ghost

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”

If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”

If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.

Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.

From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.

No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.

“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.

He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.

There was no sound.

Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.

After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.

There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.

He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.

You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.

“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”

He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.

“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.

When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”

You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.

He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?

Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.

After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.

Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”

Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.

“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.

Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”

He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”

“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”

Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.

“You mean the books?”

You nodded.

He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”

“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.

Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”

Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.

“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.

“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”

Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.

Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.

“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”

“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”

He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”

“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?

He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.

“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”

You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.

“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”

That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”

You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.

Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.

He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”

You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.

When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.

“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.

But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.

A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.

He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.

“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.

But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.

“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”

Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?

“No,” you protested weakly.

Bucky tilted his head. “No?”

You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”

Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”

When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.

You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.

“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”

Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.

But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.

Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.

“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”

You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.

“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”

“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”

He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.

Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.

He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.

“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”

With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”

He wasn’t leaving.

He was going to fix you.

You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.

Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.

“Lay down, doll.”

The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.

You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.

“Easy, doll. Easy.”

A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.

He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.

Which… in a way, you had.

Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.

“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”

You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.

“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.

Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.

“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”

You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”

Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.

“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”

You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.

“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.

“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”

You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.

Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.

His mind was always on you.

His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.

“Woah, easy there, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.

“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”

Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”

Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”

Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.

“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”

Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”

Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”

Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.

“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”

A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.

It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.

Christ, you were probably starving.

He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.

You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.

He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.

Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.

His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.

“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”

The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.

“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.

“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.

Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.

So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?

“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”

Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”

Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.

“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”

Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”

“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”

Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.

“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”

“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”

Steve let out a long breath.

He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.

He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.

“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”

It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.

The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?

The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.

Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.

But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.

You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.

“Bucky! You’re back, I—”

You stopped.

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.

Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.

“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”

The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.

Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.

“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”

“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”

You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”

He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.

You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.

“Not poisoned. Trust me.”

He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.

After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.

Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.

As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.

You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.

It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.

“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”

He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.

“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.

“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”

You stayed silent.

“Have you ever been outside this room?”

Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.

“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”

With each word, he moved closer.

Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.

He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.

“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”

He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.

“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.

“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”

Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.

Ah. There it was.

That was how he could get through to you.

Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.

“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”

You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.

That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.

“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”

You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.

To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.

The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.

Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.

“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”

He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.

“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.

That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.

“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.

He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.

His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.

You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.

“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”

As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.

You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.

Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.

“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”

You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”

“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.

“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”

The air left Steve's lungs.

His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.

Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.

“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Did he rape you?”

Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.

But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.

“What does that mean?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”

The door shut quickly as he left.

But the lock didn’t click.

The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.

Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.

You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.

It looked like an obstacle.

You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.

The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.

You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.

Then, a shadow fell over you.

“Going somewhere?”

You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”

The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.

His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.

“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”

He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.

He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”

“I just wanted to see—”

“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”

“No, Bucky, I—”

“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”

You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.

“No one saw me—”

“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.

When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.

“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”

He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.

“You did this to yourself, darling.”

You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”

“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”

You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.

“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”

Bucky didn’t move.

The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.

“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”

“I didn’t—”

“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”

“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”

Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.

“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”

Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.

Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.

The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.

“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”

He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.

“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”

He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”

The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.

“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”

Another whack.

“Ow!”

“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”

Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.

He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.

With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”

He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.

“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”

Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”

Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.

Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.

But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.

“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”

He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.

“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”

Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.

You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.

“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”

Bucky hummed in approval.

He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.

He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.

Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.

You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”

His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.

“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”

You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.

“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”

“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”

“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”

One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.

Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.

The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.

The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.

“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”

He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.

You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.

You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.

“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”

Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.

His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.

“Oh—my!”

The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.

He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.

“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”

His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.

“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”

He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.

“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”

You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.

The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.

Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”

Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.

He loved you.

Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.

“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”

Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”

He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.

“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”

He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.

“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.

Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.

It was hot. It was too much.

He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Like a clock.

Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.

“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”

The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.

Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.

You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.

Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.

“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”

Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.

“Morning,” he rasped.

A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”

He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”

And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.

But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.

The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.

Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.

“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”

“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.

He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”

The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.

“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”

Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.

Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.

“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.

“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”

Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.

All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.

“Bucky—”

Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.

He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.

“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”

The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.

“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.

“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”

Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.

As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.

He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”

Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.

Was this all your fault?

Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?

“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”

All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.

“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”

Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.

Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.

You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.

With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.

Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.

“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”

And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.

The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.

Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.

“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.

His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.

Bucky hated it.

The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.

“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”

Bucky stayed quiet.

“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”

Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.

“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.

“What was she to you?”

Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.

“Did you love her?”

Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.

“More than anything,” Bucky replied.

He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.

Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.

It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.

He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?

He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.

He’d find you.

It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”

The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.

“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”

For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.

Insane?

What kind of question was that?

“No.”

anyway how writing this fic found me

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, dread sinking heavy into your stomach.

Fuck. 

This was real.

You turned onto your side and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 8:17 AM. Back home, your mom would already be awake, probably standing in the tiny kitchen making coffee while the radio played softly in the background. The thought made your chest tighten hard enough that you had to close your eyes for a second.

You wondered if she’d slept at all last night. If she cried after she got home. The thought alone was enough to make you sit up before you could spiral any further.

The room looked exactly the same as it had the night before: spotless, polished, painfully impersonal. Mrs. Harrington had called it “comfortable” and “luxurious.” 

Luxurious? Sure. But it didn’t feel comfortable at all. It felt staged. Like a bedroom pulled straight out of a furniture catalog, designed to look lived in without actually being lived in.

You grabbed the sweatshirt draped over the chair and pulled it over your head before heading for the door.

The hallway outside was silent.

Too silent.

Rich people silent.

No creaking floorboards. No television humming somewhere in the background. No neighbors arguing outside. Just thick silence and expensive carpeting muffling every step.

You already hated it.

You made your way downstairs, following the smell of coffee until you reached the kitchen. Steve stood at the counter in gray sweatpants and a dark t-shirt, pouring coffee into a mug. For a second, you froze. Which was ridiculous.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen attractive guys before, but there was something annoyingly unfair about how good Steve Harrington looked when he clearly hadn’t even tried. His hair was messy in that effortless way people spent actual time trying to achieve, and he still looked half-asleep.

Then he noticed you.

His expression shifted immediately, flattening into something guarded.

“Morning,” he said.

“Is it?”

One corner of his mouth lifted like he was trying not to smile.

You crossed your arms. “You always up this early?”

“No.” He slid a mug toward you without waiting. “But apparently life-ruining conversations with my parents tend to kill my sleep schedule.”

You stared at the coffee, then at him. “You poison it?”

Steve looked genuinely offended. “Jesus. I make one decent gesture—”

“I’m being cautious.”

“You think I’d murder you in my own kitchen?”

“You’re rich. You’d probably just hire someone else to do it.” 

That got him. He barked out a laugh before he could stop it. You hated that it made something warm flicker briefly in your chest.

You took the coffee anyway.

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t unbearable either. Steve leaned back against the counter while you stood near the island, both of you deliberately looking anywhere except directly at each other.

The kitchen was nice, but not in an over-the-top way. The Harringtons had money, sure, but not the kind that screamed at you from every surface. More like old suburban wealth. Country club memberships. Quiet influence. The kind of money that looked polished instead of loud.

“You hate this house already, don’t you?” Steve asked suddenly.

You glanced at him over the rim of your mug. “Is it that obvious?”

“You just seem tense, that’s all.”

“It’s too quiet.” you confessed. 

Steve nodded slowly, like he actually understood what you meant. And somehow, you got the sense that he really did. For years he’d told himself it was because he was an only child. But that wasn’t it—not really. That wasn’t why the house felt so hollow, so empty in a way that went deeper than silence alone.

No… there was something else underneath it.

That surprised you.

“I keep expecting my neighbor’s hound dog to start howling, or for my mom to yell at me for burning my toast,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

A weird look crossed his face. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s always been quiet here.”

There was something in the way he said it that made your irritation waver for a second. Were you actually starting to feel… sympathy for Steve Harrington? No. Absolutely not. You weren’t about to pity him for complaining about a “quiet” mansion when, at the end of the day, it was still a fucking mansion. Jesus. Those thoughts felt dangerous. Almost wrong. 

You straightened immediately.

Because absolutely not. There was no chance you were getting emotionally attached to Steve just because he looked sad under expensive lighting. No. Nope. Not happening.

You set the mug down.

“We need rules.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“Rules,” you repeated. “Ground rules. Boundaries. Whatever you wanna call them.”

Steve stared at you for a second before setting his own mug down slowly. “That sounds scary.” 

“I’m serious.”

“Okay,” he said cautiously. “Go ahead.”

You crossed my arms tighter. “This marriage isn’t real.”

Something flickered across his face too quickly for you to fully read. Then it disappeared. “Got it,” he said.

“I’m doing this for my mother,” you continued. “Not for money. Not for your family. Definitely not for you.”

Steve leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms as well. You couldn’t tell if he was mocking you or if he’d expected this reaction all along, but either way, you weren’t about to lower the knife.

“Trust me,” he said dryly, “my ego survived the news.”

“Good. Glad we are on the same page.”

“Fantastic,” he scoffed.

You narrowed your eyes at him in challenge. “And another thing—no touching unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

He snorted immediately. “Wow. Wasn’t exactly planning on climbing you like a tree.”

Heat rushed to your face so fast it was almost irritating how easily your body betrayed you. “That’s not—” You cut yourself off with a frustrated groan. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

You ignored him, quickly continuing. “No fake emotional conversations.”

“Easy.”

“No pretending this is some grand love story,” you warned. “I don’t need you turning this fake relationship into some dramatic romance that makes me look pathetic and desperate.”

That one lingered between you both longer than expected.

Steve’s jaw tightened slightly. “Fine,” he said.

“Fine.”

“And for the record,” he added, “you’re not exactly my dream girl either.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged lazily, but you could tell instantly he was just provoking you on purpose now.

“You heard me.”

“Oh my God, you’re such an ass.”

“You’re the one making it so serious. What, do I need to sign something next? Do you need these rules of yours in writing?”

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” Steve said immediately.

The teasing vanished from his face so quickly it caught you off guard.

“No,” he repeated quieter. “I really don’t.”

The tension shifted. Not softer exactly. Just heavier.

Steve looked tired again suddenly. Tired in that deep way people looked when they hadn’t felt in control of their own life in a long time.

And for one stupid second, you almost felt bad for him. Again. 

Then Mrs. Harrington walked into the kitchen.

“Well,” she said brightly, “isn’t this domestic?”

You stepped back immediately. Reality crashed back into you all at once—what this actually was, what you’d agreed to, and just how deep into this mess you’d already gotten.

Steve’s face hardened like a switch flipped. “Morning, Mom.”

Mrs. Harrington’s eyes moved over you carefully. Assessing.

It made you feel sick. 

“You’ll need to change before lunch,” she said.

You looked down at your sweatshirt. “Why?”

“We’re meeting with the photographer.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The engagement announcement photos.”

Steve groaned immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Mrs. Harrington ignored him. “There are several outfits upstairs for you to try on.”

“I didn’t ask for outfits.”

“They’re necessary.”

You just stared at her.

“Necessary?”

 Everything in this house was necessary. Necessary smiles. Necessary appearances. Necessary lies.

“I have clothes,” you said flatly. You knew you shouldn’t have been snapping back, but it felt like something had slipped out of your control—and you hated how much that unsettled you.

Mrs. Harrington smiled politely. “Not for this.”

Before you could respond further, Steve pushed off the counter.

“She said she has clothes.”

His mother’s eyes snapped toward him. “And I said she doesn’t.”

The tension in the kitchen snapped tight in an instant. Your gaze flicked between them, careful and uncertain, like one wrong move might shift whatever fragile balance you were standing on.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Mom—”

“No,” Mrs. Harrington interrupted. “If she’s going to represent this family publicly, certain standards need to be maintained.”

Represent this family.

Like you were just some campaign mascot. 

Your stomach twisted. 

“I’m not some doll you can dress up,” you added. 

Mrs. Harrington’s smile tightened. “Of course not.”

Which obviously meant yes.

Steve looked at you. Then at his mother. Then back at you again.

And suddenly he looked irritated on your behalf. Weirdly irritated.

“You know,” he muttered, “you could try acting normal for like ten minutes.”

Mrs. Harrington straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Steven.”

“She’s a person, not a business merger.”

Silence.

Mrs. Harrington looked genuinely shocked.

Apparently Steve Harrington didn’t usually push back this much.

Good.

“Enough. I’m not having this conversation with you,” she said sharply. “Photographs are at two. Be ready.”

Then she turned and walked out. The second she disappeared, you let out a slow breath—one you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

Steve leaned back against the counter again. “She does that,” he said.

“What, treat human beings like decorative objects?”

“Pretty much.”

You shook my head, grabbing my coffee again. “This whole family needs therapy.”

Steve laughed under his breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”

You started toward the stairs.

“Hey.”

You turned back.

Steve shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly awkward. “You don’t actually have to wear whatever she picked.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Your mother might spontaneously combust.”

“That’d definitely improve breakfast around here.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Steve almost looked startled that he actually got a laugh out of you for once. 

Which immediately made you stop smiling.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He noticed too. Unfortunately.  His mouth tilted slightly. “Oh, so you can smile.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Liar.

You could already tell he liked getting reactions out of you. Somehow that irritated you and, annoyingly, made you feel challenged at the same time.

What had you gotten yourself into?

- -

By noon, you already felt like strangling someone. 

Preferably Mrs. Harrington.

Possibly Steve.

The dress laid out on the bed looked expensive enough to cover at least two months of your mom’s bills, which made you resent it on principle alone.

You tugged at the fabric with narrowed eyes. Ugh. There was no way you were wearing this willingly. It wasn’t even that it was ugly—you just had morals. Apparently. Because people with morals married other people just for money. And yet it sat there, perfectly pressed and smug, like it already knew you were going to lose this argument.

Because the Harringtons always got what they wanted. 

A knock sounded against the open door, pulling you out of your thoughts.

Steve leaned against the frame a second later. His eyes landed on the dress.

Then his eyebrows lifted. “Wow.”

You crossed my arms. “Don’t.”

“No, seriously. My mom’s losing subtlety.”

“I look like someone who owns a yacht.”

“You look like you’re about to file a restraining order against the yacht.”

You snorted despite yourself. It was strange how Steve somehow managed to fuel your disdain for rich people, even though he was quite literally one of them. Was that bad? Or… somehow worse? Or better?

Steve grinned slightly.

Then his eyes flicked over you again. The grin faded. Not completely. Just enough that the air shifted weirdly.

His gaze lingered for half a second too long before he looked away.

Interesting.

You shouldn’t have noticed something as silly as that but you did. And judging by the way Steve suddenly rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, he noticed that you noticed.

“Take a picture,” you said dryly. “It lasts longer.”

Steve rolled his eyes immediately, recovering. “Trust me, princess, your ego’s safe.”

“Princess?”

“You’re wearing a dress worth more than my car payment.”

“You have car payments?”

“My parents refused to buy me another car after I wrecked the BMW.”

You blinked, already annoyed again. “That’s your version of struggling?”

Steve looked offended. “I work at Family Video.”

“Steve, you chose to work there.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

That answer caught you off guard but before you could bite back another response, Mrs. Harrington appeared behind him. Jeez, she was really starting to scare you. 

“The photographer is here.”

Steve muttered something under his breath that definitely sounded like a swear.

Mrs. Harrington ignored him expertly.

And the next hour that followed was unbearable.

The photographer kept trying to pose you both closer together while Steve and you stood there like two people being held hostage.

“Relax,” the photographer said cheerfully.

“We’re trying,” Steve lied.

“Maybe put your hand on her waist?”

Absolutely not. You opened my mouth immediately, but Steve beat you to it. 

“We’re good.”

His mother sighed from across the room. “Steven.”

The photographer laughed awkwardly. “You two act like you hate each other.”

The room went quiet for one horrifying second.

Then Steve smiled suddenly. 

Easy. Charming. Fake. “We’re adjusting,” he said smoothly.

The switch-up genuinely startled me.

Because for the first time, you saw it.

King Steve.

The version of him everyone talked about. The one who always knew exactly what to say, how to smile, how to make everyone around him relax without even trying.

Seeing it up close felt strangely intimate. And a little dangerous.

The photographer nodded quickly. “Right, okay. Maybe just stand closer.”

Steve glanced at you first like he was asking permission with his eyes. That caught you off guard too.

You gave a small nod, and his hand settled carefully against your waist. Immediately, every thought in your head vanished.

It wasn’t even dramatic, which somehow made it worse. No lightning strike. No cinematic moment. Just the steady warmth of his hand through the fabric of your dress and the horrifying realization that you were suddenly, painfully aware of him.

That was the problem. His hand was warm. Steady. Gentle in a way you hadn’t expected from him. Steve went still too. His fingers flexed slightly against the fabric of your dress, almost hesitant, like he’d noticed it too.

Then your eyes met.

Oh. That was worse. Because suddenly the room felt too warm. Too quiet. Too aware. Like everything around you had faded into the background, leaving only the space between you and him.

The photographer snapped pictures rapidly.

“Perfect,” he said. “You two look great together!.”

It definitely wasn’t perfect.

Because Steve was still looking at you.

And for one terrifying second, none of it felt fake anymore.

You and Steve answered at the exact same time. 

“We don’t.” 

“We don’t.” 

The photographer blinked. 

Steve cleared his throat and stepped away from you fast enough that it almost looked panicked. 

Mrs. Harrington looked irritated from across the room. “You’re engaged,” she said sharply. “The least you can do is act believable.”

You folded your arms. “Maybe if you’d hired actors instead of emotionally unwilling teenagers—”

“Careful,” Steve muttered beside you.

You glanced at him. “Why? Is she gonna ground me?”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

The photographer awkwardly lowered his camera. “Maybe we should take five.”

“Yes,” Steve said immediately.

You turned toward the hallway at the exact same time Steve did, both of you trying to escape the room as fast as possible.

Unfortunately, the hallway was narrow. Which meant the second you both tried squeezing through the doorway at once, you slammed directly into each other.

Steve grabbed your arms automatically to stop you from falling backward. Your breath caught. His did too.

“Oh my God,” you snapped immediately, because panic apparently translated directly into aggression for you now. “Can you not?”

“You walked into me!”

“You were in my way!”

“I was literally leaving first!”

“You move like an old man!”

Steve stared at you. “What does that even mean?”

“It means your reflexes suck!”

“My reflexes are fantastic!”

“You almost dropped me!”

“I literally caught you!”

The tension between you was ridiculous now. Sharp. Chaotic. Way too charged for absolutely no reason.

Steve’s hands were still on your arms. Neither of you had moved yet. And suddenly you were hyperaware of how close he was. Again. You hated how often that kept happening.

Steve looked down slightly, probably noticing it too.

Your face heated. You immediately shoved yourself away from him. “I need air.”

“You always need air after talking to me.”

“Maybe that says something about you.”

Steve scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

“You’ve said that like twelve times already.”

“Because you keep being annoying.”

“You know what?” he said, following you down the hallway now, “I was actually trying to be nice earlier.”

You turned sharply. “When?”

“This morning.”

“The coffee?”

“Yes, the coffee!”

“You’re so dramatic, it was a joke!”

“Who jokes about assuming coffee is poisoned?”

“Girls who get sold into fake marriages!”

Steve stopped walking. The irritation vanished from his face so fast you almost regretted saying it. Almost.

The hallway suddenly felt quieter. More serious.

You looked away first. 

“Look,” you muttered, “I know this sucks for you too.”

Steve leaned against the wall across from you, crossing his arms.

“That’s the closest thing to an apology I’m getting from you, huh?”

“Don’t push it.”

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. Then it faded again. “You really hate being here?”

You looked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Yes.”

Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

Something about the honesty in his voice irritated you less than it should have. Which was honestly becoming a problem. You sighed and rubbed your forehead. “I just… I don’t know how to do this.”

Steve looked at you for a long second before answering. “I don’t think either of us does.”

The vulnerability in that sentence lingered weirdly between you. Too real. Too honest.

You immediately stepped away from it emotionally. “Well,” you said, forcing your voice back into something sharper, “then we should probably figure out some kind of game plan.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “A game plan?”

“Yes.”

“You make us sound like a failing football team.”

“We basically are.”

He snorted softly.

You continued before you could lose momentum.

“We need boundaries.”

“Again with the rules.”

“Yes, again with the rules.”

Steve gestured dramatically. “Fine. Go ahead, Coach.”

You ignored the stupid flutter in your stomach at the smile pulling at his mouth.

“No flirting.”

Steve blinked. “With each other?”

“Yes.”

He looked genuinely offended. “Trust me, sweetheart, that won’t be difficult.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“There she is.”

“There who is?”

“The terrifying version of you.”

“I am always the terrifying version of me.”

Steve laughed quietly under his breath.

You hated that sound too.

“No unnecessary touching,” you continued.

“Got it.”

“No emotional attachment.”

That one made him pause. Only for a second.

Then he shrugged lazily. “Easy.”

Something about you felt like Steve was lying. You didn’t know why you thought that immediately. Maybe because something about Steve Harrington felt lonelier than he wanted people to notice. Maybe because he kept looking at you like he was trying to figure you out and resenting it at the same time.

Or maybe because you were starting to realize the version of Steve everyone saw wasn’t completely real. That scared you more than if he’d just been an asshole. Because assholes were easier not to care about.

“You’re staring,” Steve said suddenly.

Your face heated. “I literally wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“Oh my God.”

A smirk appeared on his face.

“There’s the ego again,” you muttered.

“You wound me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

Before you could respond, Mrs. Harrington appeared again like some kind of beautifully dressed demon.

“The photographer is ready for the outdoor shots.”

Steve groaned loudly. “There’s more?!”

“Steven.”

“I’m serious. We already looked miserable indoors. Why would natural lighting improve that?”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Steve looked way too pleased about it.

Mrs. Harrington’s eyes narrowed slightly at both of you.

“Outside. Now.”

The backyard looked exactly like the rest of the house.

Perfect. Neat landscaping. Expensive patio furniture. A pool nobody probably used enough. Not flashy-rich, but definitely upper-class suburban rich. The kind of family that belonged to country clubs and cared too much about neighborhood reputation.

Steve walked beside you toward the pool area.

Quietly, he muttered, “If he asks me to dip you dramatically into the grass, I’m leaving.”

“You think I’d let you?”

“You’re right. You’d probably stab me first.”

“Correct.”

The photographer waved you over. “Okay! Maybe stand by the pool together.”

You and Steve stopped side by side awkwardly.

“Closer,” the photographer encouraged.

Neither of you moved.

Mrs. Harrington sighed loudly behind the camera.

Steve muttered under his breath, “This is psychological warfare.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the girl who accused me of attempted poisoning over coffee.”

“Reasonable concern.”

The photographer blinked between the two of you.

Then slowly smiled.

“Oh,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You two bicker like a married couple already.”

Absolutely not.

“No, we don’t,” you and Steve said simultaneously again.

The photographer laughed.

Steve looked horrified.

You looked offended.

Mrs. Harrington looked delighted.

Which immediately made both of you more irritated.

“Okay,” the photographer continued, “Steve, maybe wrap an arm around her shoulders?”

“Nope,” you said immediately.

Steve pointed at you. “See? She hates me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

You sighed aggressively. “I dislike you currently.”

“Aw,” Steve said flatly. “And here I thought we were bonding.”

“You called me terrifying.”

“You are terrifying.”

“You’re arrogant.”

“You’re mean.”

“You started it.”

“You literally accused me of murder this morning!”

The photographer was trying not to laugh now.

Even Mrs. Harrington looked confused by whatever this dynamic was becoming.

Steve looked over at you again.

And there it was.

That stupid almost-smile.

The one that made him look softer. Younger. Less guarded. You noticed his eyes crinkled slightly when he was genuinely amused.

That was dangerous information. Very dangerous information.

Because suddenly you were noticing things you absolutely should not be noticing about your fake fiancé. And judging by the way Steve’s gaze briefly dropped to your mouth before snapping away again, he was having the exact same problem.

You and Bucky had been together for 11 months and 6 days, but it felt like more time than that. The relationship truly started when the two of you met three years ago. You knew immediately he was special, and he knew immediately that he loved you. 

After years of tiptoeing around your feelings, he finally cracked and confessed to you. From there, your relationship took off. Dates anytime you were free, sneaking into each other's rooms every night, and quiet moments when the team had their backs turned. 

You both decided immediately not to tell anyone. To you, it didn’t matter who knew about it; you and Bucky loved each other no matter what. To Bucky, it was about safety. If people knew you could be used against each other, you could get hurt, and he would give his life for yours without second thought, but he didn’t ever want to be put in a situation where he had to. 

For the past 11 months and 6 days, your life has been bliss. You slept better, smiled more, and took better care of yourself. The team had been wondering what’s got you all giggly. As for Bucky, he snarled less, spoke more, and even smiled on occasion, and the team has been teasing him with remarks like “When are we meeting the lucky girl Barnes?” or “Whoever she is she has you whipped bud” Bucky always just rolled his eyes, but they always met your soft smile which he always returned, a little red in the cheeks. 

To you, Bucky was home. Not a place, but a person. The second he wrapped his arms around you, everything felt quieter somehow. Safer. You trusted him with your life, and trust had never come easy to you. Being with him made the bad days feel lighter. It wasn’t even big moments that made you love him so much; it was the small things. The warmth of his hand against your back, the sleepy sound of his laugh at two in the morning, the way he looked at you like he was still learning how to believe in something good. Being around him gave you a kind of peace you didn’t think you’d ever have.

To Bucky, you were the world, not just someone he loved, but the reason the world still felt worth staying in. You were the reason he got up in the morning, the reason life didn’t feel so heavy anymore. If it were just the two of you left in the world, he would still be happy, because as long as he had you, he had everything he needed. He needed you in a way that sometimes terrified him. You saved him without even realizing it. Before you, he was drowning in old memories and pain he couldn’t escape, but with you, it all became quieter. When you held him, he didn’t feel broken. He didn’t feel like the Winter Soldier or a broken thing somebody forgot to fix. With you, he felt human again. Loved again. Like maybe there was still something good left in him after all.

Everything the two of you had together was perfect, and it was even better with the feeling of sneaking around. Even when fighting, you two found moments together, which is how you ended up here, behind a wall, your back pinned to it, with Bucky's arm over your head. “Buck-”

“Doll,” he cut you off. His doe eyes looking into yours 

“We're fighting a fucking space alien right now, what are you doing!” You giggled as you tried to push him back, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled his mask off. 

“You looked so good when you sliced his arm off, I couldn’t help myself. I just need one kiss,” you rolled your eyes, but so softly planted a kiss to his lips. 

“Happy?” 

“Yes,” he said simply, like there wasn’t a threat 20 feet from you, even worse, the team could see you at any moment. “Now let's kick ass.”

You giggled again, and it made Bucky debate whether to keep you pressed against the wall a little longer. The world was ending outside, alarms screaming through the streets, but all he could think about was the sound of your laugh against his mouth. Still, he forced himself to pull away. The faster he killed this thing, the faster he could get you home and hear that sound all night instead of in stolen seconds between missions.

His hand slipped from yours slowly, like neither of you really wanted to let go.

“Don’t die on me, Barnes,” you teased softly, trying to ignore the tight feeling in your chest that always came before missions.

Bucky’s expression changed instantly. Serious. Almost angry.

“Not funny,” he muttered.

Your smile faded a little at the look in his eyes. Bucky always acted like losing you could actually kill him. Maybe it could.

You leaned up quickly, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping away. “I’ll be fine.”

He stared at you for a second too long before nodding once. “You better be.”

Then the two of you were running in opposite directions.

You headed left toward Nat while Bucky disappeared toward Tony, gunfire and smoke swallowing him almost instantly. The thing you’d all been fighting had torn through the city since sunrise, leaving wrecked buildings and fires behind like breadcrumbs. Nobody even fully knew what it was yet, only that it wouldn’t die.

Every hit barely slowed it down.

“Son of a bitch,” you muttered when the creature hurled a car toward you. You ducked just in time, the car smashing into the pavement behind you.

“Everyone okay?” Steve’s voice crackled through your earpiece.

“Define okay,” Tony answered breathlessly.

Nat slid beside you, reloading her weapon. “Any bright ideas?”

“Yeah,” you said, staring up at the thing tearing through another building. “I’m thinking we run.”

Nat snorted, but before either of you could move, the creature let out a deafening roar that made the ground tremble beneath your boots. The creature moved faster than before. One second, Nat was beside you, the next she was yelling your name.

You barely had time to look up before part of the building above you gave out.

“Move!” Nat screamed.

You tried, but something slammed into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

Pain exploded through your body as concrete and metal crashed around you. Your head hit the pavement, everything ringing and blurry for a second before the weight settled over you.

Somewhere nearby, people were shouting, and you heard a loud crash. Your vision flickered.

“...shit— she’s down,” Steve said over the comms. You couldn’t speak…you couldn’t move. 

Across the battlefield, Bucky’s heart stopped at Steve's words. His body stopped with it. He felt the chaos around him, but couldn’t move to help anyone. He could only think of you as he left Tony to go find you. Tony yelled behind him something about needing to keep fighting, but he couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heartbeat; even if he could, he wouldn’t stop. 

When he found you, Nat hovered over you, trying to get you to speak. Your bloody body in her hands. Steve was beside them, looking for help. 

Although you couldn’t see, you could hear, Bucky. Horrified.

“No. No, no, no.” You had never heard him sound afraid before.

“Bucky—” Nat tried to warn softly, but Bucky was already dropping to his knees beside you.

Everything around him disappeared. The screaming. The fighting. The comms in his ear.

None of it mattered.

“Hey, hey, hey.” His hands shook as they carefully grabbed yours, almost terrified that touching you would hurt worse. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Blood covered your side. Too much of it.

Bucky felt sick.

You looked so small lying there.

“Look at me,” he begged, voice cracking badly. “C’mon, doll, look at me. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, alright? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

But the words sounded desperate instead of convincing, and everyone around him could hear it. Steve stared. Nat’s eyes widened slightly. Tony looked between the two of you in confusion.

Because Bucky Barnes looked terrified.

Not teammate terrified.

Not mission terrified.

Terrified like his whole world was bleeding out in front of him.

“Get her some help!” he shouted suddenly, loud enough that his voice nearly broke. “Now!”

Your fingers weakly curled around his metal hand.

“Buck…” you whispered.

His entire face crumbled at hearing your voice.

“I’m here,” he said immediately, tears burning in his eyes now. “I’m right here, baby. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me.” You tried to smile, but it came out weak.

“I love you.”

The words were barely audible. But Bucky heard them. And it destroyed him.

A broken sound left his throat as he leaned closer to you, pressing your joined hands against his chest as if he could somehow keep your heart beating with his own. “No, no, don’t talk like that,” he rambled quickly. “You’re okay. You hear me? I love you too. God, I love you so much. I love you more than anything.”

The battlefield had gone strangely quiet around him. Nobody understood what they were hearing. Bucky didn’t even notice.

“You can’t leave me,” he whispered, tears finally falling now. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t…I can’t do that again.”

“Bucky…” Steve said carefully. Bucky looked up then, eyes red and furious and terrified all at once.

“We’ve been together for a year,” he choked out. “So somebody do something. S-somebody help her! Somebody kill that fucking thing.”

He finally looked back to see that the monster was on the ground. Whatever happened in the two minutes you were on the ground stopped it, at least for the moment.

 “You’ve been together for a year?” Tony said, as he looked at Bucky, then at you, Your breathing was uneven now. Weak. 

Nat was somewhere behind him, yelling for medical, her voice sounding farther and farther away. Bucky’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He kept rubbing his thumb over your cheek as if he stopped touching you, you’d disappear.

“Yes, but we…we’ve loved each other for longer.”

Then he looked at Steve.

And suddenly, he didn’t look like the Winter Soldier anymore. He looked young. Terrified. Like the skinny kid from Brooklyn begging the world not to take another person from him.

“Please,” he said, voice cracking completely. “Help her.”

Tony dropped beside him quickly, scanning your injuries, but the second Bucky saw the look on his face, something inside him snapped.

“No,” Bucky said immediately.

Tony’s expression only fell further.

“Barnes–”

“No!” Bucky shouted, pulling you closer against him. “No, don’t fucking look at me like that.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly toward him.

“Bucky…” you breathed.

“I’m here,” he said instantly, tears falling freely now. “I’m right here, baby. I got you.”

Your hand twitched in his.

He grabbed it like it was the most important thing in the world.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he kept saying, voice trembling harder each time. “You hear me? We’re gonna go home after this. I’m gonna make you coffee tomorrow morning, and you’re gonna complain it tastes terrible even though you drink the whole thing anyway.”

A tiny smile ghosted across your lips. Bucky looked wrecked seeing it. “I love you,” you whispered.

And God, it sounded like goodbye.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head hard enough it looked painful. “No, don’t say it like that. Don’t… please don’t say it like that.”

“I love you,” you repeated softly.

Bucky broke.

A horrible sound left his throat as he pressed his forehead against yours, clutching your hand against his chest.

“I love you too,” he sobbed. “I love you so much. More than anything, sweetheart. Please stay. Please stay with me.”

Your breathing hitched.

Then stopped.

For a second, nobody moved.

Bucky stared at you.

Waiting.

Waiting for another breath.

Another blink.

Anything.

“...Doll?” he whispered.

Silence.

Tony slowly reached forward, fingers brushing against your neck before his face fell completely.

Bucky noticed.

And the denial in his eyes shattered.

“No,” he breathed.

Steve took a step forward carefully. “Buck”

“No!”

Bucky pulled you against him harder, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other desperately held your lifeless hand.

“No, no, no, no, please.” His entire body shook violently now. “You can’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me.”

Nobody knew what to say.

Nat had tears in her eyes.

Steve looked devastated.

Tony just looked numb.

And Bucky…

Bucky looked like the world had ended.

Because to him, it had.

What's worse is that no one knew how to comfort him. They didn’t even know the two of you were together. Steve put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“S-she wanted to get married in a barn house one day, a-and she wanted Nat to be her maid of honor.” Nat broke behind him, “A-and she was so excited to tell you guys one day.” Bucky looked up. “She was so happy…we were so happy together.”

They didn’t know what to do, so they sat with him over your body, as he spoke about things only he knew about you. “And she loved when no one was home so she and I could watch cheesy movies on the big TV, since I refused to admit to liking them.” Bucky choked on his breath, “I should have admitted I liked them… I-i should have”

No one could look at him, their hearts ached, “And she used to tell you guys she was going to go read, but really she’d come to my room and make me read her favorite books to her.” Bucky put his forehead against yours, “And she wore socks to sleep like a crazy person, but she looked so damn cute in her fuzzy socks.” Tony chuckled behind him. 

She’s seated next to your mother. Speaking in a quiet tone, holding her hand in her lap. Weakly your mother turns her eyes to you “my heart” she whispers. The Queen looks at you then. Offering a sad smile before she stands, laying your mother’s hand back down by her side. She turns to you and gently places her hand on your shoulder “she’s been asking for you” she says softly, removing her hand and stepping off to the side by the priest. You take quick breaths in. Eyes burning with tears as you take the spot the Queen was previously occupying.

“Momma..” you say weakly. She has dried blood on her lips, and she looks pale. slowly she brings her hand up and you grab it with both of yours. Holding onto it tightly. “It’s alright my heart..” she says softly. You shake your head tears flowing down your face. Sniffling you then your head to the healer “what is happening? Why is she like this?” You ask voice desperate. The healers looks to you with sad eyes “she is very sick. The infection in her lungs has spread” you nod and take a deep breath in “alright then what are you going to do about it then?” You ask and the room gets quiet. You keep looking at her “well!” You shout and your mother weakly squeezes your hand drawing your attention back to her.

“There is nothing more they can do my dear..” she states. You shake your head “no... No there has to be something- you-they have to do something” you stutter, fresh tears falling heavy now. “Come here my heart, let me hold you” your mother says and you let out a small sob. Slowly and carefully crawling into the bed next to her. You lay on your side, putting your arm across her torso and laying your head on her shoulder. You don’t care about the people around you anymore. You close your eyes and bury your face into her shoulder.

She rubs your arm, breath coming and going with harsh wheezes. You feel her chest rattling. “I love you, with all my heart. You have always b-been the best part of my existence” your mother mumbles, a cough follows before she takes a heavy breath in “I-i wish, I could’ve offered you more in this life. But I kn-know, you will become far more than I could’ve ever imagined for you” she turns her head and places a kiss to the crown of your head. “Never forget you are truly something special my dear.” She whispers then turning her head back, she takes in another deep breath before it comes out slowly.

But her chest doesn’t rise again. You wait for a few moments waiting before you slowly bring your head up. Her eyes are closed, and she looks peaceful for the first time in decades. It breaks you. Sitting up you grab her shoulders “mother?” You shake her slightly. “Momma please” you beg, voice broken. “She is gone dear” the priest says softly and you shake your head vigorously “no, no she’s not she can’t be she-“ you sob.

Gently, the Queen steps over to you. Placing a hand on your shoulder “come my dear” she pulls you gently as you sob, helping you stand. She turns you and pulls you into her chest wrapping her arms around you. You wail and hold onto her. Surely ruining her dress with snot and tears but you couldn’t care now, and it seems she doesn’t either. You don’t realize she has slowly started to walk the both of you back into the hall. Signaling for the guards to step into the room. Servants disperse, creating room in the hallway. You glance up and through your tears you see as they take your mother’s body away.

The Queen rubs your shoulders and cheek with her hands. Holding you tight. You haven’t let go of her. You just watch as the guards carefully move through the others standing around. Taking your mother with them. James runs in then. But stops short as they pass him, your mother in their arms. He stares as they walk past before looking up and down the hall to you. To where his mother is holding you. You don’t see her shake her head towards him, giving him a silent “not now” and you don’t see how his heart breaks for you because your too busy feeling yours shatter in your own chest.

——

You didn’t sleep that night. You kept your candles lit and sat on the chair in the corner of your room. Staring at the bed. You haven’t touched it since they took her away. When the sun came up Miriam stopped by to let you know she and Jeanie would take care of your chores and duties for the day. You didn’t respond, just stared at the bed. Another servant whose name you didn’t know, a younger girl had come to bring you lunch, you didn’t eat it. When night began to fall once more Jeanie came and tried to get you to move. Offering to change the bedding. Your head snaps at her when she went to grab the wool blanket that laid on top “don’t.” You had said. Voice hoarse but finite.

The next day, later in the afternoon Miriam came and told you of the burial plans. You got up then and she helped you get ready for it. You never said a word. What was there to say? You lost the one person you cared for most. What is there to say after that? You have nothing now.

The funeral was small and quick. A few servants who knew her, the priest and you. They buried her in the part of the castles cemetery where all the servants go to be buried when they pass. A cross stuck in the ground the only thing to mark it. After, everyone went to the kitchens for a drink and to talk of memories. You didn’t go, you stayed by the grave. Not moving from where you stood at the foot of it. you didn’t move when the sun started to set and Miriam had come out begging you to come inside. You just stood there. Silent and motionless.

You don’t know for how long you have been there but night had fallen some time ago, you still stayed. Just standing and staring at the soil. Like maybe if you stood long enough, or were quiet enough. She’d come back, or you’d hear her voice again. Just once. You did realize someone else had joined you until a delicate hand placed a small bouquet of daisies upon the mound. You look up then. “She was always fond of daisies” the queens soft voice rings through the silent night air. You just look at her, you know it’s wrong. But what else do you have to lose?

She looks at you too, eyes scanning over your face. She knows you haven’t slept or ate since they took her away. Having asked Miriam and Jeanie to keep an eye on you. They had giving her updates on your condition and have expressed their concerns for you. She moves to stand next to you now, hand clasped delicately in front of her. “You know, your mother and I… we were close once” she says, you blink at her and she continues, staring at the cross in the ground. “Before I was betrothed to the king, I was a living with my father lord Hubbard. Your mother was my ladies maid and your father was working on his rank in the kings guard. Your parents are how I came to know the king” she tells, releasing a sigh. “If it wasn’t for them I never would have married him” she adds.

You swallow hard, “why are you tell me this?” You ask. Voice small and weak. “Because, during all that time. We had confided in each other. We shared our hopes a dreams with each other. Not only for ourselves but for our children. She would not want you to mourn her like this” she turns to you then “I was there, when you were born. I had just had Rebecca a few months prior and your father had- was gone by then. She was alone and heart broken in that small cabin in the village. But she knew she had to bring you into this world. And my did you come in screaming like a banshee” she gives a small laugh “I was amazed at her strength, she just.. picked you right up and brought you to her breast. I didn’t get that with James or Rebecca. But seeing it was beautiful” she takes in a small breath.

“I had offered her that day to come to the castle, that I’d convince the king to let you both stay but she insisted she didn’t need the help… Not until you got sick. She came at night with you in her arms. You were so small, so fragile. Only three years of age. I snuck you both in and convinced the healer to help you and keep you both hidden while I went to the king. I finally convinced him that having you both here would be a show of mercy given the treason of your father.” She brings a hand to your shoulder “I promised your mother I’d always do what was in my power to protect you. Even if she were to pass before me. I plan on keeping that promise.” She reaches into her small pocket hidden in her dress and pulls out a small necklace. Removing her hand from your shoulder she grabs the back of yours gently and lifts it, placing the necklace in your palm and closing it.

“She gave me this before she passed. It was your great grandmothers that your father had given to her on their wedding night. As you know servants aren’t allowed to keep things like this but.. I allowed her too and she made me promise to give it to you.” She lets go of your hand and takes and step back, “you are stronger than you know” she says softly before turning and walking away. You watch as she leaves and once she disappears closer to the castle you look down at your palm. Opening your hand slowly you see It’s a small, round sapphire. Lined with sliver. The chain is delicate and also sliver. Your eyes fill with tears as your other hand gently touches the small stone.

You never met your father, but your mother told you stories about him. You use to dream about him one day just reappearing and storming the castle to save you both. You dreamed that he would pick you up and hold you. Never letting go. You wished a many times someone would come and save you and your mother. To take you away from here and live a happy life on a farm or some beautiful village where you’d be free. It never happened, just a child’s imagination. A dream.

You look at the cross again. Tears falling down your cheeks. “I’m going to make you proud mother. I love you” you say quietly. A sad but determined promise. You place the necklace in your pocket and walk away then. You move your stiff legs, dragging yourself back into the castle. It’s quiet in the halls. Most already in bed for the night besides the guards on night shift. You make it down to the servants quarters and it’s just as quiet. Stopping in front of your door you hesitate. Taking a deep breath you open the door and step in.

You gasp when you see James sitting in the chair in the corner, he looks like he hasn’t slept either. You just look at him for a moment before peaking back out into the hall and closing your door behind you. “You shouldn’t be here” you say quietly, disregarding him as you remove your cloak and hang it on the hook by the door, your back to him. “I just.. I wanted to check on you.” He admits softly. You shake your head and lean it on the post by the door “I can’t do this…” you mutter, more towards yourself but James hears anyways and he stands. “I’m not- I don’t want to make this harder for you.. but I’ve just been worrying about you” he says and you turn then. “Well. You’ve checked in. I am fine. You can leave now.” You snap.

“Don’t do that..” he mutters “do what? Ask you to leave? I’m sorry your highness. Please. make yourself comfortable.” you say mocking a cheery tone. He says your name “don’t” he mutters lowly “would you like me to go fetch you something?” You ask tilting your head “stop it.” He grits his teeth “how about some tea? Or bread if you’re hungry? OH! I know how about lady Elizabeth-“ “STOP IT” he shouts “why? Why should I! It’s what I’m here for aren’t I? To server you, your sister. The whole damn royal family” you snap. He stalks up to you then chest heaving. You glare up at him. Your own breath unsteady.

He does something you don’t expect from him next. He grabs you and pulls you into his chest. Holding you tightly. A hug. It’s almost crushing. Your stunned. But you quickly try to push away from him. He doesn’t let you, holding onto you. “Let me go” you snap teeth gritted. He doesn’t answer or move. You put your arms on his chest pushing harder “stop it James” you say, voice starting to waver. He still doesn’t move. You get frustrated and hit his chest then. Just once at first. Then again as fresh tears start to well in your eyes. You manage to wiggle somewhat free and push him hard “stop it! Stop it! Go away!” You shout hitting him, his hands move to your upper arms as you continue to hit and shove him. Tears trailing down your cheeks. “Get out! I don’t want you here! I hate you! I hate you!” You sob, your hits getting weaker.

You grip his forearms and you being to fall. Exhaustion taking over your body and your legs now feeling weak. He catches you, picking you up. One arm moving behind your back and the other goes behind your legs as he hoists you up. He moves to sit on the edge of your bed. Holding you in his lap. Your face in his neck as you sob. You dig your hand into his shirt gripping it like a life line. He just hushes you gently. Bringing the hand that was behind your legs to your cheek and resting his head on yours. Holding you close. Letting you cry. Being with you. You know this isn’t right. You know if caught you’d get reprimanded. You know this is selfish but for so long you’ve wanted to be held by him again. You should be mad at him. But the sadness is bigger than your anger.

So you hold onto him, and he holds onto you. Rocking you softly in his lap. Caressing your face with a gentleness you’ve only known your mother to show you. Letting you sob into his neck. Because in this moment you are not a servant and he is not a prince. You are just two kids. Who need someone to hold onto.

——

You don’t know when, but eventually you succumbed to your exhaustion. Falling into a deep dreamless sleep. You woke a few hours later, now laying down in bed. Covers pulled over you. Rubbing your sore eyes you look to the side of you. He stayed. He lays next to you. Snoring lightly, laying on top of your covers one arm behind his head and the other close to where you lay. Some would say dangerously close. Scandalously close. Like he was reaching out for you in his sleep.

Glancing towards your curtain covered window, you notice no light is shining through it. Must still be night time, or at least early morning. You sit up carefully, attempting to stretch your sore and exhausted body. James besides you begins to stir, you look at him. Watching as his eyes flutter open and he squints at you “is it morning?” He asks, voice rough from sleep. You turn away from him looking at your hands in your lap “not sure, suns not out yet so maybe soon” you say softly. He groans and sits up, “are you alright?” He asks and you give a sad laugh “no… but I will be” you offer weakly, attempting a small smile as you turn to face him.

You just sit there together for awhile. Letting the silence and the events from only hours ago settle around you. “I-I’m sorry.. for hitting you.” You say quietly. He shakes his head “it’s fine. I get it. I would hate me too” “I don’t hate you..” you cut him off. “I did. For awhile after you left. You hurt me, you were one of if not my only friend in this place and you just… threw me away and then left” you admit. He sighs rubbing a hand down his face. “I was.. angry. Not at you but my father. I didn’t want to go. But he insisted, demanded it. I knew no matter what I did you’d be upset so I thought if you hated me it’d make it easier for you to forget me” you just look at him.

“I never wanted to hurt you… or to confuse you. I guess a small part of me hoped when I came back things would just be.. normal again. Like how they were when we were younger. But then my father told me about the courting and-“ he sucks in a breath “I knew.. eventually I’d have to wed but I just thought I’d have more time.. and then I saw you again and I-“ he looks you in the eyes. Biting the inside of his cheek and you shake your head at him “don’t” you say quietly “d-don’t say… we can’t” you conclude sadly.

He nods, his tongue digging into the back of his teeth. “I wish things were different” he says quietly, voice at a whisper. You give a sad smile “I do too… but this c-can’t happen again.. it’s to dangerous. For both of us” you state and he blinks hard nodding in agreement “I know”.

That morning, James had snuck out before anyone outside started moving about. You felt strangely.. lighter in a way. You allowed yourself to rest for a few moments longer. Not sleeping but closing your eyes and letting the days past events sink in. You cannot wallow in it. You cannot allow yourself too or it’ll drown you. So you get up. Change your clothes. Fix your hair into its normal bun.

You turn and stare at the bed and with a shaky breath you begin to remove the covers and the thin sheet. Balling them up and carrying them out and to the laundry hall. It’s empty in there, still too early for the regular laundry washers to be up and working. You fill a basin with water from the laundries water spout, grabbing soap and a wash board you, you set them by the basin and grab one of the covers, holding it to you.

Breathing in the faint sent of your mother still on it. Of James on it. Closing your eyes you stand there for a moment before plunging it into the water. Getting it wet and then grabbing the wash board and soap you begin to clean it. Washing away the last piece of your mother. Letting her go. Letting James go. You have too, you know this. You have to let them both go or you won’t survive.

——

Days past, and slowly you start to feel a calm again in your day to day life. You do your duties and chores, you eat, sleep and bathe. You begin to talk with Miriam more and offer to help Jeanie with the mending often. Tonight you are even taking Jeanie’s post at the ball. You know what it’s for. To announce the engagement of prince James to lady Elizabeth. You’d be lying if you said a small part of you broke at the news. But you hope being there would help you with letting him go.

You know some would call this unnecessary torture. But you need this. You need to see it. To hear it. To let it be real for you. So you help set up the tables, assist in hanging decorations. You even help the cook with kneading dough for the pastries. Now you stand, in a dimly lit corner of the ballroom, waiting for someone to need something. James hasn’t seen that you are here. Not that you’d expect him to. He’s busy dancing with his soon to be announced fiancé. They seemed.. happy.

Eventually, the king at the high table stands. Clinking his knife against his glass. Everyone goes silent. You take a deep breath, shaking slightly. “As most of you know, or have seen. Over the past few weeks my son and lady Elizabeth have been spending time together.. courting each other…” just say it already. “And it is with great pleasure to announce their happy engagement!” There it is. You look to them then. Surrounded by people cheering and clapping for them. They both smile and she links her arm into his leaning into him.

You feel it then. The heart break. But it’s not like how it felt when mother passed. This feels very different. This feeling like pain you’ve never felt before. You don’t realize the tears filling your eyes as you stare at them. Not until by chance, James looks up right at you. You look back at him for a moment before looking down. Trying to catch your breath you hadn’t realized was trying to run away from you.

Once the king takes his seat again, everyone starts to go back to what they were doing before, some moving to go and congratulate the new couple. You take this opportunity where everyone is to consumed with the news to quickly but silently slip out. Needing to breathe. Needing to get out of that room. To get away from him. This was a stupid idea. You shouldn’t have come. What were you thinking?

You walk quickly down the empty hallway, the sounds of the balls festivities slowly starting to fade behind you. You continue to take deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart and hopefully keep back the unshed tears pushing against your eyes. You knew this was coming. You always did. So why does it hurt so much? Why does it feel like you’re losing him when you never had him to begin with?

Behind you the door to the ballroom opens and closes with a bang, you pay it no mind. Probably just a guest leaving. You continue to walk, and before you even realize it you’re at your bedroom door. You push the door open but before you can close it a hand stops it. James slips in and slams it shut behind him. You stare at him wide eyed. His chest is heaving. Breathing loud like he had been running. He just looks at you. Like he’s fighting an internal battle.

He’s shaking, hands clenching and then releasing by his sides. You shift on your feet, “you should get-“ “shut up” he mumbles and then he move quickly. Grabbing your face with both his hands and pulling you to him, his lips crashing onto yours. You gasp into it. Hands instinctively reaching up to grip the sleeves of his coat. You pull back quickly, eyes wide and looking at him. Your both breathless, foreheads now rest against each other you lick your lips before slowly moving in again. Delicately your lips press against his again, hesitant and unsure.

“Hey, are you- oh my god!” You pull away, practically shoving James in the process and taking a large step back. It was Miriam. She looks at you both for a moment shock on her face, you are staring at her breath quickening. James turns, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Miriam steps in slowly and shuts the door behind her, sucking in a heavy breath and pointing at you “this didn’t happen” she states lowly, and James looks at her then “I didn’t see this, you weren’t here” she points to James who mumbles a “fuck” under his breath. “Go back to your fiancé, now. Say you went for some air, or to find the nearest chamber pot. I don’t care. But you need to leave” she states looking James in the eye.

He looks to you quickly before walking out in a rush, he shuts the door behind him and you bring a hand to your mouth “oh my god” you mutter. “Oh my god!” You repeat a little louder and shuffle back until the back of your knees hit your bed and you fall onto it in a seated position. Miriam stalks up to you and grips your shoulders “this didn’t Happen you hear me? You came back to your room overwhelmed still from your mother’s passing and needed a break” she explained trying to meet your wondering eyes as you shake.

“I-I didn’t… it wasn’t what-“ you stutter trying to think of anything to say but Miriam just grabs your chin and forces you to look at her. “I don’t care. It didn’t happen. You will stay here for the rest of the night. got it?” You can only nod, she sighs heavily and backs up from you “god” she mumbles placing her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry” you say quietly “don’t apologize to me. Just hope no one else saw him come here.” She says pointedly. “Stay. Here.” She states again harshly before walking out. Shit.

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence. 

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender. 

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes. 

You're scared.

You're beautiful. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking." 

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else." 

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown. 

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear. 

You glare at him. 

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you." 

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant. 

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–" 

"Holy stars, is that your hair?" 

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No." 

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor. 

"You have to leave. Leave!" 

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat. 

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter. 

You don't laugh, nor do you smile. 

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly. 

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay." 

"She won't give it." 

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't. 

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly. 

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely. 

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after." 

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword. 

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly." 

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease. 

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do." 

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?" 

"No! Of course not." 

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate." 

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair. 

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly. 

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything." 

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best. 

He's very, very fine. 

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward. 

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey. 

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense." 

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them. 

"They're how I spend my summers." 

"Looking at them?" 

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling." 

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time. 

"I painted them myself." 

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks. 

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden. 

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days." 

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You aren't married?" 

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!" 

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps. 

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold." 

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo. 

"Argento." 

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks. 

"You're talking about money." 

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes. 

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower. 

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!" 

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–" 

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet. 

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning." 

He doesn't move. 

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious. 

"Please," you whisper again. 

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small. 

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling." 

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. 

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper. 

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?" 

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight. 

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous. 

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that." 

"Sorry, mother." 

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving. 

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument." 

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother." 

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you." 

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does. 

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused. 

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections. 

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs. 

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps. 

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars." 

"No, you shouldn't have." 

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger. 

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores. 

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled. 

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished." 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" 

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously. 

But she is not kind. 

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents. 

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot. 

"It's dusty down here!" you call. 

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling." 

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother." 

-

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before. 

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like. 

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page. 

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour. 

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs. 

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide. 

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely. 

He holds his breath as the door creaks open. 

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?" 

He waves his hand from under the bed. 

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him. 

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile. 

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed. 

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars. 

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing." 

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them." 

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange. 

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?" 

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars." 

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly. 

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?" 

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me." 

His eyes widen. 

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again. 

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?" 

"It's not what you think." 

"I think it's exactly what I think." 

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians." 

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do. 

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head. 

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!" 

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults. 

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily. 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely. 

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here. 

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark. 

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids. 

— 

"You want me to what?" 

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns." 

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation. 

"No." 

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee." 

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says. 

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon. 

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow. 

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too. 

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving. 

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table. 

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were." 

"This isn't how you negotiate." 

"Good thing I'm not negotiating." 

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence. 

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows. 

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?" 

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow." 

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge. 

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings." 

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit. 

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless. 

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse." 

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion. 

"Do you have any better shoes?" 

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No." 

"You don't get out much, do you?" 

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches. 

Poor girl, he thinks. 

"Don't worry too much about it." 

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun." 

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes. 

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon. 

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow. 

"Are you coming?" Steve calls. 

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward. 

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath. 

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose. 

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass. 

The world is even bigger from there. 

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town." 

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh." 

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped. 

Steve seems content to languish in silence. 

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb. 

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me. 

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine. 

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon. 

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says. 

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?" 

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it." 

"Oh. That's good." 

"Yeah." 

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same." 

"I'm an excellent navigator." 

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape. 

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice." 

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this." 

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first. 

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there. 

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen. 

He's still a two-timer. Case in point. 

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute." 

Adorable. 

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag. 

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room." 

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension. 

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade. 

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?" 

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly. 

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath. 

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection. 

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper. 

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee." 

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely. 

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint. 

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?" 

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together." 

Steve frowns but hands over the money. 

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough. 

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?" 

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you. 

"Both of us," he says, nodding. 

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"It's what's expected of us." 

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent. 

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?" 

"You're not my husband." 

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back. 

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say. 

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married."  He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying." 

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage. 

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care." 

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag. 

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but." 

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me? 

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways. 

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him. 

If they can, they aren't listening. 

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks. 

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted. 

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view. 

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone. 

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?" 

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery. 

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own. 

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water. 

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure. 

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung. 

"The water’s barely hot." 

"I've never had a hot bath before." 

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?" 

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?" 

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you." 

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble. 

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon." 

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck. 

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity. 

Your shoulders relax. 

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves. 

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure. 

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine. 

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room. 

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat. 

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?" 

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress." 

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention. 

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown. 

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself." 

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands. 

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another. 

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning. 

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand. 

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it. 

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends. 

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around. 

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays. 

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue." 

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?" 

"You wouldn't believe me." 

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair." 

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?" 

"We aren't going back down there." 

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself." 

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea." 

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns." 

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on. 

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door. 

"Well?" he asks, holding it open. 

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you." 

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen. 

"What is that?" you ask Steve. 

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?" 

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can. 

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room. 

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks. 

"Not in any of my books." 

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound." 

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem. 

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you. 

"Turn to me." 

"What if my hair catches?" 

"You aren't close enough for that." 

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot. 

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties." 

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry." 

"I have–" 

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?" 

"No." 

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season." 

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?" 

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long." 

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further. 

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?" 

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it." 

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close. 

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you. 

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left… 

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk. 

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?" 

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further. 

"I'm okay," you say. 

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy. 

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis. 

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back. 

He looks at your face until you're uneasy. 

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm. 

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges. 

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles? 

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while. 

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song. 

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough. 

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow." 

"Good, huh?" 

You try not to cough. "It's rich." 

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?" 

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you." 

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing. 

You look up, puzzled. 

"Come on." 

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand. 

He leads you up the small platform to the piano. 

You look to him inquisitively. 

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard." 

"How do you adjust how loud it is?" 

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys." 

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys. 

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you." 

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe. 

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this." 

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings. 

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks. 

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say. 

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song." 

"I only know the one." 

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are. 

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays. 

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears." 

"Is that yours?" you ask him. 

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid." 

"Only plays them." 

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching. 

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?" 

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning. 

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters. 

"What?" you ask. 

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!" 

Steve's smile is gone. 

"Eddie," he says tiredly. 

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy." 

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head. 

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks. 

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us." 

"I don't owe you anything." 

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon. 

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor. 

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree." 

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

“So…” John groaned, slumping against a cracked brick wall. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline, and ash streaked his jaw like war paint. He held up what was left of his shield — warped, twisted, folded . “What now? Because we just got annihilated.”

“No shit,” Ava muttered, spitting dust from her mouth and flicking a burned scrap of fabric from her sleeve. Her split lip had swollen, and she could feel bruises blooming across her ribs. “I say every man for themselves. Bob’s gone full horror movie. This was fun — goodbye.”

She turned into the lingering smoke, already half-vanished — until Yelena’s voice cut through like a knife.

“We can’t leave him.”

Ava stopped, shoulders stiff. “Leave who? That wasn’t Bob back there. That was... I don’t even know what that was.” She turned, folding her arms. “Definitely not the guy who saved us.”

“No,” Yelena said, voice tight. “But he’s still in there. Somewhere.”

“Unless one of you has a secret anti-god laser in your back pocket,” Ava snapped, “what exactly is your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet,” Yelena admitted, stepping forward anyway. “But we’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

Alexei groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a half-shattered bench, which cracked under his weight. “If we go back in there, I need... at least ten minutes. And a cortisone shot. Maybe a priest.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Let me stretch, drink some water, and then we finish him.”

“We’re not finishing him,” Yelena snapped, rounding on him. “We’re going to help him.”

“Oh sure,” Ava muttered. “We’ll just hug the powers out of him.”

“He ripped Bucky’s arm off like it was a doll’s toy,” Alexei added. “We go in like this, we die.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky muttered as he calmly snapped the vibranium prosthetic back into place with a click. “Happens more than you think.”

John held up his bent shield, his face still a mix of shock and mild heartbreak. “He folded it. I mean—folded it. Like paper. Do you know what kind of force it takes to bend this thing?”

Ava raised a brow. “So… not vibranium?”

“It’s vibranium-adjacent,” John muttered defensively.

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Maybe if it was actual vibranium, it wouldn’t look like a gas station burrito.”

Alexei lit up. “I could go for a burrito. Or a taco. The ones with the cheese in the middle. Mmm. I want that now.”

John groaned. “Focus! We got curb-stomped by Bob! Bob! The shy nerdy one!"

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly, brushing ash from her arm. “He’s not shy or nerdy anymore.”

That shut them all up.

Bucky exhaled. They were beat to hell, and morale was tanking fast. But more than that, they were scared. And for good reason.

He looked at them — bruised, dirty, half-limping, yet still bickering like middle schoolers on a broken field trip — and made a decision he was definitely going to regret.

“There’s a place we can crash. It’s not far. We lay low, regroup. Heal. Then we figure out what the hell to do.”

Yelena eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and started walking.

The group hesitated, then followed — slow and shuffling.

A few blocks in, Ava broke the silence again, jabbing a thumb at John’s mangled shield. “So… can’t you, like, unfold it? You’ve got super strength, right?”

“I have super strength,” John snapped. “Not unfold-a-shield-bent-by-a-living-deity strength. It’s toast.”

Alexei squinted. “Is that, like… covered under warranty? Or do you have to mail it back?”

John gave him a deadpan look. “Do I look like I kept a receipt?”

“And you—” he pointed at Ava “—Ghost. Can you even do anything right now or are you just brooding professionally?”

Ava raised her brow. “I walked through a wall and saved your sorry ass five hours ago.”

“She literally did,” Yelena added, smirking.

“I-oh. Right. I forgot,” John said, flustered. “In my defense, I was the one who cut the power so she could walk through the wall.”

“How convenient,” Ava said flatly.

Their argument began escalating again — nonsense mixed with sarcasm, interrupted only by Alexei trying to convince someone to buy him tacos — until Bucky turned sharply on his heel.

“Enough.” His voice was low, tired, and just sharp enough to cut through the noise. “We’re almost there. If you keep yelling, she’s not going to open the door.”

They all stopped short.

“She?” they echoed, suspicious in unison.

“Yes. She. No more questions.” He resumed walking, jaw clenched.

Yelena sidled up next to him, grinning like a cat. “Is this a she-she, or a capital-She situation?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Alexei leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is she a friend-friend or a friendly friend?”

John nodded sagely. “I bet she’s way out of his league.”

“Maybe she's his girlfriend,” Yelena offered with a shrug.

“Highly doubtful,” Ava muttered.

“She’s not my—” Bucky stopped mid-sentence, face twitching. “Just... shut up. All of you. Or I will let Bob use you as a jump rope.”

They finally quieted.

The townhouse appeared as they turned the corner. It was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and an old record shop. String lights framed the little balcony, and a warm golden glow spilled from the upstairs window. Too calm. Too normal. It looked like the kind of place where people had tea and talked about their feelings — not where half-dead super-soldiers crawled in to sleep off a cosmic ass-kicking.

Bucky stopped in front of the door, hesitating. His jaw tightened as he raised his fist, his metal fist hovering before he knocked.

He hated this.

He hated that he’d brought them here — hated the pit growing in his stomach — hated that this was the only safe place he could think of. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. Not since they separated. And now he was dragging a human dumpster fire of a team to her doorstep.

Behind him, the others bickered in hushed tones.

“Does she cook?” “I hope she has a comfy couch.” “If she has tea, I’ll marry her.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He almost turned around — almost told them it was a bad idea and they should just sleep in a sewer.

But then he heard footsteps approaching the door.

Too late.

The door creaked open slowly, and there you were.

Your eyes landed on Bucky first — bruised, dirt-streaked, arm slightly disjointed, and he was holding his ribs with one hand.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. Your gaze swept across him, and the flicker of worry that crossed your face was brief, but real.

Then it was gone.

“What do you want?” you asked. Not cold exactly, but not welcoming either. Just guarded.

Bucky looked down for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low. Worn. “I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now. But we need your help.”

“I don’t play superhero anymore,” you replied, arms folding as you leaned slightly against the doorframe.

“I know,” he said quickly, “I’m not asking you to suit up or anything. We just need a place to lay low. For a night. Maybe two. We got our asses handed to us like ten minutes ago.” He gestured to the group behind him, and your eyes drifted over the chaos on your porch.

“Please, doll,” he added, quieter now. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other option.”

The silence stretched between you. He held your gaze, waiting — wounded pride barely masked beneath the plea.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening. Without a word, you stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in before the neighbors start watching.”

The team shuffled in, dragging in a trail of soot, broken egos, and exhaustion. Bucky paused as he stepped through, eyes flicking to the living room. It looked exactly like he remembered — warm, soft lighting, a shelf cluttered with books and candles. Homey. Safe.

Except the framed photos of you two were gone. Replaced by art. Abstract pieces. Beautiful, distant things.

Then something soft brushed against his leg.

He glanced down and froze.

A pristine white cat was weaving through his boots, its tail flicking with recognition. His expression shifted—stunned, tender.

“Hey, Alpine,” he murmured, crouching carefully. “Hi, pretty girl. I missed you.”

She meowed softly and launched into his arms, immediately purring as she burrowed into his chest. He cradled her like porcelain, one hand smoothing over her fur.

You watched from the kitchen threshold. You and Bucky had agreed Alpine would stay with you — your life was stable, his wasn’t. It had made sense. But it hadn’t been easy.

Behind Bucky, the team just… stared.

“Are you seeing this?” John whispered to Yelena.

Ava elbowed him without even looking. “Shut up.”

It was a surreal image: The Winter Soldier, dusty and battle-worn, cuddling a white fluffball like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took in the rest of them. They were strangers, mostly. Strangers who looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield and onto your rug.

The blonde woman leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The woman in the sleek suit by the door looked cool and dangerous in equal measure. Then there was the massive man in red. He smiled and gave a little wave when your eyes met. And then there was the guy with the folded shield and the “punch-me” face.

Bucky nodded toward the group. “Uh, yeah. That’s Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and... that’s John.”

They all gave awkward waves. Alexei’s was the most enthusiastic.

You nodded politely. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

They all looked like they were one nudge away from collapsing.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

“Water, please,” Yelena said quickly, her voice scratchy.

John raised his hand like a kid in class. “Same.”

Ava glanced at you, almost apologetic. “Do you have tea?”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Anything.”

You turned to Alexei.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” he asked, hopeful.

“How strong?”

“Very strong.”

You smirked. “Got it.” Then disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, all heads turned to Bucky — still petting Alpine, who had zero plans to move.

“So…” Yelena drawled. “You and her?”

Bucky tensed like someone lit a fuse in his spine.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

John leaned closer to Ava. “There’s definitely history here. Did you see the way she looked at him?”

“She also looked like she wanted to slam the door,” Ava replied.

“She likes him,” Alexei declared confidently. “There is affection. And the cat approved. Cats never lie.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “If you value your limbs, you’ll stop talking.”

Yelena held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. No shipping the grumpy soldier. Got it.”

A few moments later, you returned balancing a tray with glasses, a mug of tea, and a tumbler of something amber.

“Bucky, seriously?” you said, seeing them all still hovering like awkward ghosts. “You could’ve told them to sit down.”

He shrugged, still holding the cat like a teddy bear. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

You waved the team toward the couches. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

John and Yelena nearly collapsed into opposite ends of the same couch. Ava leaned against a windowsill, blowing gently on her tea. Alexei sniffed his drink, took a sip, then sat upright.

“You, my dear, are an angel,” he declared reverently. “Is this whiskey?”

“Only the best for unexpected guests,” you replied dryly. “I was meal-prepping earlier,” you added, glancing over your shoulder. “I’ve got a big pot of soup if anyone’s hungry. Showers are down the hall. Towels are in the closet. Clean shirts in the basket.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Soup would be heavenly,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

You gave a small smile and turned toward the kitchen again.

Bucky hesitated, gently placing Alpine down as she curled onto a throw pillow. Then he followed you, slow and quiet.

You were setting down a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder. Bucky stood quietly near the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light, his hands shoved in his pockets, posture stiff like he hadn’t quite decided if he should be there.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, keeping your voice steady. The soup was already simmering; your hands moved automatically to the ladle.

He offered a faint smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

You nodded, focusing on the steam rising from the pot instead of the way your chest clenched. “You all looked like hell. Someone had to be decent.”

“Look, Y/N—”

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant to. You turned to face him fully, hands still holding the ladle. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why you're here. Nearest safe house. Not personal. It’s fine. Really.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening before giving a slow nod. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just need some rest.”

“That's fine.” You turned back to fill the bowls. “Alpine misses you.”

His voice was softer this time. “I miss her too.”

You didn't answer right away. But when the bowls were full and the bread was out, you called out toward the hallway.

“Lunch.”

A few thuds and grunts later, the rest of the group shuffled in like survivors of a disaster movie. Everyone looked slightly cleaner than when they arrived — but still bruised, bandaged, and about ten seconds from passing out.

Everyone except Bucky, who instinctively sat down in the seat next to yours.

Yelena took a spot across the table, her hands wrapped around her water. Ava perched at the end, still sipping her tea slowly. Alexei helped himself to three rolls before anyone else had time to blink.

John hovered awkwardly before finally taking a seat beside Alexei, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Yelena again after their last round of bickering.

“And then—oh! Oh! Bob folded his shield like a freakin’ taco,” Alexei said mid-chew, nearly choking from laughter. “Just snapped it like paper!”

Yelena chuckled. Even Ava cracked a smirk.

John looked personally offended. “It’s not that funny.”

“And then—wait for it—he ripped off Bucky’s arm.” Alexei nearly doubled over at the memory.

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth. You turned your head so fast toward Bucky, it made your hair sway.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Alexei, but when he caught your expression — real concern flickering beneath practiced calm — his demeanor softened.

“It’s fine,” he said gently, lifting the vibranium arm a little. “Reattached it without a problem.”

“Are you sure?” You were already reaching out, ignoring the way your hand trembled just slightly. You turned his arm gently, inspecting the seam where metal met flesh, eyes scanning for dents or stress damage. “Did you check everything out?”

“I’m okay,” he said, holding your gaze. You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He squeezed your hand. “I promise. I’m okay.”

His eyes looked at your hand, and something flickered behind them — something like a punch to the gut. It was bare. There was no ring on her finger.

Automatically, he reached up to his chest, fingers ghosting over where the chain should’ve been.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped.

Bucky’s fingers frantically searched under his collar, pulling at his shirt, then dipping into his jacket pocket. Nothing.

No. No no no.

He never took it off. Ever.

His pulse spiked as he started checking every pocket.

“Bucky?” you asked, watching him unravel. “What’s wrong?”

“The chain,” he said hoarsely. “My chain. It’s gone.”

Panic etched across his face.

At the end of the table, Yelena blinked, frowning as she slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She felt the cool weight of something metallic there — something she had shoved away mid-battle and forgotten about.

When she pulled it out, her heart skipped.

It was a chain.

And dangling from it — a simple gold wedding band.

“Holy f—” she whispered, catching herself before the full curse slipped. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

She held the chain in her open palm like it was glowing. “This is yours.”

He surged forward before she could say another word and plucked it from her hand like it was oxygen. His breath shuddered as he slipped it back over his neck, the ring resting once again near his heart.

Relief washed over his features — raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes locked with his.

“You still have it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand brushed your ring finger again, almost absentmindedly.

“I—I…” Bucky swallowed hard, words failing. His throat felt too tight.

Alexei broke the silence like a sledgehammer. “Wait—you’re married?! Congratulations!” he bellowed, raising his glass. “That’s adorable.”

Bucky flinched like he'd been shot.

The silence that followed was very loud.

He looked at you again — the weight of everything unspoken between you crashing back in all at once — then abruptly stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He just left the room, Alpine trailing after him as the others watched, stunned.

“Did I…” Alexei frowned. “Did I say something wrong? Is that not a wedding ring?”

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temple. “We’re gonna need way more soup.”

“Uh… we’re not married anymore,” you whispered, and the air in the room seemed to shift.

Everyone went quiet. You could feel the weight of their stares settle on you like a spotlight, but you didn’t look back. You just stood, heart pounding, and walked out of the room — your feet already knowing where to go.

Of course you knew where he was.

You and Bucky had lived in this house together for two years before everything fell apart. The bones of the place hadn’t changed — not the layout, not the memories buried in each room. And especially not the basement.

You made your way downstairs, the air cooler, quieter. The moment your foot hit the last step, he spoke.

“You kept everything the same,” Bucky said, his voice low but clear. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

You crossed the room and slowly sat next to him on the old couch, the one you both used to fall asleep on watching bad movies. The cushions were still slightly sunken on his side.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice gentle. “It was our home. It felt wrong moving your things…changing your designs.”

Silence filled the space between you. Not heavy — just full. The muffled sound of the team arguing upstairs drifted down: something about dishes, someone calling someone a jackass.

“They’re a good bunch,” you murmured. “Very entertaining, too.”

Bucky let out a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Your eyes drifted to the chain around his neck — barely visible, but there.

“You kept the ring,” you said softly, watching him tense just slightly.

He nodded slowly, the admission coming with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

He finally turned to face you, eyes tired but sincere. “It helps me. Grounds me. I didn’t have much left to fight for after Steve left. But then there was you. And that ring… it gave me comfort. Protection, in a weird way. It became my good luck charm. I couldn’t get rid of it after the divorce. I didn’t want to.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you gave him a small, sad smile. “So you’ve been wearing it around your neck this whole time?”

He nodded again, this time more slowly. “Every damn day,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t take it off. It’s stupid, I know. Makes me look like a fool.”

You shook your head and stood up, walking to the cabinet on the far wall. He watched you with guarded curiosity as you pulled out a small, velvet box and returned to the couch.

“You’re not a fool,” you said gently. You opened the box and held it out to him. “I couldn’t get rid of mine either. Every time I tried, it felt wrong, like throwing away something sacred."

His gaze dropped to the ring in your fingers, and his throat tightened. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours again.

“I really wanted our marriage to work,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

“I know you did.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are.” You reached for his hand and held it. It still felt the same — steady, calloused, familiar. “You needed to find yourself, Buck. I should’ve understood. Everything was changing so fast. Steve died. Sam had the shield. Walker was Captain America for a minute. And then… you got into politics. You’re actually a congressman now.”

He let out a breath that was half-scoff, half-laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up,” you continued. “And that was on me.”

“No. It was on me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t prioritize your feelings. I kept shutting you out — thinking I was protecting you. You were right to divorce me. I wasn’t a good husband.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and shook your head.

“Bucky, no. You were an amazing husband. You just had things to work through. And I pushed myself aside instead of speaking up.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt effortless. Like no time had passed.

His arms went around you instantly, like they never forgot how.

“I’m also sorry,” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was soft and bitter. “What the hell happened to us?”

“I don’t really know,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you more.” He pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to survive. Alpine purred softly at your feet, curling between your legs.

And for a while, it was enough.

Peaceful. Quiet. Just the two of you and the cat you shared, back in a place that still remembered love.

And then—

CRASH.

You both jumped slightly at the loud clatter upstairs.

“Did you seriously just break their bowl?” John’s voice rang out, horrified.

“Well, if you think you can do better, then help me wash the dishes, Walker!” Ava snapped back.

You giggled, forehead still resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “We should go before they break more of our dishes.”

He smiled — a real one, one that reached his eyes. It lit up something in him when you said our. He tightened his hold. “A few more minutes. They’ll survive.”

You didn’t argue.

And without meaning to, both of you drifted off, curled into each other like no time had passed at all.

********

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Alexei. You’re being too loud.”

“We should wake him up, though. We haven’t even talked strategy.”

“We can’t. Look at them.”

“They look like a cute, happy family.”

“We should take a picture.”

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room, with the flash blinding all of them.

Bucky blinked awake, eyes adjusting slowly. There was warmth on his lap — Alpine, purring softly. And in his arms, still tucked close, was you.

For a second, he didn’t move.

This was what peace felt like. This was home.

“You woke him up,” Yelena hissed. “Seriously, Dad, turn off the flash and the sound!”

Bucky looked at them — bleary-eyed and still half-asleep — and his expression dropped into something flat and dangerous.

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to leave,” he said calmly, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And if you don’t… Bob will be the least of your problems.”

The team scrambled out of the room like they’d seen a ghost.

He sighed, then looked back down at you — just as you stirred.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, eyes meeting his. He braced himself, just for a second, wondering if you’d pull away. Regret it. Pretend none of it happened.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled sleepily, and snuggled closer.

“Is everything okay?” you murmured, reaching over to pat Alpine, who purred louder.

“Everything’s just perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You hop off the counter, taking your stupid drink with you because pouring it down the sink would probably look entirely suspicious.

Not that there was anything to be suspicious of.

In fact, this is what you wanted.

"What do you think?" he asks abruptly

You send him a wry look. "I don't think anything."

“We noticed,” Bucky says immediately. Like breathing. It makes your heart curl until it withers away. “What do you think about this?”

"Ask her out. Or don't. I don't care."

"You're a terrible friend."

"Devastating," you say monotonously.

Seriously, what the fuck.

Bucky locks his phone and puta it away, watching you slowly drag yourself out of the room before you say something worse.

Behind you, there’s silence for a beat before Bucky locks his phone and follows.

Bob looks back and forth between the both of you before deciding he actually wants nothing to do with any of this, contrary to his earlier belief

"You got a problem?" Bucky asks, the silence of the hallway cracking under his audacity.

"Many. Take your pick."

"Funny."

You hum, praying that the fucking elevator gets here faster.

"You don't want me to ask her out," the says, too close to you for your liking right now

"I don't even know her."

"Does that matter?"

You press the elevator button harder than necessary.

Not really. You noticed this whole thing the second it started. The texting. Him checking his phone more. Smiling at it sometimes, which was frankly irritating to witness. Something ugly lodged itself in your chest after that and never really left. Slithered it's way down to your stomach, and legs, and arms, and had just stayed there, stagnant.

You close your eyes, still turned away from him.

"You said this was nothing," he says, voice hard. "Not me."

He was right.

"it is nothing."

“Then you won’t care if I ask her to get coffee this weekend.”

The elevator dings open. You exhale shakily.

You step inside. He follows immediately.

Annoying.

You stare at the glowing floor numbers instead of him.

This was nothing. You’d repeated it enough times that eventually it stopped sounding ridiculous to yourself. You knew there was no hope for the both of you, that this was fruitless, so why waste each other's time.

At least until someone else entered the picture.

Now you feel vaguely homicidal over someone you actually really liked.

"You didn't answer."

"I already said do whatever you want."

"What do you want?"

"A bagel."

Bucky let's out a heavy exhale, like he's tired.

It feels like you're speed running the 5 stages of grief at once as you prepare for the inevitable distance you would have to put between the both of you.

You glance at all the fucking floors left to go and realise you're stuck here for longer than you want.

You can feel him looking at you. Terrible experience.

“She’s nice,” he says after a second. “Likes documentaries. Hiking.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Soulmates.”

You’ve watched documentaries. You’ve also nearly died on several mountains.

The lift moves with the urgency of a fucking melting stick of butter down a hill.

“Tell me not to go.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

You finally look at him.

His brows are drawn together slightly. Tired. Irritated.

Like this is somehow your fault.

Funny.

You always assumed if this thing ended, it’d be because you eventually got your shit together and moved on.

Didn’t really account for him getting there first.

You're well aware of your hypocrisy.

“Right. I'm gonna go cry in my room about this” you mutter. “I’m gonna go journal about it.”

His expression flickers. “You journal?”

“Christ, no.”

That almost gets a smile out of him.

The elevator finally opens.

You step out immediately.

“Just be honest for once,” he says behind you.

Your jaw tightens.

You could do it.

You could tell him you thought you had more time.

That the idea of him sitting across from someone else, smiling at them the way he smiles at his phone lately, makes something sharp twist in your stomach.

You could tell him you already miss him, which is pathetic considering he’s standing ten feet away.

“Do whatever," you say. "It doesn't matter what I want."

The elevator doors start sliding shut.

The last thing you see is Bucky’s expression tightening, like he’s angry at you. Or himself.

Hard to tell with him.

The bell above Moretti’s Candy Shop jingles sharp and bright when Bucky shoulders his way inside, carrying the cold autumn air in with him.

“Trouble,” Mrs. Moretti sighs immediately from behind the counter.

Bucky grins, easy as breathing. “You say that like you ain’t happy to see me.”

“I’d be happier seein’ the ten cents you still owe me, Barnes.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

The shop smells like chocolate and sugar and roasted nuts warming beneath glass lamps. Outside, Brooklyn groans along in its usual rhythm, trolley bells, men hollering across sidewalks, kids sprinting through puddles but in here everything feels softened somehow. Golden. Like the world’s been wrapped in wax paper and tied shut with string.

Bucky leans against the counter, halfway through another smart remark when he notices you.

And just like that, the rest of the room disappears.

You’re standing near the chocolate display case with your gloves folded neatly in your hands, staring through the glass with such genuine wonder it almost knocks the grin off his face.

Not overwhelmed or indecisive, you seem almost enchanted.

Your eyes drift slowly over every row like each candy’s worth considering properly. Caramels. Peppermints. Chocolate turtles. Then your attention catches on the Whoppers display, and stays there.

He almost laughs when he follows your gaze to them.

Cute, he thinks immediately.

Girls usually notice him first. Usually there’s lipstick smiles and fluttering lashes before he’s even crossed the room. He knows what he looks like, knows how his grin lands, knows exactly how long to hold eye contact before women start leaning toward him without realizing it.

But you don’t notice him at all. You’re still staring at the candy like it might hold the secrets of the universe.

Something about that hooks into him immediately as he steps over.

“Those your favorite?”

You blink hard, startled from your thoughts, then turn toward him.

And there it is.

That little pause that every girl gives him, but this one seems different. Not because you recognize him as handsome or because you’re flustered, you just hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Yes.”

Your voice is gentler than he expected, careful around the edges.

Bucky pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Want a box?”

Your eyes widen instantly. “No, it’s quite alright, I couldn’t possibly.”

“C’mon, doll.” He flashes the smile that usually works without fail. “How could I deny such a sweet girl a sweet treat?”

He expects blushing, maybe a nervous laugh. Instead, you look genuinely conflicted over the idea of him spending money on you.

“Well that’s very kind,” you tell him honestly, “but you really don’t have to.”

Bucky stares at you for half a second, then another.

Well. That’s new.

“Mrs. Moretti,” he calls, unable to stop grinning now, “gimme a box of Whoppers before this sweetheart talks herself outta it.”

Mrs. Moretti snorts loudly but slides the candy across the counter anyway.

“And a cannoli,” Bucky adds quickly.

Your head turns toward him. “Oh, no, truly—”

“Too late.”

He pays before you can protest again, then holds the small paper bag out toward you with exaggerated politeness.

“You really got this for me?” you ask.

“Nah,” he deadpans. “Bought it for the guy behind you.”

You laugh and that sound lands somewhere directly under his ribs. Not loud or practiced. Just soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.

Bucky suddenly wants to hear it again.

Outside, Brooklyn glows amber beneath the sun. Laundry lines sway overhead between brick buildings. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio crackles out jazz muffled by static.

You take a careful bite of the cannoli as the two of you step onto the sidewalk, then immediately freeze as cream spills out the other side onto your glove.

“Oh goodness—sorry,” you murmur, horrified. “I made a mess.”

Bucky looks at you.

At the powdered sugar dusting your mouth, the cream threatening to drip onto your sleeve, the embarrassment blooming across your face over something so small.

His brain stops functioning.

“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately, a little too seriously for someone he just met ten minutes ago.

“I just—”

“It’s a cannoli,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re uh, they're structurally unsound.”

That earns another laugh. And there it is again, that strange feeling settling low in his chest, not lust exactly but something softer than that.

You wipe at your glove carefully, still embarrassed. “I’m making quite the first impression, aren't I.”

“Oh, believe me,” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself, “you are.”

But you don’t seem to catch it. Instead, you just smile politely and continue walking beside him down the sidewalk like this is all perfectly ordinary. Like handsome men buy you candy and pastries every day.

Bucky decides almost immediately that he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he keeps finding reasons for it not to. He points out the bakery on the corner because “their cheesecake could start a war.” He walks slower whenever you stop to admire storefronts. He offers you his arm when an old woman barrels past with a grocery cart and nearly clips your shoulder.

You take it without hesitation.

“Oh,” you say softly, looping your arm through his. “Thank you.”

Bucky glances down at your hand resting against his sleeve and his heartbeat stumbles oddly.

Usually this part’s easy. Usually flirting feels like muscle memory. Lean closer, smirk a little, call her doll in that lower voice that always works. But you accept every bit of it with such innocent sincerity that it keeps throwing him off balance.

“You always this sweet?” he asks after a while.

You nod thoughtfully. “I do like sugar, yes. But I don't get to eat to very often.”

Bucky chokes on air.

“…Jesus Christ.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

“Nothin’, doll.”

Because clearly you think he means literal sweetness, and somehow that’s even worse, or better. He can’t tell anymore.

The afternoon stretches unexpectedly around the two of you. You wander through Brooklyn side streets while the sun lowers warm and lazy across the buildings. You stop outside record stores and flower stands and little grocers with apples stacked in wooden crates out front.

And all the while, Bucky keeps trying.

He leans too close while talking and you just look up at him attentively. He calls you doll every other sentence and you smile like you think it’s genuinely affectionate. He flashes smirks sharp enough to cut glass and you return them with polite warmth, entirely unaffected.

“You’re very nice, Mr. Barnes,” you tell him eventually.

Bucky nearly trips over the curb.

“Nice?”

“Well yes.” You glance at him earnestly. “Handsome too, but mostly nice.”

Handsome too. Mostly nice.

Bucky stares at you outright now. Your voice held no teasing lilt, no coyness, you said it like you’re discussing the weather and something inside him short-circuits completely.

Because by now he knows for a fact you have no idea what he’s doing.

“Doll,” he says slowly, “you know I’m layin’ it on thick, right?”

You blink.

“…Laying it on?”

Silence.

Then Bucky laughs so suddenly and loudly a passing couple turns to stare, not in a mocking sense but genuinely delighted. You look confused enough that it only makes him laugh harder.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, “you really don’t know I've been flirting you?”

“I assumed you were being friendly.”

“I am bein’ friendly.”

“That seems normal.”

“Normal?” He stares at you. “I bought you candy fifteen minutes after meetin’ you.”

“Well… yes.”

“And?”

“You seemed very determined about it.”

Bucky rubs a hand down his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide another grin.

This should annoy him. It should. But instead he feels strangely fascinated, like he’s spent his whole life learning one language only to discover you speak something entirely different.

“So no fella’s ever taken you out before?” he asks carefully.

“Not really.”

The answer comes without self-pity, just honesty and Bucky’s chest tightens unexpectedly.

“What d’you mean not really?”

You shrug lightly. “I suppose men don’t usually notice me that way.”

Bucky stops walking altogether, making you turn toward him curiously as he just looks at you in complete disbelief. At your soft mouth faintly lined with your lipstick, at your bright eyes, at the way strangers glance at you as they pass without you ever seeming aware of it.

“That oughta be illegal,” he mutters.

You laugh again, warm and startled and sweet enough to ruin him slowly.

Somewhere between the candy shop and the golden Brooklyn sidewalks and the way your hand still rests trustingly against his arm, Bucky realizes something unsettling, he stopped flirting for sport an hour ago. Now he’s doing it because he genuinely likes the way you smile when he speaks. Because he wants to keep hearing your laugh mingle with the evening traffic. Because watching you move through the world feels a little like standing near candlelight, soft and gentle and impossible not to lean toward.

And Bucky Barnes is not known for leaning toward things gently.

Which is how, sometime after you’ve finished your cannoli and the Whoppers box is tucked safely under your arm like it’s something fragile, you both turn a corner and run straight into trouble in the form of Steve Rogers and the rest of the Commandos.

They’re all there—loud, sprawling across the sidewalk like they own it.

“Barnes!” one of them calls immediately. “Where’ve you been?”

Then Steve sees you and something in his expression shifts instantly into knowing.

“Oh,” Steve says slowly. “Oh, that’s where.”

Bucky groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”

Another one of them whistles low. “Barnes buying candy for a girl? End times.”

Bucky, of course, straightens immediately, protective without thinking.

“Leave him alone,” you add gently, glancing between them. “He’s just being kind to me.”

The group goes quiet for half a beat, then someone mutters, “Kind?”

Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Bucky, meanwhile, stops breathing properly, because you said it so simply. Like there was no other explanation, like the idea that he might be doing anything else never even crossed your mind.

He looks at you then and it’s unfair how easy it is to forget everyone else exists when you’re standing that close.

The Commandos keep talking behind him as they walk by, but Bucky doesn’t hear a word of it anymore.

All he hears is the soft cadence of your voice still echoing in his head.

Just being kind to me.

That word lands heavier than anything else today. Kinder than flirtation, kinder than charm, kinder than every practiced thing he’s ever used to get someone to look at him twice. He realizes, with faint shock, that he wants to be that to you. Not some impressive or smooth flirt, just kind.

Eventually Steve clears his throat loudly from behind you. “You walkin’ her home, Barnes, or standin’ there makin’ heart eyes in the middle of the sidewalk?”

“I am absolutely not makin’ heart eyes,” Bucky says automatically.

You glance up at him and his words die immediately.

“…We’re walkin’,” he finishes weakly.

“Good,” Steve says, already grinning. “Try not to break anything on the way.”

Bucky flips him off without looking away from you.

You don’t seem to notice the tension at all. Just adjust your grip on the candy box and smile faintly like this is still just a normal afternoon walk, and somehow that makes everything worse.

The walk to your building takes longer than it should.

Bucky slows down without meaning to and you match him perfectly.

Brooklyn shifts around you in its usual evening rhythm, windows glowing warm, radios humming behind curtains, the smell of dinner drifting out of open doors but between the two of you everything feels strangely contained.

“I had a very nice time today,” you say eventually, glancing up at him.

Bucky swallows. “Yeah?”

“You’re very kind.”

That word again.

It hits him harder this time, right in the center of his chest. He looks away for half a second, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to something he’s never been called before in a way that mattered.

“Kind,” he repeats quietly, like he's testing whether he deserves it.

You stop in front of your apartment building steps as the streetlamp above flickers softly, casting gold light over your face. For a moment neither of you moves, then Bucky shifts, suddenly more uncertain than he’s been all day.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Of course,” you answer immediately.

He hesitates, this is the part where he usually knows exactly what to say, instead, he feels seventeen different versions of himself arguing at once. He steps closer without thinking, seemingly too close, making your breath catch faintly.

He notices it immediately, the tiny shift in your posture, the nervousness flickering across your face. You’re not used to this part. The closeness, the intention that comes with it.

“Sorry,” he says softer, almost immediately stepping back half an inch like he’s correcting a mistake he didn’t want to make, “I uh—.”

You exhale quietly, watching as Bucky drags a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s regrouping. Then, carefully he speaks up.

“Can I do this properly?”

You blink. “Properly?”

He looks back at you then, all teasing gone for a moment.

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“…Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like a date.”

You look at him for a long moment, then your smile returns—small, but real.

“I think I’d like that very much.”

Something in Bucky’s chest loosens all at once, like a knot he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yeah?” he asks, almost stupidly.

You nod and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky steps back, already grinning like he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Tomorrow,” he says, pointing at you like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep, “I’m pickin’ you up at seven.”

“I’ll be ready,” you reply softly.

He turns to leave, walking backwards for a second because he can’t quite make himself stop looking at you. Then he finally turns around properly after you give him a soft wave goodbye, and immediately starts grinning wider.

The Commandos are still waiting down the street when he finds them. Steve takes one look at his face and sighs.

“Oh no.”

Bucky doesn’t even try to hide it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still smiling like an idiot.

“Fellas,” he says lightly, “I’m in serious trouble.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night, at least not properly.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments he can’t seem to organize into anything sensible. Your voice, your laugh. The way you looked at candy like it was something magical. And worse than all of it, powdered sugar on your mouth, cannoli cream on your lips and the way you’d apologized for it like it was a crime.

He turns onto his side, groans into his pillow, then sits up like the bed has personally betrayed him.

“Get it together,” he mutters to himself.

But the problem is… he is together.

That’s the issue. He just isn’t used to what it feels like when someone looks at him like he’s safe instead of interesting. So in the morning, Bucky Barnes does the only thing he can think to do, be a man of his word.

He decides to do it properly.

No shortcuts, no charm tricks, no easy grin and leaned-in confidence.

A real date.

Which is how Steve finds him hunched over a small, slightly chaotic pile of wildflowers behind a Brooklyn fence line.

“Are you pickin’ flowers now?” Steve asks flatly.

Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”

Steve leans against the fence post, arms crossed. “That for the girl?”

“Yes.”

“You know you could just buy ‘em like a normal person.”

“I don’t have money right now for fancy bouquets.”

“That’s not the point.”

Bucky finally straightens, holding the uneven bundle like it might fall apart if he breathes wrong. “It is to me.”

Steve studies him for a long moment, something softer flickering beneath the teasing.

Then he sighs. “You’re in trouble, pal.”

Bucky huffs. “Yeah. I said that already.”

But he doesn’t feel like running from it, not even a little.

By the time evening rolls around, he’s checked his reflection in every shop window he passes twice. He fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, then immediately second-guesses it and smooths it back down again. The flowers are wrapped in paper he stole, respectfully stole, from a corner stand. They’re not perfect, a few stems are uneven, one bloom is slightly bent.

He hopes they’re enough.

Outside your building, Bucky pauses as he exhales once. Then knocks.

When the door opens, everything inside him stops. You’re standing there in soft light, hair pinned back neatly, expression shifting the moment you see him. And you light up like it’s involuntary.

Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

“Hi,” he manages back.

Then he lifts the flowers slightly, suddenly unsure of everything in the universe.

“Those are for me?” you ask, voice soft with surprise.

“Unless your neighbor’s awful pretty,” he says automatically.

You laugh, stepping forward immediately to take them.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, already burying your nose in them gently. “Oh… and they smell wonderful.”

Bucky watches you like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.

“I, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Picked ‘em myself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Your smile softens in a way that makes him feel strangely proud.

“I’ll find a jar,” you say quickly. “Wait just a moment.”

You disappear inside, flowers clutched carefully to your chest like they’re something priceless. Bucky stays standing there in the doorway slightly stunned. He hears movement inside, cabinet doors opening, water running, your quiet little hum as you arrange them.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.

Before you leave, your sister appears briefly in the hallway. Older, sharper-eyed. The kind of woman who looks like she’s already decided what kind of trouble someone is before they speak.

Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately.

“Bucky Barnes?” she asks.

He straightens instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”

She looks him over once then turns to you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

You hesitate. “Of course.”

She pulls you aside just enough that Bucky can’t hear everything, but not enough that he doesn’t feel it. Her voice is lower when she speaks.

“Be careful." She says.

You blink. “What?”

“Boys like him don't settle down. Sure he’s charming and handsome, but he's just a sweet talker.” Her mouth tightens. “He just wants a good time, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”

Bucky can’t hear the exact words, but he sees your expression shift slightly and something in his stomach turns uneasy.

When you return, you’re still smiling—but quieter now, careful in a way you weren’t before.

“Ready?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he says, though his voice comes out softer than he means it to.

Dinner settles into something Bucky doesn’t recognize at first.

It’s quiet.

Not empty, but softened around the edges like the whole world has decided to behave itself for once. Soft jazz drifts from somewhere near the ceiling, curling through candlelight and clinking silverware. The room hums with conversation that never quite reaches your table.

And for the first time all day, Bucky Barnes isn’t scanning anything. His eyes aren't darting around the room looking for exits or other women, something quick to catch his attention.

Just you.

You, sitting across from him with your hands wrapped around a glass of water like it’s something grounding. You, talking in that gentle, thoughtful way of yours that keeps catching him off guard. He realizes halfway through your story about your aunt’s ridiculous attempt at baking bread that he hasn’t looked away once.

Not once. And maybe worse, he doesn’t want to.

You laugh at your own memory, shaking your head slightly. “It was practically a brick. We had to slice it with a knife meant for meat.”

Bucky smiles without thinking. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It was emotionally damaging.”

That makes him laugh for real.

And then you smile back at him, that small, bright, effortless smile and something in his chest shifts again. Because he likes this, not the performance of him, not the usual rhythm of charm and response and winning someone over. He likes this.

You talking, rambling softly when you get comfortable, pausing like you’re thinking too hard before continuing anyway. And every time you say his name, Bucky, like it’s just another word instead of something that usually comes wrapped in attention and expectation he feels it settle somewhere warm and unfamiliar.

Bucky Barnes, who usually knows exactly what he’s doing with people, finds himself doing something far more dangerous, imagining. Not in a loud way. In quiet flashes between bites of food and sips of coffee, a small bouquet of flowers on a table that isn’t a restaurant, you at a kitchen counter, hair slightly messy, laughing at something he said. A door opening at the end of a long day and you looking up like it matters that he came home.

He shifts slightly in his seat, almost like the thought physically disorients him.

Impossible things.

And yet they come anyway.

After dinner, the night pulls the two of you deeper into Brooklyn’s glow. Neon signs flicker awake, streetlamps paint everything gold and blue. Somewhere down the block, music spills out of a club like a living thing.

“You seen the new picture show over on Fulton?” Bucky asks as you walk.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Then you’re goin’.”

You glance up at him. “Is that an order?”

“Absolutely.”

You laugh softly, like you’re still not used to how easily he says things like that. The theater is older with slightly worn velvet seats, the faint smell of popcorn and wood polish, flickering light that makes everything feel softer than it should. Bucky buys the tickets without hesitation, you try to argue but he ignores you in the best way possible.

Inside, you sit close but not touching. Close enough that he’s aware of you constantly, that every small movement you make registers like it matters.

Halfway through the film, something changes on screen, the lights dim all soft and emotional, the kind of scene that doesn’t need words. He feels you go still beside him and when he glances over, your eyes are glossy in the dim light.

You’re trying to be subtle about it. You are not succeeding.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket slowly and pulls out his handkerchief and without a word, gently offers it toward you.

You turn toward him and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then you take it carefully, fingers brushing his and in the dark, you smile at him softly. Like he did something important without realizing it. Bucky looks back at the screen, but he doesn’t see it anymore, he just feels the moment settle between you like something fragile and real. And he never wants it to end.

The picture ends on a cliffhanger that has the whole theater groaning as the lights flick back on. Outside, the city opens up again. Cool night air, bright lights reflecting off wet pavement. The distant echo of music from clubs and cafés and street corners all blending into one living rhythm.

You walk beside him slowly, a little quieter now that the night has come to its end.

Bucky notices.

He glances down at you. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yes. It was… very nice.”

“Yeah?”

You smile faintly. “You’re very kind.”

That word again.

Kind.

It lands differently now. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the way you say it like it still surprises you, like it still feels new. Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you stop walking. You've tried to fight it all night, tried to push the words far back into your head. But everything feels like a double edged sword, and if you don't do something now, you'll both get cut.

“I just…” you start softly, then hesitate.

He turns toward you fully.

You look down at your hands. “You really don’t have to pretend with me.”

Bucky blinks. “Pretend?”

You glance up, nervous now. “I know boys like you don’t mean anything by this sort of thing.”

Silence. It drops so fast it almost feels physical.

Bucky stares at you and for the first time all day, his expression isn’t teasing or amused or carefully controlled. It’s hurt, deep, immediate and unmistakably hurt.

“Boys like me?” he repeats slowly.

You realize instantly something is wrong.

“I didn’t mean— I just meant—”

He gestures vaguely between the flowers, the dinner, the theater still glowing behind you both.

“You think I do this with every girl?”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because you don’t know, you just assumed, because your sister said he’s Bucky Barnes and people talk about him like they know him before he even speaks.

“Sweetheart,” he says quieter now, but sharper in a different way, “I picked those flowers myself.”

You freeze and he exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he’s trying to steady something in himself.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this.”

That hits harder than anything else tonight, you stare at him now, like you’re recalibrating something you thought you understood.

“But everyone says—” you start.

“Yeah. I know what everyone says.” Bucky cuts in immediately, voice low. "But I only do this unless I mean it."

The street hums around you both, cars pass by, music drifts on the wind, lights flicker in the distance. But between the two of you, everything feels suddenly suspended. The silence doesn’t leave right away, it just changes shape. It stretches between you and Bucky in the middle of the sidewalk, softened only by passing headlights and the distant laugh of strangers who don’t know they’re walking through something fragile.

Bucky doesn’t look away from you.

I don’t do this unless I mean it.

It should’ve sounded smooth and confident. Instead it just sounds… exposed. Because the truth of it sits heavier now that it’s out in the open. He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide something about him, and for the first time all day, he realizes that matters. Not casually, not in the way flirting usually matters, but in a way that sits deep under his ribs and doesn’t move.

Your expression is quiet, thoughtful in that way you get when you’re trying to understand something honestly. He swallows once, then looks away briefly like the night air might help him think straighter, but it doesn’t.

It only makes everything quieter.

“I don’t like that,” he says finally.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his voice now—not at you, but at something older.

“What they say. About me.”

You don’t interrupt, you just listen and that alone is enough to make his chest tighten. Bucky exhales slowly, because this is new for him too. Saying it, not laughing it off, not playing it into something charming.

“People think they’ve got me figured out,” he says. “Think I just—” he huffs a short laugh without humor, “—go around Brooklyn collecting girls like it’s nothin’.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“And maybe I used to let ‘em think that.”

That lands differently in the air between you.

“But I’m tired of it,” he says quietly.

Bucky continues before he can talk himself out of it.

“Tired of it all blurring together,” he admits. “Tired of it not meaning anything.”

His eyes flick over your face again, more careful now, more intentional.

“And I think…” He hesitates, like the next part is the hardest thing he’s said all night. “I think I’m tired of not being taken seriously.”

That one settles heavier. You don’t speak yet. So he keeps going, because stopping now feels impossible.

“Maybe I don’t wanna be that guy anymore.” His voice drops slightly.

That guy. The one people assume things about, the one who never stays, the one who never gets understood correctly because no one bothers to look twice. The words hang there, raw and unpolished.

You shift slightly on your feet and when you finally speak, your voice is soft.

“What kind of guy do you want to be then?”

Bucky stills.

That question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does, the way you asked him like you really want to know, the way your eyes never leave his as he looks at you. The city lights catch your face in soft gold and shadow, painting the curve of your cheekbones, the faint red of your lips still slightly brighter from the theater lights, the way you stand there holding his honesty like it’s something you’re willing to carry for a moment without dropping it.

And something inside him clicks. Like a door deciding it’s been open long enough to let something new inside. Bucky takes a slow breath, then another and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before.

“The guy,” he says, nodding faintly toward you like the answer has been standing in front of him all night, “that gets to do this with you every night for the rest of my life.”

Silence falls again, but this one is different. It isn’t heavy or tense. It feels like something settling into place that neither of you fully understands yet, but neither of you wants to move away from.

Bucky doesn’t smile, not yet. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if he’s gone too far. If he’s said too much, if the version of him he’s choosing now is one you can stand to look at. And for the first time since he met you in that candy shop, James Buchanan Barnes isn’t trying to win anything.

He’s just waiting.

For you.

"I think I'd like that."

Two months don’t feel like two months to Bucky Barnes.

They feel like a rhythm he accidentally fell into and never bothered climbing out of. Mornings start with the same thought: What time can I see her? Evenings end with the same realization: Not long enough. And everything in between just becomes space he has to get through.

He shows up at your apartment more often than he means to. Not in a dramatic way, just like he happened to be nearby. Which is a lie, he crosses half of Brooklyn for it.

“Bucky,” you’d say sometimes, opening the door already smiling, “you live nowhere near here.”

He’d shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“You were in the neighborhood three days in a row?”

“Brooklyn’s a big place, doll.”

You’d just laugh and let him in.

And that’s the problem. You always let him in.

Diners become routine. Milkshakes split between two straws that you pretend not to notice he always lets you have the first sip of. Walks that start with him offering his arm and end with your hand still resting there long after it’s necessary. Movie nights where you lean slightly closer each time you get nervous during a scene, and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice how carefully you do it. Flowers every week. Sometimes wild. Sometimes bought if he could pinch it. Sometimes just picked from somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have been picking flowers.

You always put them in a jar immediately. Always smile like they matter. And Bucky changes without noticing, he stops looking at other women entirely, not because he’s forcing himself not to.

Because he just… doesn’t see them the same way anymore. Not when you exist in his world now, softening all the edges.

Steve notices first, then the Commandos, then basically anyone who’s ever known him longer than five minutes.

“You’re smiling more,” Steve says once, watching him across a table.

“I always smile.”

“No,” Steve says, “you don’t.”

Bucky just shrugs. Because what’s he supposed to say? That he likes the way you say his name like it’s something you trust? That he’s started thinking about ridiculous things like whether you’d like a porch someday, or a kitchen with too much sunlight, or a life where he doesn’t leave as often as he does?

He doesn’t say any of it, but it’s there anyway.

Tonight, he’s early.

Which is stupid, because he’s always early now. He’s at the bar having a drink and smoke with the Commandos, but he’s not really with them.

He’s angled toward the door, elbow on the counter, sleeves already adjusted three times, hair smoothed back once, then twice, then abandoned entirely because it keeps falling anyway as Steve watches him with growing disbelief.

“You’re worse than a kid waiting for Christmas,” Steve mutters.

Bucky doesn’t look away from the door. “Shut up.”

“You’ve checked that door eight times in five minutes.”

“It might’ve changed since the last time I looked.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m busy.”

The door opens and he straightens instantly. Not you. His shoulders drop a fraction as he sits back down.

The teasing starts almost immediately.

“Two months huh?” one of them says, grinning. “This one’s got it bad.”

“Must be real good if Barnes is still around.”

“You finally settle down?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a stupid softness to his mouth that gives him away immediately.

“Knock it off.”

The laughter builds.

“What’s the catch, Barnes?”

“C’mon, what are you gettin’ out of this?”

“Ain’t no way you’re behaving this long without somethin’ in return.”

Bucky exhales, finally turning fully toward them and for once, he doesn’t joke. Not even a little.

“Nothing’s happened between us yet.”

The table goes quiet. A beat. Then howling ensures.

“You’re kiddin’.”

“Celibate Bucky Barnes?”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Someone nearly chokes on their drink.

Bucky shrugs slightly, like it’s not a big deal, but his voice goes quieter when he adds on.

“I like her.”

That shuts them up for half a second longer.

“I don’t wanna mess it up,” he says, “by goin’ in headfirst.”

And just like that, the teasing explodes again.

“Look at him.”

“He’s gone.”

“Man’s fighting for his life.”

“You hear this? Barnes is soft.”

Bucky laughs under his breath despite himself, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah—laugh it up.”

And that’s when it happens, the door opens again, Bucky doesn’t look right away still half-laughing, still mid-protest, then he hears the sound of the room shifting slightly.

Someone going quiet and he turns. You’re standing just inside holding your bag, still in your coat and completely still. Not smiling, not walking toward him. Just listening. For a second, Bucky doesn’t understand then he sees it. Your expression. Something flickering there, uncertainty, confusion, something tightening at the edges of your face like you’ve just heard something you weren’t meant to.

His smile fades immediately.

“Hey,” he starts, already pushing his chair back.

But you don’t come closer. You take one step back instead, then another, quiet and careful.

“Doll—” Bucky stands fully now.

But you’re already turning to leave, the door swings open, and you’re gone. He’s out of the bar so fast it barely feels like a decision. Brooklyn air hits him like a slap, cold, sharp, and real and for a second he just stands there, scanning the sidewalk like the world might give you back if he looks hard enough.

“Doll?” he calls.

Nothing.

“Hi.”

He turns.

You’re a few steps down the sidewalk, hugging your coat tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together with it. Streetlight catches your face in soft gold, but it doesn’t soften the expression there.

Not really.

Bucky’s chest tightens immediately.

He crosses the space between you in a few quick steps. “Hey—no, hey, listen to me,” he says, already shaking his head like he can undo whatever just happened inside by sheer force of will. “Don’t listen to those idiots in there. They don’t know when to shut up.”

Your gaze flickers up to him, then away again just as fast.

“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Really.”

But it isn’t alright, not in the way he knows you mean.

Because your arms are wrapped around yourself too tightly. Because your smile is there, but it doesn’t reach anything. Because you look like you’re already somewhere farther away than the sidewalk you’re standing on.

And Bucky notices everything, too much, sometimes.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You ready to go?”

A pause.

“…Yeah.”

That’s it.

No teasing, no warmth, no easy rhythm. Just agreement, and it scares him more than anything else tonight.

It's all wrong.

That’s the only way Bucky can think to describe it. Brooklyn is still alive around you, windows glowing, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic, but between you and him there’s a silence that feels heavy instead of soft. He walks slower than usual without realizing it. You don’t take his arm, but your hand finds his anyway just barely. Just fingers brushing, then settling.

Bucky holds it like it’s something fragile.

He keeps glancing at you, waiting for you to look back, you don’t. You’re staring down at your joined hands instead, like you’re trying to figure something out in them. And your thoughts, if he could hear them, would be too loud.

Maybe your sister was right.

Maybe this was always going somewhere you don’t belong.

Maybe he’s just being patient because eventually he’ll expect more.

And maybe you’re already disappointing him.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because something about your silence tells him words might break whatever thread is holding you upright right now. So he just walks you home, step by step, closer than usual and quieter than ever.

By the time your building comes into view, something in you has tightened so much it feels like it might snap.

You stop walking, Bucky stops immediately with you.

“Buck…” your voice is barely above the street noise.

“Yeah?” He turns toward you fully.

You swallow hard. “Maybe… we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Everything stops. Bucky freezes completely, like the words physically catch him mid-step.

“What?” he says, but it’s not sharp, more confused than anything.

You look down, finally letting go of his hand so slowly, like it costs you something.

“I don’t think I’m good for you,” you say.

That lands harder than anything else tonight. Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to understand a language he thought he already knew.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “where is this comin’ from?”

You shake your head slightly, still not meeting his eyes.

“You deserve someone who can make you happy,” you say. “Someone better.”

Bucky lets out a short breath like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“That’s not—no,” he says immediately, stepping half a step closer before stopping himself. “No, that’s not how this works.”

You finally look up at him and whatever he sees there makes his voice soften instantly. Because you look scared. Not of him but of yourself.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like it should be obvious.

You blink, once, then again. And then it spills out of you before you can stop it.

“I can’t make you happy, Buck,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I can’t give you what you want, I can’t—I can’t… make you feel good.”

Silence hits again, but this time, Bucky understands exactly where it came from. His expression changes all at once, his frustration disappears, his confusion sharpens into something quieter. Something knowing as the pieces fall into place.

The Commandos. The bar. The teasing.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Babydoll…”

The way he says it now is different.

“I want you,” he says gently. “I’m happy with you just like this. None of that matters to me anymore, okay?”

Your breath shakes slightly but you don’t look convinced. Instead, something inside you finally breaks open.

“Well it matters to me!” you burst out, voice suddenly raw. “I want to, I just—I don’t know how. And I'm scared you're going to leave just because I’ve never—”

You stop but it's too late. Bucky goes completely still and everything clicks into place so fast it almost hurts. Why you flinch sometimes when he gets too close. Why you always hesitate before a kiss even when you want them. Why you look like you’re bracing for something you think you’re supposed to be able to give.

Why you’re standing here right now looking ashamed of something you never should’ve had to explain.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”

Your eyes are glossy now, but you’re still trying to hold it together. Bucky doesn’t move closer doesn’t rush you. Just stays right where he is so you don’t feel cornered.

“Your parents home?” he asks softly.

You blink, thrown slightly by the question.

“What? Oh… no. They went to my sister’s ballet recital. They won’t be back until later.”

Bucky nods once then gives you a small, warm smile and gently threads his fingers through yours.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand just once, just enough to ground you. “Let’s go talk inside.”

Inside your apartment, everything feels quieter in a different way.

Not the heavy silence from outside but something softer, contained with warmth between you. You close the door behind Bucky like you’re sealing the world out, then immediately seem to remember yourself again, nervous energy flickering back in.

“Okay,” you say quickly, brushing a hand over your sleeve. “Um—this is the living room. Obviously. And that’s the kitchen, and—”

Bucky just watches you, following your voice like it’s something grounding. You move a little faster now, pointing things out like you need the space filled with words so you don’t have to think too hard about anything else.

“This is my mother’s glass cabinet, don’t touch that one, she’ll know, and—oh.”

You stop because Bucky is already in the kitchen holding two small glasses, and the apple brandy bottle.

He glances over his shoulder innocently. “What?”

You blink. “Bucky.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“That’s my mother’s.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” he says simply, already pouring.

You let out a sound of disbelief. “You are unbelievable.”

He slides one glass toward you. “Relax, doll. I’ll replace it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is tonight.”

You stare at him for a second longer, then sigh, like you’ve decided arguing with him is pointless.

“Fine,” you say. “But you’re explaining this to her if she notices.”

“Deal.”

You hesitate, then take the glass anyway. That alone makes something in his chest ease.

You lead him toward your bedroom after that, slower now, more uncertain at the edges. Not running anymore, just settling. The room is small. Warm and lived in. A book on your bedside table, a folded sweater on the chair, soft lamplight that makes everything feel like it belongs only to you.

Bucky doesn’t sit right away. He just leans against the dresser, watching as you set your glass down carefully like you’re still trying to figure out what this moment is supposed to be.

You take a sip, then another. Waiting until your chest grows warm.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” you say quietly.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately. “What?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.

“I’ve… never done any of this before.” You glance up at him, cheeks warm now. “I mean—anything like this. Dating. Being… like this with someone.”

Silence stretches gently. Then, more spills out, almost like you need to get it out before you lose courage.

“And you were my first kiss.”

Bucky goes still in a way that isn’t shock, it’s something gentler and more careful. You rush on quickly, as if afraid of what the truth might do in the open air.

“I just thought you should know. In case I’m—awkward. Or—”

“Hey,” he cuts in softly as he pushes off the dresser and steps closer, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.

You don’t.

“Look at me,” he says gently.

You do and his expression is steady now. No teasing anywhere in it.

"You don't ever have to apologize to me. For anything."

“I like you a lot, Bucky,” you say suddenly, like it’s been sitting in you too long to hold back anymore.

Something in his face shifts immediately, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I like you too, babydoll,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

You swallow. “I can’t promise it’ll be any good but—”

Bucky doesn’t let you finish, he leans in and kisses you. It's not rushed or demanding, just soft and gentle. Like he’s waiting for you the entire time, making sure you’re still there with him, still okay, still choosing this. When he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, your eyes are wide.

“Don’t…” he whispers, “don’t say that.”

You pause, slightly stunned by the kiss. “Okay.”

A beat, then, softer:

“Can I kiss you again?”

You hesitate only a second then nod.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s a little less uncertain, still gentle and patient. But warmer now, like something between you is finally starting to trust the moment instead of question it. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push for anything more he just stays close enough that you can decide how much you want.

And eventually, you do loosen up slowly. Like your shoulders finally remember they don’t have to stay tight. You laugh a little under your breath at something he mumbles against your lips, and he smiles against you in response. When you pull back again slightly, breath uneven, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.

“That okay?” he asks softly.

You nod again, then your voice goes quieter.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” he says gently.

You huff a soft laugh. “That’s not really comforting.”

“It should be,” he replies, a hint of warmth returning. “I’m real good at not rushin’ things.”

And he is, he stays exactly where you need him to, no pressure behind his precense. Eventually, you end up sitting on the edge of your bed together, close enough that your shoulders brush. Your glass is forgotten somewhere on the nightstand and Bucky’s hand finds yours again without thinking.

"I want to try…" you can't make the words out with a deep red blush crossing your face. "And I trust you."

"Good." Bucky hums, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "We'll go slow."

When you shift slightly closer, he lets you guide the space between you, like learning something new together instead of taking anything from you. When your nose brushes his, you tug lightly at your sleeve, suddenly self-conscious.

“I feel like I should be… more dressed for this,” you admit quietly. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be wearing.”

Bucky looks at you like the question itself doesn’t make sense then he shakes his head slightly.

“Doll,” he says softly, “you could be wearing a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter.”

You blink at him as he leans in just a little, brushing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Just you,” he says quietly. “That’s all I need.”

You nod as he kisses you again. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, but the moment Bucky’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head just so, it deepened into something more. You'd heard of desire in life, how it can warp the thoughts and actions of even the most resilient. But this, this burning ebb and flow deep within you was something else entirely. It had to be. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, your body felt magnetized to his, pushing closer and closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

His lips were warm, insistent, and when he pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth. "Can I touch you?" 

You could only nod as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his palm as he slid higher, his thumb brushing bare skin. You shivered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shirt yearning for more.

Bucky smirked, catching your wrist. "Go ahead," he murmurs, guiding your hand down his chest.

Your thumb slipped beneath his shirt, your breath hitching at the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. He was lean but solid, every ridge of his abdomen making your pulse jump.

His lips were still on yours when his fingers returned, teasing the damp fabric of your panties again. “Already this wet for me?” he mutters, voice rough against your mouth. “God, I can feel how hot you are through these.”

You whimper, arching into his touch. “Please, just—”

“Just what, sweetheart?” His thumb presses harder, circling your clit through the silk. “Tell me what you want.”

You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Touch me properly—God, Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband, dragging them aside. The first slow stroke of his fingers through your slickness drew a choked moan from your throat.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He drags his fingers up, pressing them to your lips. “Taste.”

You sucked them into your mouth, eyes locked on his as you licked them clean, and the groan that ripped from his chest was filthy.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them just right. “Love how tight you are, how you squeeze me.” His thumb circles you clit faster. “Gonna cum already? That quick?”

You couldn’t answer, nails biting into his shoulder as pleasure coiled tighter, sharper.

“That’s it,” he urges, voice dark with praise. “Cum on my fingers, let me feel it babydoll.”

Your hips jerk as you shatter, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers still working you through it until you were gasping, oversensitive and trembling.

He didn’t let you catch your breath just yet, licking his fingers clean before hauling you to the edge of the bed. One leg hooked over his shoulder, his mouth hot and relentless between your thighs, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit.

“One more,” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “Bet you can take it.”

Bucky wraps an arm around you, splaying his wide hand across your stomach, sinking his tongue into the slit of your cunt, curling it before going back to flick your clit. He groans against you, muffled by your skin as his free hand comes up, the pads of his fingers pressing into you.

"So fucking good babydoll," he groans as he feels you rock against his lips and fingers. "Bein' such a good girl for me."

The pressure coils tight inside you, your chest rapidly rising as your words are reduced into nothing but messy mumbles of 'Bucky' and 'Please'. He doubles down on his efforts, closing his lips around your clit as he arches and scissors his fingers inside you, his eyes locked up on you as he watches you crest over your high. Back arching off the bed as your thighs clench on the sides of his head, trapping him right where he wants to be. He brings you down with a gentle kiss to your pulsing clit, easing his fingers out and licking them clean.

"That was so much better... than I ever thought," you pant, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky hums against your inner thigh, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue flicks lightly over your oversensitive clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.

"Mm, you thought about this?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "My sweet girl thinking dirty thoughts? Thinking about what it’s like to be touched, licked, 'nd fucked?"

You whimper as he teases you again, the words alone sending another shudder through you. His fingers stroke slow circles on your thighs, gentle but possessive.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "Tell me what else you imagined."

You barely have time to answer before his mouth is on you again, licking and sucking just right, his fingers curling inside you with practiced ease. The pleasure builds too fast, too much at once and you're cumming all over again, rolling through you in deep, relentless waves.

When it finally eases, you’re boneless, breathless, but still aching for more. A deep and burning need simmering just under the surface of your skin. "Bucky," you plead, voice raw. "Please."

He kisses his way up your body, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. The sight of him, all hard muscle and dark hunger makes your pulse jump.

"Condom?" he murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of your stomach.

You still, then hum to yourself. "Oh. I don’t have any."

"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip. "Do you think your sister has any hidden, or maybe your—"

"We don’t…" Your voice drops, gentle now. "I mean, if you’re okay with it… we don’t have to."

He goes utterly still above you, his pulse hammering under your fingertips. "You sure, doll? Docs say I'm clean as a whistle," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

"But I don’t wanna rush you into anything."

Your thighs press together instinctively, already aching again, needing more. "I’m sure, Buck. I trust you." You hesitate, then whisper, "And you can… pull out. If you want to."

A slow grin spreads across his face at your shyness, even as the hunger in his eyes burns hotter. "Okay, babydoll."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious while the other guides himself between your legs. There’s no rush, just the thick press of him stretching you open inch by inch, his lips never leaving yours until he’s fully sheathed inside.

"Good?" he rasps against your mouth.

You can only nod, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts moving in long, unhurried thrusts that make your back arch off the bed. He licks into your mouth as his hips roll into yours, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit until you’re gasping, teetering on the edge. Every stroke hitting something deep within you that you didn't even know existed. A quick addiction began inside of you, something you wanted to never end.

Obscene sounds filled the room, the air thick with something sweet and warm and needy. Your hands never left his back, digging half crescents into his skin as you pleaded for more.

Then he stops.

You whimper in protest, but he’s already shifting, pulling out just enough to drag you onto your side. One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as he leans back, changing the angle completely. The first thrust punches a moan from your throat, it's all so much deeper now, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucks into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.

"Fuck," he grits out. "You take me so damn good."

Your hips rise to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, and the way your body clenches around him nearly makes Bucky lose it. His rhythm falters, a groan ripping from his throat. 

"Fuck—you get so tight when I fuck you like this." He leans back just enough to let his gaze drop between you, his cock glistening with your slick as he drives into you again.  "Go on, baby, look at it. You see that? Not a virgin anymore. Now you're all mine—you and this sweet pussy."

You're drowning in pleasure, barely coherent, but one word claws its way out of your throat.

"Harder."

Bucky obliges immediately, his thrusts snapping into you, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts. 

"Mm, wonder how I should give you your first load," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Should I pull out and paint that soft tummy? Or maybe these tits?" 

He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Maybe I should put you on your knees and cum all over your pretty face—"

"No!" You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper with a frantic whimper. "Please—"

He chuckles darkly, sinking into you fully with a satisfied groan. "What, you want it inside?" 

His next thrust is punishing, forcing a broken moan from your lips. "Sweet little pussy’s never been fucked before, and now she wants to be filled too?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, tilting your hips just right. "Greedy little thing."

You can only nod helplessly, your body wound tight around him, clenching and begging as Bucky fucks you toward over edge all over again. Even after he spills inside you, Bucky can't stop, won't stop, his hips grinding slow and filthy, milking every last drop deep into your fluttering cunt. His hands slide under your knees, folding you nearly in half, pressing your thighs toward her chest until you're spread obscenely open.

"Fuck, still so tight," he growls, watching where you're joined—his cock still buried to the hilt, your pussy dripping around him. "Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come again while I'm still inside you."

Your fingers shake as you rub frantic circles over your clit, oversensitive and whimpering, but you don't stop, can't stop. Bucky groans at the way your walls ripple around him, his thrusts turning shallow and possessive, forcing his cum to seep even deeper.

"That's it," he rasps, biting the side of your leg. "Make a mess for me."

You practially sob as you cum again, tears rolling down the sides of your face, cream mixing with his spend, leaking down to your ass as your body is overcome with wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky curses when he feels it, hot pulses of you squeezing him and suddenly he's hard again, slamming into you with a snarl as another orgasm rips through him.

Your legs tremble in his grip. Neither of you can move anymore, just wrecked and sticky and full, but Bucky still rocks into you lazily, refusing to pull out just yet.

"Fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your lips as he gently sets your legs down, your mixed spend leaking from your thighs.

The room soon goes quiet in a soft, yet heavy way. You feel your chest loosen with something new, something warm and gooey.

The lamp is still on. It turns everything gentle around the edges—the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the faint sheen of warmth still clinging to both of you like the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

Bucky moves first, carefully untangling himself from the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together. He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging blindly until he finds his pants on the floor, tugging them closer with a quiet huff.

“You stay right there,” he murmurs without looking back at you.

You’re already curled slightly into the sheets, watching him with tired eyes that still look soft around the edges, calm in a way that feels new.

He finds his shirt and brings it over to you, then pauses, thinking.

“Water,” he says to himself like it’s a mission.

He disappears into the small kitchen. You hear cabinets open, the faint clink of a glass, water running. When he comes back, he’s got a glass in one hand and something folded in the other.

He sets the water beside you first.

“Here,” he says gently.

You take it without protest, sipping carefully. Then he unfolds the cloth—damp, warm from the sink.

You blink at him. “What’s that?”

“For you,” he says simply.

And then, softer, “Just… stay still a second.”

He cleans your skin with careful hands, unhurried, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be this gentle after everything. Like there’s no rush anywhere. Like the whole night has slowed down just for this.

You watch him instead of the ceiling now, he notices.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m doin’ something impressive.”

You smile faintly. “You are.”

That makes him pause for half a second, just long enough to look at you properly again. Then he shakes it off, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit in that feeling too long.

“Stay,” he says again, softer, and gets up.

This time he’s gone longer. When he comes back, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a lighter in his pocket. He pauses at the edge of the bed like he suddenly remembers something.

“…Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already sounding like he knows the answer.

You tilt your head slightly, thinking. “Probably not.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That a no?”

“A probably no.”

He nods like he respects that, then immediately does it anyway but not in a careless way. He walks to the window, opens it wide, letting in the cool night air. The city noise spills in—distant traffic, laughter somewhere far below.

He leans out slightly, lights the cigarette, and inhales once before exhaling into the open air. You watch him from the bed, curious despite yourself.

“That smells… strong,” you say.

Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

A pause, then you sit up a little. “Can I try?”

That makes him turn fully now.

“Doll,” he says slowly, like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or curious.

You just look at him expectantly.

He exhales through his nose. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He crosses back to the bed, hands it over carefully. You take it like it’s something delicate as he watches you.

“Just… small inhale,” he instructs gently. “Not like you’re drinkin’ air.”

You try and immediately cough. Bucky laughs softly, not teasing, just amused and leans in quickly, patting your back once.

“Easy,” he says. “Easy, sweetheart.”

You glare at him between coughs. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “It is.”

But you still try again, more carefully this time, and he guides you with quiet patience until you manage it without immediately dissolving into another fit of coughing.

“There you go,” he murmurs, almost proud.

You hand it back to him, shaking your head slightly. He takes another drag, then leans back against the windowsill while you curl into the sheets again, watching him instead of the ceiling now.

After a moment, you let out a small laugh to yourself.

Bucky notices immediately. “What?”

You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

You glance up at him, amused. “I was just thinking… I’ve had brandy, cigarettes, and lost my virginity all in one night.”

Bucky freezes for half a second, then exhales a laugh, low and disbelieving.

“…Yeah?” he says. “Well. How d'ya feel?”

You nod, still smiling like you can’t quite believe it yourself. “I think I’ve been corrupted by Bucky Barnes.”

That gets him fully now, he turns toward you properly, cigarette forgotten for a moment in his hand.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, a little softer now. “What’s the verdict?”

You look at him for a long beat, not a hint of shyness glinted in your eyes.

“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Bucky’s expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with charm and everything to do with something deeper settling into place.

He puts the cigarette out and tosses it out the window, crawling across the bed to you, and leans down just enough to catch your face in his hand.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.

You smile against him. “You were trouble first. I was sweet as can be."

He’s always had an easy smile for you, or a friendly word. 

But right now, his smile is gone, replaced with a helpless sort of expression. The top buttons of his coaching polo are undone, and his hair looks mussed, like he’s been raking his hands through it. 

“Hi,” he says, a little sheepish. “Sorry to just show up like this, I—”

Something in his gaze shifts, and his lips part as he takes in your outfit. His eyes rake over you. From your stylish updo, to your sultry eye makeup, to your tight dress, and finally settling on your high heels. 

“Oh—wow. You look…really good. I mean—” He huffs an unbelieving breath. Like he’s just remembering where he is. “I’m interrupting. I can go. I’m going. Sorry!”

You rush to stop him. 

“Hi, Mr. Harrington! No, it’s okay. Do you want to come in?” You step aside, motioning inside. 

“God. Steve. Please. Uh, no, I—” He glances back towards his house. “It’s just…well, you’re a girl, right?”

You chuckle. “Last I checked. Is everything okay?”

He groans, running a hand over his face. Your eyes catch on his long, tapered fingers, tanned by the summer sun.

“God, this is embarrassing. That came out bad. Yeah everything’s fine, it’s just my daughter, Lily,  has a ballet recital tonight. And she’s supposed to wear her hair up in this…scrunchy donut thing? And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and anyway, I’m sorry. You clearly have a date.” He sighs, then his eyes widen. “Or—plans. I didn’t mean to assume—shit, I used to be better at this.”

“What? Asking for help.”

“Talking to pretty girls.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, that too.”

You know you should feel bad for him. Stressed, overworked single dad, trying to make it to his daughter’s recital on time. But really, with every rake of his hands through his hair, and every shift of his feet, you can’t help but be amused. 

It’s actually, really cute. 

“Relax, Steve,” you say with a smirk, closing your door and stepping down onto the steps with him. “I’m happy to help.”

Relief floods his face. “Oh my God, really? Are you sure? I mean—”

“Really, I don’t mind,” you assure him with a gentle hand on his arm, already pulling up your phone to message the guy on Tinder. “My date seemed boring over text anyway.”

Steve turns away, but as your hand falls from his warm skin, you catch a small, crooked smile starting on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm. Shit texter? Huge red flag."

You smile. “Right. So, where is this ballerina?”

“Oh, she’s inside. Finishing up her dinner. But I have all the supplies…if you wanna come over and save me from completely ruining her life.”

You smile. “I’d love to.” 

Ten grassy steps later, Steve opens his front door for you.

When you step into his home, heels clicking on his polished wood floor entryway, your heart does a little flip. 

There are girl toys everywhere. 

Pinks, and purples, and glitter, and…is that a play castle?

“Daddy?” a little voice calls from somewhere deeper in. 

“Yeah sweetheart, I’m back,” Steve replies, motioning for you to follow him. "Sorry for the mess, we just got back from practice."

The first thing you see when you round the corner into the kitchen, is a tutu—pink frills stuffed up on a barstool, little legs swinging. But where you expect to find ballet slippers dangling, instead, you find dirty baseball cleats.

Steve’s daughter, Lily, looks over her shoulder as you both enter the open doorway. She looks sweet. 

Very sweet—given the jam smeared around her lips, a messy PB&J in her hand. 

She smiles at you, her brown curls a little mussed, just like her dad’s. And on top of her head, rests a princess hat. It’s one of those long cone ones with a ribbon train hanging down her back. 

Upon seeing her state, Steve surges forward and swipes a paper towel. “Honey, you’ve got jelly all over your face—hey, c’mon.” His voice softens as he leans over to wipe her cheek. “Okay, listen, this is our neighbor—” He pauses and looks up at you. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, actually.”

You tell it to Lily, because for some reason, when you meet Steve’s eyes, you can hardly get a word out. 

“She’s going to help you with your hair for the recital, okay?” Steve adds, a little more upbeat, cleaning the last of the sticky sweetness from his daughter’s face and standing up straight again. 

Lily’s eyes light up. “Can I knight her, Dad? Please?”

He looks over at you and rubs the back of his neck. “We’re in a bit of a medieval phase, lately. Lots of fairytale books from the library, and now it’s…a whole thing.” 

“I love fairytales,” you say. Then you turn to Lily and curtsy as well as you can in your little black dress. “I’d be honored, Your Majesty.”

Lily lets out a delighted squeal and slips off the stool, vanishing into the next room. She’s back seconds later, clutching a glittery wand topped with a star. 

You don't miss the way Steve glances at his watch and grimaces.

You slip off your heels and kneel on the cool kitchen tile just as Lily marches up to you, bowing your head solemnly. 

“My lady,” you say, voice hushed for the ceremony, “as my first act as knight, it would be my greatest honor to do your hair.”

Lily lifts her chin, wand raised. 

“Granted,” she declares.

From across the room, Steve sends you an appreciative look. It turns your stomach all warm and melty. 

You stay perfectly still as she taps the plastic star first to your left shoulder, then your right. “I dub thee…Knight Neighbor.”

You lift your head slowly, like you’ve been entrusted with something of great importance. Lily giggles. Then, you stand and gesture to the kitchen table. 

“Amazing work, Your Majesty,” Steve plays along, nudging Lily towards the chair. “Alright, sit tight, and here, look, I have a mirror you can hold." He turns to you, holding up a handful of supplies.“Here, I’ve got a hair tie and the—uh—donut thing. Do you need anything else?”

You nod. “I’ll need a hairbrush. A fine-tooth comb would be best. And some hair gel if you have any.”

Steve disappears down the hallway, and you turn your attention to the little girl sitting in front of you. 

“Lily, I’ll have to take this off to do your hair. Is that okay?” you ask, tapping her cardboard hat. 

“Oh. Yes.” She spins around in her chair to face you. “But I forgot to tell you, you have to call me Princess Lily.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

She turns back around and picks up the mirror. You gently remove her hat and set it aside, careful to place it somewhere it won’t accidentally get stepped on.

“So, Princess Lily, how old are you?” you ask. 

“Five.”

“Wow. So, you run a kingdom, do ballet, and you play baseball?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Dad says girls can do both.”

You smile behind her, catching her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “He's right. Girls can do everything.”

Steve’s footsteps thump against the wood as he returns to the kitchen.

 “Okay, I found the comb, but I don’t have gel. Will hairspray work?” he asks, handing you the supplies.

You shrug. “Probably.”

You take a second a second to lay out your supplies, but once everything’s arranged on the kitchen table and you’re expected to start on her hair, you find yourself hesitating. 

The only sounds are the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere in your neighborhood, and the whisper of tulle from Lily’s tutu as she shifts in her seat. There's nothing wrong, it's just...

Here you are, in your tight date-night dress, barefoot in a kitchen that smells like peanut butter and jelly. 

But it’s not that you feel like you don’t belong here. 

It’s that you feel like you do. 

It’s ridiculous, and completely unreasonable, but you feel it all the same. 

Suddenly, you seem to remember they’re on a time crunch, so you take a steadying breath and quickly smooth back Lily’s hair. 

It’s soft and warm between your fingers as you brush it through. When you spray the hairspray, you guard Lily’s eyes with your hand. She giggles and pretends she’s gone blind. The spray creates a little haze that gathers in the sun beam streaming through the window. 

“This is nice hairspray,” you say dumbly. Partly because it is, but mostly because you don’t know what else to say to fill the silence. You hope Steve can’t hear the rapid staccato of your heartbeat. 

“It’s Daddy’s,” Lily says, 

You look up. Steve’s sending her an incredulous look in the mirror. “I don’t use it that much.”

“You did today,” Lily points out, tilting her face up to look at him. “And you buy girls’ hairspray for yourself!"

She laughs and covers her mouth, like she's just spilled a giant secret.

“Stay still, kid.” Steve scolds, but his hands are gentle as he places a palm on each cheek, turning her to face the mirror again. 

You chuckle softly and look over at him. “You do have nice hair.”

But as the words leave your lips, a blush steals across your cheeks, and you return your gaze to your work. It’s silent for a long moment, and you can feel Steve’s eyes on you like a physical, tangible touch. 

“Thanks,” he says softly. 

The hair tie snaps into place, breaking the tension as you secure Lily’s slicked back ponytail. 

“There,” you breathe. “That’s the hard part. Now, let me show you how to use the scrunchy donut.” 

Steve watches intently as you instruct him in the wild ways of a ballet bun. He nods along, hands on his hips, his breath ghosting your bare shoulder. You show him how to pull the ponytail through and gather her silky strands around the edge, explaining how it makes her hair look fuller. You even show him how to smooth back fly-aways around the edges. But when you finish wrapping her hair, the stubborn ends don’t tuck underneath quite right.

You struggle with it for a minute, then ask, “Do you have any bobby pins?”

Steve exhales, thinking. “Somewhere. I could look around for some—”

“That’s okay. Here—” 

Without thinking, you reach up into your updo and pull the pins free. Your hair tumbles down around your shoulders, and Steve makes a sound behind you, but you’re too busy perfecting Lily’s hair to pay close attention to him. 

You sigh, content, as you step back and review your work. 

“It looks perfect,” Steve says, awe in his voice. “Seriously. Thank you. What do you think, Lil?”

But she’s already slipping off the chair, mirror forgotten. 

“Hey, easy—careful,” he says as she jumps down, half-laughing. 

“Your Majesty, if I may…” you say, stopping her in her tracks. You glance down at her footwear and her eyes follow yours. “Listen, I’m not knocking the shoe choice. But as your knight, its my duty to inform you, that it might be difficult to pirouette in cleats.”

Lily seems to consider this for a long moment. Her little brows furrow together and when her lips twist to the side to think, she looks exactly like her Dad. Something in your chest tightens. 

Steve hurries over and hands her some mini pink ballet flats. “These might work a little better, huh?” He crouches slightly. “You good, or you need backup?”

She shakes her head with a determined tilt of her chin. “No. I can do it.”

“Okay, but hustle, alright? I’m going to walk our knight out. Can you tell her thank you?”

Lily wobbles on one foot as she yanks her cleats off, but it doesn’t stop her from beaming up at you. “Thanks. Bye. And next time you come over, you’ll have a place in the castle!”

You chuckle. “Promoted already, huh? Wow. Knighthood is amazing.”

“Yeah, my dad’s the king, and I’m the princess, so all we’re missing is a queen!” 

You freeze. Your eyes find Steve’s for one charged second before you look away at the same time. 

 Lily nods along to her plan, completely oblivious to the tension in the room as she plops right down on the kitchen floor to slide her flats on. “Sides, your dress is too fancy to be a knight anyhow.”

Steve’s throat bobs on a swallow, and his gaze holds yours for just a second too long. 

“I agree,” he says, finally. “Queen it is.”

“So, King Steve, huh?” you tease him as you slip your heels back on.

Steve tips his head and chuckles, like there’s more to the story and you don’t know the half of it. You wish you could ask him, talk more with him—but he’s already late as it is. 

So, you let him walk you to the door. Outside, the sun is starting to set, casting that perfect golden glow over everything. 

Steve leans on his doorframe and crosses his arms.  You can’t help but notice the way his brown eyes turn to molten honey in this light. 

A heat gathers low in your stomach. Like butterflies, but heavier, and softer. Something you haven’t felt for a long time. 

He sighs, then looks at the ground. “Listen, I’m really sorry I made you miss your date.”

You shake your head. “Trust me, it’s really okay. Dry texter. Remember?”

“Right. Well, I still feel bad. I know how…difficult the whole dating thing is.”

“Me? I’m sure it’s difficult for you.” Your eyes widen. “Not that Lily makes difficult or anything, just that—”

He holds up a hand to stop you, smiling gently. “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” He tilts his head and looks out at the sunset. “It’s…different, I guess. But honestly, I think it just makes you a little more careful. Wait for the right person instead of just…going through the motions. You know?”

As he turns back to you and your eyes connect, you know exactly what he means. 

Ignoring the fluttering in your stomach, you turn towards the steps. “Well, have fun tonight. She looks perfect, and I’m sure—”

“Please,” Steve interrupts, reaching for you but stopping himself just in time. “There’s got to be some way for me to repay you for this. You know, according to medieval rules, you’re not supposed to let a knight leave without a token—”

You wave him off. “No token needed.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, leaning a little closer, playful but intent. “Pretty sure it’s bad luck. Like, for a really long time.”

He holds your gaze. A mourning dove coos, hidden in the branches of a tree in his yard, and suddenly, you realize arguing with him about this is fruitless. You aren't leaving his front porch without something.

And if you somehow manage to, it’s not like he doesn’t know where you live. If he’s as insistent as you think he is, he’ll leave flowers at your door, or you’ll pull up and find him mowing your lawn…better just to get it over with now. 

“Alright, fine,” you concede with a laugh and a gentle roll of your eyes. “What’s the traditional token for knights, huh? A handkerchief? A free beer—” 

“A kiss.”

Your eyes snap to his. Your stomach flips as he tilts his head in an unspoken challenge.

“What do you say?” he murmurs. “Will you accept?”

You can’t stop the way your eyes drop to his lips. Even if you tried. 

 “I will.”

He casts one hurried glance over his shoulder into the house, but the coast must be clear because when he turns back to you, his eyes simmer with heat. 

Your breath hitches as his arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night to do it. You’re close enough to smell the grass on him from the baseball field, the hairspray in his hair.

His breath caresses your lips, and you feel your eyes slip shut as he leans in. Your noses bump, and you both laugh softly. You’re still smiling when his lips brush yours. 

It’s a hesitant, soft thing. A thank you but in kiss form—genuine and warm. 

But when your fingers find his shirt, and you tilt your chin, inviting a firmer touch, he sighs into your mouth. 

It’s a relieved, desperate sound, as if he hasn’t been touched in ages. Something twinges deep in your chest, and your hand reaches up, threading into his hair and pulling him closer. 

That earns you a deep groan, and when his tongue brushes yours, your ankle buckles in your high heel. 

God, the man can kiss. 

Slow and steady, but hot and needy all at once. It’s so good it makes your head spin. 

“Daddy?” Lilly calls from inside. “I’m ready!”

This kiss breaks, both of you pulling back at the same second. 

But he doesn’t let you go immediately. His hand finds the back of your neck, slipping under your hair, and you swallow hard. You linger there, nose brushing again. Like you’re both barely holding yourselves back from falling into each other again.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers, his voice raspy now. And somehow, you know he means for more than just Lily’s hair. 

“You’re welcome,” you murmur breathlessly.

The soft pitter-patter of ballet slippers coming closer finally has you taking a step back. 

His hands slip from you reluctantly as you step down the stairs.

“And if you ever need anything else…” you wink over your shoulder, just to make sure he catches your drift. “Your knight is right next door.”

a/n: listen, my friend was telling me her husband didn't know how to do a ballet bun for their daughter's dance recital, and she hadn't even finished speaking before my fingers were FLYING typing this up in my notes app.

divider by @cursed-carmine | steve masterlist | come yell at me

You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”

You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face. 

—

So. 

How did you end up where you are? 

You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened. 

It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler. 

Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there. 

The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him. 

Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.” 

You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.

In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen. 

It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been. 

Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby. 

She grumbles on your hip. 

Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed. 

He stands there in quiet. 

Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person. 

“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air. 

His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born. 

“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat. 

You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him. 

“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous. 

He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest. 

“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”

To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.

“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.

You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you. 

Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly. 

He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation. 

“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask. 

Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”

You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce. 

“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say. 

“Yeah.” 

You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace. 

“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath. 

“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car. 

You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.

“Why?” she murmurs.

“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick. 

“Okay.”

You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think. 

Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings. 

You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked? 

Where’s your backbone?

Where’s your common sense?

With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright. 

You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life. 

“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change. 

“Mommy?”

“Mm?” you ask. 

Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks. 

“Two minutes.”

“Off.”

“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”

She whines long and loud.

“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”

Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?” 

“Yes!”

You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood. 

She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.

“Better,” she echoes. 

Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Who?” she asks. 

Uhhhh.

“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”

“Y’okay.” 

“Yeah?”

Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire. 

“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”

“Can we talk, first?”

You don’t blame him for asking. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?” 

“I’m not going to yell.”

“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.” 

“Are you angry?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”

You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows. 

The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her. 

She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV. 

Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now. 

“How old is she?” he asks finally.

“She’s turning two soon.”

Steve seems to be holding his tongue. 

“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”

“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”

You flinch. “What?”

“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”

“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”

“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”

This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?” 

“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”

“She’s my baby.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”

“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean. 

You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.” 

“I can be best for you both.”

You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means. 

“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says. 

“If?”

He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.” 

“She’s looked after.”

“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”

“You might not actually want her, Steve.” 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”

You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur. 

“I needed to see her for myself.”

“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”

“Keep us?” you ask indignantly. 

“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”

He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe— 

“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.

“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”

“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”

Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to. 

A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee. 

After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says. 

“Looks like her mom,” you mumble. 

“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”

You huff a weak laugh. 

“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks. 

“You want to be her dad?”

For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”

He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault. 

You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time. 

In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair. 

“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table. 

Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in. 

You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”

“Y’okay.”

“This is daddy.” 

You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return. 

“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.” 

“Huh?”

You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”

“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely. 

“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?” 

“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve. 

“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.

“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength. 

“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”

Leah gives him a good shake. 

—

“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”

Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle. 

“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound. 

“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”

Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks. 

Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”

“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.” 

He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby. 

He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers. 

Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby. 

He pauses on the spot. 

Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult. 

He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend. 

Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence. 

“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one. 

Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.

“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”

“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but. 

“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”

“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”

He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”

“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”

Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.” 

Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby. 

“She’s mine,” he says. 

“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”

He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”

“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”

“I’m still gonna go!”

“With what money?”

Steve will save again. It’s community college. 

Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”

“I’ll going, Rob.” 

“Fine. I believe you.”

“Can you help?”

She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly. 

Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac. 

He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway. 

You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all. 

“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon. 

“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”

“Is it cool that I’m early?”

You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”

“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”

“Right. Okay.” 

You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself. 

“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”

“You want me to go grab her?”

“Where is she?” 

“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”

“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”

You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”

“I wanted to.”

“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”

He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”

“I don’t think she knew.”

Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years. 

Steve Harrington does not love by halves. 

“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks. 

“We are leaving.” 

“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”

“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”

His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”

“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”

“Exactly.”

You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again. 

From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!” 

He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says softly. 

Leah hums her content. 

“Good nap?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”

She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word. 

She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you. 

“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”

Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.” 

“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly. 

Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.

“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks. 

You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum. 

“Yeah, of course she can.”

“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”

“Can have?” she asks. 

“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking  your face to make sure he’s not being weird. 

Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”

Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”

Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee. 

“Barbie!” she cries.

“With a puppy!” 

“Oh gosh.”

Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”

Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open. 

“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection. 

“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.” 

You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.” 

“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.” 

“It’s nice of you.” 

He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home. 

—

“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.” 

Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building. 

“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?” 

“Think so. Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”

The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”

“Sure. Thank you.” 

Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video. 

It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay. 

The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”

“Hi, Robin.”

“Hi,” she says. 

The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap. 

“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.” 

“Hi, bubby,” Leah says. 

Robin snorts. 

“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?” 

Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”

Leah looks up at her with huge eyes. 

“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?” 

“The duckies,” Leah says factually. 

“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.” 

You don’t question for a second that she means it. 

You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.” 

“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin. 

“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.” 

“Oh.”

“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”

“You’re not busy?” you ask. 

“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.” 

You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.

You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.

“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”

“The music, bubby,” you say. 

Leah gives a neck-breaking nod. 

“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?” 

“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say. 

“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”

Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles. 

“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”

Her hitting doesn’t slow. 

“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.” 

Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines. 

“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s  important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”

The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!” 

Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?” 

“Hi,” Leah says. 

“Hi.”

“Hug me now?”

Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”

She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life. 

“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose. 

“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.

Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back. 

Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware. 

Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again. 

You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry. 

“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No, yeah.”

“You sure?” 

He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.” 

It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her. 

You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid. 

His eyes widen at the sight of you. 

“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”

“Uh– did I?” 

“I know it was you.” 

Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”

“I saw you.”

“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”

You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”

“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”

“Well, thanks for trying.”

Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”

“We’re working things out.”

Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”

Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”

Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Leah says. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.” 

“Where to?” 

“Max’s.”

“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

“I’m not!” 

“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?” 

“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”

Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”

“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.

“For once.”

“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”

Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks. 

His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room. 

And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people. 

Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”

“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.” 

“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”

Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”

“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name. 

“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say. 

Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”

“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil. 

Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?” 

Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats. 

Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard. 

He is startlingly capable. 

You are startlingly hot. 

You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts. 

—

Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks. 

This is my baby, Leah.

The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home. 

Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!” 

She sobs. 

You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”

She sobs louder. 

Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.

“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.” 

Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage. 

“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”

“Not going,” Leah says. 

“Just for now!” 

“No!”

You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”

“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?” 

You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.” 

Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”

Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob. 

“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”

You falter.

The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”

“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”

“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”

“Yeah, I got one.”

“You got a car seat?”

“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.” 

Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek. 

“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?” 

Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”

“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave. 

You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask. 

“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?” 

“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Are you okay with me taking her?”

You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you? 

Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me. 

He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride. 

Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have. 

But it’s not everything he wants. 

“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?” 

“Okie dokie.”

Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah. 

“See you later, mommy,” Leah says. 

You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”

He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back. 

Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.

It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin. 

“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.

“Right, right!” 

He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out. 

Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.” 

“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles. 

“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”

“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”

“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.” 

“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her. 

“Wonky?” she asks.

“Does daddy look wonky?”

“Mm,” she says. 

“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?” 

She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.” 

He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Mom!” Robin says. 

“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.” 

He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.

It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.

Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear. 

Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth. 

“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully. 

“Right? She has my eyes.”

“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly. 

“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says. 

Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says. 

Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?” 

“Yessss.”

“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?” 

“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”

“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says.