering.

You’re both in a daze—one gentle but hungry nonetheless—like you’ve both waited so long for this moment and now that it’s finally happening, all other problems cease to exist.

As much as you hate it, you pull away for air. Breathlessly, your eyes scan his pupils that you swore have grown larger in size since you’ve last looked at them. When your mouth begins curling up into the brightest smile you’re sure has ever graced your face, you lean forward to press a small, gentle kiss to his lips.

Then another one.

And then another one.

And another.

He accepts them happily, almost entirely in disbelief that this is even his reality. His heart thuds hard beneath his ribs, almost like it wants to jump out right out into your hands.

“I’ve wanted you to do that for so long,” You hum against his lips as you press a final kiss to them. When you finally lean your head back, your eyes flicker across his face like maybe you’re making sure this isn’t a dream.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He echoes softly, fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles over the tender part of your back.

“Why didn’t you?” You ask.

He shakes his head, eyebrows free of that constant furrow they always seem to be burdened with. “Thought I had all the time in the world,” His voice is just above a whisper when he adds, “Today showed me that I might not,”

He brings one hand up to your face, placing the back of his index finger carefully against your cheek and brushing over a cut beneath your eye with a delicacy that feels like air.

“I wasted so much of that time already, being scared and holding myself back,” His focus never once leaves you. “I can’t anymore. I just want to spend it with you.”

For a second, you can only pause and wonder if Bucky knows the impact of his words—the very ones he uses so scarcely. They make your skin heat up and it feels as if the throbbing pain in your lower back suddenly dissipates.

“Me too, Bucky.” You breathe, sincerity coating your lips as you smile up at him. In traditional you fashion, your eyes glimmer with a sudden playful tease. “If I knew that’s all it would take, I’d have gotten beat up on a mission a lot earlier.”

Bucky lets out a breathy laugh, allowing himself the joy of grinning. “That’s not a funny joke.”

“It’s a little funny.” You reciprocate, tilting your head at him.

“No, it’s not.” He responds, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist.

You shake your head softly before leaning in to kiss him again. Bucky melts into it without hesitation, already cursing himself for all the time he spent keeping this at arm’s length. Now that he has it—has you—he can’t imagine ever letting go.

1.

You were in the middle of tidying up your apartment when Joaquín walks through the door like he lives there. Though you do always tell him you’ll leave the door unlocked for him, so you can’t really blame him too much for that. Before he even has two feet in the door, he begins spouting off random facts about his day or how many times Sam said something nice to him or how cool the stuff he had gotten to do was. You stop mid-dust to turn on your heels, watching as he shrugs his jacket off and steps out of his shoes. A small smile toys on your lips after you discard the duster on the side table and make your way towards him.

“And then he sa—,” He freezes, eyes zeroing in on the flower vase placed in the center of your small dining room table, “What are you doing with those? Those are lilies.”

“Yes, they are,” You curtly nod, gnawing on the inside of your cheek as you resist the urge to rub your irritated eyes.

You watch as something flickers in Joaquín’s eyes, something you can’t quite place, before he squints at you in disbelief. He drops his jaw to say something, but cuts himself off with a shake of the head. You can tell that he’s censoring himself, that he’s fighting off the urge to say what he truly wants to say. It seems to be a recurring theme in recent days. 

“You’re allergic to lilies,” He deadpans as he crosses his arms against his chest, “And so is Steve.”

“Tyler bought them for me,” You weakly sigh, casting your eyes to the ground in slight embarrassment, “He said he forgot I was allergic. I can’t throw them away, I’ll feel bad.”

Joaquín’s quiet scoff makes your face heat up because you knew ‘forgetting’ wasn’t a real excuse, but it was all you had. You tell yourself that it’s an honest mistake, and you believe him when he tells you he will remember next time. You give him grace and hope for improvement despite the subtle comments from all of your friends telling you that he wasn’t worth it and how you deserved so much better. However, when it was Joaquín on the other side of the conversation, it felt different. It felt worse, and you couldn’t quite figure out why. 

“Right,” He purses his lips and kisses his teeth, “If you say so.”

Silence fills the space around you, sticking to you as you chew on your bottom lip and attempt to segway the conversation into something less strenuous. The sound of soft thuds bounding near you breaks your concentration, your cat rounding the corner before he‘s gearing back to jump on the table. You were about to call out and stop him, but you were stopped by a tickle in your nose and, before you knew it, you were thrown into a burst of sneezes. You fold your elbow around your nose to keep yourself from sneezing all over the place before the palm of your other hand is rubbing at your eyes for relief. 

“Okay,” Joaquín calls out over your sniffling, and you can hear him gently shoving Steve off the table, followed by the glass scraping against the wood, “That’s it. I’m throwing these away, and you can tell him it was me who did it. If he even notices it.” 

You were blinking away the stars dotting your vision while he yanks the flowers out of the vase, throws them into the trash bag, ties it up, and places it right outside your door for him to take when he leaves. The entire time, you can hear him incoherently mumbling under his breath, but you don’t ask him what he was saying. The bits and pieces you think you’re able to make out were enough to tell you that he was far from impressed with your new boyfriend, and the last thing you wanted to face was his blatant disapproval head on.

However, little did you know, there was a much more prominent thought running amok in his mind. One that would change everything if you found out.

2.

The cafe was calm. A gentle hum of conversation filtering through the air, soft light decorating the space, comely art scattered on the walls. It had always brought you a sense of serenity you couldn’t find anywhere else. Well, almost anywhere else. Joaquín had a knack for bringing out the same tranquil feeling whenever he was around, but you didn’t dare admit that out loud. Not to yourself, and most certainly not to him.

“So, what did he get you for the big six months,” He asks, adjusting in the seat across from you as his knee almost brushes the inside of your thigh. 

It was innocent. A fleeting rush of air against the skin, but it makes your breathing falter. It makes a wave of heat rush to your cheeks, and a cloud of fog roll over your thoughts, but you shake it off like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the exact feeling you’d been waiting for the aforementioned He to give you since you’d met. You distract yourself by grabbing at the cup in front of you, twisting it on the table as you nip at the skin of your bottom lip and force the words to come out of your mouth. 

“Concert tickets,” You mumble without meeting his stare.

“What concert,” He presses with a quirk of his brow, mentally going over the list of all the artists he knew would be visiting D.C. soon. He couldn’t think of any you were interested in.

You sheepishly tell him the name of the rapper Tyler liked, and you have to busy yourself with aimlessly searching through your bag to spare yourself from the look that had undoubtedly twisted on his face. You’d already heard a long enough speech from your best friend and neighbor about how selfish the gift was, and you were praying that Joaquín was kind enough to spare you from his own. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to handle it from him. A few beats of silence pass, and you know you wouldn’t be able to avoid his gaze for too long, so, with your tube of lip balm between your fingers, you straighten your back and find his eyes.

“But you don’t like that kind of music,” He finally speaks up, voice strained with something terse and wired.

“I know,” You shrug, dragging the chapstick across your lips, “But he does.”

Joaquín’s focus briefly shifts to your mouth, but he’s quick to bring them back to your eyes so you don’t notice, his own lips pressed into a thin line before a deep breath passes through them, “Don’t you think an anniversary gift should be something you like? Or something you both like?”

Your body tenses as his words settle in your chest. He’s right, and you know he’s right, but you had already convinced yourself that it didn’t matter. That part of being in a relationship came with the obligatory notion of doing something for your partner that you didn’t necessarily like. Even if you had yet to do something with him that was just for you. It would happen eventually, right?

“It’s not a big deal,” You brush him off with a forced chuckle, “I’m sure it’ll still be fun.”

Joaquín doesn’t say anything else on the matter, choosing to let it drop because your words were painfully unconvincing, even to yourself, but there was nothing he could do. He knew the lingering comments he had been leaving were starting to irritate you, and he didn’t want to overstep in fear that all it would do was drive you away, because that was the last thing he wanted to do. All he can do is hope that you’ll see it yourself one day.

3.

When Joaquín had texted you and asked if you were free to come over to his place so that he could give you your birthday present, you were more than happy to agree. Mostly because it’s been a few weeks since you had last seen him, and you missed being around him, but also because you were curious to see what he had gotten you. He had always been a phenomenal gift-giver, and the fact that he knew you better than you knew yourself at times left you clueless as to what it could even be. 

“Who are you,” Joaquín forces his face to fall flat when he pulls the door open, “You look like someone I used to know, but I haven’t seen her in a year.”

“Okay,” You draw out with a feigned eye roll, “Tone down the dramatics, Torres. It’s been less than a month, and that’s no way to treat the birthday girl.”

“Your birthday was two weeks ago,” He playfully shouts as you push past him and into his apartment. 

“Semantics,” You wave him off, eyes darting around the kitchen and living room to see if he’d

left the box or bag lying around.

“Calm down,” He chuckles, letting the door fall shut behind him before he strides to you, knocking his shoulder against yours,  “It’s in my room. I’ll go get it before you pop a blood vessel.”

He shouts at you to get comfortable while he retreats down the hall, and you do just that. You had already kicked your shoes off by the door, which made it easy to fall onto the couch and pull one of your feet under your thigh as you wait for him to come back. Your gaze flutters around, taking everything in as if you hadn’t seen it a hundred times before. Pictures of his family littered the walls along with pictures of the two of you, and you can’t help but smile at that. Some of them are your most cherished memories, and the fact that Joaquín values them enough to display them makes something inside your chest swell.

Your peek into his choice of home decor comes to a stop when his voice echoes from his bedroom, shouting about how you need to close your eyes before he comes out. You do as he says, but not without a little complaining first, and wait for him to find his way into the living room. You can hear his footsteps slow when he nears the end of the hall, and you know he’s peeking around the corner to make sure your eyes are actually closed.

“Don’t open your eyes yet,” His voice is closer now, only a few feet away.

You feel the dip of the cushion next to you, followed by the soft crinkle of paper as he sets the bag on the coffee table. His shaky breath was so quiet you almost miss it, but you don’t say anything about it. You were growing impatient, the curiosity of the gift gnawing at you, and you were ready to see what he had gotten you. The teasing could always come later.

“Okay, you can open your eyes.”

Your eyes fly open, immediately finding the light purple bag that was stuffed to the brim with white tissue paper. Joaquín lets out a light laugh as he gestures for you to open it before he goes on a spiel about how hard it was to find. As you grab the bag, you realize it’s got some weight to it, which surprises you a little, though you don’t dwell on it for too long. You’re making sure to place the excessive amount of stuffing to the side, but you freeze when you catch a glimpse of what was underneath it all. 

“Joaquín, what the fuck,” You gasp, fingers tracing the stitching of the bag, “How much was this?”

“We both know I’m not going to tell you that,” He flatly says, his hands grasping the edge of the cushion as he leans forward to drag his eyes across your face, “Do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it,” You murmur, pulling the bag out so you can look at it in its entirety, “I’ve been looking at this for months, but haven’t been able to find one anywhere.”

“I know,” His voice is gentle and hesitant, “I remember you talked about it a while ago, so I pulled a few strings and managed to find one.”

You toss the bag to the side, instantly throwing your arms around Joaquín and pulling him into your hold. Without missing a beat, he winds his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder. The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest wasn’t uncommon when you found yourself in his embrace, but this time it felt like there was something more. Something that someone in a relationship shouldn’t be feeling with someone else, and it made your stomach twist with guilt.

You hastily pull away, giving him a sheepish smile before Joaquín’s gaze locks onto the chain around your neck, his eyes quickly narrowing into a glare. You already know what he’s looking at, so you don’t ask. You let him find the words he wants to say as you uncomfortably sink into your seat, waiting for the unavoidable to come. 

“That’s a gold necklace,” He states, finally dragging his eyes away from your chest, "You don’t wear gold.”

“No, but it’s cute,” You pipe up, though the squeak in your voice gives way to the cracks in your facade, “Tyler got it for my birthday.”

The silence that follows makes you want to vomit.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I’m about to say,” He straightens in his seat, his chest tightening when your face visibly twists in discomfort, “But the two of you have been dating for almost a year and he doesn’t know all your jewelry is silver? He still seems to “forget” you’re allergic to lilies and that you hate rap music? He cancels on you last minute to hang out with his friends, which is really shitty. He’s shitty and you deserve so much better than that.”

Someone like me, he wants to say. Someone who knows you inside and out. Someone who would get rid of all the lilies in the world if it meant you could walk around without sneezing. Someone who would shamelessly ask Sam to pull any strings necessary to find a purse that had been sold out for over a year. Someone who wouldn’t even look at gold jewelry when shopping for you. Someone who saw you. 

“I—,” You cut yourself off, jaw going slack and shoulders falling as his words settle in your chest.

Any words you were going to say die in your throat as you nervously wring your hands together and chew on the inside of your cheek. The tension that fills the room around you doesn’t bother you all that much because you know that he’s right, and there’s nothing left for you to say.

4.

When you woke up with a scratchy throat and a runny nose, you told yourself that it would go away. That if you took enough allergy medicine and drank enough tea, you would be able to drug yourself up enough to be fine, but you were wrong. Two o’clock came, and you felt considerably worse than you had when you woke up. Now, you’re toying with your phone as you try to find the right way to tell Tyler that you can’t make it to the concert. A few rehearsed conversations later, you’re clicking the call button under his name.

“Sup,” He mumbles into the receiver, making you outwardly cringe.

Who greets their girlfriend they haven’t talked to all day with ‘sup’? 

“Hey,” You harshly rasp, “I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight. I’ve been feeling pretty bad all day, and I don’t want to get anyone sick.”

“Damn, babe, that sucks,” He plainly groans, and you can practically see his head being thrown back, “I think Garrett wants to come, so I’ll ask him right now.”

Before you even get the chance to open your mouth, the line disconnects. Slowly blinking, you pull the phone away from your ear, stunned and in disbelief. 

What the fuck?

Sure, you were going to tell him to find someone to go in your place anyway, but he didn’t even ask if you were okay. If you needed anything. He just hung up like nothing else except his stupid concert mattered, but the worst part is, is that you’re not even upset about that. You’re mad.

Mad that you’ve been wasting so much time on him. Mad that you haven’t been paying attention to the dozens of red flags being waved in your face. Mad that you’ve been making excuses for a man who considered swimming in a pool a replacement for a shower. Everything you’ve been brushing off as ‘not a big deal’ came rushing to the surface at once, and it made your head throb.

You knew that you wanted to break up with him, which was something you should have done a long time ago, but you also knew couldn’t do it yet. You were civilized enough not to do it over a text, and had enough human decency not to do it before a concert he was excited for. Not that he would care either way, but unfortunately, you still had morals. Instead, you decided to call the one person you knew you could always count on, no matter what.

“What’s up stranger,” Joaquín brightly greets, a quiet buzz of people in the background.

“Whatcha doin’,” You cooly ask, clearing the obnoxious tickle in your throat.

“I’m not doing anything,” You can hear a familiar deep voice protest in the background, “Are you feeling okay? You sound sick.”

“It’s nothing bad,” You try and play it off despite knowing he would be able to see right through you, “Just a sore throat and a headache. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll let you get back to your date with Sam.”

“No,” He rushes out, still ignoring Sam’s teasing comments beside him, “No, it’s okay. We were just finishing up. I actually have some sopita left in the fridge, so I’ll bring that to you, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

While you wait for Joaquín, you get comfortable on the couch and let your mind wander. You begin asking yourself the question you’ve been trying to ignore: Why stay with Tyler for so long? When you really thought about everything you looked for in a partner, he lacked almost every single one of those attributes. He wasn’t necessarily your type on paper, either. What he was, was close and low maintenance, and you thought if you were able to convince yourself that it was working, that maybe one day it would.

You couldn’t have been more wrong about something if you tried. 

By the time Joaquín was walking through the door, you had rolled yourself up in your blanket and dozed off into a short nap. You only roused when he was delicately shaking your shoulder, his small smile and soft eyes being the first things you see when you flutter your eyes open. He gently guides your body into a more upright position before turning to the coffee table, and as he pulls everything you’ve ever asked for when you were sick out of the bag, you realize that maybe everything you had been looking for had been in front of you the whole time.

+1.

A few months have passed since you broke up with Tyler, who took it a lot harder than you expected, and things in your life seemed to fall back into place afterwards Work seemed to be going smoother, you seemed to be in an overall better mood, the stubborn acne on your forehead, seemed to disappear, and you were back to spending all of your spare time with Joaquín. You felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, yet there was one constant thought nagging at the back of your mind. 

Maybe you felt something more for Joaquín than you had ever let on. Scratch that, you know you do. 

The more time you spent with him, the harder your feelings got to ignore, which, in turn, meant that your loose lips and uncontrollable facial expressions got the best of you every once in a while. You would leave passing comments that made his brow quirk in curiosity, you would sit a little closer to him than necessary, which didn’t go unnoticed by anyone, you would uncomfortably grimace when girls made obvious passes at him right in front of you. Not that you had a right to feel any sort of way about that, which you knew, but it served as a consistent reminder that even though he was right in front of you, he was still out of reach. 

Well, you thought so, at least.

When Joaquín got back home from some sort of mission with Sam, the first thing he did when he landed was call you and ask if you wanted to go to the state fair that was in town for the week. The speed at which you had said yes was slightly embarrassing, but he didn’t seem to mind it one bit. In fact, he matched your eagerness with his own and began spouting off a list of plans he had for the evening. All of which made it sound like a date, but you didn’t dare point that out. 

The two of you have only been there for an hour, and Joaquín has already managed to beat six of the seven rigged games he wanted to try. After the last prize he asked you to pick out for him, you playfully ask him to slow it down a tiny bit because you weren’t going to be able to carry that many cheap stuffed animals all night. Through feigned reluctance, he agrees to give them a break and guides you through the crowd in search of something else to do that wasn’t the ferris wheel. He wants to wait until the sun sets to do that. 

“C’mon,” He gently urges, palm splayed against your lower back as he applies the slightest bit of pressure, “Let’s go to the photobooth.”

You wordlessly nod, letting him usher you towards the empty booth with a small sign that said ‘Picture this!’ above it and was tucked in a quieter part of the lot. He doesn’t move his hand away, and it was taking everything in you to concentrate on what was in front of you rather than the way his touch made your skin burn even through the material of your shirt. It was a simple touch, something he’s done a thousand times before, but this time it was making your head spin and your heart race. It was making it harder to focus, harder to act like you aren’t about to run headfirst into the wall of feelings you’d been trying to dodge. 

Joaquín pulls the curtain back, head slightly jerking towards the inside before he’s gently shoving you in before him. You place the bag he had conned one of the workers into giving you for the prizes between your feet and move over in an attempt to give him as much room as possible, but the space was small. Even with your body at an angle and a shoulder pressed against the wall, there was still virtually no space between you. You weren’t sure where you ended and he began. Without a second thought, he throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you even closer to his side while he clicks through the various backdrops. 

“What are we thinking,” His fingers brush against your collarbone, making your breath catch in your throat and a shiver run down your spine. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice, or he’s just really good at hiding it. “Old school Captain America layout, some weird safari one, or…”

His voice trails off while he shifts his gaze to you, dark brown eyes finding your own as his brow twitches. The subtle tilt of the head lets you know that he can tell something is off, but he can’t quite figure out what it is. The way he’s looking at you, like he was peering into the deepest parts of your soul, was making you breathless. It was making you forget how to speak. How to think. You force yourself to look away, instead leaning forward to select the ‘random’ button in the corner of the screen. You can hear Joaquín’s amused chuckle behind you, but you ignore it as you settle back into the seat and watch the numbers count down from ten.

“Smiles first,” You firmly nod, adjusting under his arm and focusing on the screen in front of you.

With a nod of his head, Joaquín tightens his grip on your shoulder and his lips tug into a bright smile that outshines your own. After the first one, he suggests that the two of you take a less serious picture, so you poke your tongue out of the corner of your mouth and wait for the second shutter click to go off. However, just as the number two rolls across the screen, he reaches over his torso and begins prodding your side, bringing out a round of involuntary giggles and shouts of mangled protests.

“I hate you,” You breathlessly call out, lightly slapping his chest while you attempt to squirm away from him despite there being nowhere for you to go.

“No you don’t,” His voice lowly rumbles, making warmth spread from your chest to your stomach until your entire body is on fire. 

When your nervous, yet curious gaze begins to slide up to his, everything that follows seemingly happens in slow motion. You meet his piercing stare. Your eyes flicker all across his face. He’s mirroring your every movement, but he lingers on your lips for a beat longer than you did. You swallow hard. The flash of the camera goes off. He brings his hand to cradle your jaw and his thumb caresses the apex of your check. Slowly, agonizingly so, the space between you becomes nonexistent. His lips are on yours. 

It wasn’t rushed, desperate, or hungry. It was soft, tentative, and quietly needy in a way that made it feel like you were being kissed for the first time all over again. He’s kissing you like you were anchoring him to earth, keeping him grounded and tethered to something that was raw and real. He slides his other hand down your spine, goosebumps forming in the wake of its path, until he reaches your lower back, and he’s pulling you closer into him than you thought possible. The loud hum of fair goers fade into nothing as your lips mold against his like you were made for each other. Though if you ask Joaquín, he would say that the two of you were made for one another. 

Neither of you register the last flash of the camera, both too lost in the feeling of each other, and it wasn’t until you hear a faint knocking on the outside that you reluctantly pull away. Your lips are parted as you try to catch your breath, blood pounding in your ears and your mind hazy from the feeling of his lips. Joaquín’s palm remains cradling your cheek, the skin underneath tingling from the touch alone, and he’s peering down at you with a look you’d seen on his face far too many times to count, but this time you aren’t afraid to face what it truly meant. 

“Told you you didn’t hate me,” He cheekily mumbles, thumb ghosting over your lips. 

“I guess not,” You bashfully hum, averting your gaze away from him before you weren’t able to resist the aching desire to kiss him again, “We should probably get out before the people in line hate both of us.” 

With an amused shake of the head, Joaquín places a quick and delicate kiss to your lips before he reaches to grab the bag from the floor and pulls the curtain back. You ignore the knowing looks the small group of people outside are tossing your way, choosing to quickly grab the printed pictures and tug him away from the photobooth. You don’t bother to drop his hand when you feel you’re a safe distance from the crowd, not that he would’ve let you if you tried, and it makes a certain feeling blossom in your chest. A feeling you’d been wasting your time trying to replicate with others for so long when it had been right in front of you all along.

“Let me see the pictures,” Joaquín softly demands, pulling you to a quick stop at one of the benches. 

You hand him one of the strips while you keep the other, eyes scanning each picture like you wanted to commit them to memory. They were all in black and white with various shaped green hearts decorating the edges. The first one is simple and cute. Smiles on both your faces, gentle twinkle in your eyes. The second one makes you playfully roll your eyes. Joaquín was poking at your side and your hands were pushing at his forearm, faces scrunched up with laughter. 

The third one might be your favorite of the four. You're both looking at each other with the same look in your eyes, the look of two people who are totally and entirely entranced with one another. It was the kind of look you would see couples give each other when they thought no one was looking. The fourth one makes you blush. Joaquín’s hand was cradling your face and his lips were pressed against yours, your visible hand clinging to his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear. It was a kiss straight out of a movie.

“We look hot,” He speaks up, nudging you with his shoulder, “I like them all, but the second one is my favorite.”

“That’s the worst one of me,” You throw your head back with a groan, “I look crazy.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my girl like that,” He mockingly protests, hand clutching at his chest, “I happen to like that crazy look, and think it’s the most beautiful sight in the world.”

You falter for a moment, two of his words ringing in your ears as you try to compose yourself. “Your girl, huh,” You quirk one of your brows, fighting off the urge to smile.

Joaquín’s entire body freezes before he sputters, “I mean, only if you want to be. Obviously if you don’t that’s okay. It is totally fine if you’re not into that. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.” 

You’ve seen him get flustered before, but this was a whole different level. His eyes are cast to the ground, his entire face to his ears are flushing a deep crimson color, garbled words are  tumbling from his lips and he’s shifting his weight on his feet. You curl your fingers around his bicep, forcing his attention back to you and you can visibly see him relax once he notices the teasing glint in your eyes.

“Obviously I’m totally into that,” You lightheartedly retort, “But you’ve got to take me on a proper date.”

His entire face lights up at your admission before he’s surging forward and peppering your mouth, cheeks, forehead, and nose with small kisses. “I’m going,” Kiss, “To take you,” Kiss, “On all the dates,” Kiss, “I’ll never stop taking you on dates.”

He kissed you a little longer this last time, not bothered by the blur of people crossing by you or the random comments from people who think they might recognize him. When he pulls away, it was only just enough for your lips to not be touching. He places his forehead against yours and pulls you into his warm embrace by your hips, your arms winding around his torso as you try and stifle a nervous giggle from being so close to him.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this,” He mumbles, his breath fanning across your face, “How long I’ve wanted you.”

You let your head fall to the side as you pretend to think about it. “I’m guessing since you almost hit me with your oversized backpack three years ago.”

“Close,” He chuckles at the memory of your first meeting, his hands squeezing at your hips, “It was a few days before that, actually. I was leaving the sandwich shop and I saw you trying to shoo these pigeons off the sidewalk because a group of cyclists were coming. The second I saw you, I swear it was like everyone else disappeared except for you.”

His confession catches you a little off guard. You have a vague memory of that day, but you can’t recall seeing Joaquín anywhere near there. Although, you didn’t know him yet so you weren’t exactly looking for him then. Even then, you never would have assumed Joaquín saw you like that this whole time. 

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

Bucky Barnes had faced down entire armies. He’d survived missions no man should’ve made it out of, stood toe-to-toe with monsters, and walked through fire more times than he could count. But none of that compared to this—to you. To your soft smiles, your gentle laughter, and your very specific brand of mischief. You didn’t need weapons or war to bring a super soldier to his knees.

You just needed one look.

That head tilt. That spark in your eyes. The way your lips would part in that little smile as you leaned in and said in the sweetest voice imaginable—

“Pretty please? With puppy dog eyes?”

He never stood a chance.

You didn’t abuse it. That was the most dangerous part. You only asked for little things. Cute things. Things that could never be considered a burden. And Bucky, well… he’d give you the moon if you asked. Hell, he was halfway to building a rocket when you offhandedly said once, “I wonder what sunrise looks like from space.”

It was a joke. A passing thought.

But Bucky remembered. Bucky always remembered.

The duck was his personal favorite.

It had started on a rainy afternoon, one of those slow, sleepy days where time seemed to stretch. You were in his hoodie, feet tucked into his lap on the couch, scrolling through videos on your phone while the sound of the storm tapped softly against the windows.

You gasped. “Oh my God.”

Bucky looked over, amused. “What?”

You turned the screen to him, pointing wildly. “LOOK at this duck. He’s wearing a sweater vest. This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. James. Look at his feet.”

Bucky squinted. “Huh. He’s fancy.”

“Fancy?!” you cried, clutching the phone. “He’s a whole gentleman. I would DIE for him.”

He chuckled, fingers drumming lightly along your shin. “Would you die for him… or want one of your own?”

You bit your lip. “Bucky, I am not asking you for a duck.”

He leaned back. “But you want one.”

You hesitated. Then…You folded your hands under your chin, your eyes impossibly wide and filled with longing. “Pretty please? With puppy dog eyes?”

He groaned, one hand dragging down his face as a grin crept in. “Not fair. That’s cheating.”

You beamed. “You love it.”

“I do,” he muttered, fully doomed.

Two days later, you opened the back door to the sight of a small, waddling creature in a tiny hand-crocheted sweater vest approaching the porch.

You blinked. “Is that—”

Bucky stood behind the duck, arms folded and entirely too pleased with himself. “His name is Sir Quacksalot. He likes strawberries. And cuddles.”

You gasped. “YOU GOT ME A DUCK?!”

He shrugged. “You said pretty please.”

Your squeal nearly shattered glass. You scooped the duck into your arms and spun around like you’d just won the lottery. “This is the best day of my LIFE.”

Bucky leaned against the railing, watching you coo over your new feathery friend. His chest felt warm—like some part of him had been waiting his whole life to see you this happy.

There was nothing he wouldn’t give you. No wish too silly. No ask too big.

At least, that’s what he thought—until you stopped asking.

It started subtly.

You still smiled at him, still kissed his cheek while he made coffee in the morning, still called him your “Bucky bear” when you wanted to make him blush (which always worked). But you weren’t asking anymore. Not for little things. Not even for something as simple as “can we make pancakes for dinner?” or “let’s take the long way home.”

At first, Bucky didn’t notice. Life got busy. He assumed it was just a lull, something fleeting. But after a week, then two, his chest began to tighten with something like worry.

You still looked happy. But it was quieter. Softer. More... reserved.

He started paying more attention. How your “thank yous” came with a hesitance. How you’d say, “You didn’t have to do all this,” a little too often. How your smile would falter sometimes when he gave you something, even as you hugged him and said you loved it.

And then one night, while you were asleep curled up in his arms, Bucky got up to grab a blanket—and his eyes landed on your notebook.

He wasn’t looking to snoop. He’d seen you scribble in it before—little doodles, grocery lists, the occasional poem or recipe. But this time, a page had slipped out slightly, catching his eye.

He picked it up.

And his heart stopped.

A sketch. A rough pencil drawing of a cabin. Trees. A porch swing. Notes scribbled in the margins.

String lights here?

Big fireplace with that armchair I love.

Waking up to snow. Coffee in mismatched mugs. Just us.

Then, the words that made his breath catch:

“Somewhere far enough to breathe. Somewhere I can wake up with him and feel like the world is still.”

You hadn’t shown this to him.

You hadn’t asked.

And he knew—instantly, gut-deep—that you’d wanted this more than anything. But you’d stopped asking because you didn’t want to seem like you were asking for too much. As if he hadn’t already given you his heart, his home, his soul.

Bucky closed the notebook gently.

And called in a few favors.

You were already suspicious when he drove you out of the city and wouldn’t tell you why. The trees grew thicker, the air cooler, and your eyes narrowed with every passing mile.

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “If this is a murder cabin, I swear—”

He snorted. “Trust me. You’re gonna like it.”

When he pulled off onto a narrow gravel path, your heart began to thud. And then you saw it.

The porch swing. The twinkling lights. The tall trees surrounding the cabin in quiet serenity, the kind of calm you only ever dreamed of.

Your hand flew to your mouth. “No way,” you whispered.

Bucky stepped out of the car and rounded to your door, pulling it open gently. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You stepped out, staring at the cabin like it might vanish if you blinked. “How did you—?”

“I found your notebook.” You froze.

“I wasn’t snooping. Just saw the page,” he said softly. “And I thought… if you won’t ask for it, I’m just gonna make it happen anyway.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t ask because it felt… like too much. You already do so much for me.”

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was touching something precious. “There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ when it comes to you. You want it? It’s already yours.”

Tears stung your eyes.

He pulled you into his chest and held you there for a long time, his chin resting against your head, his heart thundering against your ear.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I love you more than I’ve ever known how to say.”

That night, you sat on the porch with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, Bucky behind you, his arms around your waist as you sipped hot cocoa in one of your mismatched mugs.The stars were clear. The world was still.

Sir Quacksalot waddled across the porch in another ridiculous sweater (Bucky had packed a whole duffel bag of duck outfits, because of course he had).

And you leaned back into the arms of a man who would burn down the world just to see you smile.

He kissed your shoulder, then whispered against your skin, “You never have to ask, doll. If it matters to you… it already matters to me.”

You mattered to him more than anything else. So, if someone bothers him, yeah, he could let it go. Someone upsetting you? He wouldn't stand for it.

Bucky's eyes narrowed as he spotted the little weasel sitting at the table in the break room alone. A few hours ago, you called him to vent about how this guy repeatedly tried to make you look bad in front of your superior during a meeting. It wasn’t the first time either. Your tears of frustration were obvious by your tone on the other end, though you tried to hide them. You worked hard, harder than anyone else he knew, and you took your job seriously.

He saw red when he heard you sniffle and it was the only color he had seen since then.

“Give me his name.”

“Bucky, no,” you had argued. “The guy’s a prick and I just needed to vent, so you don’t-”

“Please, baby,” he whispered, knowing full well you could handle yourself, but you were his wife and someone took joy out of your day. Not just that, they made you cry. He took this personally and he wanted to defend you. “Just give me his name so I can take care of it.”

You softly gave him the name, and he made it a priority to find the asshole. It didn’t take him long. No one even questioned why he was asking. It must’ve been his “murder strut” and glare. You once said it could break even the strongest of people.

He headed toward the empty chair beside the agent, careful not to make a sound. His stealth assisted with that. Once he reached the chair though, he made it a point to scrap the chair across the floor to get the prick's attention. The annoyance in his eyes quickly shifted to fear when he realized who he was looking at.

Good. He hoped he pissed his pants.

He made a show of slipping off his leather jacket before taking a seat, making sure the agent got a good look at his metal arm. He also made a show of getting one of his knives out, one you gifted him. “I think we can skip the introductions since you know who I am and I really don't give a shit who you are,” he began, his voice low as he twirled the knife between his fingers. “But I understand you know my wife and, well, she’s the reason I’m here.”

The guy blinked when Bucky made eye contact, the blade still expertly weaving in his hand. “S-Sure. Everyone knows your wife.”

Bucky smiled softly, taking a second to glance at his wedding band. “I’m usually not one to brag, but I can’t help it when it comes to her. She works hard and deserves all the praise she gets, but she’s still humble. Appreciative. Loyal,” he boasted, still smiling before he glared again. “She’d never throw anyone under the bus, especially in front of a superior.”

The little weasel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. He seemed to notice for the first time that they were the only two people there. “Look, I don’t know what your wife said, but-”

Bucky pointed the blade at him. “I would think very carefully about what comes out of your mouth next,” he snarled, his eyes as cold as ice.

There was a beat of silence as the guy squirmed in his seat and averted his gaze. Bucky wished you were there to see it. And Steve and Sam. “I may have run my mouth a bit. I just wanted to knock her down a peg or two, you know? She keeps getting promoted and…” he swallowed when Bucky’s eyes narrowed to slits. If this fucker even thought about implying that you slept your way to get where you were today, he may actually cut his throat. “Please, don't kill me.”

The silence after that statement may have been uncomfortable for some, but Bucky didn’t break a sweat. No, he was just thinking of all the different ways he could put him in the hospital for even thinking he had a right to put you down. Putting the knife away, he slowly got to his feet. “Get up,” he said quietly, flexing his hands in intimidation.

“Fuck.” The man nearly knocked his chair over as he stood. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he blurted out, putting his hands out in front of him. “I’ll apologize to her first thing tomorrow, I swear.”

“You think that makes up for it? And are you sorry for trying to make her look bad or are you sorry that you’re under my radar now?” Bucky’s stare remained steady as he knocked his chair out of the way, the piece of furniture nearly splintering when it hit the wall. “Everyone knows what I'm capable of, but do you know what happens to people who upset. My. Wife?”

Bucky refused to say that you cried. The asshole might take that as a sign of victory and he wouldn’t give him any sort of win. He didn’t deserve it. He didn't deserve to be in the same space as you.

The guy’s mouth parted as he took a few steps back on shaky legs. “I-It won’t happen again! I swear!”

“No, it won't, but how about I cut your tongue out so you can’t run your mouth again? Maybe pull out your teeth, too?” Bucky knocked the table away next as he advanced. “Or how about your eyes so you won’t look at her either. Hell, I’ll settle for taking your arm. We’ll match.”

The man let out what sounded like a whimper, his teeth nearly chattering from his fear. Scaring people had given him nightmares, haunted him, but it fueled his fire when he terrified anyone in your honor. “I won’t bother her ever again! I’ll tell my boss she deserves another promotion! I'll transfer! You have my word! I’m sorry!”

Bucky laughed after a moment, a bitter, chilling sound before he held up a hand. “I’m just fucking with you.”

His eyes were still wide with fear. “W… What?”

“I was just trying to scare you a little. You should see the look on your face,” Bucky chuckled again, lightly smacking the guy’s cheek. “Listen, you don’t have to transfer and I’m not going to torture you. Just apologize to my girl and we’re good, okay?”

“Okay.” He let out a breath and chuckled, too. “You really won’t torture me?”

“No, I won’t,” he grinned, grabbing his shoulders. “But I will knock you down a peg or two.”

The prick didn’t see the headbutt coming, but he felt it before he hit the ground. Bucky knew he’d feel it in the morning, too. He got off lucky.

“You know, after you apologize to my wife, I hope you do stay so you can see her continue to thrive,” Bucky toed the guy’s body with his boot. “And speaking of, I need to go buy her some flowers, chocolate, and wine. She deserves it.”

Grabbing his jacket from the broken chair across the room and brushing it off, he whistled as he left the room. He waited until he was a good distance away to call. You picked up on the second ring.

“Hey.” You sounded much better than you did earlier. “So, what’s the damage?”

“Hey, baby,” he smiled. “I headbutted the prick. And before you ask, my head feels great.”

The former assassin may get suspended for that and damaging the table and chair, but he doubted the asshole would have the balls to speak up about what happened.

“Bucky…” you sighed. You were probably pinching the bridge of your nose. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“You’re gonna let me eat you for dessert when I get home,” he smirked. Not that he needed an excuse to dive between your legs, but he'd take any chance he had. “Figure I'll give you at least two orgasms before dinner.”

“Is that right, Mr. Barnes?”

“That is right, Mrs. Barnes.”

The sound of your giggle spread warmth through his chest. Your happiness was his happiness. “Better not keep me waiting,” you teased, pausing for a beat. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” he said. You always stuck up for him without question.

“Love you.”

His heart swelled more. “Love you, too.”

He’d have some more explaining to do once he got home and would probably have to pay for the damage he caused. He was also sure that you were plotting the demise of the man’s career and would tell him that he didn’t need to do anything, but he wanted to. He was no longer the Winter Soldier.

But he was your husband and he’d defend you with his life, no matter what.

Violence isn't the answer, but this is fanfiction and we all deserve a loving Bucky. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️