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avengers masterlist ! 🕷✮

BUCKY BARNES ★★★ in this section, you’ll find a collection of bucky barnes x reader/oc works — stories that unravel the man beneath the metal, the past he can’t outrun, and the softness he hides so carefully. from aching angst to rare, quiet tenderness, each piece is crafted to explore trauma, healing, and the kind of love that lingers long after the final line.

mini-series the thunderbabies [20.4k words ; angst, enemies to lover, fluff] you and bucky barnes were enemies—always fighting, always stuck on missions together. but when the thunderbolts get turned into toddlers, you’re suddenly playing mom and dad with him. between the chaos, something soft starts to grow. but when the team goes back to normal, will they remember... and will you still matter?

one-shots the seven polaroids [14.2k words ; fluff, angst, you'll need tissues] you spend seven days with bucky barnes, just the two of you, tucked between memory and quiet places. there’s laughter, old stories, polaroids in soft light, and moments that feel like they might last forever. you don’t talk about what’s coming. you just stay, while the world gently lets you.

what we destroy to be free [25.1k words ; angst, fluff, hero x anti-hero] bucky barnes was supposed to help take down the most dangerous mind-bender the thunderbolts had ever faced, not end up patching her up in his apartment and watching her feed his cat like she belonged there. but when secrets unravel and loyalty starts to look a lot like love, bucky has to choose between the orders he's always followed and the chaos he can't seem to stay away from. what if the villain he was meant to destroy is the only person who truly sees him?

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STEVE ROGERS ★★★ in this section, you’ll find a collection of steve rogers x reader/oc works — a dive into the heart of a soldier who carries the weight of the world and still makes room for love. from slow-burn devotion to the ache of time and sacrifice, each piece explores loyalty, loss, and the quiet strength of a man who never stops trying to do what’s right, even when it breaks him.

mini-series coming soon . . .

one-shots the difference between loving and longing [10.5k words ; angst, fluff] you know that you will never be peggy carter. you are not her, and steve rogers is not the same man he used to be, but even when your heart tries not to hope, his gaze still lingers. his hands still find yours. his voice still softens when he says your name. so what do you do when the man you love still dances with a ghost… but holds onto you like you're real?

feral gremlin girlfriend [6k words ; angst, fluff] she's sharp, closed off, and terrifying on the field. no one really knows how to talk to her, and honestly, most of the team is too scared to try. except steve. he's the only one she lets close, the only one who sees past the walls. and when she softens around him, everyone else starts to realize just how deep it really goes.

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BOB REYNOLDS ★★★ in this section, you’ll find a collection of bob reynolds x reader/oc works — stories that orbit a man torn between light and shadow, godhood and guilt. these pieces delve into duality: tenderness wrapped in chaos, love laced with fear, and the haunting question of who he is when the void stirs. crafted with care, each work explores what it means to love someone who could save the world — or end it.

mini-series coming soon . . .

one-shots coming soon . . .

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LOKI LAUFEYSON ★★★ in this section, you’ll find a collection of loki laufeyson x reader/oc works — tales spun from silver tongues and shattered thrones. these stories explore mischief and vulnerability, divinity and damage, and the kind of love that tempts fate itself. crafted with myth and emotion, each piece dives deep into the soul of a god who wants to be more than the villain they made him.

mini-series coming soon . . .

one-shots coming soon . . .

top gun masterlist ! ᯓ ✈︎

TOP GUN FIC

THE LINE BETWEEN RIVAL AND REGRET [love triangle, angst, fluff, smut] bradley "rooster" bradshaw x kazansky!oc/reader x jake "hangman" seresin the dagger squad returns for a new mission, but something feels off. unfamiliar faces are watching, and a rival team is coming. when their leader is revealed, rooster's past catches up with him fast. hangman, on the other hand, is hit with a memory he probably should not have enjoyed as much as he did. what happens when the line between rival and regret gets too thin?

part one [6.5k words] part two [6.7k words] part three part four part five

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BRADLEY "ROOSTER" BRADSHAW ★★★ in this section, you’ll find a collection of bradley “rooster” bradshaw x reader/oc works — stories rooted in slow-burning tension, unspoken glances, and the quiet weight of living up to a name. each piece explores the boy he used to be, the man he’s becoming, and the love that teaches him he’s allowed to want more than just survival. heart-heavy, sun-soaked, and sometimes a little wrecked — this is where the sky meets vulnerability.

mini-series THE ORBITING ROOSTER [22k words ; angst, fluff, smut] rooster is not a leech (except when he is) [part 1 ; 10.7k words] bradley bradshaw had followed you everywhere since college—every base, every flight, always close behind. you never told him to stop... until you finally did. and when he let go, really let go, why did it feel like something you needed just disappeared? rooster doesn't care (except he does) [part 2 ; 11.2k words] you told him to let go, and he did—but now you miss him, even the clingy parts. then one rainy night, he shows up at your door, soaked and quiet, carrying everything he never said. the power cuts out, the space between you vanishes, and in the dark, you fall back into each other. come morning, you’re left wondering—was it love, or just the storm?

one-shots call it what it was [26k words ; enemies to lovers, angst, smut] you and bradley bradshaw have been in competition since day one, and you both swore you'd never fall for each other. but rivalry turns to tension, tension turns to touch, and one night changes everything—even if neither of you will admit it.

in this house, we fear the bra [1.4k words ; fluff] two idiots in love decide to watch a scary movie at home, but when a weird noise comes from the basement, things spiral fast. instead of being brave, rooster panics, grabs a swiffer for protection, and screams louder than the ghosts probably could. turns out, the terrifying noise was just a fallen bra—but not before both of them nearly pass away from secondhand embarrassment. just a normal night. kind of.

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ROBERT "BOB" REYNOLDS ★★★ in this section, you’ll find a collection of robert “bob” floyd x reader/oc works — tender, grounded stories that explore quiet loyalty, hidden strength, and the love that blossoms in stillness. from hesitant touches to unshakable devotion, each piece honors the softness of a man who sees everything, says little, and loves with the kind of depth that doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

mini-series TO THE SKY, FROM THE SEA [36k words ; angst, fluff, smut] what the ocean heard [part 1 ; 15.3k words] you and bob were best friends who got too close to just stay friends—but never close enough. then you left for a year with no contact, thinking it’d be easy. now the silence feels like goodbye. will he still be there when you come back? what the sky didn't say [part 2 ; 20.3k words] you were sent away for a year—no contact, no promises, just silence. you left your squad, your skies, and the boy who had your heart without ever needing to ask for it. but now you’re wondering... when the silence lasts this long, is anyone still listening on the other end?

one-shots some people are soft only for you [12.7k words ; angst, fluff] he’s always been the quiet one. the one who stayed in the background, who never asked for more. but what happens when you realize the one person who’s always been there... is the one you’ve been waiting for?

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JAKE "HANGMAN" SERESIN ★★★ in this section, you’ll find a collection of jake “hangman” seresin x reader/oc works — sharp-edged stories laced with tension, charm, and the ache of someone who pretends not to care but feels everything. from cocky smiles to quiet confessions, each piece unpacks the layers behind the bravado: the loyalty, the loneliness, and the desperate need to be chosen — not just admired.

series / mini-series THE FOOL AND THE GOLDEN BOY [122k words ; angst, fluff, smut] the fool outranks the golden boy [part 1 ; 18.2k words] how the hell did the fool end up outranking the golden boy? the fool humbles the golden boy [part 2 ; 16.6k words] what do you call a man who thought he had it all figured out—until the girl he let slip away returned like a storm in uniform, outshining him in every way and barely sparing him a glance? the fool haunts the golden boy [part 3 ; 18.7k words] how the hell are you supposed to survive saturday night with jake seresin at your kitchen table? the fool unmakes the golden boy [part 4 ; 17.9k words] the fool unmakes the golden boy... but can he rebuild himself before it’s too late? the golden boy becomes the fool [part 5 ; 22.3k words] how the hell did the golden boy become the fool? the fool, the golden boy, and everything in between [epilogue ; 26.5k words] what do you call a man who once flew too close to the sun, only to fall—willingly, stupidly, beautifully—for the one person who turned his recklessness into devotion, his chaos into quiet love, and gave him a home, a family, and a son asleep on his chest?

one-shots at least we were electrified [23.6k words ; enemies to lovers, angst, smut] you’re the only pilot who ever beat hangman in the air—and he’s been obsessed with you ever since. now you're stuck training together, sparring with every word, and pretending you're not seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off.

end of navigation ! 🕷✮

GOODBYE ★★★ thank you for exploring my blog — i hope you had fun, felt something, maybe even fell a little in love with a character or two. this space is messy and emotional and full of stories that mean everything to me, so it means the world that you’re here. whether you stayed for the angst, the comfort, or the chaos, i’m glad you made it this far. come back anytime — the drafts never sleep.

Meanwhile, everyone else had started noticing, too. Bradley leaned forward against the bar, Jake straightened up in that too-obvious way he did when he wanted to be looked at, and Coyote muttered something under his breath that made Payback laugh.

The squad was buzzing in a way they hadn’t in weeks, and Bob just sat there with his drink, watching you smile at Penny like she was your only anchor in the room.

Penny introduced you like it was nothing, just her niece, newly in town, helping out behind the bar for a while. You were taking a break from your old job as Penny said. Needed a change of scenery.

She said it like it was temporary, like you were just passing through, but Bob felt something else settle in his chest, like he already knew you were going to be here a while. Long enough to change things.

He remembered how you looked at each of them, Bradley first. You laughed at something he said and tilted your head a little, fingers brushing your necklace as if you were already a little charmed. It wasn't your fault.

Rooster could make most people smile, but Bob saw the way your eyes lingered a bit longer than they did with the others. The way your shoulders loosened near him, and the way you leaned in.

Too bad for Bob, he thought. Even then.

But he stayed quiet, like he always did. Just watched, then helped you carry a crate of soda to the backroom when Penny got busy. You smiled at him and said thanks like it actually meant something. And that, God, that was enough to get him through the rest of the week.

Over the next few months, he watched the way you folded into the rhythm of the place. You learned everyone’s drinks, picked up on who tipped and who didn’t, and started finishing Penny’s sentences before she could. 

You were quick, you were sharp, but you were never cruel. Bob saw the way you looked when you thought no one was paying attention, those small, tired moments when the bar was loud but you looked somewhere far away. He wanted to ask. He never did.

Then, came the Rooster thing. It wasn’t a thing, not really, at least (and hopefully) not yet, but Bob knew what it looked like to hope. He recognized it in himself first, every time you looked up when Rooster walked in, every time your laugh came a little easier with him. 

Rooster was kind to you. He flirted without meaning to. Sometimes he meant to. You flirted back. You wore that same necklace every time he was scheduled to drop in after a flight.

Bob just watched, quiet as ever.

As time went on, he kept finding reasons to linger near the bar after the rest of the squad left. Just to make sure you locked the doors safely, just to offer to walk you to your car. Sometimes, you talked. Not about much, like the weather, and how loud the jukebox was that night. 

Once, you asked him if he ever got tired of being the responsible one. He didn’t know how to answer.

He had started to think he would be okay with this, just being around. Being the guy who stayed, who didn’t push, who was always polite and careful and useful. It was enough. Until it started to hurt. Until he realized that every time he saw you with Rooster, something in him flickered in a way he didn’t know how to control.

And still, he said nothing, because it wasn’t his place, and because he wasn’t the kind of man who made grand gestures. He was the kind of man who waited, who hoped quietly, and who stayed.

But lately, he had started wondering; how long could someone wait before they started to break a little?

It was a Friday night when it happened, one of those rare evenings where the entire Dagger Squad managed to show up at the same time, no drills the next morning and nothing but hours ahead to kill. 

The Hard Deck was busier than usual, the kind of full that meant Penny had music playing just a little too loud and the laughter at the pool table spilled all the way to the back booths.

Bob had arrived early, the way he usually did, already nursing something mild as the others filtered in. He didn’t expect you to join them.

You normally stayed behind the bar, that was your world. You floated through it like someone who belonged to it, moving with purpose and comfort, like the chaos never touched you. So, when you slid into the booth beside him, smiling as you bumped your knee gently against his, Bob almost dropped his glass.

“Hope this seat’s not taken,” you said, already settling in.

Bob blinked, then smiled, the quiet kind that reached his eyes before it reached his mouth. “Nope, it’s yours.”

Meanwhile, Rooster dropped into the space on Bob’s other side, his laugh already halfway through some joke Phoenix had muttered earlier.

Fanboy was busy chatting up someone near the bar, Payback and Coyote deep in some debate about the rules of darts, and for a moment, Bob sat there with you to his left and Rooster to his right, wondering how he had become the center of gravity in a scene that made his chest tighten just a little.

You turned toward Rooster almost immediately, picking up where you’d left off earlier at the bar when you had been talking about music. “So, you’re telling me you still don’t know who Joni Mitchell is?” you asked, eyebrows lifted.

Rooster raised his hands in mock surrender as he leaned forward slightly, glancing past Bob to meet your eyes. “Look, I’ve heard the name. That counts for something, right?”

You scoffed as you grabbed a fry from the basket in front of you. “Barely, ‘cause that’s like saying you’ve heard of air.”

Bob watched you as you laughed, watched Rooster roll his eyes and reach for his drink, and as the two of you kept trading playful jabs, he stayed quiet, sipping slowly.

He wasn’t left out, not really, but he nodded when you said something funny, smiled when Rooster responded, but no one was talking to him directly. He didn’t mind, not really.

Then you turned toward him, nudging his arm lightly with your elbow. “Bob, please tell me you have decent taste in music. Help me out here.”

He set down his glass as he met your gaze. “I, uh, I like Joni Mitchell,” he said, voice steady but soft.

You grinned, leaning a little closer. “See? I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Bob blinked again, heart thudding once in his chest like it had just remembered it had a job to do. He smiled as he looked down, trying not to read too far into it, trying not to catalog the way you had said it. 

You turned back to Rooster almost immediately, still half-laughing as you grabbed another fry and tossed it onto his plate like a challenge.

As the conversation moved on, the rest of the squad trickled closer, Jake finally giving up on his conquest at the bar and dropping into the seat beside Phoenix.

The table filled with the usual rhythm, jokes and teasing and interrupted stories, but Bob couldn’t shake the way you kept leaning slightly toward Rooster as you talked.

He couldn’t help noticing how Rooster’s shoulder brushed his own whenever he turned to respond to you, how Bob was caught in the middle of something he wasn’t part of.

He laughed when they laughed, nodded when someone addressed him, answered questions when they came his way, but he felt it. That quiet weight of watching something unfold next to him, knowing he was only a bystander. He didn’t resent it, and he didn’t resent you.

He just wished, for one brief, selfish moment, that you would lean his way again.

Across the table, Phoenix caught Bob’s eye as Rooster launched into some story about flying low over the mountains in Nevada. She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head slightly toward you, her meaning loud and clear. 

Beside her, Hangman smirked as he sipped from his beer, then shot Bob a look so exaggerated it almost tipped into performance, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, a slow shake of his head that said, Seriously, Floyd?

Bob didn’t react. He kept his gaze fixed on the half-empty fry basket and picked at the edge of his napkin like there was something fascinating about the texture.

He could feel their eyes though, the silent conversation that he knew was happening in looks and subtle nudges. He knew what they were thinking, and he refused, absolutely refused, to let it show on his face.

Because you were still sitting beside him, warm and easy and relaxed, legs crossed in his direction, and he wasn’t about to mess that up by getting caught staring or doing something stupid like hoping. 

So, he kept his voice casual when he joined the conversation, offering a quiet “Sounds intense,” after Rooster finished his story, even though he’d barely heard a word of it.

Phoenix didn’t drop it. She leaned forward on her elbows as she looked at him again, this time mouthing a word Bob didn’t want to see but definitely understood.

Talk.

He took a long sip of his drink instead.

Meanwhile, you laughed at something Rooster said, and Bob felt your hand brush his arm briefly as you leaned into the table to grab a napkin. It wasn’t anything. Not really, but his breath still caught for a second before he swallowed it down.

Then Hangman leaned in, voice low but pointed. “So, Floyd,” he said with an easy smile that always meant trouble, “any updates in your love life? Anyone we should know about?”

Phoenix didn’t even try to be subtle. She turned her head and looked directly at you, then back to Bob.

Bob didn’t flinch. He took another bite of his burger as if Hangman had just asked him about the weather. “Nothing new,” he said simply.

“Tragedy,” Hangman muttered, shaking his head with a grin.

Beside him, Phoenix rolled her eyes and sat back as she sipped from her straw, but not before muttering under her breath, just loud enough for Bob to hear, “Coward.”

Bob didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his expression even as he folded his napkin in half again, smoothing the crease with his thumb. If he answered now, it would only draw more attention.

If he said anything, you might notice, and the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were a spectacle in someone else’s drama. 

You deserved better than that, and he didn’t want to risk making you uncomfortable, even accidentally.

So he sat there, listening to the noise of the table rise around him, with your shoulder brushing his again as you turned back to ask Rooster a question about call signs.

He told himself it was enough, that this was fine, because you were beside him. You had chosen that seat. Maybe not for the reason he wanted, but you were there.

And that was more than he’d ever expected. Right?

Bob had just managed to pull himself back into the rhythm of the table, laughing politely, nodding at the right moments, forcing his attention onto Coyote’s rant about someone double-parking their Bronco again, when Jake looked at him.

Not a glance, not a passing look. A full, deliberate pause. Mischief flickered behind Hangman’s eyes like a match just waiting to be lit. His expression was easy, casual even, but Bob knew him too well by now. That look always meant something was about to go sideways.

Bob met his gaze briefly, brows furrowing. Jake tilted his head slightly and raised his glass in a mock toast. Then he shifted in his seat, leaned forward on his elbows, and with surgical precision, turned toward you.

“Hey,” Jake started, voice pitched just right to cut through the noise, “how are you settling in? Penny’s got you working double shifts lately, huh?”

You smiled as you wiped a bit of salt off your fingers. “Yeah, she’s been trusting me with more lately. Not sure if that’s a compliment or if she’s just trying to avoid the late-night crowd.”

Jake chuckled. “Well, if it’s a compliment, you’ve earned it. You handle this place better than half the guys I’ve flown with.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That is not a high bar, Bagman.”

“True,” Jake grinned, tapping his glass lightly against the table. “But still, you’ve got something the rest of us don’t.”

Bob tried not to react. He stared down at the condensation ring forming around his glass and took a breath.

Jake continued, voice smooth, casual, laced with something just clever enough to be dangerous. “You’ve got the whole ‘people actually like talking to you’ thing, and I mean that. I’ve seen the way folks stay longer when you’re behind the bar.”

You shrugged modestly, eyes warm. “Well, I listen, so I think that helps.”

Jake smiled, then glanced, briefly but intentionally, at Bob. “Yeah, listening’s a skill, but not everyone’s good at it.”

Bob didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but his fingers curled just slightly around his glass.

Then Jake leaned back and turned toward you again. “You ever get bored of it, though? Listening to people talk about themselves all night?”

You laughed under your breath as you picked up your drink. “Sometimes. Depends on the person, but I don’t mind hearing people’s stories.”

Jake nodded slowly. “What about yours? Who listens to you?”

Bob’s eyes lifted before he could stop them.

You blinked, like you hadn’t been expecting the question to come from him, and there was a beat of silence. Then, you smiled, softer this time. “I don’t know. I guess… not many people ask.”

“Maybe they should,” Jake said, tone light, almost teasing. “Bet it’d surprise a few of us.”

You laughed again, brushing it off as you reached for another fry. “You trying to psychoanalyze me now?”

Jake shrugged. “Nah, just think good people deserve someone who listens back.”

Bob looked down again, heat crawling behind his ears.

Then, Jake turned toward him, casual as ever, and nudged his shoulder once with the back of his knuckles. “Right, Floyd?”

Bob blinked, glancing up, catching the quick glint in Jake’s eye and the faint curve of a grin playing on his lips.

“Y-yeah,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I think so.”

He didn’t dare look at you then. He just reached for his glass again, swallowing the thought before it could become a word.

Jake sat back, satisfied, sipping his drink like nothing had happened, but Bob could feel it. The shift, the air had changed, and even if you didn’t notice yet, even if you still leaned toward Rooster when you laughed, there was something unspoken now settling between you and Bob.

Something Jake had poked loose just enough to rattle, and Bob wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank him or strangle him for it.

A few hours later, the bar was mostly empty, and the energy had dimmed into something quieter, more settled. The jukebox had long since shut off, the chairs were stacked, and Phoenix had waved a lazy goodnight as she ducked out with Coyote and Payback trailing behind her. 

Bradley had left earlier, slipping out with a promise to come by for coffee sometime this week. Jake lingered just long enough to shoot Bob another smug glance before tipping his hat and disappearing into the parking lot.

Bob stayed.

He sat at the corner of the bar, sipping the last of something watered down, watching you move through the final closing routine with practiced ease.

You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on wiping down the counter and counting the register, but when you turned to grab your keys, you paused, just slightly, like you had sensed something.

"Bob!" Your brows lifted. “You’re still here?”

Bob straightened a little as he stood, quickly clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah. I—I mean, I figured you might need, well, I remembered earlier you said your car’s still not fixed, and I didn’t want you walking home or calling a ride this late.”

You blinked at him for a moment, then smiled. “Bob.”

His name sounded different coming from you, like you actually meant it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking somewhere near your shoulder. “I just thought… maybe I could drive you? If that’s okay. I mean, if you’re not already set.”

There was a small pause before you nodded once, keys still in hand.

“That’s really sweet, but—” you glanced out the front window toward the beach, where the tide was low and the moon was soft, casting everything in blue and silver. “Can I walk the beach first? Just for a few minutes. I usually do that after closing, and it helps me clear my head.”

Bob blinked, surprised by the question, then nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

You smiled again, smaller this time, and pushed through the door with a soft jingle of keys. He followed at a quiet distance, careful not to hover too close.

The night air was cooler than earlier, carrying the sharp, familiar scent of salt and old wood. The sand crunched lightly beneath your shoes as you stepped off the boardwalk and started down the beach, slow and quiet.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The ocean moved in the background, steady and gentle, waves lapping at the shore like they had all the time in the world. You walked with your arms loosely folded, head tilted toward the water, and Bob kept a respectful step behind, not quite beside you but not far either.

Eventually, you looked over your shoulder and nodded toward the waterline. “You can walk next to me, you know. I don’t bite.”

Bob smiled softly, catching up. “I know.”

You didn’t speak again for a bit, just let the sand and the sound of the tide fill the silence. He could see the tension easing from your shoulders as you walked, your steps slowing like you didn’t want to go home just yet, and honestly, he didn’t want to drive you there just yet either. He was content just being here. 

Then, you glanced at him again, eyes curious. “You always stay this late?”

Bob shook his head. “Only tonight.”

“Because of my car?”

He hesitated for a beat, then answered truthfully. “Because of you.”

You didn’t say anything at first, and he didn’t expect you to, but he felt the shift again, small and quiet, like maybe you were seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time in a while. And for once, he didn’t look away.

After a few more minutes of walking, you drifted closer to where the water met the shore, the waves just brushing past your shoes. Bob followed carefully, keeping the rhythm, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The silence wasn’t awkward. It felt like it belonged there, like it was allowed to stretch without needing to be filled.

Then, you glanced over at him, your voice cutting through the quiet in a thoughtful tone. “You’re really quiet around me, you know.”

Bob looked over, a little startled. “What?”

“You barely talk,” you said, not unkindly, just honest. “I mean, I’ve known you for a few months now and I think I know more about Payback’s dog than I do about you.”

He let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“So?” you prompted, a little amused. “What’s your deal, Floyd? You always this mysterious or is it just around me?”

Bob looked down for a second, as if considering how much to give. Then, he smiled, faint but genuine. “It’s not just you. I’ve always been like this.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s not a bad thing. Just means I’ve got to ask more questions.”

Bob chuckled under his breath, then glanced sideways. “You really want to know?”

“Sure,” you said, looking out toward the dark water. “If you don’t mind.”

He was quiet again for a beat, then offered, “I grew up in Kentucky. Small town. Lots of farms, lots of quiet. My parents still live there.”

You glanced back at him. “That tracks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You’ve got that whole, dependable small-town guy energy,” you said, smiling a little. “Like you know how to fix fences and drive stick.”

Bob gave a modest shrug. “I do.”

You laughed lightly, then looked ahead again. “I didn’t grow up anywhere near that quiet. My parents moved around a lot, military family and stuff. I barely unpacked before we’d be gone again. Think we lived in seven states before I turned ten.”

Bob glanced at you, his expression softening. “That sounds tough.”

“It was,” you admitted, not quite looking at him. “You get good at starting over, but not at staying. Penny was always the one stable person in my life. She’d send postcards wherever we were. Always signed them with something dumb like ‘Don’t forget who makes the best cheese cake.’”

Bob smiled at that. “She still say that?”

“She texted me that two weeks ago when I didn’t answer her call. I was sleeping!”

He chuckled again, a quiet sound in the open air. “She really loves you.”

“I know,” you said softly, then paused. “I think that’s why I came out here. Just needed something steady for once.”

Bob was quiet for a moment, walking beside you with the surf lapping softly just ahead. Then he asked, “Do you feel like you found that?”

You looked at him for a long second, then smiled—not wide, not dramatic, just enough to reach your eyes.

“I think I might,” you said.

Bob nodded once, eyes on the sand as he kept walking beside you.

By the time the two of you looped back near the edge of the boardwalk, the night had settled into something heavier, quieter. The kind of stillness that came when the world was finally tired enough to rest. 

The ocean whispered nearby, all foam and pull, and the wind tugged gently at the hem of your jacket. You were walking closer now, shoulder just brushing his every few steps, not quite touching but near enough to notice when he shifted, near enough to feel the warmth coming off his sleeve.

You stopped walking first, and Bob paused beside you without question, turning toward the water as you looked out at it like it had something to say.

“I was kind of a mess when I got here,” you said, voice soft but deliberate. The words came out like something you’d carried for too long.

Bob turned slightly, watching your profile in the dim light, the way your gaze drifted to the horizon like it hurt to look back at the shore.

“I didn’t really say that to anyone, not even Penny. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, let alone out loud, but I was.” You exhaled, quiet and tired. “I was… really low. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t feel muchand I kept thinking maybe that was just how life was supposed to be.”

Bob didn’t interrupt. He stood there with you, steady, like an anchor just close enough to hold.

“Then Penny offered me the guest room,” you said. “Told me to stop pretending I was okay. Told me to come out here, take a break, just… breathe.”

You looked over at him slowly, your eyes searching his face like you were trying to see if he could hold what you were about to say next. “I didn’t think I’d stay. I figured I’d be gone in a few days.”

Bob swallowed, watching you now, completely still.

“But something about this place felt different,” you continued, eyes soft but steady. “The people. The ocean. The quiet. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I had to earn my spot just to exist. And I think—” your voice dipped slightly, careful now “—I think I found someone worth staying for.”

Bob’s breath caught, subtle but real. His fingers curled slightly in the pockets of his jacket. His heart made that same familiar leap, too hopeful, too fast. Then, he forced himself to slow it down, to be rational, to not assume.

He looked down briefly, then back up, eyes skimming your face. “Bradley’s… a good guy.”

You blinked. “What?”

Bob gave a small nod, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “He’s got a good heart. People like him. He’s easy to talk to, and I know he likes you.”

There was a pause, and then you turned to face him fully, the line of your shoulders shifting toward him like something inside you had snapped tight.

“It’s not Rooster.”

Bob blinked, startled. “It’s not?”

You took a slow step closer, not too close, but enough that the space between you suddenly felt deliberate. “It’s not. I meant someone else.”

His eyes searched yours, uncertain. You weren’t smiling anymore, not the playful, teasing grin you wore behind the bar. This was something rawer, something truer, and it pulled the breath from his lungs in a quiet wave. Your expression was open in a way he hadn’t seen before, like you were letting him see behind a curtain you normally kept closed. 

There was something in your eyes now, too, like something deeper than curiosity, warmer than casual affection. A look that didn’t hide how long you’d been watching him the way he’d been watching you.

“I’m talking about someone who stays behind without being asked. Someone who waits for me after closing, who always listens even when I have nothing worth saying,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “Someone who never tries to take up all the space in the room, but somehow makes it feel safer just by being there.”

Bob looked away for a second, then back at you. He was trying not to fall headfirst into the thing you were offering. He was trying to protect himself, because he couldn’t quite believe it, not yet. “He sounds… lucky,” he said, careful not to let his voice shake.

You watched him, your brow furrowing just slightly. “Yeah,” you said. “I think he is, or he would be. If he felt the same.”

Your eyes didn’t leave his. They stayed right there, open, waiting, soft in the edges but bright with something that looked like hope, or maybe just the kind of yearning that lived in quiet places. The kind that never demanded anything, just wanted to be seen.

Bob stood there with his breath held like he might drop something if he exhaled. And still, he said nothing.

Because the part of him that loved you the most was the same part that was terrified to believe this was real.

- You - 

After you bared your soul to Bob Floyd, nothing dramatic happened. The sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t tilt. You didn’t wake up the next day wrapped in some cinematic resolution.

What came instead was quieter. He hadn’t said anything that night, and in the days that followed, his silence stretched long enough to feel like an answer you didn’t want to hear.

At first, you tried to give him space. Maybe he needed time. You told yourself that, over and over, like a mantra you didn’t quite believe. He was thoughtful, cautious by nature.

Maybe he just didn’t know what to do with a moment like that, with someone standing in front of him asking him to be sure about something he had never dared to want out loud.

You excused his distance the first few days, chalked it up to nerves or work or some internal battle he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

Then a week passed. Then two.

Meanwhile, life kept moving around you. Penny teased you about always being lost in your head. The Dagger Squad still came in for drinks and darts and nights that ended in someone losing a bet. Rooster flirted with a girl from town. Phoenix rolled her eyes at every single one of Jake’s one-liners. 

And Bob? Bob was there, technically. He came in with the group, always on time, always polite. He nodded when you greeted him, smiled when the moment called for it, but the quiet between you was different now. Measured. Careful.

He didn’t stay behind after closing anymore. He didn’t sit at the bar with his hands folded while you cleaned up. He didn’t offer to walk you out to your car or wait by the door pretending he just happened to be there.

You noticed every time he left before the music ended. You noticed when he talked more to Phoenix, when he stared harder at his drink. You noticed when he didn’t look at you unless you spoke directly to him.

Then, came the creeping thoughts, the ones that curled around your ribs at night when you tried to sleep. Had you misread it all? The glances, the soft silences, the way he always stayed just a little longer than he needed to. 

You wondered if he regretted letting you say it. If he wished you hadn’t. If your honesty had ruined something that wasn’t even fully alive to begin with.

You started second-guessing your words. You replayed that night in your head so many times it felt like a memory pressed under glass.

And still, Bob said nothing.

You didn’t want to chase him. You didn’t want to make him feel cornered or forced, but the hurt settled in slowly, like the way ocean salt clings to your skin long after you’ve dried off.

You missed him.

Missed him in the kind of way that snuck up on you during the little moments, the quiet in between shifts, the way you’d glance up out of habit and expect to see him leaning against the wall, waiting.

But he was gone, not completely, but just enough to make you feel the difference. And you were starting to wonder if he had ever really been yours to begin with.

You remember having a joke before about having a thing for Rooster. He was easy to like. Loud in a charming way, confident without being cruel, handsome in that classic, all-American way that turned heads when he walked into the bar. He made people laugh. He made you laugh.

For a while, it was enough to have him flirt with you across the counter, toss you a wink after landing a bullseye at the dartboard, tease you about your drink preferences like it was some shared secret. It was simple, and safe in its own shallow way.

But somewhere along the line, somewhere between closing shifts and long glances and the sound of Bob’s voice saying your name just once in a quiet room, you realized it had never really been about Rooster.

Because while everyone else was turning up the volume, Bob was steady. He didn’t try to impress anyone, didn’t spin stories or flash that practiced grin. He was just there. Patient, observant, always listening, and always waiting.

And now, without meaning to, your thoughts kept looping back to him. You saw him in the quiet moments, where nothing loud or clever could fill the space. The ones where presence mattered more than words. 

And maybe that was why it hurt more than you expected, because you hadn’t just liked Bob. You’d started seeing him.

He wasn’t loud or traditionally flashy, but he had that kind of presence you didn’t fully appreciate until it was missing. He was tall, sure, but never made himself bigger than the room. His movements were careful, efficient, like someone who knew how to blend in but never truly disappear. 

There was a softness to the way he carried himself, thoughtful and precise, like everything he did had purpose. His sandy hair always looked like it needed a few more minutes in the mirror, but it somehow worked on him, just slightly ruffled, like he’d been running his hand through it all day. 

And his eyes, behind those glasses, were the kind you didn’t notice until you really looked. Clear blue, a little shy, always gentle, but there were moments when they caught the light just right and made your breath catch.

You remembered that night on the beach. The way he’d looked at you when you said it, really said it, and how something in his face had almost cracked. You thought he might say something then. Anything, but he hadn’t. He’d just looked at you with those quiet, stunned eyes and let the moment pass.

Now, two weeks later, it was all still sitting with you.

And no amount of Rooster’s charm or Jake’s jokes or Phoenix’s sideways glances could fill the space Bob had left behind.

Because it wasn’t just a crush anymore. It wasn’t something light or flirty or fun. It was something that had snuck up on you when you weren’t watching. And it was wearing glasses and a quiet smile and a name that was starting to taste like longing every time you said it.

The worst part was that he hadn’t said anything.

Not that he’d rejected you outright, and certianly not that he’d laughed or pulled away or looked horrified. He just... hadn’t said anything. And that silence? It was louder than any no you’d ever heard.

As the days stretched on, you started wondering if you’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe you’d read too far into a kind gesture, misinterpreted a kind man. Maybe he had never looked at you that way.

Maybe he had been kind because that’s just who he was, and you’d gone and ruined everything by making it more than that. It would’ve been easier if he’d told you you were wrong. If he’d said he didn’t see you like that. 

At least then you could’ve buried it properly, but this? This careful avoidance, this half-hearted politeness when you passed behind the bar, this space he put between you every time you were in the same room, it just felt worse.

Meanwhile, your thoughts kept looping in circles, dragging you into places you didn’t want to go. Was he ashamed of you? Had your honesty made him uncomfortable? Had he gone home that night and replayed it all with a wince, wondering why someone like you would even think he could feel the same?

You didn’t want to believe that. Not from Bob, but your brain didn’t care. It was like it made its own monsters in the dark.

Maybe he’d been disgusted, maybe he thought you were too much, too forward, and too broken. You’d been vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. You’d said things you didn’t even mean to say until they were already out of your mouth. 

What if he had seen you differently after that? What if he pitied you?

Then, there was the deeper, more painful thought; the one that caught in your throat every time it surfaced. What if he had wanted to say something, but decided not to because he didn’t want you like that? What if the reason he didn’t speak was because it was easier to walk away than to face the disappointment in your eyes?

You started pulling back, even when you didn’t mean to. You smiled less, you lingered at the bar a little longer to avoid walking past him, you laughed at Hangman’s stupid jokes just to fill the silence. 

You pretended Rooster still made your heart skip, even though he never had, but not in the way Bob did, at least. You tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that you hadn’t stood in front of him, heart open and hands shaking, asking for something small and simple.

You weren’t asking him to love you. You’d only wanted to know if he could. And now? Now you didn’t even know if he’d ever really seen you at all.

Eventually, you started blaming yourself.

Not just for saying too much, but for believing in the first place that you ever had a chance. The more time passed, the more it sunk in; how foolish you must have looked, how naive you must have sounded, standing there that night like some starry-eyed fool thinking that your feelings meant something. 

You played it back in your head, the way his eyes had gone wide, the way his mouth opened and closed, the way the silence stretched just long enough to hurt. And still, you told yourself he needed time. That he was shy, or overwhelmed, or maybe just stunned by the idea that anyone could want him like that.

But now, after two weeks of polite distance and half-smiles that felt like placeholders, you saw the truth for what it was. You’d read too far into everything. You’d taken his kindness and mistook it for something more. You’d turned his gentle nature into something romantic because it was easier to believe he could love you than it was to admit how lonely you were.

Meanwhile, every moment you’d clung to before started crumbling under closer inspection. 

That time he stayed late to walk you to your car? He probably just didn’t want you walking alone. The way he listened when you talked about your childhood? Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he wasn’t holding on to your words the way you were holding on to his silence. Maybe he never looked at you the way you looked at him. Maybe he never even saw you that way.

Then, came the part that stung worst of all. You had told him. You had shown him. And still, he hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t come back with an apology or a gentle letdown. He hadn’t asked if you were okay or said he needed time or even offered you a friend’s honesty. He had just... faded.

And that left you with only one conclusion. You must have imagined it all.

You must have taken every quiet moment and twisted it into a fairytale. You must have seen something in him that was never really there. And how embarrassing was that?

How delusional had you been to think someone like Bob Floyd, kind and steady and good in a way you hadn’t known people could be, could ever look at someone like you and feel the same?

The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. You weren’t subtle. You had laid everything out for him, eyes wide, voice shaking, heart damn near bleeding at his feet. And he hadn’t even had to say no. 

His silence had done the job for him. It was almost worse this way, the slow drip of rejection hidden under the surface of normalcy. At least if he’d said he didn’t feel the same, you could’ve begun to heal. Now all you had were the pieces of something you had built alone. And the painful knowledge that none of it, not a single part, had ever belonged to you.

“Hey,” Bradley said gently, his voice low and a little rough around the edges. “Hey, look at me.”

The sound of your name broke through the haze, pulling you back to yourself just enough to flinch. You hadn’t realized anyone had come outside.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been sitting there, knees tucked up slightly, arms loose at your sides, eyes fixed on some blurred spot in the distance where the sky met the sea. You jumped when you felt the hand on your shoulder, then turned quickly, heart skipping.

Bradley stood just behind you, looking more serious than you were used to seeing him. He held a bottle in one hand and worry in his eyes, the kind that didn’t need explaining.

Without saying much else, he moved around and sat beside you on the porch swing, the old chains creaking softly under the added weight. He handed you the beer without ceremony and leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the swing, close but not quite touching.

Penny had all but pushed you out here fifteen minutes ago, and she told you she didn’t care how many glasses needed washing or how many people still needed tabs, then she said you were zoning out again, and it was starting to scare her.

You hadn’t argued, so you’d come out and settled on the swing you’d talked her into buying last spring, swearing it would bring in more customers, give the place a softer edge. Now, it just felt like a place to fall apart quietly.

“I’d be stupid to ask if you’re okay,” Bradley said after a moment, cracking the cap off his own bottle and taking a small sip.

You forced a small, shaky laugh. “I’m fine.”

But he turned his head toward you, sharp and certain, before you could even blink. “Do not lie to me, sweetheart.”

The words landed heavy, not cruel, but weighted in the way that told you he wasn’t going to let it slide this time. He knew, maybe not everything, and maybe not the full mess of what you were holding, but enough, enough to call it what it was.

You didn’t speak at first. The beer sat cold in your hand, untouched, forgotten. The swing moved just slightly beneath you both, the creak of the chain giving your silence rhythm.

You felt the wind slip through your hair, and you stared straight ahead, trying to find something steady in the blur of night lights reflecting off parked cars and distant waves.

It felt like something in you had cracked open, not loudly, but slowly, and all the thoughts you’d tried to keep buried had begun to spill into everything, every glance, every breath, every reminder of what you’d said and what he hadn’t.

And now Bradley was here, waiting quietly beside you, like he’d seen the whole thing unravel without ever needing you to say a word.

You didn’t answer him right away, and Bradley didn’t push. He just let the silence settle between you again, steady as the tide. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the glass of his beer bottle before he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. 

The porch light buzzed faintly above, casting a soft glow over the railing, and the hum of conversation from inside the Hard Deck faded into the background.

“I won’t ask,” he said eventually, eyes fixed ahead. “But I’ll tell you something, and you don’t have to say a word back. Just... let me talk, alright?”

You nodded once, barely more than a tilt of your head. It was all the permission he needed.

“When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me this story about how she met my dad,” he began, voice easy and even, like he wasn’t trying to make it serious, just keep it honest.

“She said he used to come into this greasy little diner she worked at every Sunday, like clockwork. Sat at the same booth, ordered the same thing, barely said more than a few words to her the first month. She thought he was sweet, kind of quiet, kind of awkward.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, somewhere far away from the parking lot and the bar and whatever weight you were both carrying.

“She swore she caught him staring sometimes, but he always looked away too fast. She used to joke that he looked like he was trying to memorize her but didn’t want her to notice. Said he always left good tips, always thanked her, but never flirted. Not once, but for weeks.”

There was a softness to Bradley’s voice now, one that only came when he talked about his mother. You’d heard it before, usually in quieter moments, and it always held a kind of reverence that made you ache.

“Then one night,” he continued, “she was working a late shift, and rain was coming down hard, place was almost empty. She was wiping down the counter when he came in soaking wet, no umbrella, no coat, just dripping all over the floor. She asked what the hell he was doing out in that weather, and he said he forgot his wallet the last time he came in. Handed it over like he’d come all that way for something that dumb.”

He paused for a beat, then smiled faintly. “But she swore he didn’t forget anything. He just needed an excuse to come back. That was the night he asked if he could walk her home.”

The wind rustled gently through the nearby trees, and for a moment it felt like you could almost see it, that little diner, the rain on the windows, the quiet rhythm of something small beginning.

“She said she knew then,” Bradley said, finally glancing over at you. “Said she knew that someone who came back just to give her a reason to see him again was someone who’d stay.”

You looked away quickly, eyes burning with something you didn’t want to explain. He didn’t mention Bob. He didn’t have to, and you could hear it in the way he told the story. Y

ou could feel the shape of it beneath every word. And still, he didn’t push. He just leaned back again, letting the swing move with the wind, like time could slow down if he just let it.

For a while, you didn’t say anything. You just sat there, eyes fixed on the space between your shoes and the wooden porch floor, your fingers tracing the rim of the bottle without really noticing, but something about Bradley’s voice, about the softness in that story, had carved out enough silence inside you that the words finally had somewhere to land.

“I really thought he felt the same,” you said quietly, barely more than a breath.

Bradley didn’t react right away. He stayed still, just listening, not pushing you to keep going, not rushing to fill the quiet. So, you kept talking, because now that it had started spilling, you didn’t know how to stop.

“I told myself not to hope. I mean... I’ve done this before. I’ve fallen for people who were never mine to begin with, but this time it felt different, slower, softer. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, it just… built. And I thought maybe he was just waiting, maybe he was scared, but it’s been two weeks and he’s barely even looked at me.”

Bradley let out a quiet breath through his nose, nodding once like he understood more than you realized. You glanced at him, and he didn’t look smug or surprised, just calm, like someone you could lean on without asking.

“I keep thinking,” you said, your voice cracking just a little, “how stupid I must’ve been to think he actually wanted me. Like I made it all up in my head, every little look, every quiet moment. Maybe I’m just… too much.”

Bradley turned to you then, his eyes steady as they met yours. He didn’t speak right away. He just reached out and gently placed his hand over yours, grounding you.

“You’re not too much,” he said, firm but quiet. “Don’t ever think that, and you weren’t stupid. Anyone who made you feel like you were? That’s on them, not you.”

Your chest tightened. The tears you’d been holding back all day finally started pushing at the edges. You didn’t even try to stop them this time. You looked away, blinking hard, and then Bradley shifted beside you, opening his arms just a little like he wasn’t sure you’d take the offer.

You didn’t even hesitate.

You leaned into him, your forehead pressing to his shoulder as his arms came around you in a firm, steady hug. Not romantic. Not complicated. Just warm and solid and safe. You let yourself breathe for the first time in days.

And then, the door creaked open behind you. You froze.

Bradley tensed slightly beneath you, then turned his head toward the door. You didn’t move right away, but your heart sank before you even heard the voice.

“Oh,” Bob said, voice clipped and uncertain. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You pulled back slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs as you turned your head just enough to see him standing there in the open doorway, his hand still on the handle like he hadn’t fully stepped out. His eyes flicked from you to Bradley and back, unreadable in the low porch light.

Before you could say a word, he nodded once, quick, awkward, and stepped back inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft, final click. The silence that followed was heavier than before.

And this time, it wasn’t just yours. Was it really?

Bradley exhaled slowly, leaning back on the swing as you pulled away. His arm dropped to his side, but his eyes stayed on you, studying the way your posture had changed. You were still sitting, but something in you had shifted, gone taut like a wire pulled too tight. He saw it before you even stood.

“He saw something that wasn’t what it looked like,” he said quietly. “If it matters that much to you, go tell him.”

You looked at him then, heart already rising into your throat. “What if it’s too late?”

Bradley gave a small smile, nothing showy, just enough to feel real. “Then at least you’ll know you tried.”

You were already on your feet before he finished speaking.

Your boots hit the wooden porch hard as you turned toward the Hard Deck and pushed the door open, the warm noise of the bar spilling out into the night.

Inside, everything looked the same as it always did, Jake and Natasha nursing drinks at the high-top, Javy half-asleep on the couch by the jukebox, Mickey talking to a girl at the bar, but Bob wasn’t there.

Panic flared up as your eyes scanned the room again, faster this time. You moved toward the others, voice already raised a little louder than you meant it to be.

“Where’s Bob?”

Jake looked up from his drink, raising one brow with a smirk already forming. “Left a minute ago,” he said, drawing the words out with that usual drawl. “Looked like he had something on his mind.”

Phoenix gave him a side-glare, but Jake only grinned, tilting his beer bottle toward you. “Might wanna hurry, darlin’. Pretty sure he’s heading for the parking lot.”

Then, he winked.

You didn’t wait for the rest. You were already turning, already pushing through the door again before Phoenix could finish rolling her eyes. The night air hit you fast as you broke into a run, boots hitting pavement, heart racing, breath uneven as your eyes searched the parking lot for any sign of him.

But he was nowhere to be found. Not near the cars, not by the road, not leaning against the building like he sometimes did when he needed air. 

You turned in a slow circle, breath catching, chest tightening, and for a moment you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d already lost him.

The first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky like a warning, low and distant, but enough to make you glance upward. The clouds had thickened without you noticing, dark smudges swallowing the stars you’d barely registered when you ran out here. 

You kept walking anyway, your breath catching somewhere between hope and regret, your boots pounding across the vast stretch of asphalt that seemed to go on forever.

The Hard Deck’s parking lot felt impossibly big now, like it had swallowed him whole. You turned one way, then another, looking past the cars and over the fence toward the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of his figure in the dark. Nothing. No movement, no headlights, just the hum of silence.

And then, the sky split open.

The thunder cracked louder this time, and a second later the rain came down hard and fast, no preamble, no gentle drizzle. Just a sudden downpour, sharp and cold and unrelenting.

It soaked you instantly, plastering your shirt to your skin and pushing your hair down over your forehead. You stopped in the middle of the lot, blinking against the water, teeth clenched as you spun in one last desperate circle.

“Shit,” you breathed out, voice swallowed by the storm. “Shit!”

You kicked at a puddle with the side of your foot, frustration rising until it choked you. Then, slowly, without really thinking about it, you turned away from the cars and walked across the lot toward the dunes. 

The sand felt cold under your boots as you stepped over the edge of the boardwalk, then softer as it gave under your feet. The tide was coming in slow and steady, the ocean dark and wild beneath the storm, but you didn’t stop. You moved closer until the wind off the water hit your skin like a slap.

The rain kept falling, heavier now, washing over your arms and shoulders and cheeks, mixing with the tears you didn’t even realize had started until your vision blurred.

You stopped walking, right where the wet sand met the dry, and you let your knees give a little, sinking down just enough to wrap your arms around yourself. The tears came harder now, not the quiet kind, but the full-body kind. The kind you only let loose when there’s no one around to see it.

Because what was wrong with you?

Why did you always love the wrong people, or love the right ones at the wrong time?

Why did your heart have to choose the person who couldn’t say anything back?

Why did you open yourself up at all, when it only ever ended like this, alone, soaked to the bone, watching the world pretend not to notice?

You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it didn’t matter. The wind carried it away.

And then, so softly you almost didn’t feel it, something touched your shoulder.

You looked up, eyes stinging.

An umbrella had been tilted over you, its wide canopy blocking the worst of the rain. The water still dripped off the edges, pooling around you in the sand, but suddenly the sound wasn’t so loud. The sky felt a little less heavy.

Someone had come back.

- Bob -

It was the way your head rested against Bradley’s shoulder that did it. Not the hug itself. Not even the rainclouds already threatening the sky. It was the intimacy of it. The ease.

The way you leaned into him like you belonged there. Bob had seen plenty of hugs before. He’d even been on the receiving end of one or two from you. But this was different.

This looked like something he wasn’t supposed to see.

“Oh,” Bob said quietly, voice tight in his throat. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You turned toward him, startled, but he didn’t wait for you to explain. He just nodded once and backed into the doorway before the swing could creak again, before you or Bradley could say anything that might make it worse. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him felt final, like the end of a page he hadn’t meant to write.

He moved quickly across the bar, making his way to where the squad was still lounging. He didn’t say much. Just a quiet “Night,” as he passed Phoenix, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask, and then Coyote, who was halfway through a drink.

He didn’t even glance at Jake, who was mid-laugh over something Mickey said. Bob didn’t want to hear the jokes. He didn’t want a conversation. He just wanted to leave before whatever was knotted in his chest made its way to his face.

Outside again, the air felt heavier. Humid and tense. He inhaled slowly as he walked across the lot, weaving between cars toward the overflow patch of gravel on the far end of the property where he had parked earlier.

The bar had been packed when he arrived. He hadn’t minded the extra walk then. Now, he was grateful for it. Maybe the distance would help clear his head.

He reached for his door handle, only to pause. His keys were not in his pocket.

He checked again. Patting down the front, the side. Even crouched to peek under the car in case he’d dropped them on the walk out. Nothing.

Bob closed his eyes, jaw tightening as the first flicker of lightning cracked across the clouds. A second later, thunder rolled in low and slow behind it. Of course. Of course. He exhaled sharply, eyes stinging more than he wanted to admit, and turned on his heel.

The back door was closer than the front, so he made his way around the building and slipped in through the rear entrance near the storage room. Inside, the music was muffled and the lights were dimmer, but the voices of his squad were unmistakable.

Jake looked up first, brows lifted in surprise. “What the hell, man? I thought you just left.”

Bob didn’t slow his pace. “I forgot my keys,” he muttered, stepping toward their table with zero interest in lingering.

Jake blinked at him, then grinned slowly. “And you came all the way back for that? You sure it’s not because your one true love is still in the vicinity?”

Bob rolled his eyes, hand outstretched. “Give me the keys, Seresin.”

Bradley, who had just come back inside from the porch, walked past Jake and dropped into the seat beside Mickey with a dramatic sigh. Then he looked up at Bob, eyes calm, and said, “Go get your girl.”

Bob froze, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

Bradley just gave him a pat on the shoulder and leaned back, tossing an arm over the back of the booth like he hadn’t just dropped something massive into the middle of the room. “You’ll figure it out.”

Jake chuckled, pulling Bob’s keys from his jacket pocket and tossing them with a lazy underhand. “Godspeed, lover boy,” he said with a wink.

Bob caught them with a half-hearted glare, then turned to leave again, shoulders tight. The rain had started properly by the time he stepped back outside.

Not just a drizzle, but a full downpour, wind kicking up droplets sideways as he squinted against the water. He didn’t have a jacket, of course not, but he did spot a forgotten umbrella resting in the metal stand by the exit door, probably something Penny kept for guests who never remembered the forecast.

He grabbed it without hesitation.

As he started toward his car again, umbrella tilted forward to block the worst of the storm, he squinted toward the shoreline. The wind had shifted, making it harder to see, but something near the dunes caught his eye.

A figure, small and still with knees drawn in, head down, hunched against the rain.

His chest tightened instantly, because he knew exactly who it was.

You.

Bob’s breath caught as soon as he saw you.

You were there, just beyond the edge of the dunes, curled in on yourself, knees drawn up, the sand clinging to your boots and the hem of your jeans. Rain poured down over you like the sky itself was mourning something, but you weren’t moving. You just sat there like you had nowhere else to go.

For a second, he didn’t know what to do.

He stood frozen, umbrella in one hand, heart in his throat, soaked already from the walk and not caring in the slightest. The wind tugged at his sleeves, the cold crawling under the collar of his shirt, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

Not when the waves crashed, and certainly not when thunder growled low in the clouds.

Then, before he could lose his nerve again, he moved.

Each step down the beach felt like something deliberate, something that might rewrite everything or wreck it entirely. By the time he reached you, your shoulders were shaking. He didn’t know if it was from the cold or the crying, and the thought of either made something tighten behind his ribs.

He tilted the umbrella gently over your head, angling it to cover as much of you as he could. The rain pinged off the canopy, water spilling down the sides and pooling into the sand. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to.

You turned slowly, blinking up at him with eyes red from tears, your face half-shielded by your hand.

When you spoke, it was soft, hoarse. “Bob?”

He swallowed hard. “What are you doing out here?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at him like you couldn’t believe he was real. Then, pushing up off the sand, you stood slowly. You were already soaked through, hair clinging to your cheeks, your clothes heavy with rain.

The umbrella barely covered you both, so Bob tilted it even further toward your side, letting the drops hit the back of his neck, soak his shoulders. It didn’t matter.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” you said, wiping your face roughly with the back of your hand. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I—” Bob scoffed, quiet but incredulous. “What are you doing here? It’s pouring. You’re out in the middle of the beach, alone. You—you’re crying.”

“And?”

The word hit him like a slap, not because of what you said, but how. Defensive. Deflecting. Just like you always were when something hurt and you didn’t want to admit it.

He stepped back just slightly, shifting his weight. “You shouldn’t be out here. You could get sick.”

“I can handle a little rain, Bob.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

The frustration in your voice made something snap in him. Not anger. Just the helpless ache of wanting to understand and getting nothing but walls.

“You’re out here like the world’s ending,” he said, not harsh, but loud enough to cut through the sound of the ocean. “And I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I walked in on earlier, but whatever it is, it clearly messed you up. So why won’t you just say it?”

Your jaw tightened. Bob’s eyes searched yours, and he hated how wet your lashes were, how you kept blinking like it might stop the tears from falling again.

“You left,” you said, barely louder than the waves. “You saw me and Bradley and you just left. You didn’t ask. You didn’t say anything. You just walked away.”

“Because I thought—” Bob started, then stopped, mouth opening again before the words would come. “Because I thought maybe I’d finally misread everything. That maybe I really was just the guy who stood beside you while you reached for someone else.”

You went still.

Bob felt the rain trickling down his collar, the weight of it sinking into his clothes, but none of it mattered. Not when he could see the tremble in your chin.

Not when his hands were gripping the handle of the umbrella too tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking open completely.

“I came out here to go home,” he said, voice raw now. “I wasn’t trying to chase you. I wasn’t trying to win anything. I just… saw you and knew I couldn’t leave like that. Not when you looked like—”

“Like what?” you snapped. “Like someone who’s miserable because the person she cares about doesn’t even see her?”

Bob stared.

The umbrella slipped in his hand slightly as his grip faltered. Your chest was rising and falling fast now, tears sliding down your cheeks again even as the rain tried to wash them away.

“You don’t get to be the only one hurt here,” you whispered, and Bob’s breath hitched at the sound.

Bob’s hands were trembling now, just barely, but he didn’t care if you noticed. The umbrella had shifted again, tilted awkwardly between you as the wind pushed it sideways, the handle slipping under his palm.

You stood there in front of him, soaked, furious, breaking right in front of him, and still so beautiful it physically hurt.

He reached out with his free hand, curling his fingers around your wrist gently, almost pleading. “Can we just—can we please go somewhere dry? Please? You’re shaking. I’m shaking. This is…”

“No.”

You didn’t yell it. You didn’t need to. You said it with steel in your voice, steady and clear, enough to stop him cold. His hand dropped back to his side, and the umbrella dipped lower, forgotten.

“You don’t get to do that,” you continued, eyes shining with something deeper than just tears. “You don’t get to show up and look at me like that and then leave. For two weeks, Bob. I bared my soul to you and then you disappeared. You looked at me like I meant something, like maybe I wasn’t alone in feeling this—and then you vanished.”

The words were falling faster now, unfiltered, raw. Your chest heaved as you stood your ground, unmoving, hair plastered to your face, water running down your neck.

“I spent the last two weeks thinking I imagined everything. That I was delusional. That maybe I was just another sad story in your life you didn’t want to deal with. I thought, hell, I thought maybe you were ashamed of me. That I’d embarrassed you somehow. Because how else do you explain silence like that, Bob? After everything—”

“I never—”

“No. Let me finish,” you snapped, voice cracking slightly. “You don’t get to shut me out and then show up and pretend like I’m the one who needs fixing. I was hurting, and you walked away. And I tried to pretend it didn’t break me but it did, Bob. It really did. And you know what’s worse? I would’ve forgiven you. I still—”

He dropped the umbrella.

It fell between you with a quiet thud, folding uselessly into the sand as the wind dragged it sideways. Then, in a single, swift step, he closed the distance between you, and his hands came up to your face, framing it with a tenderness that contradicted the desperate pull in his breath.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was soaked and shaking and aching from two weeks of silence, from a year of almosts, from the weight of everything left unsaid.

His lips pressed to yours like he needed to be sure this was real, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he waited one second longer. You felt the way his chest rose against yours, the way his hands curled into your damp hair like he was anchoring himself.

He kissed you like someone drowning, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole damn life.

The moment their lips parted, Bob felt it like an ache. Not just in his chest, but in every part of him that had been holding back for too long. His breath came ragged, wet hair dripping into his eyes, and he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh as he looked at you. 

There was a smile on his face now, gentle and quiet, like the storm had finally stilled, like maybe, just maybe, everything had been worth it.

Then, your hand hit his cheek with a sharp crack.

Bob reeled, not backward, just enough to blink the rain from his lashes and stare at you, stunned. His hand went instinctively to his cheek, now stinging from the slap, and he stood there completely still as you looked back at him with tears pouring down your face.

“What the hell was that?” you cried out, voice wobbling with more than just anger. “Why did you kiss me?! I—I had a whole speech, Bob! I practiced! I spent days trying to figure out how to say this to you and you—you just—”

“I—”

“I wasn’t done!” you snapped, both hands now clenched at your sides, your chest rising fast. “I had this whole damn thing ready and I was gonna look you in the eye and tell you that you make me feel like I’m not broken, that I feel safe with you and myself with you and God, Bob, you kissed me in the middle of it! What kind of timing, I mean, who does that?!”

He should’ve said something, but the lump in his throat was too thick, his heart too full. So instead, he stepped closer. One hand came up, trembling slightly as he touched your chin with the softest tip of his finger, lifting your face until your eyes met his again. 

You looked furious, you looked wrecked, and you looked like you had waited for someone to choose you for far too long. And he did.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat.

His hand slid from your chin to your jaw, fingers brushing your cheekbone gently, the same one you had just slapped. His other hand found your lower back, firm and steady as he pulled you closer, pressing you carefully against him, like he was holding something fragile.

The rain was still pouring around you, but Bob didn’t feel it anymore. Not when you were this close.

His voice cracked on the first words.

“I didn’t mean to run,” he said, voice hoarse, barely audible over the storm. “I—I didn’t know what to do. I thought you were with Rooster. I saw you with him and it—it hurt so much I thought maybe I’d made the whole thing up in my head. That I was just… the background guy. Again. And I couldn’t stand it.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head quickly, eyes glassy. “Please, just… let me say this?”

You nodded.

“I love you.”

The words hit like a punch, and Bob had to blink fast as tears mixed with the rain on his face.

“I don’t know when it started,” he continued, stumbling slightly as the words finally spilled out, “but I think it was that first night at the bar when Penny introduced you to us. You were laughing at something Jake said, and I thought, God, I’m in trouble, because you looked at everyone like they were familiar, but when you looked at me, it felt like, like I mattered. And I never feel like that, not really.”

You were staring at him now, lips parted, rain dripping off your chin.

“And every time you talked to me, I couldn’t think straight. I’d remember later what I should have said, but in the moment, all I could do was hope you’d say something else just so I could keep hearing your voice. And then I saw you crushing on Rooster and I thought, Of course. Why wouldn’t you fall for the guy who’s everything I’m not?”

His thumb traced a gentle line under your eye, where a tear had carved a path.

“But then you looked at me that night on the beach. And I thought, maybe, Maybe I wasn’t just imagining it. Maybe I wasn’t being delusional.”

He took a breath, shaking.

“I love the way you talk when you’re too tired to filter yourself. I love how you take care of everyone, even when you’re falling apart. I love how stubborn you are. I love your damn porch swing, and the way you light up when you talk about stupid things like sandwich order preferences. I love every single part of you.”

His voice cracked again, eyes locked to yours.

“And I swear I would’ve said it sooner, if I wasn’t so afraid of losing the only thing in my life that felt good and real.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You didn’t have to. Bob could see it, your eyes glassy, your lips parted, your chest trembling from holding back too much for too long. You were crying, full and silent, the kind that made his chest twist because it meant you were really feeling it now. 

And maybe he was too, because he didn’t even bother wiping at the tears running down his own cheeks.

What was the point? The rain was doing a damn good job of hiding them, but the heat in his throat said they were there anyway.

You reached up slowly, fingers brushing along the side of his neck, uncertain at first. Bob leaned into the touch like it was gravity, like the choice had already been made for him.

Your hand slid higher, into the mess of his damp hair, curling gently like it was something sacred. 

He closed his eyes at that, just for a second. He didn’t need to look to feel it. He already knew that you were choosing him.

So, he kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or chaotic or driven by panic. It was slow. It was soft.

It was the kind of kiss that unfolded instead of exploded, that whispered you’re safe here instead of screaming don’t leave me.

His hands stayed steady, one resting gently at the small of your back, the other brushing your jaw with the kind of care he always used when he handled delicate things.

Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, without hesitation. The rain kept falling, soaking through every layer of clothing, dripping down your joined hands, your cheeks, your chins. You were soaked, cold, and probably going to get sick after this.

And neither of you cared, because something in the world had finally shifted into place.

When you finally pulled apart, it was only by a breath. Just far enough for your foreheads to touch, noses brushing, tears still clinging to both of your faces.

“I love you too, Robert Floyd,” you whispered, voice cracking on his name like it was the only truth that ever mattered.

Bob laughed, quiet and hoarse, and leaned into you again, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face as he looked at you, really looked.

“Say it again,” he said, not because he didn’t believe it, but because he needed to hear it. Like a balm. Like a song.

You smiled, still crying. “I love you, Bob.”

And so, he kissed you again.

This time slower.

This time longer.

No one answered. Even Walker was silent, jaw tight as he shifted uncomfortably beside the collapsed form of Ghost, who was still trying to reboot her damn suit.

You took a few steps forward, deliberate, unhurried, like you had all the time in the world and not a single ounce of fear. “God, it’s embarrassing. You really thought throwing this mess of ex-assassins and government toys at me would go differently?” You laughed, but it was dry.

“You know, I thought maybe there was a plan. A real one, but this?” You motioned around the room, at Sentry twitching on the floor, at Red Guardian blinking through a concussion, at Ghost breathing heavy through half-phased lungs. “This is just sad.”

Red Guardian grumbled something and tried to sit up, but you ignored it.

“Stark would be rolling in his grave if he saw what the replacement Avengers looked like. You all really want to play at being heroes, don’t you?”

Your eyes flicked to Walker then, sharp with amusement. “Even you, U.S Agent. You especially. Parading around with that shield like it's not just scrap metal with a body count. You think I’m the monster? Please, I do not start wars for fun, and I don’t wear uniforms made for stunt actors. I’ve killed bad people, yes, but you people kill whoever’s convenient.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the kind that begged a reply. It was the kind that came after a bruise.

Bucky stayed quiet. He didn’t stop you, and he wasn’t going to, not yet. He watched the way your shoulders stayed loose, how your voice never cracked once. You weren’t angry, not really. This wasn’t rage. It was something colder. Something truer.

“You’re not a team,” you went on. “You’re a patch job. Government glue holding together a bunch of trigger-happy disasters, hoping none of you fall apart before the press can spin your next mission into a victory.”

You smiled again, this time wider. “You know what I am? I’m honest about it. I’m not pretending. I don’t walk around calling myself a hero while doing the government’s dirty work in other countries. I’m not a good person, but I am not you.”

Then you turned, calmly walking past the edge of the mess you’d made. The floor creaked under your boots, soft and slow, like the entire room was waiting for something else to fall apart.

Bucky didn’t move. He just kept watching you. No gun drawn, no order given, not yet. Because somewhere between the blood on your boots and the truth in your voice, he couldn’t decide if you were the threat… or just the only one finally telling it straight.

Walker was the first to break the silence, stepping forward like the conversation hadn't just stripped the paint off everything they pretended to be. Maybe he thought if he moved fast enough, it would cover the fact that you'd just called them all out in front of each other and none of them had denied a damn thing. 

His shield came up quick, arm snapping into motion like muscle could still fix something that was already broken. You saw the move before he finished thinking it. You always did.

You sidestepped him easily, shifting your weight onto the balls of your feet, the movement fluid and light, not rushed. Letting him think he was close enough to land something was almost more fun than knocking the breath out of him, which you did with the flat of your palm against his ribs as he passed. It wasn’t a hard hit. You didn’t need it to be. You needed it to hum through his chest like a warning.

Then, Ghost reappeared just to your left, trying to flank. You twisted into a pivot, watching her phase in too late, already caught in your trap. You flicked your fingers once, and the angle of the room shifted just slightly, like the floor wasn’t quite real anymore.

She staggered, trying to correct her momentum, but it was already off. She clipped the corner of a broken beam and rolled hard across the ground. You didn’t stop to check if she got up.

Meanwhile, Red Guardian had somehow managed to shake off the earlier blow and came charging like he thought brute force was still in style. You spun as he reached for you, your body moving like water, arms loose but precise, the movement almost lazy if it wasn’t so calculated.

You let him lunge and miss, then ducked under his swinging elbow and kicked the back of his knee. He dropped with a grunt and a curse you didn’t bother to translate. You kept dancing.

Because that’s what it felt like now. Not a battle, and not even a struggle, just rhythm. Steps and countersteps. They lunged, and you spun. They reached, and you disappeared. You weren’t angry, you weren’t tired, and you were actually enjoying this. 

The way they tried so hard to keep up, to act like you were something they could contain. You could’ve ended it already, you knew it. Bucky knew it. The rest were still trying to pretend this wasn’t just a lesson in their own mediocrity.

Walker came at you again, more frustrated now, his mouth tight with the kind of rage that only came when pride took a hit. You ducked his swing and laughed, not loud, just enough for him to hear it.

“Is this what they taught you in those shiny government camps?” you said, twisting just enough to let his momentum carry him past you. “You all train for this in between press conferences?”

You turned, hands loose at your sides, and caught Bucky’s eyes across the chaos again. He hadn’t moved yet. Not really. He was watching, taking it in like he wasn’t sure what side of the fight he was supposed to be on.

“Come on, Barnes,” you called to him, voice steady, almost amused. “You gonna keep letting your squad embarrass themselves or are you finally gonna take a swing?”

For a second, he didn’t answer. Then he stepped forward, slow and sure, the way he always did when he finally made up his mind. And you stopped dancing, just for a breath. Because this wasn’t a game anymore, at least not with him.

Bucky moved like a man who’d already decided how this would end, boots slow and deliberate across the wreckage-strewn floor, each step heavier than the last. The others had fallen back, groaning or flat-out unconscious, leaving only him standing between you and the exit.

You watched him come with that same half-lidded calm, like none of this mattered, like he was late to something boring and you were the only thing worth his attention tonight.

"You done hiding behind tricks?" he asked, voice hard now, no more caution, no more measured soldier tone. "Or is this your whole game? Slip in, fuck with people's heads, then vanish when someone actually steps up?"

You tilted your head, hand resting lazily against your hip, weight shifted like you were leaning into a joke. "Oh, Barnes," you said, grinning without warmth, "you’re mad, and it’s kind of cute.”

He didn’t answer, just kept coming closer, fists clenched, jaw set. Then, he said it. "You’re a coward. That’s what you are. Hiding behind that hideous mask—”

You interrupted him, one eyebrow raised in mock offense. “Hey now,” you said, hand flying up in mock hurt. “Hideous?! That’s just rude! This thing’s custom-made. Breathable, heat-resistant, and it doesn’t fog up when I ruin a man's psyche, and at least I get to have two arms.”

That landed. You saw it hit, sharp and immediate, like a slap he didn’t see coming. His mouth twitched. You weren’t sure if it was rage or restraint.

“You think you’re funny?” he bit out, low and rough. “You think this is all a joke?”

“Honestly?” you said, stepping to the side just as he lunged, his metal arm swinging past your shoulder. “A little bit, yeah. I mean, come on, Barnes. You, this team, you’re the punchline. You’ve got Walker playing Captain Discount, a Russian tank with a daddy complex, and Bob over there crying in the dark like he just woke up from a bad dream. You’re all trying so hard to be heroes, but the blood doesn’t wash off that easy.”

He turned fast, feinted left, then grabbed your arm with his right and yanked you forward. You didn’t resist. Let him pull you in, close enough to see the anger lined in the corner of his mouth. His breath hit your cheek.

“You’re still hiding,” he growled, tightening his grip. “You could’ve done something real with your power. You could’ve helped people.”

You smiled then, full and dangerous. “And join the circus? No thanks. I like sleeping at night.”

Then you shifted your weight and drove your knee into his stomach, not enough to break anything, just enough to make him let go. He staggered, barely, but you were already stepping back, giving him space like this was a game of tag and he was too slow.

He charged again.

You laughed, not cruel, just tired of pretending he was different from the rest. “You don’t get to be the righteous one, Barnes. You killed people in your sleep. I do it wide awake.”

That stopped him. For a moment, the room was quiet again. Just the two of you breathing hard, the air thick between you, not with smoke or blood, but something worse. Recognition. You didn’t move, and neither did he. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over, but it had never really started, either. The look on Bucky’s face almost made you stay longer. Almost, but you’d made your point. There wasn’t much left to prove.

Walker tried to get up again, dragging himself upright with a grunt, shoulder still hunched from the hit you gave him earlier. You didn’t even look his way. He was predictable, all bark and grunt and misplaced patriotism. He threw his shield again, too slow, too obvious. You didn’t even bother dodging it fully, just ducked under, let it crash into the wall behind you, and caught his wrist as he charged after it.

You twisted. He screamed.

Not a clean scream. Not a soldier’s grunt. A sharp, cracking, human sound. You let him drop before you broke anything important. You weren’t here to maim, not tonight. Just to remind them where they stood.

Meanwhile, Ghost had her knives out again, flickering fast, trying to catch you while you were distracted. You turned and moved through her strike like you’d been doing this forever, then used the heel of your hand to knock the side of her head. Her body glitched mid-phase, then crashed down hard. She stayed down this time.

Red Guardian got halfway to his feet before your fingers curled again, and the air around his skull bent just enough to make him sink back to the ground. Not unconscious. Just confused. Humiliated. They always came in so loud, and left so quiet.

And Bucky? He hadn’t moved since you last hit him with the truth. He was still standing there, fists loose now, metal hand twitching like maybe it didn’t quite know what to do without orders. That part made you sad, almost. The way he wanted so badly to not be the thing they made him, but still kept showing up when they called.

You walked past him, slow, deliberate, boots echoing through the warehouse like punctuation.

As you reached his side, you paused. Not to attack. Not to mock. Just to speak.

"You know, Barnes," you said, voice low, just for him, "I get it. You're not controlled by words anymore. No triggers. No codes. You’re free, right?"

You leaned in, close enough that he could see how calm you were. How unbothered.

"But the truth is," you whispered, “you’re still that same man. Not the Winter Soldier, no. Not the weapon, but the good little soldier who still waits for someone to point.”

He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t deny it either. You stepped back, smiling just a little. Not smug. Just done.

“I don’t need to control your mind,” you said, walking away now, past the ruins of what used to be a mission. “The world already does that for me.”

You were halfway to the exit when you paused, turning slowly on your heel like you'd just remembered something important. The room was quiet except for a few groans and the distant hum of flickering lights. Bucky hadn’t moved, as he was still trying to process what you said. Walker was cradling his wrist like you’d taken something from him that mattered. Red Guardian looked like he wanted to crawl under the floor and stay there.

You smiled, wide this time, bright and biting. “Oh,” you said lightly, like you were talking to old friends. “I’d love to stay and keep playing, really. This has been such a fun bonding experience.”

You gestured around the room, spinning your finger once as if gesturing to the collective mess you’d left behind. “But unfortunately, I’m late for a very important appointment.”

You started ticking the list off on your fingers, voice chipper.

“First, I have to eat something because ruining your morale takes energy, then I have an episode of my favorite show waiting, don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything, and finally, I need my beauty sleep.” You gave them a wink. “Some of us don’t get to wake up with government-funded bone structure.”

Yelena, still crouched beside Bob, glared at you like she wanted to throw something sharp. You blew her a kiss. Then, you turned back toward the busted loading door you’d walked in through, tossing one last line over your shoulder like a joke nobody else was in on.

“See you all tomorrow!”  You didn’t look back. Just walked out, like nothing had touched you at all.

- Back to the Watchtower - 

The Watchtower wasn’t quiet, not really. It was just full of the wrong sounds. The hiss of oxygen valves. The soft whirr of a scanner. The low murmur of medical droids checking vitals and noting pain thresholds. Someone was groaning behind a curtain, and someone else was cursing under their breath like they thought whispering made the shame sting less.

Alexei was laid out flat on a med table, eyelids fluttering as a nurse reset his dislocated knee. Ava was barely conscious, pale and sweating through the glitching phase of her tech. Bob was strapped to a diagnostic chair that had been built for emergencies, head tilted back, eyes fluttering like his brain was still somewhere else. Yelena hadn’t left his side since they touched down. She sat next to him with her hand clenched too tight in his, still murmuring soft, firm things in Russian that no one else could hear.

And Bucky? Bucky didn’t go to the med bay. He didn’t need to. Not physically.

He was in the briefing room already, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, metal fingers twitching against the side of his bicep like they were trying to make a fist on their own. He didn’t look at Walker when he walked in, didn’t greet Val when she entered with a tablet and a pinched look that said I told you so before she even opened her mouth.

They filed in slowly. Walker first, his wrist in a brace, jaw set like he still thought this could’ve gone another way. Then Ava, walking stiffly and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Alexei followed, limping but loud, muttering something about needing better shoulder padding.

Val didn’t waste time. She hit the screen and brought up the footage, the glitchy, stuttering mess of helmet cam recordings that made the fight look more like a riot than a mission.

“Let’s go ahead and call it,” she said flatly. “Another failed op.”

No one said anything.

She didn’t look up as she added, “We lost containment again. The Bandit walked.”

There it was. Your nickname. Half-insult, half-acknowledgment. Not assassin. Not rogue enhanced. Just the Bandit. Like you were some petty thief pulling fast ones on the world’s cleanup crew. It started as a joke Walker made two missions ago, but the name stuck. Because deep down, they all knew it wasn’t wrong. You didn’t just fight them. You took from them; dignity, pride, illusions of control. Every damn time.

“She left five of us on the ground,” Ghost muttered, voice low, sharp with leftover adrenaline. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”

“She’s playing with us,” Walker said, bitter. “It’s a game to her.”

“And you’re mad ‘cause she’s winning,” Bucky finally said, voice quiet but heavy enough to draw heads.

Val raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt.

Walker looked at him, fuming. “You want to say that again, Barnes?”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, where a blurry shadow of you flickered mid-kick. He stared like he was trying to find a glitch. Like maybe there was something he missed.

“She wasn’t trying to win,” he said. “She already had.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that made everyone shift a little in their chairs.

“She let us walk away,” Bucky added. “Again.”

Val tapped the edge of her tablet. “She’s mocking us. She knows we’re limited. She knows she can get in and out without a scratch, and she’s not even trying to hide it anymore. That mask? That’s theater. She wants us to know we’re being humiliated.”

“She’s not just humiliating us,” Yelena said from the doorway. No one had noticed her come in. She looked drained, dark circles blooming under her eyes. “She’s studying us.”

That pulled Bucky’s focus. He sat forward slightly, watching Yelena like her words had weight.

“She knew Sentry was our ace. She took him out first. Messed with his mind, deep. Not just illusions. She knew what to poke. Knew where it hurt. She wasn’t improvising. She came in with a plan.”

Val frowned. “And we keep falling for it.”

Bucky didn’t speak again. He just sat back in his chair, staring at the static pause of the footage, where your mask was caught mid-glint. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t say what he was thinking. That he could still hear your voice in his ear. That final whisper, smooth and quiet, still echoing louder than the shouting had.

You’re still that same man. Not the Winter Soldier, no. Not the weapon, but the good little soldier who still waits for someone to point.

He ground his teeth. You weren’t just in his head, you were under his skin, and you hadn’t even stayed long enough to finish the fight.

Then, three weeks passed.

Seventy-two hours turned to seven days, then doubled again, and still, nothing. No sightings. No messages. No whispered threats or sabotaged missions. Not even the occasional cryptic meme posted to a burner account Bob swore was yours. You had vanished. Like smoke after a fire.

It drove Bucky mad. He didn’t say much, but everyone felt the tension in the way he moved through the Watchtower; silent, taut, like a drawn wire ready to snap. He stopped showing up to shared meals. Ignored mission briefings unless your name was in the folder. Val didn’t push. Yelena didn’t ask, but everyone noticed.

“Maybe she’s finally dead,” Walker said, tossing the words out casually as he popped the tab on an energy drink. “Somebody probably got her. Off the books. Would explain the silence.”

Yelena looked up from her seat, brows raised. “You really think she’d go quietly?” Her tone was neutral, but her meaning wasn’t. “That one dies? She takes the building with her.”

“Not if she bled out somewhere,” Walker muttered. “Could’ve been karma, could’ve been luck.”

“Karma?” Ava scoffed from the end of the table, arms folded across her chest. “If that bitch has karma, it’s platinum-tier.”

Bob glanced up from where he was curled on the couch, hood up, bag of chips untouched in his lap. “Do you think she’s… like… watching us?”

Walker rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Bob—”

“No, I mean,” Bob sat forward, frowning. “She’s quiet. Like, strategic quiet. That’s worse. She didn’t even roast us online this time.”

“She is cooking,” Alexei said with a mouthful of protein bar, gesturing broadly with his hands. “That one? She is at home right now, doing pilates, eating soup, plotting murder.”

Yelena smirked without looking up. “Soup?”

“Yes,” Alexei said, nodding like this was obvious. “Murder soup. Spicy. Russian women make it when angry.”

“That is not a real thing,” Ava said, deadpan.

“Is real if you believe in it hard enough,” Alexei grumbled. “Anyway, she’s not dead. No. She’s hibernating. Like bear. Waiting for spring to come so she can bite someone’s head off.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from Bob, the first sound of joy from him all week.

Val entered the room with a tablet in hand, her expression sharp, tired, and unimpressed. She dropped it on the table in front of Walker with a loud clack.

“Ping in Brussels. Cold lead. She ghosted again.”

“Could be a copycat,” Ava offered, already sounding bored. “People love a mystery.”

Walker leaned forward. “So what? We just sit here and wait? She’ll slip eventually. She has to.”

“She doesn’t have to do shit,” Yelena said, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair. “You think she’s playing chess. She’s not. She’s making the board up.”

Bucky hadn’t spoken once. He just stared out the window, thumb resting against his bottom lip, metal fingers twitching restlessly against his knee.

“She knew we were coming,” he said suddenly. “She knew everything. Took Bob out first. Turned Ava inside out. Broke Alexei’s knee like she read the blueprint.”

Alexei raised a hand. “Not broken. Just insulted.”

“She's not guessing,” Bucky muttered. “She’s studying us, playing the long game, and we’re letting her.”

There was a pause. A thick one. The kind that made the air feel too tight. Then, Bucky’s voice dropped, barely audible. “I hope she’s dead,” he said. “And I hope it wasn’t quick.”

- Bucky’s Apartment, Brooklyn - 

The door to his apartment creaked open on the second try. It always did that; jammed just enough to be annoying but never bad enough to fix. Bucky didn’t bother kicking it or swearing like he used to. He just gave it a rough nudge with his shoulder and stepped into the dark, the weight of the Watchtower still sitting heavy between his shoulder blades.

Alpine meowed once from the window.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, tossing his keys into the ceramic dish by the door without looking. “I’m late. You gonna report me?”

She jumped down with the grace of someone who’d been waiting exactly three hours and twenty minutes to hear his voice again. She circled his legs, tail curling like punctuation, then let out another, louder meow when he didn’t bend down fast enough.

“Alright, alright,” he said, crouching slowly, his knees stiff from training drills and stress. “I gotcha, sweetheart.”

He scratched behind her ears, letting his fingers sink into the fur there. Alpine leaned in hard, purring instantly, rubbing her cheek against the back of his vibranium hand like she was claiming it. He let her. She always picked that side first.

The apartment smelled faintly like lavender from the candle Yelena gave him last Christmas. He never told her he lit it more than once. It was still burning on the kitchen counter where he’d left it that morning, well, more accurately, at three in the morning when he couldn’t sleep and figured folding towels was better than staring at the ceiling.

Bucky stood again, cracking his neck. Alpine trotted ahead of him toward the kitchen like she was giving him a tour of his own place.

He filled her bowl with the dry food she actually liked (not the organic vet crap Val kept recommending) and set it down gently. She immediately went at it, tail twitching, purring into every bite like it was the best damn meal of her life.

He leaned back against the counter and watched her eat, eyes unfocused.

The silence in here wasn’t like the silence at the Watchtower. This one wasn’t heavy or pointed. It didn’t judge. It just… was. The soft hum of the fridge. The tick of the old wall clock. The occasional clink of Alpine’s teeth against ceramic. No one trying to prove anything. No one calling him a coward. No one whispering truths that cut sharper than knives.

Except maybe his own head.

He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The mask. The voice. That last line. He hadn’t slept right since. You were still in his thoughts like shrapnel. Still in his hands, the way you let him grab you like it meant nothing. Still in the air every time he walked past an alley or turned a corner or blinked too long.

You were everywhere except where you were supposed to be. And somehow, that pissed him off even more than losing the fight.

Alpine finished her meal and hopped up onto the counter like it was hers, which, honestly, it kind of was. She stared at him with wide green eyes, the ones he always caved to, even on bad days. Especially on bad days.

“You’d like her,” he said quietly, grabbing a sponge and wiping down the counter next to her out of habit. “She’s mean, and smart, and, uh, smug as hell.”

Alpine blinked slowly, then batted her paw toward his hand like she was telling him to shut up already.

“Yeah, I know.”

He dropped the sponge into the sink and ran water over it absently. He didn’t have the energy to cook tonight. He barely had the energy to stand. Still, he moved through the apartment like it helped, like routine could undo what chaos left behind.

Folded a blanket on the couch. Adjusted a crooked picture frame. Checked the locks twice, then once more. When he finally sat down, Alpine leapt into his lap without hesitation. She circled once, then settled, warm and weighty. His real anchor.

Bucky leaned his head back against the worn cushion and let his eyes close. “Where the hell are you,” he muttered under his breath, not to Alpine, but she still purred like she knew the answer.

The apartment was quiet again. Not the kind of quiet that held its breath, but the softer kind. The kind that crept in after the dishes were done, after the cat was fed, after there was nothing left to fold or wipe or adjust.

Bucky sat there, Alpine stretched out across his lap like a living weighted blanket, her tail twitching every few minutes like she was dreaming. He hadn’t moved in half an hour, maybe longer.

The lights were off except for the lamp in the corner; the one with the soft yellow glow that didn’t give him a headache. He didn’t need more light than that. Most nights, he didn’t want it.

His eyes had drifted up to the shelf near the TV. A photo sat there, tucked behind a dusty paperweight and an old cassette tape he still hadn’t digitized. It was a black-and-white print, slightly faded, but sharp enough that he could see the grin on Steve’s face if he looked long enough.

Brooklyn, 1940.

God, they were so young.

Steve looked like a skeleton in a uniform, too small for his cap, shoulders tight with stubbornness, but smiling like he’d just won something anyway. Bucky was standing beside him, tie askew, leaning slightly, one hand on Steve’s shoulder like he’d meant to keep him grounded and accidentally anchored himself instead.

He remembered that day. A double date that ended with Steve getting into a fight outside a movie theater and Bucky sweet-talking their way out of getting arrested. He couldn’t even remember the girls’ names now. He just remembered Steve’s nose bleeding and the way he said, “I had him, Buck,” like he always did.

Bucky had laughed. Not to make fun, just because Steve believed it every damn time.

There had been music playing that night. Someone had a radio up in a windowsill, crackly jazz drifting down with the summer air. A trumpet solo and some woman singing about kisses sweeter than wine. He remembered it like he remembered the heat of the pavement, the stick of sweat on his neck, the clang of someone’s fire escape.

They were boys. They had no idea.

He closed his eyes.

Other memories came easier now, which wasn’t always a blessing. He remembered the streetcars. The smell of roasted peanuts and cheap cologne. He remembered Mrs. Klemenski from 5C, who used to give them hard candy when they ran errands for her, and the butcher down the block who always snuck Steve extra meat because he was too thin for comfort.

He remembered the girls, too, or at least flashes. Dances in basements. Lipstick stains on handkerchiefs. Laughter behind alley doors. A warm hand in his coat pocket on cold nights. He’d been smooth back then. He knew it, cocky, and brave in ways that didn’t survive the war.

Sometimes he caught glimpses of that version of himself. In a mirror. In the corner of a store window. In someone else’s memory, but mostly, he didn’t recognize that guy anymore.

Too much had burned away. Still, on nights like this, when the city was soft and Alpine was warm and the past crept in like fog under a door, he let himself remember. Not to mourn it, but just to see it. To remind himself it was real once. That he had laughed without flinching, that he had loved people before he forgot what it meant to say the word out loud.

That he had been Bucky Barnes, not a code or a weapon or a broken promise. He sighed through his nose, hand resting lightly on Alpine’s side, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath.

Steve would’ve liked her, and probably would’ve called her a punk and fed her chicken from his plate.

“You’d like him too,” Bucky murmured, voice almost hoarse. “He was… good. The best of us.”

Alpine didn’t respond. Just curled tighter, eyes closed. The picture on the shelf didn’t move. The past didn’t change, but for a second, it felt closer.

His hand rested on Alpine’s fur, unmoving. She was purring still, barely—a soft hum under his fingers like the last string holding him in the room. The lamp flickered once, then steadied, casting long shadows on the wall.

Bucky stared at the photo a while longer. Steve’s smile didn’t waver. It never had.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would’ve happened if he’d died in that fall. Not the metaphorical one, no. The literal fall, off that train in the Alps, years before his name turned into something cold and dangerous. Before he became a ghost in someone else’s war. Before the Winter Soldier was even an idea.

He wondered what the world would look like if that fall had finished him. If there had been a body. A grave. A flag folded neatly in Steve’s hands. Something final.

Would it have hurt less for the people who loved him? Would he have been remembered better?

He tried to picture it. That ending. Falling into snow, bones breaking, lungs burning, and then , darkness. Peace. Maybe even something quiet on the other side. Maybe nothing, but at least it would’ve been his.

It wouldn’t have been needles and cold steel and screaming in languages he didn’t know. Wouldn’t have been seventy years of commands and blood and waking up just long enough to realize what he’d done.

It wouldn’t have been this.

He shifted in his seat, jaw tight, breath stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Alpine stirred, letting out a tiny grumble like she knew he was getting too tense. He exhaled and scratched behind her ear again, grounding himself.

“I think I was supposed to die that day,” he said quietly, more to the room than to her. “That’s the part that gets me. That I didn’t. That somehow they found me. Took me. Kept me.”

He didn’t often say it out loud. Even in therapy, he danced around it, made jokes or shrugged. Because saying it plain made it too real. Made it feel like he was still there, still strapped down, still waiting for the voice to say his name wrong in Russian.

But here, in the safety of his dim apartment with nothing but Alpine to hear, he could be honest.

“I think… if I had just hit the ground a little harder,” he whispered, “Steve would’ve grieved. Maybe he’d have cried, but then he would’ve moved on, married someone, built something, and I’d be… done. Not this. Not some half-version of myself, still trying to make up for all the shit I didn’t even choose.”

He rubbed his face with his flesh hand, callused fingers dragging across his cheek.

“And now I’ve got people calling me a hero. Or a liability. Or both. Got assholes like Walker looking at me like I’m supposed to lead them, like I know what the hell I’m doing.” He shook his head. “And then there’s her.”

He didn’t say your name. Never did. He wasn’t even sure he knew your name. Not the real one. Not the one you whispered to yourself when no one was listening, but your voice was carved into him now. Your laugh. The way you moved. The way you saw right through him like it was easy.

You hadn’t fought him like an enemy. You’d fought him like someone who knew him. Like someone who understood every scar and every failure and didn’t even bother flinching.

And somehow, that had rattled him more than all the blows you’d landed on the others.

Alpine jumped down and padded over to her water bowl. Her soft steps filled the quiet like a heartbeat. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the dark spot where she’d been.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he said.

Then, he heard it, a thud, quiet but definite.

Bucky’s head lifted from his hands, body already tense, instincts curling tight around his spine like old muscle memory. Alpine didn’t move. She was by the water bowl, but her ears had flicked toward the sound, alert.

He stood slowly, but didn’t grab a weapon, not yet. He wasn’t sure he needed one, and not sure it would matter if he did.

The hallway was dark, shadows layered thick on the walls, the floor creaking under his bare feet as he made his way to the door of the guest bedroom. It was closed. He didn’t remember closing it. He always left it open at night, easier to hear the city, and easier to breathe.

He placed one hand on the doorknob, the other flexing open and closed.

And then—

“Careful, soldier. You open that door any faster and I might think you’re excited to see me.”

The voice slithered out of the dark like smoke. Smooth, wry, lazy with amusement. No panic. No urgency. Just presence. Like you’d been waiting for the right moment to speak.

Bucky froze. That voice, he hadn’t heard it in twenty-one days, and he’d still memorized it like it had been stitched into the lining of his skin.

He pushed the door open slowly, gaze adjusting to the low light.

Moonlight spilled in through the guest bedroom window, casting long streaks of silver across the walls and floor. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Then, he saw you.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other like you owned the damn place. Like you hadn’t ghosted the Thunderbolts, the mission, and nearly their sanity for the better part of a month. Like you lived here.

The shadows painted you in soft blue tones, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in that crooked not-smile that never meant anything good. There was no blood on you. No limp. No bruises. Just your presence, poured out like wine across the room, ruining the silence like it had never belonged.

You leaned back slightly, one arm resting over the top of the couch like a throne.

“Hello, James,” you said, tilting your head just enough to catch the light. “Miss me?”

He didn’t move, and he didn’t breathe. And suddenly, that apartment wasn’t quiet anymore.

Bucky moved the second his brain caught up to the image, instincts snapping faster than thought. One second he was standing in the doorway, the next he was lunging, metal arm cocked, eyes dark with something too sharp to be called rage. It wasn’t clean like anger. It was messier. Deeper. A month of silence and unanswered questions and bruised pride boiling all at once into a motion he didn’t control so much as release.

But before he could reach you, before his feet even cleared the carpet, the air shifted.

A pulse, quiet but unmistakable, bloomed from where you sat. Not loud. Not flashy. Just a hum, like a heartbeat made of static, curling through the room like smoke. The color wasn’t bright, not like comic book red. It was darker. A deep, bruised crimson that moved like ink in water, curling around Bucky’s limbs mid-strike.

He froze mid-lunge. His metal arm stopped just short of your throat. It twitched, once, like it wanted to keep going, but the energy around it tightened. Not choking. Not painful. Just absolute. Like gravity turned sideways.

You hadn’t even stood up. You just raised your hand slightly, fingers loose, wrist relaxed, eyes still calm like you were bored more than anything else.

“Now, now,” you said lightly, the power humming a little louder as it wrapped around his chest. “You weren’t really going to hit me, were you?” You tilted your head slightly, watching his mouth twitch, his muscles fighting the hold. “That’s not very neighborly, Barnes.”

He bared his teeth, not speaking, just glaring, jaw tight enough to pop.

You stood then, slowly, the energy retracting just enough to let him breathe easier, but not enough to let him move.

“You’ve been thinking about me,” you said, stepping closer, your voice low and sing-song, taunting in a way that wasn’t entirely playful. “Don’t lie. I’m in your head already. Even without all this—” you wiggled your fingers, the color pulsing slightly, “—you haven’t stopped replaying that fight, have you?”

Bucky didn’t answer. His jaw stayed locked, but the way his eyes flicked to the window told you he was calculating. Not for an escape, but for a hit.

You kept walking, the floor quiet beneath your steps, until you were close enough to speak softer.

“I mean, I leave for three weeks,” you murmured, gaze flicking over his face, “and you start wishing I was dead, but when I walk into your apartment, you don’t even bother asking how I got past your locks. You just jump.” You grinned, sharp and amused. “Classic soldier move. React first, never ask the real questions.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

You raised your hand again, fingers spread in front of his chest, the energy humming stronger now. Just a whisper of it, but enough that the hair on his arm stood on end.

“So,” you said softly, almost curious, “do I get to control you now?”

The question was rhetorical. You didn’t need him to answer. You saw the shift in his expression anyway, the way his brows pulled in, the way his shoulders fought against the invisible weight holding them in place.

“Relax,” you said finally, stepping back again, letting the power loosen just slightly, “I’m not here to kill you. Yet.” Then you smirked. “Unless Alpine gave you permission.”

Behind you, Alpine made a tiny, offended meow from her perch on the counter, like she knew she was being referenced and was not pleased.

Your smile widened. Bucky still hadn’t moved, but he would. And you were going to enjoy it.

You didn’t move again. Didn’t need to. The pulse of power that still lingered in the air made the room feel heavier, like the space between you and him was soaked in something invisible and humming. The shadows leaned toward you like they knew who owned the night.

Bucky’s breath finally broke the silence, sharp and heavy through his nose. You’d loosened the grip on his body, sure, but not enough to let him forget what it felt like. That stillness. That helplessness. It was too damn familiar.

“What the fuck do you want?” he finally spat, voice low and rough like gravel dragged across steel. “Why the hell are you here?”

His hand twitched at his side, the metal one curling and unclenching, the threat still lingering even if the fight had been stolen from his limbs. His jaw flexed as he took you in again, this time not as a threat, he already knew you were that, but as a question that had been clawing at the back of his mind for weeks.

“You vanish for three weeks after tearing my entire team apart like tissue paper,” he snapped, voice climbing just slightly, “and now you’re sitting on my goddamn couch like you live here?”

He took a step forward. You let him.

“Why are you messing with us?” he went on, heat rising now, thickening his words. “What is this? Some kind of game? You screw with Bob’s head, knock Alexei on his ass, nearly break Ava’s ribs, hell, you made Walker scream like a fucking child—”

You raised your eyebrows slightly at that, almost proud. Bucky noticed. It made him more pissed.

“Don’t smile,” he snapped. “Don’t you fucking smile like that. You think this is funny?”

You shrugged once, slow and infuriatingly casual.

“I’m asking you a real question,” he said, taking another step, his voice a growl now, barely held together by whatever was left of his discipline. “What the fuck do you want from us? From me?”

You said nothing, so he kept going.

“You could be anywhere right now. Causing chaos, robbing banks, taking on another Hydra cell, I don’t know, but no, you’re here, in my apartment, acting like this is just some midnight social call.”

He was closer now. The light from the window stretched long between you, painting the floor in pale streaks. His face was tight, eyes sharp, but there was something underneath it. Not just fury. Not just the remnants of bruised ego and failed missions. There was confusion there. Maybe something else he hadn’t named yet.

His voice lowered again, not gentler, just quieter. More dangerous.

“Why me?”

That was the real question, and you knew it. All the other ones had been warm-ups.

Why him?

Why here?

Why tonight?

You didn’t answer, no, not yet. You just watched him with that same unreadable calm, like the silence was your favorite weapon and he was bleeding slow from every word. And he hated it, he hated that he wanted to know.

Your silence stretched, but not because you were being cruel. Not this time. Bucky could see it, now that the heat of his anger wasn’t drowning everything else. You weren’t smirking anymore. You hadn’t moved to defend yourself. You hadn’t even flinched when he raised his voice. You just stood there, steady but off. Like something was tilting just under your skin.

“I didn’t really mean to come here,” you said finally, voice quieter, slower, not dramatic but tired in a way that didn’t match the chaos you usually carried. “Wasn’t planned.”

He narrowed his eyes, shoulders still tense, arms crossed like he didn’t believe a word coming out of your mouth. “Then why the hell are you here?”

You exhaled, and it wasn’t a sigh, not exactly. More like something that had been trapped in your chest finally slipping out. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

The sentence just hung there. You didn’t follow it up with sarcasm. No snide comment. No dig about how his team was pathetic or how Alpine had better manners. Just those words, plain and fragile in the quiet.

Bucky blinked, thrown off for half a second. He tried to recover it with a scoff. “Bullshit. You’ve been dodging satellites for weeks. You can’t tell me someone like you doesn’t have a dozen bolt-holes and safehouses.”

“I do,” you said, nodding slightly. “Had, actually.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean, had?”

“I mean,” you replied, looking toward the floor like it might offer an easier version of the truth, “they’re gone. Burned. Raided. I went dark, but someone else went darker.”

He didn’t respond. Not yet. You lifted your hand and tapped your temple twice, slow. “But for whatever reason, my brain decided you were the next stop.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “So I’m what, a last resort?”

“No,” you said, and there was a flicker of something honest in your voice now, rough around the edges but not lying. “You’re just the only person I could think of that wouldn’t kill me on sight.”

“That’s optimistic.”

“I’m bleeding, Barnes,” you muttered. “Not delusional.”

He paused. Took a step closer. Something shifted in his eyes, still cautious, still guarded, but less sharp now. Then his gaze dropped, finally taking in the way you were standing. You were favoring your left side. Your shoulders weren’t quite level. You hadn’t drawn attention to it, hadn’t made a scene, but now he saw it. The stiffness. The way your right hand hadn’t moved much at all.

“Where?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Then, without a word, you reached up and curled your fingers around the edge of your jacket, tugging it aside just enough to reveal the deep crimson soaking through the black fabric near your ribs. It wasn’t a scratch. The stain was spreading.

Bucky’s stomach turned.

“Stabbed,” you said flatly. “I think. Maybe a knife. Could’ve been a shard of glass. Honestly didn’t stop to ask.”

His jaw twitched. “And you didn’t think to mention this before you started playing psychic puppet master?”

You shrugged, and it almost broke the spell—almost brought back the old mask of sarcasm. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

“You’re bleeding all over my goddamn floor.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Take the mask off,” he snapped, stepping forward again. “Let me see—”

“No.”

That stopped him. Your tone wasn’t panicked, but it was firm. Quiet, but immovable. You didn’t raise your voice.Didn’t reach for your power. You just said it like it was final.

“I’m not taking it off.”

Bucky watched you for a long moment, still, breath coming slow through his nose.

And then he muttered, “You’re a fucking nightmare.”

You smiled faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

Bucky didn’t move at first. He just stood there, jaw tight, the lines in his face drawn deep by moonlight and something harder beneath. The shadows clung to his features, and the silence stretched so long it stopped feeling like calm and started tasting like pressure.

Then he stepped closer, just one deliberate movement, the floor creaking faintly beneath his boot. His voice was low when he finally spoke again, quieter than before but somehow heavier.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t kill you right now?”

Your head tilted slightly, unreadable beneath the mask, but your body stayed still. The power curling around your fingers had dimmed. It was there if you needed it, sure, but right now you weren’t using it. You weren’t fighting. You were just… there. Bleeding, and watching him.

He kept going.

“You’re standing in my apartment,” he said slowly, every word laced with something old and bitter, “bleeding all over my floor, half-conscious, out of tricks. You’re helpless. And I really, really want to kill you.”

His tone didn’t shake. Not once. He wasn’t bluffing. You could hear it. This wasn’t a threat for show. It was the truth as he saw it. You were his enemy. You humiliated his team. You invaded his space. And now you were here, vulnerable, talking like the war between you was some inside joke.

He meant it. He wanted to kill you.

And yet, you looked at him for a beat longer, then finally spoke, voice quiet but even. Not mocking. Not taunting. Just matter-of-fact.

“You won’t.”

That made him flinch, almost imperceptibly. You took a slow step forward, enough to make the room feel smaller, but not close enough to provoke him.

“Because if you were going to,” you said, “you would’ve done it already.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You saw it in the way his fists stayed clenched, not swinging. The way his jaw worked, like his body couldn’t decide if it was more afraid of what you’d done or what he hadn’t.

You stood there for another second, swaying just slightly now, the wound making itself harder to ignore.

“I’ve done worse,” you added. “To better people.”

Still, no reply. You smiled faintly, not from strength, not from pride, just from knowing. From being right, again.

Then your knees wobbled, and the room pitched slightly, and suddenly the silence wasn’t tense anymore. It was something else. Something softer, or maybe sadder.

You didn’t fall, but you weren’t far from it. And Bucky, for all his anger, didn’t move to finish the job. He just stared at you, still deciding.

Bucky didn’t move. He just stood there, still as a goddamn statue, watching you bleed in his living room like it wasn’t the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, and somehow, it wasn’t. Your frame had gone quieter, the tension in your muscles easing not from calm but from exhaustion. Every breath you took now sounded like a gamble, like your body hadn’t decided if it was worth trying again.

The shadows wrapped around you, the room still mostly dark except for the moonlight bleeding through the slats in the blinds. It streaked across the hardwood floor in soft silver lines, casting your silhouette like a painting too old and too wounded to hang anywhere.

He noticed now, fully noticed, how pale your knuckles were, how your right arm hung a little too heavy at your side. The blood hadn’t stopped. It had just learned to hide better, soaking into your clothes and pooling quietly at your hip.

And still, you said nothing.

Until finally, your legs wobbled again, and this time your hand gripped the edge of the couch like it might anchor you to the earth. Your head dipped slightly, shoulders folding in, not like someone afraid, but like someone too damn tired to keep faking strength.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. Every part of him screamed to stay still. To let you fall. To punish you for the mess you’d made.

But then, you lifted your face again, and even through the dark, even behind that damn mask, he could tell you were smiling.

“Careful,” you mumbled, your voice frayed at the edges, like you were dragging the words out from someplace deeper. “If you touch me, I might start thinking you care.”

His mouth twitched. Not with amusement. Not even with anger. Just something tight and confused and ancient, like some part of him had heard those words before, in another life, maybe from another mouth.

And then, quieter, barely a whisper, you added, “You don’t want that… I’m really annoying when I’m conscious.”

Your knees gave another shiver, this time sharper. Your fingers slipped from the couch. And Bucky’s instincts, old as war and sharper than any steel Hydra ever forged into him, moved faster than thought.

He caught you before gravity could.

One hand braced flat against the center of your back, steady and firm, while the other curled around your arm just above the elbow, his grip tight but careful. Your body slumped forward, not heavy, but limp in a way that made his pulse jump. You were smaller like this. Not physically, just quieter. All the fight drained, and all the venom simmered down into stillness.

You didn’t jerk away, and didn’t even try to bite your way free. You just leaned into him, instead, head tilting slightly to the side as your breath brushed his collarbone.

“See? I knew you wouldn’t let me fall,” you murmured, and your voice had lost that razor edge now. It was soft. Almost gentle. Almost… human.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, unsure if he wanted to shake you or carry you.

Then your body sagged all at once, weight melting into him as your knees finally gave out for real. Your head dropped forward against his chest, breath shallow, warmth fading beneath the blood cooling through your layers.

You passed out in his arms.

And for a long second, Bucky didn’t move.

The only sounds were the soft ticking of the wall clock, the whisper of Alpine shifting somewhere in the other room, and the hiss of his own breathing as he looked down at you—this walking disaster of a person who’d torn through his team like paper and then stumbled bleeding into his home like it was where you were always meant to be.

You didn’t even tell him who did this to you. You didn’t explain. You just showed up, then fell, but he caught you.

God help him.

Bucky sat back on his heels, breathing hard, watching you like you might sit up and throw another insult at him just for fun, but you didn’t move. You were still sprawled across his bed, limp and half-twisted into the sheets, body heavy with blood loss, breath catching in soft, uneven intervals that were somehow worse than silence.

His eyes flicked back to the wound on your side. The bleeding had slowed, and now that he’d pulled off more of your gear, he could see the damage wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. It was a deep slice, maybe from a combat knife or a sharp piece of shrapnel, but it had missed anything vital. You were lucky. Or maybe just stubborn enough not to die.

He muttered something under his breath, not quite words, more like frustration disguised as exhale, and grabbed a clean cloth from the kit. Soaked it. Wiped the blood away carefully, methodically, like it might make this whole thing feel less insane.

His fingers brushed your skin again, just near the edge of the wound, and he paused.

Jesus.

You were warm. Warmer than you should’ve been, maybe from the fever starting to settle in your bones, maybe just from the fight, but the heat of your body seared into his palm like a brand. And for a split second, just one razor-edge beat of a moment, he let himself feel it.

The softness of your waist beneath the torn fabric. The steady thrum of your pulse, faint but there, under skin that had no business being this smooth in a life like yours. He caught a glimpse of the curve of your ribs, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. The moonlight spilled across your skin like it had an agenda of its own, catching the faint sheen of sweat that clung to you, the way your stomach tensed unconsciously when his fingers hovered too close.

He cursed under his breath again, this time with more force.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, dragging his eyes away from the stretch of bare skin and back to the gauze. “You’re not even awake and you’re still pissing me off.”

He worked quickly now, forcing himself to focus. The antiseptic stung where he dabbed it across the gash, and you flinched again, but barely. It was the first real movement you’d made in minutes, and somehow that made it worse. Made it real.

He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. You were supposed to be the enemy. A threat. A walking storm that wrecked everything in your path, including him.

And yet, here you were, bleeding into his mattress while he cleaned your wounds with the kind of care he hadn’t given himself in years.

Another swipe of the cloth, another inch of skin exposed beneath the torn fabric, and Bucky felt his jaw twitch. You were too close. Too still. And despite everything—the missions, the wreckage, the fucking chaos, you looked like you belonged there. In his bed. In his space.

It pissed him off more than anything else.

He taped the final strip of gauze into place, pulling the wrap snug across your side, fingers brushing the dip of your waist again before he forced his hands to pull back.

Then he stood, too fast, like he needed to create space between your body and his sanity. He tossed the bloodied cloth into the sink across the hall, ran cold water over his wrists, and stared at his own reflection like maybe it could talk him out of whatever the hell this was turning into.

He didn’t go far. Just stood in the doorway, watching your body rise and fall with every uneven breath, jaw clenched, throat dry, eyes still tracking every inch of exposed skin like it was a weapon he couldn’t disarm.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath.

Because the truth was? He’d rather be bleeding than feeling whatever the hell this was.

Bucky hadn’t moved from the doorway. He stood still as a statue, arms folded, brow furrowed deep, eyes pinned to the unconscious figure in his bed like staring long enough might make this all make sense. He should call it in. That was the first thought that tried to crawl its way up through the thick, unsettled fog of his brain. 

He should let Val know, let the team know, hell, let anyone know that the problem they’d been chasing for months had landed herself square in his apartment and passed out on his sheets like it was some kind of sick joke.

The comm was on the shelf by the front door. It’d take ten seconds. Maybe less. He stared at the wall. He didn't move.

Then, slowly, Bucky’s gaze dropped back to you. Your breathing had changed. It was heavier now, unsteady and choppy in a way that made his skin crawl. Not from fear. From familiarity.

You were dreaming. No, nightmaring. Whatever hell was clawing at you behind that mask, it was real enough to twist your body in slow, tight jerks. Your hands clenched against the sheets. Then he saw it.

The faint shimmer at your fingertips, glowing like embers under your nails. Not bright. Not wild. Just a low, steady pulse of dark red that crackled with something not entirely stable. It sparked once, then again, and Bucky caught a tiny thread of energy split the air and vanish into your palm like it had never been there.

His stomach dropped. That wasn’t just dreaming. That was a mind screaming in a language he didn’t speak.

You let out a breathless sound. Almost a word. Almost pain. Sweat had broken out across your neck, dampening the collar of your clothes. Your fingers twitched again, and another spark followed, more desperate this time. The kind of movement that didn’t belong to someone faking.

“Shit,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the soft buzz of the lamp.

He moved back toward the bed, slow now, careful like he was approaching a live wire instead of a bleeding enemy. You didn’t wake. You just turned your head slightly, and the angle of the moonlight hit your mask at a strange slant, catching the carved lines and worn edges.

You were still hiding. Still half the phantom they’d been hunting.

And for whatever reason he couldn’t pin down, that made his chest tighten. He hesitated.

One second. Two. Then, wordlessly, Bucky reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the mask.

It came away easier than he expected. A few clipped locks, a thin band at the back of your head. The fabric was damp with sweat, and it peeled away like second skin, slow and steady. He held his breath as he lifted it free.

And finally, finally, he saw your face. No illusions. No glamours. No sharp grin or sharp tongue. Just you.

Skin pale with blood loss, features drawn tight in the grip of whatever storm was rolling through your mind, lashes damp with sweat, lips parted like you were trying to speak even now. There was no satisfaction in the reveal. No moment of triumph. Just... silence.

Bucky stared. You didn’t look evil. You didn’t look like a threat. You looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks. Like someone who’d run out of places to go and had landed here without a plan.

You twitched again, and that red light bloomed at your fingertips once more, a soft flicker curling toward your wrist before sputtering out.

And that was when it hit him. He couldn’t call anyone. Not right now.

Because whatever was happening in that head of yours, it wasn’t something the Thunderbolts would wait to figure out. They’d come in guns drawn, protocols blazing, and they’d end this before you even woke up.

And Bucky? For reasons he didn’t understand, reasons he didn’t want to understand, he didn’t want you dead. Not tonight, and not like this.

So instead, he set the mask on the nightstand. Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, just far enough that he wouldn’t accidentally brush your leg, and watched the flickers of red fade into nothing again, waiting for your breathing to slow.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he knew this much. He couldn’t let you go. Not yet.

Bucky didn’t move. Not even when the wind outside caught the blinds and made them clatter softly against the windowpane. Not when the radiator groaned like it always did at this hour, settling into itself with a sigh that filled the silence like a whisper. He just sat there, still, quiet, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling loose between them, watching you breathe like the answers were hidden somewhere in the rise and fall of your chest.

His jaw was clenched tight. It had been since he took off your mask.

The red glow had stopped a few minutes ago, but the heat of it still lingered in the room. He could feel it in the air, a charge that hadn’t quite dissipated. It made the hairs on his arm stand, not out of fear, he was long past that, but out of something closer to instinct. That bone-deep awareness that something powerful had been here. Was here. And he’d let it inside.

You shifted slightly, not enough to wake, just a soft curl of your fingers into the sheets. Your breath hitched again, then settled. Sweat still beaded along your hairline, darkening the edges, clinging to the corner of your jaw like tiny fragments of whatever nightmare you’d just survived.

Bucky looked at you like he was waiting for the truth to rise out of your skin. It didn’t.

Instead, all he had was that voice in his head, Steve’s, maybe, or his own before Hydra carved it hollow saying, What the hell are you doing, Buck?

He didn’t know.

He should’ve called it in. Should’ve tied you up. Should’ve shoved a gun between your eyes and waited for backup. He knew how to do that. He’d done worse to people who mattered less. And you? You’d earned it. After everything. The ruined ops. The mind games. Bob still flinched every time someone said your name.

You weren’t a person to the Thunderbolts. You were a problem. A mission that kept slipping through their fingers like oil and smoke.

But here you were now; unarmed, and unconscious.

Bleeding into his sheets with your mask off and your guard down, and something in Bucky’s chest had curled in on itself the second he saw your face.

He hated that he noticed how young you looked. Hated that he clocked the faint scar above your brow, the subtle pull at the corner of your mouth like your default was half a smirk, even in sleep. He hated that he wasn’t reaching for his gun right now. That he wasn’t dragging you out of his apartment and into the light where the others could finish what they started.

Instead, he was sitting beside you, wondering if your breathing was finally evening out or if you were slipping deeper into whatever hell kept your fists twitching in your sleep.

His eyes drifted down to your hands again. No sparks this time. Just fingers curled into loose fists, stained faint with dried blood. He remembered how those hands moved when you fought, fast, deliberate, surgical. Like you didn’t waste motion because you didn’t have to. And he remembered how you’d looked at him right before you passed out. Like you knew he wouldn’t kill you.

And worse? You’d been right.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered under his breath, dragging his metal hand through his hair.

He stood for a second, pacing once to the window and back like the motion would shake something loose. But the only thing it did was remind him how small the apartment really was. How close you still were. How this moment, this choice, was already something he couldn’t take back.

So he sat again, this time closer. You didn’t flinch. And he didn’t speak, because if he opened his mouth now, he didn’t trust what might come out.

Suddenly, three days passed. Three days. That’s how long you’d been in his bed.

Three whole days of stillness, of soft, labored breathing, of skin running hot one minute and cold the next. Three days of Bucky keeping one ear tuned to your every movement, eyes always flicking to the bedroom every time a floorboard creaked too loudly. He didn’t sleep much. Not that he did on a good day, but with you there, unconscious and unpredictable, every quiet second felt like a lit fuse waiting to hit the powder.

He'd checked the wound the first night. Pulled your shirt up just enough to see the damage, careful not to touch more skin than necessary. The stab had gone in deep enough to make his stomach drop, blood soaked clean through the gauze he’d wrapped you in the night before, but nothing vital. No organs hit. Lucky, or maybe you were just built like a roach in leather.

So,  he cleaned it again. Changed the dressing twice a day. Sat at the edge of the bed and muttered things under his breath like he didn’t mean to, things like, “Should’ve let you bleed,” and “Pain in my ass, even half-dead.” But he did it anyway. Hands steady. Movements practiced. Like tending to wounds was the one thing he could do right without anyone barking orders.

He tried not to look at your face too long. That part was harder. Especially when the nightmares came again, twitching in your sleep, red curling off your skin like smoke. He kept a damp cloth near the bed, dabbed your forehead when the sweating got bad. It felt too human. Too careful. He hated it.

But last night? Last night he’d peeled back the bandage, fingers moving slow, expecting the same mess. The bruising. The tear.

And there was nothing.

Not a scab. Not a scar. Not even the faintest mark of trauma. Just clean, smooth skin stretched over where the blade had gone in. He’d blinked. Looked again. Touched it, gently, like maybe he’d imagined the whole damn thing, but no, it was gone.

He sat back on his heels, eyebrows drawn together in that familiar look of what the fuck, and stared at your side for a full minute.

“Of course,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his metal hand. “Because nothing about you is normal.”

It wasn’t healing. Not regular healing. This was something else. Something freaky. Asgardian, maybe. Magic, more likely. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. It just made the whole thing worse.

He leaned back, resting against the nightstand, arms crossed over his chest. The bedside lamp flicked a dim pool of light across your shoulder, your hand limp against the blanket, twitching once like you were chasing something again. He didn’t know how long you planned on staying unconscious, but the idea of explaining any of this to anyone, to the team, made his teeth grind.

He should’ve dragged you out by now. Should’ve handed you over. Let them finish what they started. Instead, he was keeping watch like some grumpy old guard dog, jumping every time you sighed.

“Would be easier if you were dead,” he mumbled to himself, but his voice was softer than he meant, and the room was still, and you were still breathing.

Bucky was on the floor, cross-legged and hunched over like a six-foot-tall kindergartener, his voice pitched into that absurd, soft baby-talk tone he’d sworn to Alpine, and himself, he would never use in front of anyone else. Ever.

“You’re just a little menace, huh? A fluffy little, hey, no, don’t chew on that. That’s my sock, you demon, come on, ow, hey, rude.”

Alpine, as usual, gave zero shits about his authority and launched herself at his wrist with the kind of adorable savagery that would’ve made Bob coo and Yelena suspicious. Bucky just let her wrestle with his fingers, tired amusement softening the hard lines around his eyes for the first time in days.

He didn’t hear the footsteps. Didn’t even hear the door creak or the faint rustle of fabric or the wet slide of a towel being hung up.

No, what finally caught his attention was a voice. Your voice. Warm, smug, and just loud enough to freeze the blood in his veins.

“Well, well, Sergeant Barnes,” you said, leaning against the kitchen doorway like you’d been there the whole damn time. “I always knew you had a soft side, but that little baby voice? Adorable.”

Bucky’s head snapped up so fast Alpine bailed off his lap and fled to the couch. He scrambled to his feet with the reflexes of a man who’d been ambushed a thousand times before, only this time, it wasn’t a Hydra operative or a mission gone wrong. It was you.

Standing there like nothing had happened. Dressed in his clothes.

His gray T-shirt hung loose over your frame, sleeves falling just past your elbows. The drawstring of his old sweats was cinched messily at your hips, like you didn’t even try to tighten it properly. Your hair was damp, skin flushed from a shower, and you looked too clean. Too casual. Too smug. Like you hadn’t almost died in his bed. Like you hadn’t been unconscious for seventy-two hours straight.

His jaw locked. “What the fuck—”

“Language,” you said, lifting a finger, smile crooked. “You wouldn’t want Alpine to pick up your bad habits.”

“You, how the hell—” He pointed, flustered, like there was some rational explanation hiding somewhere in the space between you and the hallway you must’ve walked down.

“Nice water pressure, by the way,” you added casually, pushing off the wall and walking toward him like you belonged here. Like the apartment was yours. “And don’t worry, I cleaned up after myself. Put the towels in the hamper. Very polite of me.”

He was blinking too fast now, visibly processing about ten different crises at once. “You were unconscious. You were bleeding. I stitched you up—how the hell did you shower without me hearing it?”

You shrugged like it wasn’t that deep. “Quiet feet. Also, you were distracted. You and Alpine were having a moment.”

Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, and not the angry, ready-to-fight kind. The panicked, overwhelmed, trying-not-to-lose-it kind.

Then, you tilted your head, that same glint sparking in your eye again.

“You know,” you said, grinning now, “you’re the first one who’s ever seen my face.”

That stopped him cold.

His expression shifted; wariness bleeding into confusion, confusion tangling with something heavier he didn’t have a name for. His eyes dragged over your features like he was looking at something he shouldn’t, like maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a privilege.

“And yet you didn’t kill me,” you added, voice a little softer. “Interesting.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, breath shallow, Alpine peeking out from behind the couch like even she was trying to read the room.

You let the silence sit a moment longer, then sighed, stretching your arms overhead like you hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in the space between you.

“Anyway,” you said, spinning on your heel, heading toward the kitchen with zero shame, “I’m starving. What’s a girl gotta do around here to get some pancakes?”

Bucky didn’t say a word as he moved around the kitchen, but his silence was louder than most people’s screaming. Every slam of a cabinet, every muttered curse when he realized he was out of the good butter, every pointed glance your way as he flipped a pancake with far too much aggression, it all said the same thing:

What the hell is happening right now.

You were perched at the small table by the window, legs folded under you like you’d lived there for years. Still wearing his shirt. Still smelling faintly of his shampoo. Like this was just a Sunday morning and not the aftermath of a hostile takeover followed by a three-day coma nap.

He stole another glance at you. You caught it, of course. You caught all of them, and then you grinned.

“What?” you asked, chin in hand, absolutely lounging. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You were supposed to be unconscious,” he muttered, jabbing at the pancake batter like it had personally offended him. “Bleeding out. Dying, preferably.”

“Wow,” you said, mock-offended, “that’s no way to talk to a guest.”

“You’re not a guest,” he snapped.

“Then, what am I?”

He didn’t answer, because he didn’t know. Enemy, maybe. Headache. Puzzle piece from a box he’d thrown out years ago. You were sitting there like a riddle he didn’t have time to solve, all casual confidence and chaotic charm, and Bucky didn’t know if he wanted to lock you up or ask you if you wanted syrup.

He plated the pancakes anyway. Stacked them, buttered them, then dropped the plate in front of you a little harder than necessary. You beamed as you picked up the fork and dug in like nothing was weird about this at all.

Bucky crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, staring. “You’re not gonna explain anything, are you?”

You shrugged with a mouthful of pancake, then swallowed. “What’s there to explain? I got stabbed. Your apartment’s nice. My mind told me to come here.”

“That’s not normal,” he deadpanned.

“I’m not normal,” you replied cheerfully.

He let out a breath, slow and sharp, like he was trying very hard not to punch something. Probably the wall. Maybe himself.

“Why my place?” he asked finally. “You could’ve gone anywhere. You should’ve gone anywhere.”

You glanced up at him then, not teasing. Just honest. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

The silence hung between you like a wire pulled too tight. Then you scooped another bite of pancake, like you hadn’t just said something quietly heartbreaking.

Bucky sighed, long and low. Then, turned to pour himself a cup of coffee, muttering under his breath the entire time.

“You’re a menace,” he said, not looking at you.

“You fed me pancakes,” you replied.

He turned back, holding his mug, eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

You gave him a smile that was all teeth and no apology. “That’s okay. I like me enough for both of us.”

After breakfast, if you could even call your wild, syrup-drenched demolition of three and a half pancakes “breakfast”, Bucky had retreated into silence, the kind of silence that didn’t just fill a room, it watched you. He stood like a statue in the corner of his own kitchen, holding his coffee like it was the last thing tethering him to sense, while you wandered through the space with the gleeful wonder of someone fresh out of a bunker.

You had this habit of reaching for things with both hands. Like your fingertips didn’t trust the world yet but your palms wanted to feel it anyway. You ran them along the grain of the wooden table, over the framed photo on the shelf he thought he’d hidden well; an old picture, black-and-white, of a street corner in Brooklyn. You held it gently, like it might burn you. Then you set it back, reverent.

The living room was your next stop. You padded across the hardwood barefoot—because of course you’d ditched the socks, and of course you were still wearing his shirt, oversized and half-buttoned, paired with his oldest sweatpants tied tight at the waist in a knot that didn’t belong to him.

“Ooh,” you said, dragging out the syllable like it was your first word, “what’s this?”

“That’s a record player,” Bucky said, monotone, not even looking up.

“A what?” you asked like he’d spoken in Morse code.

You crouched beside it, nose practically pressed to the turntable, inspecting it like it was alien tech. Then you spotted the small stack of vinyl tucked into the crate beside it and gasped, actually gasped, as you slid one out. The needle had barely hit the edge of a Nat King Cole album before smooth, warm music filled the space, crackling softly like a memory.

Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, trying very hard to pretend his heart wasn’t doing something weird in his chest.

You kept going. The blanket drawer was next. You opened it, stared down at the folded fabrics like they were treasure, then pulled out the softest one and rubbed it against your cheek with a dreamy sigh.

“This,” you said with absolute conviction, “is the best thing I’ve ever touched.”

“It’s a blanket,” Bucky said again, this time more exasperated.

You turned toward him, standing in the middle of the room now, the blanket draped around your shoulders like royalty, eyes wide, sincere. “You have so many things. It’s like... it’s like you’ve collected cozy.”

That made him pause, because he hadn’t thought of it like that. He just knew what made him feel safe. A soft throw. A record spinning low in the background. The warm weight of Alpine curled behind his knees at night. These were things he clung to, not because they made sense, but because they made him feel like a person.

You danced, yes, danced, into the kitchen next, nearly bumping your hip into the counter as you spun with some leftover rhythm from the vinyl.

Bucky flinched, then glared. “Can you not treat my apartment like a playground?”

“But it’s so nice,” you said, pulling open drawers now like you were hunting for buried treasure. “You have a garlic press! What even is a garlic press? Wait, is this a cheese grater?” You held it up like a weapon. “Do you grate cheese? That’s adorable.”

“You’re going to break something,” he muttered, voice pinched with stress, as he stepped forward and tried to gently tug the cheese grater from your hand. You didn’t let go right away. You just looked up at him with that grin again, playful, wild, dangerous in a completely different way than he was used to.

“I think I’m having fun,” you said softly. “Is this fun? I think this is what it feels like.”

Bucky stared at you. Really stared. Your hair still damp from a shower he hadn’t heard, skin pink from steam, curled in his too-big clothes, standing in his kitchen like you had never known what a home was. He’d seen you rip apart a squad of trained killers like you were walking through a dance routine, and now here you were, cooing at Alpine and smelling every damn spice jar in his cabinet like you were cataloging the world one smell at a time.

“Do you not know how to... live?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You blinked at him, tilting your head slightly like you were considering it. Then you shrugged.

“I know how to survive,” you said. “This feels different.”

And then, like the moment never happened, you gasped again and darted toward the fridge. You opened it, squinted into the contents, then turned back with absolute delight.

“You have actual food in here! Like eggs! And leftovers! Bucky, are you secretly someone's grandmother?”

He groaned into his coffee. “God, please shut up.”

You only laughed louder. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t mind the noise.

You were on the floor again, legs tucked under you in some unholy pretzel configuration, hair damp, hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms as you dangled a fuzzy blue mouse above Alpine’s increasingly unimpressed face. The cat, stretched lazily on her back, was pawing at the toy like she was entertaining you out of pity, not necessity.

“You have no idea,” you whispered dramatically to Alpine. “If I ever master mind control on animals, it’s over for you. Over. You’ll be wearing capes. Matching ones. With me.”

Alpine blinked at you slowly, then rolled to her side, unimpressed.

Bucky, still pretending to read the paper he hadn’t actually touched in ten minutes, watched from the armchair. One brow twitched. “You good down there, or do I need to call someone?”

“She likes me,” you replied confidently, shifting to rub behind Alpine’s ear with both hands like you were kneading dough. “She told me.”

“She told you?” he repeated, dry.

You nodded. Dead serious. “Yeah. I can hear her thoughts.”

Bucky dropped the paper completely, eyes narrowing, a flicker of something ancient and curious crossing his face. “Wait, seriously?”

You looked up at him slowly. “Dead serious.”

He sat up straighter. “Okay, okay, what’s she saying right now?”

You paused, one hand pressed against Alpine’s soft side like you were channeling the deepest energy in the universe. Your eyes closed. You inhaled slowly, solemnly. Then you opened your mouth.

“Meow.”

It was delivered with the kind of reverent flatness that made it sound like a holy prophecy.

Bucky stared at you. Just stared. Then, you burst out laughing.

“Meow?” he echoed, incredulous. “You asshole!”

You were wheezing, now doubled over, head against Alpine’s belly like she was your emotional support pillow. “Oh my God, the look on your face. You wanted it to be real.”

“You’re the worst,” he said, but there was a small, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. He leaned back again, arms folding across his chest. “I thought you were actually pulling some weird psychic crap. You had the voice and everything.”

“I am psychic,” you said through your giggles. “But only when it’s funny.”

Alpine chose that exact moment to get up, walk across your lap, and hop onto Bucky’s armrest like she’d just filed a complaint with management. You flopped onto your back on the floor, hands spread wide.

“You’re both so dramatic,” you muttered. “No wonder you’re roommates.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “She’s not my roommate.”

“She sleeps in your bed, eats your food, and glares at your guests. She owns this place.”

Alpine let out a small chirp, as if agreeing.

You stayed on the floor a beat longer, grinning up at the ceiling like this was the best day you’d had in years. Bucky watched you, that smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth, like maybe he couldn’t quite remember why he hated you so much anymore, or maybe he still did, but it was harder now, with you laying there in his living room, wearing his clothes, pretending to speak cat.

“Do you always act like this when you’re not setting things on fire?” he asked finally.

You turned your head toward him, eyes bright. “No, sometimes I also sing showtunes.”

“Please, don’t.”

“I will if you make me do dishes.”

He groaned, but it was half-laugh, half-resignation, like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Not yet, anyway.

After a while, Bucky had finally convinced you to sit on the couch like a regular person instead of lying on the floor talking to his cat like she was your therapist. You had your knees pulled up, your fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of his sweatshirt. It hung off your frame like it had belonged to you once in another life. Maybe that’s what got to him most. How you made yourself look at home in a place he still sometimes felt like a guest in.

He didn’t ask any questions at first. Just sat at the other end of the couch, long legs stretched out, arms folded. Alpine was curled between you like Switzerland.

The silence wasn’t awkward. Not exactly. It just hung in the air, waiting. You were the one who broke it.

“You ever think about running away?” you asked quietly, still looking down at your lap.

Bucky glanced at you, brow twitching. “From what?”

You shrugged, still plucking at the thread. “All of it. The whole thing. The job. The expectations. The guilt. The ghosts. You ever think about just… vanishing?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes,” he said eventually. “But ghosts follow, and they don’t need passports.”

You nodded like you knew that already. “I tried,” you said after a pause. “Vanishing, like years ago. Had a new name, and lived in a new city. Stayed away from fights, from powers, from the whole damn mess. Got a job at a library, if you can believe that.”

He looked over at you again. “You worked in a library?”

You smirked a little, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Quiet. Peaceful. Smelled like paper and old wood and safety.”

“What happened?”

You finally looked up. There was something there in your expression, something raw and unguarded. It didn’t scream pain. It whispered it. “They found me.”

“Who?”

You shook your head. “Does it matter? Hydra. SHIELD. The Thunderbolts. Some other three-letter acronym. They always find me. They always want to use me.”

“And…you ran again?”

You shook your head again, slower this time. “No, I just stopped running. Figured if I was gonna keep being hunted, I might as well bite back.”

Alpine yawned between you, completely unbothered by the weight settling into the room. Bucky studied your face, the way the laughter had drained from it, replaced by something older. Sadder. Wiser.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

You smiled at that, but it was tired. “What did you expect?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. Something colder. Angrier.”

You tilted your head. “I am angry. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like pancakes and fluffy blankets.”

“You’re full of contradictions.”

“So are you,” you said gently. “Metal arm. Soft eyes.”

Bucky looked away at that, jaw tightening like you’d hit a nerve.

You let the silence linger again, then added, “I didn’t come here to mess with you. Not this time. I didn’t even know I was coming here, not really, but when I got hurt… it’s like my body brought me here on its own. And that should probably terrify me more than it does.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. So he said, “You want more pancakes tomorrow?”

You smiled. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”

Bucky didn’t say much when he stood from the couch and pointed down the hall. “Guest room’s second door on the left,” he muttered, rubbing at the side of his neck like the words tasted awkward on his tongue. “You should get some sleep.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you’re the one patching up your nemesis. I’m just here for the free healthcare and the mystery cat.”

He grunted in reply and turned to head to his own room. He didn’t look back, but apparently, neither did you.

Because fifteen minutes later, when he finally switched off the lights and stepped into his bedroom with every intention of collapsing face-first into his mattress, he found… you. Sprawled out like a damn starfish. One leg tossed haphazardly over his blanket, arms outstretched like you were claiming the entire bed by divine right.

Alpine was curled up on your stomach, tail flicking once like she was daring him to say something. Bucky just stood there in the doorway, jaw clenched, deadpan.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

He looked over his shoulder toward the guest room, then back at the sight in front of him. You were already dead asleep, breathing steady, hoodie riding up just a little, revealing the edge of gauze he’d wrapped earlier. Your hand twitched once, fingers curling like you were chasing something in a dream.

“Second door on the left,” he whispered harshly at your unconscious form. “It’s not that hard.”

But you didn’t stir. Not even a snore. Just blissful, defiant sleep, like the chaos you carried had finally shut off for the night. Bucky sighed long and slow, raking a hand down his face. Alpine blinked at him once, then went back to sleep. Betrayer.

Fine.

He pivoted and walked back down the hallway, muttering a string of curses that probably would've shocked Steve if he were still around to hear them. The guest room bed creaked when he dropped onto it, too stiff, too clean, like a hotel room no one ever used. He stared at the ceiling for a while, letting silence settle over the apartment like a blanket, except it didn’t warm him. Not tonight.

He hated how easily you had slotted into the rhythm of this place. Like you belonged here. Like his quiet life wasn’t so quiet anymore.

By the time sleep finally came, it was thin and fractured. He dreamed of moonlight, laughter, and voices he couldn’t place.

The next morning, he woke to the smell of… confusion. That was the only way he could describe it. Something was burning.

He sat up fast, heart lurching before his brain caught up. Then he realized it wasn’t smoke. It was just… coffee. Bad coffee.

He pulled on a T-shirt and padded barefoot into the kitchen, blinking against the morning light. And there you were.

Standing in front of the coffee machine like it had personally betrayed you.

You were dressed in his sweatpants now, rolled up at the ankles, and the hoodie was still slung over your frame like it hadn’t moved all night. Your hair was tied back loosely, a little damp, like you’d showered again, but when? He’d heard nothing. Not even the pipes.

Your fingers hovered over the buttons like they might explode. “What the hell is a ‘descaling mode’?” you muttered to yourself. “Why does this thing have so many buttons? Why does it beep like that?”

Bucky leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a slowly growing smirk. “Need help?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

You jumped slightly, then turned to him, face lit up like a kid caught playing with forbidden tech. “This machine is cursed,” you said solemnly. “I pressed one thing and now it’s asking me for a cleaning pod. I don’t even know what a cleaning pod is. What are you people doing in the 21st century?”

He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “It makes coffee.”

“No, it makes demands.”

He walked over, reaching past you to tap the reset button and clear the screen. “You’re lucky I don’t make you earn your keep by washing dishes.”

You looked offended. “I washed the forks.”

“There were three forks.”

“It was still labor.”

He glanced sideways at you, then down at the shirt you wore. His shirt. “Did you… go through my closet?”

You tilted your head. “You weren’t specific, so I assumed guest rights applied.”

He blinked. “Guest rights?”

“You’re feeding me, bandaging me, and letting me sleep in your overpriced bed, so I’m practically family.”

His eyebrow twitched. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” you said brightly, then turned back to the machine, hitting a random button again. It beeped in protest. “Seriously though, how do you use this thing without summoning a demon?”

Bucky just reached over, pressed two buttons, and poured you a cup like it was the easiest thing in the world. You took the mug, eyes wide, genuinely impressed.

“I’m gonna marry this coffee,” you muttered after your first sip.

He shook his head, watching you like you were a storm that blew in, turned everything upside down, and now acted like you owned the place.

Maybe you did, and somehow, that thought didn’t scare him the way it should have.

By noon, the sun was carving soft light through the blinds, slicing the living room into bands of gold and shadow. Bucky had cleaned up the coffee disaster with practiced movements, muttering under his breath the entire time about people who shouldn’t be trusted near kitchen appliances. You had followed him around like Alpine, eyes wide, hair damp, socks mismatched, like you’d never been in a home before. And maybe, in a way, you hadn’t.

That’s how it started. With you leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him dry a mug.

“Do you ever cook?” you asked, nonchalant. Too nonchalant.

Bucky paused, then gave a slow, wary look over his shoulder. “Define cook.”

You grinned. “Like… with fire.”

He stared. “What are you planning?”

“I want to cook lunch,” you declared, stepping toward the fridge with the posture of someone about to win a cooking competition they’d never trained for. “I’ve seen shows. I know the basics.”

“Shows,” he repeated. “Like what, Hell’s Kitchen?”

“More like Nailed It,” you said cheerfully, flinging the fridge open with enough force to make the condiments rattle.

Bucky stood very still, like if he didn’t move, maybe the chaos would lose interest and go away, but of course, it didn’t.

You pulled out eggs, cheese, and something he swore had expired last month, and dropped them dramatically onto the counter. “Voilà.”

“That’s expired.”

“It builds immunity.”

“That’s not how food poisoning works.”

You were already cracking eggs into a bowl, shells half-shattered and suspiciously crunchy. Bucky’s hand twitched toward the trash can, but he didn’t interfere. Not yet. He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that wavered between horror and something too soft to name.

“You know,” you said while aggressively whisking with a fork, “the last time I cooked, the stove caught fire.”

Bucky blinked. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, I just wanted to be honest.”

He sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. Alpine hopped up on the counter to supervise, her tail flicking like a metronome of judgment.

“Okay, step back,” he said finally, nudging you out of the way with his hip. “Before you summon another demon from the coffee machine or burn down my entire block.”

You stepped back with a smug grin, holding the bowl like a trophy. “So what you’re saying is... I’m charming enough to get out of arson charges?”

“No,” he said, cracking fresh eggs with one hand like muscle memory never left. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to deal with explosions today.”

You watched him move around the kitchen, calm and precise. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Like it was a ritual, not just survival. For a second, the silence between you was different. Not playful, not sharp. Just… still.

“Did you do this with Steve?” you asked quietly, the question barely louder than the sizzle of eggs hitting the pan.

Bucky’s hands stilled. Just for a second. Then he stirred the pan slowly, like he was buying time before answering.

“Sometimes,” he said finally. “Back in Brooklyn, before the war. He couldn’t cook for shit, but he made good toast.”

You smiled. “That sounds about right.”

“He always burnt bacon,” Bucky added, a ghost of amusement passing over his face. “Said it made it crunchier.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently, “You miss him?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Every day,” he said.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heavy. Just the truth, laid bare like it didn’t need dressing up.

You nodded like you understood, because you did. Maybe not Steve, but the aching hollow of what was lost. The weight of could-have-beens. “I miss people, too,” you said after a beat, quietly. “Though most of them weren’t exactly Steve Rogers.”

Bucky glanced at you then, a flicker of something passing between you. Mutual understanding. Shared grief, even if it wore different names.

You cleared your throat and clapped your hands once, the spell breaking. “So, pancakes, coffee, and now… eggs. I’m living the dream.”

He smirked. “You’re easily impressed.”

“I’m easily underfed.”

You sat at the tiny table in his kitchen while he plated the food, and for a while, there was no war. No Thunderbolts. No mask. Just two people who had bled in the same world, eating a mediocre lunch in a sunlit apartment.

You didn’t bring up your powers. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t run yet. And maybe that was the point.

Later, when you tried to make toast and somehow still managed to smoke up the kitchen, Bucky handed you a fire extinguisher with zero emotion, like this was just what came with feeding you.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.

You winked. “Takes one to know one, soldier boy.”

That night, The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional chirp from Alpine as she pawed at the corner of the rug, her eyes flicking up toward you with feline judgment. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, head tilted as you tried to figure out how to use the TV remote, muttering to yourself like the buttons had personally insulted you.

Bucky leaned against the doorway, watching from a distance, arms crossed and jaw tight. He hadn’t meant to stare this long. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure when he stopped pretending to fold laundry and just… stood there, staring at you like you were some damn puzzle he couldn’t solve.

You looked ridiculous. His shirt was too big on you, the sleeves half-rolled and the hem nearly touching your knees. Your hair was still damp from the shower you took that morning, and for some reason, you had clipped one of Alpine’s toy bells onto the collar like it was a fashion choice. Every time you shifted, it jingled softly.

He should’ve found it annoying. Should’ve been furious, really.

Because it had only been three weeks since you’d nearly destroyed his team. Since Ava’s shoulder got dislocated, since Alexei had to be half-carried into medbay, since Bob, sweet, soft-spoken Bob, couldn’t sleep for two nights straight because of whatever the hell you’d put in his head. 

He remembered the look on Yelena’s face when they got back to the Watchtower, all bruises and grit and no answers. He remembered the silence in the debriefing room, the shame curling in the pit of everyone’s stomach like smoke they couldn’t cough up.

And now? You were here. In his space. Wearing his clothes. Using his soap. Cooking horrible eggs. Curling up with his cat like you belonged.

He should’ve thrown you out the moment you passed out.

Instead, he kept checking your wounds, changing your bandages. He let you shower. Let you touch things. Let you stay.

God, he was such a hypocrite.

You laughed at something on the TV, loud and sudden. The kind of laugh that filled a space. Bucky flinched at the sound, not because it startled him, but because it did something else. Something worse.

It sounded real.

You weren’t acting like a fugitive. You weren’t hiding, or planning your next attack. You were… living. And somehow, that made it harder, because if you were a villain, he could hate you without question. If you were a monster, he could put a bullet through your head and call it justice.

But you weren’t. You were just this strange, beautiful, annoying thing that danced through their missions like it was a game and then cried in your sleep when you thought no one could hear. He had seen it. The sweat on your brow, the trembling in your hands, the little sparks of red flaring from your fingertips when the nightmares crawled in. He had sat there in the dark, watching from the armchair while you turned in his bed like something was chasing you, and it made him ache in a way he hated.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

Because what were they supposed to do? Let you stay forever? Let you make pancakes with expired milk and wear his t-shirts and pretend like you hadn’t almost broken Sentry’s mind in half? Like you hadn’t called them out, him out, for everything he was trying to fix?

He couldn’t keep you hidden. He couldn’t keep this secret.

So Bucky pulled out his phone. Slowly. Like it weighed more than it should.

He stared at the screen for a long minute, thumb hovering over the contact. Walker. Ghost. Val. Hell, even Yelena. He could call any of them. Let them know. Tell them he had you. Tell them you were weak. Bleeding. Vulnerable. Easy.

One press. One word. He could end this.

Behind him, you had flopped onto your side, one arm dangling off the couch. Alpine had climbed on top of your legs, purring like a damn tractor. You were humming now. Off-key. Happy.

Bucky swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the screen.

Then he tapped the message open and typed out five words.

I know where Bandit is.

He didn’t send it. Not yet. He looked back at you one more time. You were holding the remote upside down and arguing with it. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.

Instead, he hit send. The message disappeared. And just like that, something in him did too.

The guilt crept in before the knock ever came. Before the comms even lit up. It settled into Bucky's chest like an old friend, unwelcome and familiar, tugging at the edges of every breath he took.

He couldn’t stop watching you.

You were crouched in front of Alpine now, trying to teach her how to shake hands. Your hair was tied up with one of his old shoelaces, and you kept making little “pspsps” sounds while tapping your knuckles on the floor like it was a ritual. The cat wasn’t cooperating. Alpine rarely did. But you didn’t seem to care. You were laughing, eyes scrunched up, voice soft and focused, like the world wasn’t shifting beneath your feet.

Like you didn’t feel the weight of betrayal crackling in the air.

Bucky turned away. He busied himself with pretending to clean the counter, wiping the same spot three times, heart knocking against his ribs like it wanted to break out and run.

He didn’t even hear you get up. He just heard your voice. Low. Calm.

“I liked it here.”

He froze.

You were behind him. Close. Too close.

He turned slowly, eyes meeting yours. You weren’t smiling anymore. Your hands were relaxed at your sides, but something buzzed beneath your skin, like your powers were pressing up against the surface, waiting.

“I liked the couch. The quiet. The cat.” You tilted your head, studying him. “I liked that you didn’t ask too many questions.” 

Bucky didn’t speak. You took a step closer, and the hum in the air changed. Faint red sparks curled around your fingers. Not threatening. Not yet.

“I really liked the shirt too,” you added softly. “Little tight in the shoulders, but soft.”

His throat worked, but nothing came out. Then, you looked at the counter. At the phone, at his face, and you knew. 

You didn’t need to read his mind. You never had to. You were just that damn good.

“Oh,” you said quietly, breath puffing out like a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “You told them.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. You nodded once, more to yourself than to him. Your eyes flicked down to Alpine, still pawing at the air like she didn’t know the room was about to turn inside out.

“I figured,” you murmured. “Four days of kindness? That’s a record for you, right?”

The words hit harder than they should have. He clenched his jaw. “You don’t get to talk like you know me.”

“I don’t need to know you,” you said, eyes never leaving his. “I just needed to know the look you gave me when you brought me soup. Like you were trying to convince yourself I wasn’t real.”

You took another step. He didn’t move, and he couldn’t.

“And now you’re standing here like a man who’s waiting for backup. Like a man who regrets not locking the door.”

Then you smiled. Not your usual smirk, not the teasing kind. This one was tired, like you’d done this a million times before.

“You really think I didn’t hear the moment you made the message?” you whispered, voice just above a breath. “Your guilt's so loud, Barnes. It’s a wonder the walls haven’t cracked.”

He stepped back like he’d been slapped. Then, you did the thing that snapped the air clean in half. You reached out, slow, careful, and pressed two fingers to his chest, right over where his heart was beating too fast.

“You really think I’d stay in a place where I wasn’t already ten steps ahead?” Red light pulsed under your skin. “I came here because something told me to, but I’m staying because you made me want to.” You dropped your hand. “But now?”

You didn’t say the rest. You didn’t need to. The silence that followed was thick with everything you didn’t say. With the sound of sirens that hadn’t reached the building yet. With the weight of choices made too late.

And somewhere beneath it all, Bucky wanted to scream. Not at you. At himself. Because he knew then. He didn’t just betray you, he betrayed the only goddamn thing that had made him feel alive in years.

You turned toward the door without a word, hands clenched, your jaw set tight. The air shifted around you, that strange charge building like a slow breath held too long. One foot stepped forward, the other already following. You were halfway to the hall when Bucky said it.

“You could’ve said something.”

You stopped. It was not loud and sharp, but it dropped  enough like a weight between you, and it hit something deep. You turned slowly, your voice flat. “Said what, exactly?”

He stayed near the counter, arms crossed now, like he needed to hold himself together or else throw something. “That you were leaving. That you used me. That you planned it.”

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, the words out before you could think better. “I didn’t use you. You let me in. I didn’t ask for that. I was bleeding and half-conscious, and your door just happened to be the only one my body dragged me to.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Bucky shot back, stepping closer. “You show up out of nowhere, manipulate everyone around you, make me, hell, make me feel something, and now you’re walking out like none of it meant anything.”

“I didn’t ask to feel anything,” you bit out. “You think I came here to make friends? To play house with a man who’s still trying to remember which parts of him are real?”

Bucky flinched, but you were too far in now. The anger was old and bitter, and you’d held it too long. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to laugh at your dumb voice when you play with your cat? That I wanted to know how you take your coffee or what it looks like when you fall asleep sitting up on the couch?”

He stared at you, unmoving, but his chest was rising fast, shoulders tight like he was ready to swing or scream. “I didn’t ask for this either,” he said through his teeth. “But it happened, and you stayed. Don’t act like that doesn’t mean something.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m safe,” you threw back. “It doesn’t mean I belong here.”

“Then why the hell did you come to me?” His voice cracked then, just a little, but he didn’t stop. “Why me, out of everyone? Why this apartment? Why my couch, my bed, my goddamn t-shirt?”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched thin between you, full of all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t without bleeding.

Then you exhaled hard, bitter. “Because I knew you’d understand.”

Bucky blinked.

“I knew you’d understand what it feels like to be made into something you didn’t ask for. To be hated just for surviving. I thought—” Your voice caught, and you shook your head. “I thought maybe that meant something.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, Bucky muttered under his breath, voice heavy. “So why are you still running?”

You laughed once, but it was empty. “Because the second I stop, they’ll put me in a cage.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” he said quickly, and you turned on him again.

“Oh, come on. You already did! You told them, Barnes. You made your choice. Don’t pretend you’re some kind of martyr now.”

“I didn’t call them for you,” he snapped, louder now. “I called them because you hurt people. Because you messed with Bob’s head so bad he couldn’t talk for a day. Because you played with Ava’s fears like they were cards in your pocket. You messed with my team.”

“They’re not your team!” you shouted. “They’re a bunch of broken toys with government stickers on them. You think I’m the villain? Look at what they do. What you do. You’ve all just been dressed up and rebranded, like that makes you better than me.”

You were breathing fast now. The red light under your skin pulsed, slow and dim but present. Bucky took one more step, and now you were face to face, the space between you crackling.

“You still haven’t told me what you want,” he said, voice low. “Why me? Why now?”

You stared at him, eyes flicking over his face like you could read something there, something honest. Then, finally, you said it. Quiet, but sure. “Because when I close my eyes, you’re the only thing that doesn’t burn.”

And that, for a moment, shut him up completely, but the damage was done. The argument wasn’t finished. It never would be. And neither of you could look away.

Then, Bucky broke the silence. “Then, come with me, please. This is not you.”

Your hands lifted slowly, fingers twitching in rhythm with the red crackle dancing along your palms. Your voice slipped into something lighter, more venomous. “You think because I spent a few nights in your apartment I’ve suddenly forgotten who I am?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t do this.”

“What exactly am I doing, James?” You took a slow step back, but it wasn’t retreat. It was preparation. “Reminding you that I’m not your responsibility? That I’m not your pet project? That I’m not going to become your redemption arc?”

He flinched like the words hit a nerve, which they did. You could feel it. His silence was weighted, all frustration and guilt packed behind clenched teeth.

Then he stepped forward, voice low but sharp. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. I know you’re scared.”

You laughed. Short. Bitter. “Scared? Of you? Of them?” You gestured vaguely in the air, like the ghosts of the Thunderbolts were standing in the hallway waiting for a dramatic entrance. “You don’t get it, do you? I’ve always been the monster under the bed. I don’t fear cages, I survive them.”

“And what, you think that’s all you’ll ever be?” Bucky shot back. “You think this mask you wear, this whole ‘bitch-ass villain’ routine, makes you untouchable?”

“It makes me safe,” you said. “People don’t try to love what they’re afraid of.”

He took another step, so close now that the air between you tensed. “Bullshit. You’re hiding. You’re hiding behind your powers, behind your trauma, behind that damn mask you wear even when there’s no one around to be afraid of you.”

Your fingers flared again, the red light building. “You want me to stop hiding?” you asked, stepping in so close your chest brushed his. “You want the real me, Barnes? You sure about that?”

He didn’t back down. “I want the one who made Alpine a nest out of his own hoodie. I want the one who got excited about a damn toaster. I want the one who—” He stopped himself, looked away for a second like the truth in his mouth was too heavy. “The one who asked for help without asking.”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t let it show. You smiled instead. Wide, empty. “That version of me doesn’t exist.”

“That’s crap and you know it.”

Then, all at once, you shoved him. It wasn’t a blow meant to injure. It was just enough force to spark something. A release. A scream without sound.

He stumbled back a step, then launched forward. You met him halfway, powers humming to life in your hands, but you didn’t use them, not really. It was instinct more than attack. A swing blocked. A shove dodged. His hand grabbed your wrist, and yours gripped the collar of his shirt.

It wasn’t a fight to win. It was a fight to feel.

Breathless, tangled, a mess of boots scuffing on hardwood and breath ghosting close enough to blur the line between anger and something darker. You twisted free, threw a flicker of red across his arm, but he caught your other hand and pinned it against the wall.

“Stop fighting me,” he growled, eyes locked on yours.

“Why?” you hissed, heart pounding. “So you can hand me over with a clear conscience? So you can sleep better knowing you tried?”

“I’m not handing you over.”

You froze.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. “Come with me. I’ll deal with Val, with Walker, with all of them. I’ll make sure you’re not locked away.”

“You really think they’ll listen to you?”

“I don’t care if they do.” He leaned in, forehead almost against yours. “I’m not letting them cage you. I swear it.”

Your voice cracked around the edges, not from pain but from pressure. “I can’t be what you want, Barnes.”

“Then just be real,” he said. “Even if that version of you sets the world on fire.”

- Watchtower, Thunderbolts* Headquarters - 

The briefing room had never felt more claustrophobic. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, faintly flickering like they were just as tired as the people sitting beneath them. The table was a battered slab of steel, peppered with coffee stains, old dents, and the ghost of a knife slash courtesy of Walker’s last tantrum. Everything smelled like burnt caffeine and old antiseptic, like this room never really aired out the missions it failed to forget.

Yelena shoved the door open with her hip and tossed her phone onto the table. She didn’t look at anyone as she dropped into her usual seat, legs crossed, one boot tapping against the leg of her chair.

“Barnes texted me,” she said flatly. “Just now.”

That got their attention.

Walker straightened from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, arms folded, scowling like that might summon answers faster. Red Guardian looked up from the ancient thermos he’d been glaring into for the past ten minutes. Ava appeared in the doorway a second later, wiping black grease from her gloves and glancing around like someone had called an emergency meeting she hadn’t approved of.

“What’d he say?” Bob asked quietly, already reaching for the phone.

Yelena pushed it toward him. On the screen: “Meet me. Midnight. Coordinates attached. Come prepared.”

The words hung in the air like fog. Blunt, and no signature. Just Bucky in his most Bucky form: sparse, serious, vague enough to make everyone nervous.

Ava let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Come prepared? What is this, a duel?”

“Midnight?” Alexei repeated, squinting at the screen. “Is ghost hour. Nothing good happens in midnight.” His accent thickened as he reached for the coordinates and plugged them into the projector on the wall. “Where is this, eh? Some forest? Swamp?”

“No,” Bob said as the map flickered to life. “It’s the old power plant. East sector. City’s been trying to tear it down for five years.”

The image settled into view: a sprawling husk of concrete and metal, fences rusted and torn, transformers collapsed like dying beasts. The main building was half-caved in, its windows dark holes. Everything about it screamed forgotten.

Walker leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “You think he dragged her there to finish it? Finally got the guts to do what the rest of us couldn’t?”

“Or maybe she dragged him,” Ava countered, arms crossed. “Maybe he’s not in control anymore.”

Yelena’s jaw ticked. “He’s not compromised. If he were, he wouldn’t have sent a location.”

“Unless she made him,” Ava said, raising a brow.

Alexei huffed, pacing to the corner of the room. “Bah, she twist minds. Turns strongest man into puddle.” He jabbed a finger at Bob, who had the decency to look sheepish. “Made you cry like baby in corner.”

“I wasn’t crying,” Bob mumbled, but it didn’t sound convincing.

“You were,” Walker confirmed.

Bob ignored them and went back to studying the map. “This place… if it’s a trap, it’s a good one. No power, no signal. Nearest responders are ten miles out.”

“That’s exactly why Bucky picked it,” Yelena said. “If this is his plan, it’s off the books. No outside interference.”

“Or he’s gone full Stockholm and she’s got him dancing around like a puppet,” Walker snapped. “And if that’s the case, we better be ready to put him down, too.”

Yelena stood slowly, her voice sharp. “You say that again, and I will put you down.”

A thick silence fell. The air felt heavier now, pressing into shoulders, settling like a storm waiting for the sky to break.

Ava cracked her neck. “So what’s the move?”

“We go,” Yelena said. “Gear up. Keep comms off. If it’s a trap, we deal with it. If it’s not…” She trailed off, and for the first time in a while, she looked uncertain. “We find out what the hell Barnes is really doing.”

Bob rose to his feet last, his gaze still fixed on the image on screen. The power plant loomed, silent and sunken. There were no answers in the dark, only the promise of confrontation.

The Bandit. Four weeks without a trace. No pings. No sightings. Not even a whisper across any of the channels they monitored, but none of them believed you had disappeared.

People like you didn’t vanish. Why? Because you went quiet before the storm.

The power plant loomed like the carcass of something that used to matter, steel ribs exposed, windows gaping, vines growing where glass used to be. The night was still, the kind of cold that crept under armor and made silence feel louder than any gunshot. Wind whispered through broken vents and rattled loose siding, like the place itself was holding its breath.

They arrived one by one, boots crunching against cracked asphalt, weapons slung, shoulders tight. Walker came in first, shield already drawn, his face pulled into a scowl like the wind had insulted his mother. Ava appeared next, half-phased through the side gate like a shadow with a grudge. Alexei and Bob weren’t far behind, the latter squinting at the sky like he wished it would give him a better excuse to turn around. Yelena came last, eyes sharp and chin high, a knife already in her hand even though she hadn’t spoken a word since stepping out of the van.

They found Bucky standing at the center of the yard, right where the main transformer used to be, half-buried under moss and rust. His arms were at his sides, fists clenched but not raised. He wasn’t pacing, wasn’t on edge. Just… still.

“Barnes,” Walker called out, tone already sour. “You gonna explain why the hell we’re meeting in a haunted scrapyard?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch a little longer, long enough for discomfort to settle in their chests. Then he looked up, face unreadable under the low blue light of the half-moon, and said flatly, “She’s here.”

That got their attention. Bob stiffened. Yelena stepped forward. Walker’s hand tightened on the grip of his shield.

“She’s not armed,” Bucky added, before anyone could raise theirs. “She’s not here to fight.”

“Bullshit,” Ava said instantly. “That’s what she wants you to think.”

“She messed with your head again,” Walker said. “Didn’t she? Jesus, Barnes, tell me she didn’t crawl in and rewrite your loyalty.”

“She didn’t,” Bucky said, his voice cutting clean through the accusations. “I asked her to come.”

That landed like a slap. Yelena’s mouth opened, then closed again. Bob stared. Alexei mumbled something in Russian that definitely included a curse.

“You what?” Ava stepped forward, eyes narrowed, voice dropping low. “You invited her?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “She came to me. Hurt, and alone. Not fighting, not running. She could’ve turned my brain inside out, and she didn’t. She could’ve killed me already, but she didn’t.”

“You think that means anything?” Walker snapped. “You want a parade because the walking red flag didn’t kill you in your sleep?”

“She’s not what we thought,” Bucky said, jaw tight now. “You’ve seen how she fights. If she wanted us dead, we would be.”

Alexei scoffed. “She did try.”

“She pulled punches,” Bucky replied. “You don’t believe me, fine. I don’t care. But you’re going to listen.”

Ava folded her arms. “This is insane.”

“No,” Bucky said. “What’s insane is we keep pretending this team works, that we’re all on the same page when we can’t even agree on who the real enemy is. She didn’t start this war. We did. We treated her like a monster from day one, and now she’s exactly what we made her.”

“She’s not innocent,” Yelena said quietly.

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But neither are we.”

The wind picked up again, sharp and sudden, rustling through the weeds. A door creaked somewhere in the dark. Bucky stepped back from the center of the group and nodded toward the empty space near the edge of the yard. “She’s going to speak. That’s all. You don’t have to like it. You just have to shut up long enough to hear it.”

Walker muttered under his breath. “This is so goddamn stupid.”

“She’s not touching your minds,” Bucky said, scanning their faces. “No powers. Just words. You wanted a chance to bring her in. This is it. You want justice? Listen to her first.”

Bob, quiet as ever, finally spoke. “And if we don’t like what she says?”

Bucky looked at him. “Then you can do whatever the hell you came here to do.”

No one moved. No one lowered their weapons, either. Trust, it seemed, was still a long way off.

Yelena stared at Bucky like she didn’t know him. “And you trust her?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said, voice steady. “But I’ve seen enough to know she deserves a voice.”

He took one step back, arms raised slightly like he was stepping out of the line of fire, and turned toward the broken stairwell that led into the plant’s shadowed heart. “She’s waiting.”

And behind them, far off in the dark, someone, something, moved. You were coming, and none of them were ready.

The shift in the air was subtle at first. Just the faintest stir of something not quite wind, something heavier than breeze and lighter than storm. Then the shadows near the broken stairwell curled, like fabric caught in water, and you stepped out from the dark.

You didn’t swagger, didn’t smirk, didn’t let your presence come with theatrics or flames. You walked like you’d been here before, wearing the mask,  like the world owed you the ground you stood on. The same dark red aura shimmered faintly around your hands, not flaring, not rising. Just pulsing like it knew everyone in the yard already had their weapons half-raised.

The team tensed as one. Ava’s fingers twitched. Bob blinked. Walker lifted his shield without being told. Even Alexei adjusted his stance like he wasn’t sure if this was going to turn into a fight or a funeral.

You didn’t flinch. Your voice, when it came, was low and clean, echoing against the rusted walls like it belonged there.

“I didn’t ask for a crowd,” you said flatly. “But I’m going to say this once, so listen close.”

Bucky stayed where he was, a few feet to your left, silent. You didn’t look at him.

“Back off from my life,” you said, louder now, each word landing like a stone in still water. “I don’t care what story they told you about me. I don’t care what version of me you built in your heads so you could feel righteous about hunting me down. You don’t know me.”

Yelena’s mouth twitched. Ava muttered something under her breath.

You stepped forward once, hands still at your sides, but your stance was anything but passive. “You want to know who I’ve killed?” you asked, tone steady. “Fine. I’ve killed people. I’ve ended lives. But every single one of them was someone who helped build the version of me that you’re all so scared of.”

Silence clung to the edges of the lot. The team didn't move. You let your words hang for a second, then filled the quiet.

“Men who chained me up and called it training. Women who made a living dissecting children like they were test subjects. People who signed off on war crimes and called it science. I didn’t kill innocents. I killed monsters in nice suits who thought no one would ever hold them accountable.”

You glanced at Ava. Then Yelena. Then Walker. “So tell me again,” you said slowly, “how you think you’re better than me.”

Walker opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky shifted just enough to stop him. You noticed. You didn’t thank him.

“This isn’t a redemption arc. I’m not standing here begging for forgiveness or trying to join your little squad of government leftovers,” you said. “I’m here because I’m tired of running. I’m tired of being painted as the villain just because I stopped hiding.”

The silence was thicker now, uncomfortable and raw. You took another breath, calmer, but your eyes stayed locked on the group in front of you. “I survived things most of you would lose your minds over. And instead of help, I got bullets. Instead of a chance, I got a hit list.”

Ava blinked, and for a flicker of a second, her face twitched like maybe, maybe, she felt it too.

You shook your head, almost disappointed. “I am not here to be your friend. I’m not here to be your ally, but I am not your fucking enemy either.”

You turned slightly, facing Bucky without fully looking at him. “I came because he asked me to. Because I thought maybe, just maybe, he was the only one of you not lying to himself.”

Then, finally, you let your voice fall quieter, but not softer. “But if any of you still think you can put me in a cage,” you said, “go ahead. Try.”

And you waited. The silence that followed your words stretched too long to be comfortable, too short to be thoughtful. It clung to the air like smog, and no one moved at first.

Then, finally, Walker scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich,” he muttered, taking a step forward like he just couldn’t keep the disdain in his bones any longer. “You come waltzing in here, mouth full of justifications and victim monologues, and you expect us to what? Nod along? Shake hands and say thank you for the trauma?”

He gestured with his shield, the motion jerky and full of heat. “You killed people. Government officials, agents, entire ops teams. I don’t care if they weren’t saints. They had families. You think your sad little backstory makes you special?”

Ava’s jaw was clenched. Her eyes never left you. “She’s lying,” she said quietly, almost like she was reminding herself. “It’s just another trick. That’s what she does. Gets in your head, twists the narrative. She did it to Bob.”

Yelena crossed her arms. “So what? We just forget Ghost spent two weeks in a med pod after your last stunt?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. “You think that’s something we can laugh about now?”

Alexei cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, voice low and firm. “In Russia, we do not negotiate with madwomen,” he said. “Especially not ones who disappear for weeks and come back smelling like trap.”

You tilted your head. “That’s oddly specific.”

He ignored the jab. “You talk good, yes. Very convincing. But words don’t erase what you did to Bob. He could have leveled this whole country when you snapped him.”

Still, Bob said nothing. He stood a few feet behind the others, silent, arms crossed, eyes on the cracked pavement. He hadn’t looked up once.

Walker turned to Bucky. “And you, what the hell were you thinking bringing her here? She could’ve killed you in your sleep. You know what she’s capable of.”

“She already did worse,” Ava said. “She got inside your head.”

“I asked you to trust me,” Bucky replied finally, voice tight but controlled. “That’s all. Just shut up and trust me.”

Walker threw his arms wide. “Trust? Barnes, are you serious? You went dark for five days and came back with her. That’s not trust. That’s a red flag waving on top of a nuclear warhead, dude!”

You didn’t flinch through any of it. You’d heard worse. You’d been called worse, but as the accusations flew, you could feel the thread starting to stretch thinner, snapping close to the edge.

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he looked back at them. “You think I’d bring her here if I didn’t believe there was something worth hearing?”

Yelena didn’t even blink. “Yes. Because you’re Bucky Barnes, and you think you can save everybody. Even the ones who broke everything first.”

Still, Bob said nothing. Not even a breath louder than the wind. And for the moment, it was clear. They didn’t believe you. The moment your mouth opened again, the tension in the air thickened like a thunderclap was waiting to drop.

“You know,” you started slowly, voice low and calm but lined with something that didn’t sit right, “it’s really funny that the team of former assassins and government toys are the ones talking about morality like you ever had it.”

Instant. Like flipping a switch. Every hand twitched toward a weapon. Yelena took half a step forward, hand hovering near the hilt of her knife. Ava’s body glitched for a second, already preparing to phase. Walker’s shield lifted automatically, his stance shifting wide like he had trained for this moment, hellbent on making it count. Even Alexei was ready, shoulders squared, eyes locked.

Bucky didn’t wait. His voice cracked through the rising noise, sharp and steady. “Back off. All of you.”

They paused. Just for a second. Then Walker said, “You hearing yourself right now?”

“I said back off,” Bucky repeated, stepping forward this time, placing himself between you and the rest. “No one moves. Not unless they want this to end the wrong way.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “You sound like him,” she said quietly. “Like Steve.” That landed hard. And she knew it would.

“You’re not Steve, Bucky,” she added, sharper now. “You’re not the guy with the speeches, and the trust-in-people bullshit. Just because she reminds you of what they did to you doesn’t mean she gets a pass.”

“You think this is about a pass?” he snapped, louder now. “You think I’m doing this because I feel sorry for her?”

He looked at all of them, really looked, and it was the first time they noticed how tired he was. Not physically. Something deeper. Like his patience had been peeled down to the bone.

“We’ve been chasing her like a ghost. Mission after mission, report after report, acting like this is some black-and-white crusade when none of us even know what the hell we’re fighting anymore.” He glanced at Bob, still silent in the background. “She broke Bob because the truth hurts. And none of us wanted to hear it. We’re not heroes, for God’s sake. We’re a patch job stitched together by people who don’t care if we live or die.”

Ava tensed, and Bucky held her stare. “I’m not saying she’s innocent. I’m saying you don’t get to decide what justice looks like when all you’ve ever done is follow orders like good little soldiers.”

“And what are you, then?” Walker shot back. “You’re defending her. That makes you part of the problem.”

“No,” Bucky said, calm now, too calm. “It means I’ve seen enough of the problem to know when it’s staring back at me.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Yelena asked, her voice tight, “What are you saying, Bucky?”

He looked at each of them again. And this time, the line was clear.

“I’m saying leave. Walk away, because if you come for her again,” he said, voice like steel pulled tight, “you’re not just fighting her anymore.”

He stepped back, just enough to stand beside you.

“You’re fighting me.”

“You’ve lost your damn mind,” Walker said again, louder this time, his voice echoing off the exposed metal beams of the old power station. Dust drifted down from the ceiling, stirred by the vibration in his chest. “You think this is noble? This isn’t Rogers standing against the odds. This is you choosing her over the mission. Over us.”

Across the ruined floor, Ghost flickered like static, half-visible and humming with restrained energy. “She didn’t even deny it,” Ava said tightly, arms locked at her sides. “She ripped into us. She played with us like we were toys. You want to talk peace now?”

Alexei stood firm near the rear of the group, arms crossed and face shadowed in the flickering orange light cast by their headlights. “Barnes, you are making mistake,” Alexei muttered, low and sharp. “This woman? She is fire with no hearth. She will burn what is closest first.”

Bucky didn’t blink. He just stood there in front of you, unmoving, the cold breeze from the broken walls brushing at his back. His fists were loose at his sides, but his whole body was tight; shoulders squared, jaw set, like someone preparing to walk into a war they knew they’d lose.

Meanwhile, Yelena turned toward him slowly. She hadn’t moved since she’d arrived, but the tension in her neck said she was two breaths from lashing out. Her eyes were narrowed, not just with suspicion, but hurt. Like something in her trusted him once, and now it was being dragged across concrete.

“You’re not Steve,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t shake, but it cracked in all the wrong places. “I know you miss him, but don’t pretend like he’s here in this decision. Don’t act like she’s some lost soul you can pull from the fire. You don’t even know who she is.”

And all of them, in different stances, different expressions, worn-down, confused, furious, turned toward you.

The temperature in the room dipped. Your powers shimmered faintly at your fingertips again, dark red and whispering low like a song you didn’t remember writing. You tilted your head. Just a little. Just enough to test them.

That was all it took. Instinct took over. Uniforms straightened. Boots slid across the floor for better grip. Shields and weapons came up. All eyes locked on you.

You could’ve smirked. Could’ve flinched. But you didn’t. You stood like the still point in a turning world.

Then, Bob spoke. “I saw her.”

The tension in the air snapped, but no one moved.

Bob took a step forward. His face was unreadable, eyes dim but focused, the way only someone who’d spent time inside the minds of the broken could look. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t posture like the rest.

“I was in her head,” he said. “That day. You think she scrambled my brain? Twisted me up? No. That’s not what happened.”

Ava shifted beside him, her eyes flicking between you both. “What do you mean, you were in her head?”

“She let me,” Bob said simply. “She didn’t force her way into mine. Not like that. It was more like… like she opened a door and left it there. On purpose.”

Walker scoffed under his breath. “And you think that’s a sign of innocence?”

“I think it’s a sign she wanted someone to see,” Bob replied, sharper now. “Not the power. Not the mask. Her.”

You swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“I saw what she remembers,” Bob continued, eyes on the ground for a moment. “The Void. That place where time doesn’t mean anything. Where your thoughts eat each other. She was stuck there. And the worst part?” He glanced up. “She chose it. To keep something worse inside. She locked herself in.”

“I saw the men she killed,” Bob went on. “The ones who built her like a machine. Who tore pieces from her mind so she’d forget who she was. I saw their faces. The ones who called it control. The ones who gave her orders.”

He looked at you again, and you looked right back. “She remembers them every night,” Bob said. “Not because she wants to. Because she has to. It’s all still there. What they did. Who they made her become.”

His voice dropped, and somehow, it hit harder than any scream. “She killed monsters,” he said. “Not innocents. She was one, and then she stopped. And the world punished her for it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was hollow. Like something sacred had been dropped.

Bob took another step back, folding his hands in front of him, head lowered slightly like he wasn’t asking for forgiveness, just patience. “She’s not evil,” he said again. “She’s just haunted.”

The words hung there, unmoving. You didn’t break the quiet. You let them feel it. Let them sit with it. And none of them could look you in the eye.

“No,” Walker said again, quieter now, but still defiant. “You don’t just get to say oops and move on. Not after what she did to us.”

“She didn’t say oops,” Bob replied, eyes steady. “She hasn’t said anything to make you forgive her. She doesn’t expect you to. But this?” He motioned to the team—all of them ready, armor scuffed, weapons charged, hearts pulled taut like bowstrings. “This isn’t justice. This is just chasing pain because we don’t know what else to do with it.”

Ava blinked hard, jaw flexing. Yelena looked down for a second, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Alexei exhaled loudly through his nose but said nothing. No one moved. Not yet.

Bob turned his gaze back to Bucky then, like he was done trying to argue with the rest. “Tell them, man. You brought us here. What do you want?”

Bucky hadn’t taken his eyes off the ground. His fists had unclenched. The anger had drained from his posture, but it hadn’t left him. It never really did. He finally looked up and stepped forward once.

“I want out,” he said simply. His voice didn’t tremble, but it was stripped bare. “I want out of this cycle where we call every threat a monster and never stop to ask who made them that way.”

He turned slowly to face the others. “You think I’m blind? That I don’t see what this is?” He pointed at you, then back at himself. “She’s me. Ten years ago. Broken and dangerous and already on the run from everything she could be. The only difference is someone gave me a second chance, and no one ever even gave her a breath.”

Walker scoffed, but Bucky cut him off with a look. “No, I’m done playing this game. If the cost of being on this team is hunting down people like her without asking and knowing why they’re running, then maybe I shouldn’t be on this team at all.”

Yelena shook her head, voice softer this time. “So that’s it? You just walk?”

“I didn’t say I’d walk,” Bucky said. “But I will leave if it means keeping her safe.” His voice turned steel again. “I’m not handing her over. I’m not letting anyone put her in a cage.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Not when I know what it’s like.”

The words rang out and hit hard. Bob nodded once, then looked at the rest of the team. “It ends here,” he said, calm and certain. “We’re not dragging her back like a trophy. We’re not feeding another haunted weapon into another war.”

Yelena stared at you for a long, unreadable beat. Then, without a word, she stepped back. Ava followed slowly, her mouth drawn tight, eyes flicking toward Bucky, then toward you, before she finally sheathed her knives. Even Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian and turned away.

Only Walker stayed planted. “Seriously?” he asked, voice rising. “You all just gonna—”

“Enough, Walke,r” Bob said, and this time the weight in his voice was enough to hush even Walker’s righteous fury.

Another beat passed. One more long moment of not-quite-trust, not-quite-peace. Then, Bucky turned to you, chest still rising and falling hard. “Let’s go,” he said. Not a question. A promise.

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded once and stepped to his side, your powers quiet now, breath steady. Together, you walked into the shadows.

- Seven Months Later - 

The morning was quiet in the way only the countryside could be, with wind weaving through the tall grass like it had nowhere else to be. Sunlight poured soft through the trees, pooling across the porch and bleeding into the open kitchen window, casting honeyed streaks across the hardwood floor. Birds were chirping lazily overhead, like even they weren’t in a rush.

Bucky stood barefoot by the sink, mug in one hand, the steam curling under his nose as he stared out through the window. You were outside already, barefoot in the grass, laughing softly as a few scrappy chickens danced around your feet. You were wearing one of his old shirts again, sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms, and pants too big for you, cinched at the waist with a worn belt that used to belong to someone he couldn’t remember anymore. 

You looked like you’d always belonged there. Like you’d been plucked out of some life that was never allowed to happen and dropped right here, in the one you made for yourselves.

He didn’t speak, and didn’t call your name. He just watched, because this, this quiet, simple morning, was the kind of moment Bucky Barnes thought he’d never live to see.

He used to think if he ever got a second chance, he’d waste it. That he wouldn’t know how to be a person again. Not after everything Hydra had carved out of him, but there you were, in the middle of a sun-washed field, feeding half-tamed chickens like you hadn’t nearly destroyed the world a year ago. Like you hadn’t walked into his life soaked in chaos and fire and made him look you in the eye and feel something again.

You turned your head toward the window then, maybe sensing the weight of his stare, and smiled like it didn’t scare you. Like you hadn’t seen the worst of him. You raised a hand and waved, still holding a scoop of feed, and Bucky’s chest tightened so sharply he had to exhale slowly just to let the air back in.

This life wasn’t perfect. The nightmares still came. The guilt still lingered. He still didn’t sleep some nights. But there was something about you, about your stubborn need to rebuild from ashes, that made him believe there might be a version of the future where he didn’t have to run anymore. Where healing didn’t mean pretending it never happened, but letting it matter and living anyway.

Maybe this wasn’t the life he was supposed to have, but damn it, it was the one he had now. And you were in it.

So he set his mug down and stepped outside, the porch groaning under his weight. The grass was cool beneath his feet as he crossed the yard toward you. You were crouched beside the fence, trying to coax a particularly moody hen into eating from your hand. You didn’t hear him approach until he was only a few steps away.

“You’re not supposed to be up this early,” he said quietly, hands in his pockets.

You looked up, eyes catching the morning light, and grinned. “You always say that, and yet, somehow, I keep waking up before you. Maybe it’s the farm air, or maybe our bed just really sucks.”

His lips twitched, just slightly. “It’s our bed,” he said. “Of course it sucks.”

You stood, brushing your hands on your thighs. “Well, tell that to Alpine. She’s claimed it as her personal throne.”

He took a step closer, then another.

And then he was right in front of you, the scent of sun-warmed grass and coffee still clinging to his skin. He reached up without thinking, brushing a smudge of feed from your cheek with his thumb. But his hand didn’t move away. Not yet. His fingers lingered there, tracing the softness of your jaw, the line of your face he’d only seen half-hidden for so long.

“You’ve got something here,” he said, voice low.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He didn’t answer. He just leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was slow, and deep, and full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything but gave all of itself anyway. His hand cupped the side of your face like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, like maybe if he held on tight enough, the rest of the world would stay away.

You kissed him back with that same softness. That same quiet hope.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a beat longer. Then he opened them and looked at you like he was still trying to believe you were real.

“I used to wonder what kind of life I would’ve had,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Back before everything. Before Hydra. Before the ice. I thought I’d lost any shot at something like this.”

You tilted your head, voice soft. “And now?”

He looked at you. At the field, at the morning sun, and at the ridiculous chickens still clucking around your feet.