Bucky Fics♡

Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.

Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.

Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.

Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.

He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.

It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.

5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Steve: You up?

Bucky: Yeah

Steve: Coffee in 10

Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.

Everything else is downstairs.

True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.

"Thanks."

"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"

Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.

Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.

"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."

"I know."

"Interviews are today, right?"

"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."

"Try not to scare them off this time."

"I don't scare people off."

Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'

They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.

Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'

Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.

"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.

Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"

"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"

Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.

Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.

"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.

"You mean you won't make time."

"Same thing."

"It's really —"

"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."

"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."

"I have Alpine."

"Your cat doesn't count."

Alpine meows, like she's offended.

They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.

The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.

The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.

Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.

Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."

"You'd be miserable."

"Probably."

"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like — you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."

Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.

Steve's right.

The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.

Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'

And he has.

The three Michelin stars prove it.

The first two interviews are disasters.

One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.

The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.

By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.

He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve: we're fucked, none of them can do it.

There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.

The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.

"Give me a second," he mutters.

"Sure."

Something about your voice makes him look up.

Oh.

Oh.

You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.

Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.

"For a year."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."

Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"

"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."

That does make him laugh.

You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"

"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."

Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.

"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."

"I know."

"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."

"I'm not most people."

Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.

"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often… Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.

Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on —

"What happened to your arm?"

That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."

Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

"Sometimes."

"When you're stressed?"

Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you —

"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."

There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.

"You start Monday," he hears himself say.

"What?"

"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."

A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."

Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch. 

"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.

Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.

If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.

He checks his phone — 8:47 AM, fuck — and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.

The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.

Instead, it's... fine?

Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?

Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."

"What —"

"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."

"It's your second day."

"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't. 

"How did you —"

"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."

Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.

Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say. 

"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality. 

"What?"

"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."

He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."

You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain. 

"Sugar?"

"Black's fine."

"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again. 

"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.

Bucky eyes go from you — your face —, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"

You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.

The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.

"I can —" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.

"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just —"

The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just… feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.

But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.

"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.

The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.

Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.

"Well?"

"It's good… really good. What'd you put in it?"

You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."

Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful — not to mention inappropriate — thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."

"Really?"

"Really."

You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.

"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever. 

"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.

You turn to look at him. 

"Don't —" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"

Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."

"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter? 

You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."

Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.

"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.

"Fine."

"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."

Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."

"About onions?"

"About the menu."

"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.

"Fuck off."

"Just saying, she's good."

"I know she's good. I hired her."

"That's not what I —" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."

Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.

He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind. 

The second thing he notices — and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't — is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.

Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.

You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."

"Yeah. Goodnight."  

You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose. 

The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.

Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."

This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.

You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.

But no.

Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that. 

Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.

She doesn't look at him at all.

Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.

But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.

Fuck it.

He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.

His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."

In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.

Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?

His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.

Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.

Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.

The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps —

Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.

Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."

The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is — this desperate want, this intense need — it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.

Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.

The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.

You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though. 

Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.

Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"

Everyone looks around. Blank faces.

"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.

"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."

"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.

"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."

Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.

The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.

You missed the debrief to stand outside?

"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"

When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.

There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She — She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."

Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.

"I — Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't — I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.

You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."

"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."

"You didn't scream."

"I raised my voice."

"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."

"Not more important than —" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."

A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef." There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.

"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."

"Yeah. Five years now."

"What's her name?"

"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.

"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed —"

"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."

"Oh. You're terrible."

"Sorry."

"Nope. You're not."

Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if —

Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.

"I'm okay," you say.

"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."

"I've survived worse."

Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her… If she's getting heavy."

You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."

"What?"

"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.

"I didn't —"

"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."

"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.

Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."

"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.

The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"

"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.

Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."

"Yeah, just — give me a sec."

Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."

"Yeah… here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."

Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.

The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.

Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.

Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room. 

Steve: You're in trouble

Bucky: Fuck off

Steve: She's pretty Steve: And she saved alpine Steve: And you looked at her like she hung the moon

Bucky: I said fuck off

Steve: Good luck buddy

He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. But…

You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe — you think —, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing. 

You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.

But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.

But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet. 

Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.

He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.

"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.

"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.

"You sure? You look a little flustered."

"It's hot in here."

He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."

"Must be coming down with something."

"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."

"I wasn't —"

"You were definitely staring."

Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."

Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"

"Veins. On your arms. They're very — I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are —" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important —"

Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."

Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.

Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.

That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.

By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.

Like jump your boss.

You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."

"You rushing off?"

"Just — long day."

"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So — uh — Alpine misses you."

If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"

"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."

"That so?" You can't help but smile.

"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."

This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure." 

Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."

"Right. For Alpine."

"For Alpine," you repeat.

There's a beat where you both just stand there.

"C'mon… She's upstairs."

You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.

Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.

"It's —"

Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.

"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."

Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."

"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."

"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."

"Well, I am very likable."

"So you've mentioned."

"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"

"Found her outside a restaurant."

"And she just — came home with you?"

"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."

"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"

When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."

"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.

Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."

"Does what?"

"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."

"Maybe she has good taste."

"That she does."

Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.

"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.

"I'm okay with that."

You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more. 

"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.

"Mhmm."

"Earlier. In the kitchen… What were you looking at?"

"I —" 

"Because you were definitely looking at something."

"I wasn't — okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's — you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."

"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Sound so smug about it."

"I'm not smug."

"You're absolutely smug right now."

Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes.  

"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.

"What is?"

"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."

"I wasn't rambling."

"You were definitely rambling."

"I was making valid points about water intake —"

Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.

When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I —" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.

One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.

Oh god, he's kissing you.

His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.

"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."

"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"

"Something like that."

"That's very unprofessional, Chef."

"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.

"Bucky — I — "

"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall. 

He sets you down on the bed — his bed — and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."

You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.

Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.

"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.

Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."

"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.

The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit. 

Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.

He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.

"I can't — Buck — It's too much —"

"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."

Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.

When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."

Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now. 

He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.

"Oh my god."

"What?" He's smirking.

"That's — you're —" Your brain's stopped working again.

Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"

If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"

"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"I really — oh —"

He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip.  

"Y-yeah."

"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."

He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me. Please fuck me."

"Well — Since you asked so nicely."

He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel — fuck."

You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move. 

The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."

Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck — Do that again."

Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours. 

"Fuck — you feel incredible, sweetheart."

Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.

"There — fuck, right there —"

He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm —"

"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."

The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.

"Where?" he grits out.

It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control — inside, please —"

Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."

You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.

He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.

You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.

Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.

"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.

It's stupidly endearing.

Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.

The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.

It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.

Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.

"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.

"Your cat's very demanding," you say.

"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.

This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.

"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.

"I should go home. Need to change before work."

"You could keep clothes here."

The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.

"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.

"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.

"That so?"

He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."

"Everything looks good on me."

"Can't argue with that."

You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.

The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you. 

"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots —" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.

A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.

"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."

His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."

There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.

"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."

You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.

Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.

His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat. 

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.

"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"

Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.

"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."

"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky —"

"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"

Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please —"

Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open. 

"Hey Buck, we need you on the — Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.

Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.

Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm — fuck —I didn't—" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."

The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know. 

"Oh my god. Steve just — he saw us —" you gasp. 

"Yep."

You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."

"You are corrupting me."

"Shut up."

The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.

You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce. 

Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself. 

Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs. 

His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."

"It's — It's the same honey," you reply dumbly. 

"No. It's not." 

"Bucky —"

"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."

There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter. 

The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.

"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."

Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."

"Bucky — "

"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

"This is not an experiment."

"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."

Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."

"More. I want —" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.

"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.

"Yes —" you whimper.

"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive. 

"That's —" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck —"

The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.

"Bucky —" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please —"

Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god —"

Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."

"We're supposed to be working —"

"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."

Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."

The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.

Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky —"

"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.

"Oh god —"

"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone. 

"Please — Buck — touch me. P-please touch me."

"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.

"You — You know what I mean —"

He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh — you think — but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now —"

"But, I'm not done —"

"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."

His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."

While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.

"Yes. God, yes —"

"How bad?"

"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds —"

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.

Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck — You feel — Jesus fucking Christ —"

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.

"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.

"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce — wanted to — fuck — wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad —"

You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fucking—"

Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.

"Don't stop — please —"

When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck — I'm so close —"

"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.

There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.

When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."

"Your fault."

"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you." 

"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."

"You're the one who spilled it."

"Accidentally."

"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue. 

You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.

"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."

"Bucky —"

"Just one more taste."

"Alpine, no — that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.

It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.

"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."

"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"

She meows like she's arguing with you.

Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.

The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.

"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."

"We always prep early."

"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"

The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.

"If that's okay."

"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.

You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.

"I like being here," you admit.

He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.

"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."

"Five more minutes."

"Bucky —"

"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."

Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.

"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.

"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.

"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.

"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."

"Maybe she is good."

Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.

"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."

"Barnes seems smarter than that."

"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."

You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.

But you can't move, can't breathe.

"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."

They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.

Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.

Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.

And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.

You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you — whatever it is, whatever it was becoming — has to stop.

Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'

All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.

You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.

But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.

Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"

"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."

"What's wrong? Do you need —"

"Just tired. Long week."

It's Wednesday.

Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.

"Okay… feel better, okay?"

You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you. 

Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.

But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.

But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant — his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.

So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.

It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts — headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.

Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"

You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.

"Nothing's going on."

"You haven't stayed over in a week."

"I've been tired."

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."

You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.

He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.

But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.

"You didn't do anything. I just need space."

You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.

When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.

Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."

Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky —"

His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute… please."

You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."

When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.

"I miss you… Alpine's not the only one."

"Buck —"

"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just — I hate that you're not there."

The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's not an answer."

Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.

"Something's wrong," he says.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration. 

Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."

"Wait —"

"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.

Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."

Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.

He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.

You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.

You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."

You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."

"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."

"Everything's fine."

"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit."

"Steve —"

"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable —"

"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's — it's nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"It's personal."

"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."

Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"

"No."

"Steve —"

"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."

Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."

"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."

"You don't understand —"

"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's complicated."

"Try me."

You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"

Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Who the hell would think that?"

"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous. 

"That's — no one here would —"

"They already are."

Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"

You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.

"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you know…" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.

"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.

He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"

"Their point is bullshit —"

"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."

Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"

"We weren't together."

"Bullshit."

"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."

"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"

"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."

"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"

You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter —"

"The hell it doesn't."

"Steve —"

"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"

You don't have an answer for that.

His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."

"Better miserable than —"

"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."

Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve —"

"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."

"I'm trying to protect him."

"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."

"Not if there's nothing to talk about."

"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"

"I don't know. I — I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing is being honest with him."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."

"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"

"I don't know what else to do."

Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."

"I do trust him —"

"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."

"If I tell him —"

"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."

You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.

Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.

"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.

"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."

"I'm working —"

"Now, Buck."

Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"

"No. But I just talked to her."

Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt. 

"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues. 

"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she… slept her way into your kitchen."

The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"

"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."

"That's —" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's — that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever — we weren't even —"

"I know."

"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She —" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"

"Assholes. But that's not the point —"

"They're talking about her like she's — like she —" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."

"That's exactly what she said you'd do."

"Good. Then she knows me."

"Buck —"

"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't —" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"

"She's trying to protect your reputation."

"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what — me?"

"Yeah."

"That's — Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.

"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."

"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"

"Like someone who's in love with her."

Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve —"

"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you —"

"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.

Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."

"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks — what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"

"No. She thinks she's protecting you."

"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally — for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"

Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But it’s never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day. 

"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."

"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she —" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just — it was just us."

"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."

"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."

"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."

Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"

"Talk to her."

"I've tried. She won't — every time I try, she shuts down."

"Try harder."

"Steve —"

"You love her, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."

Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"

"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."

"I'm firing them."

"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would be talking to me."

"Yeah. But she's scared… and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."

When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.

Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.

He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.

Because he would. He will.

He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.

He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.

And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.

Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.

When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.

Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."

The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.

You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.

He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"

Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.

"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone — multiple someones, apparently — have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."

More uncomfortable shifting. 

"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."

"Chef —" Jason starts.

"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."

Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."

No one seems to move.  

"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."

He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."

Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't —"

"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."

"Chef, I —"

"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."

Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't —"

"I can. I just did. Out. Now."

"This is bullshit —"

"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."

The new line cook — Miller, Bucky thinks his name is — raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."

"Smart choice."

Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.

"I said out," Bucky repeats.

Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.

"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."

The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.

Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.

He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.

But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.

Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.

When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.

You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.

The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.

Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again. 

Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."

Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.

He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.

"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.

"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."

"I had a reason —"

"A stupid reason."

You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."

"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason — all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."

The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just — I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."

"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.

"Sweetheart, no —" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have — I should've just read your mind or something —"

That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."

"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."

"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."

His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"

"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.

"You're in love with me?"

You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while."

"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."

The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"

"Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. I'm —" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."

Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've —"

"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."

Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."

"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"

"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."

A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."

"Haven't been sleeping." 

You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."

"At what?"

"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."

"I don't want to do it again either."  

Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his. 

The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.

Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."

Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.

You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.

His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."

"I'm sorry I left."

"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"

The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.

It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.

"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.

"Mhmm, dangerous."

He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."

"What?"

"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."

"That's very romantic."

"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"

You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."

"Is that a yes?"

You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this — Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."

The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space — you know, before all this."

Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.

"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.

His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.

Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.

COLLAB MASTERLIST ✧ MY MASTERLIST

EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab! Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.

"Hey! James! Over here!" Rebecca’s voice can be heard from somewhere in the distance, pulling Bucky from his thoughts. The airport was bustling with activity, people rushing to catch their flights or make it home. Bucky maneuvers through the crowd, his suitcase in tow, scanning faces at the arrivals bay until he finally spots his sister. Only half a year has gone by since he's last seen her, and yet she looks different, more grown up if that's even possible. It makes his chest squeeze slightly with the uncomfortable reality of this being one of many things he misses while he's gone.

"Hey Becs," his greeting comes in the form of a smothering hug, the kind only big brother's know how to give. She whines dramatically about him ruining the sign she made for him, pushing at his chest. He looks down at the piece of poster paper squished between them and chuckles. It's a small cheesy welcome home sign, clearly written in haste as most of the letters are wonky and the glitter thrown at it looks half-assed. He pulls away, grabbing it from her hands and smoothening it out before giving it back, "See, all better." She rolls her eyes, slapping at his arm and grumbling under her breath, "You big buffoon, learn to be more careful." Bucky barks out a laugh in response that only serves to annoy his sister more. Oh, how he's missed this.

He ignores her protests as he slings an arm around her shoulders, pushing them past the crowd of people in the direction of the elevators. "Folks didn't come?" He asks her as they get in and she shakes her head, pressing the button labeled L2, "Ma wanted to stay home and cook you up something nice for tonight. She's driving us all crazy making sure everything's perfect for you." Bucky frowns, and Becca looks at him like she's said too much, "Everything?"

The elevator doors open and they step out. "Yeah, you know how Ma gets about her cooking," Rebecca replies, waving her hand in the air like it's no big deal. He decides it's best not to press the issue, it's just dinner after all.

The conversation changes as they make their way to her car. Rebecca catches his up on her life post graduation. She talks about her new job in the city over, the apartment she's renting with a couple roommates, the coworker she doesn't get along with, how she still visits their parents on the weekends and oh, how can she forget to mention how ridiculously in love her roommates are with his teammate and friend, Steve Rogers.

"You have to get me tickets when you go back. I don't think they'll forgive me if I don't give them a chance to meet him," she mentions, and he hums in response, not fully paying attention as he places his suitcase in the backseat. But it's not like she has anything to worry about, her little sister privileges always win over Bucky in the end.

"Let me drive," he offers, closing the backseat door. Rebecca looks at him like he just asked her something atrocious. "Absolutely not. My car, I drive. Now get in," she orders, not hearing him out at all and getting into the driver's seat. Bucky is too tired to argue, so he heads over to the passenger seat and reluctantly buckles in. But as she's pulling out of the parking lot he realizes, there's something, no, someone she hasn't mentioned at all.

Bucky says your name out loud, pretty as always, but foreign on his tongue as he hasn't heard it anywhere, but in his head for years. Rebecca's body goes rigid, and he doesn't notice at first as he asks, "How's she doing?" He knows he has no right to ask. He knows he has no right to pry into your life or know anything about you now, but he can't help it. He needs to know. Maybe if he knows that insistent thrum beneath his ribcage will finally go away.

Rebecca stares straight ahead at the traffic on the road like it's the most interesting thing she's seen in a long time, exhaling apprehensively, "I don't know."

Well that's shocking.

"You don't know?" Bucky echoes, face pulling in a frown of disbelief. Rebecca's hold on the steering tightens ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation being you. "Yeah, I don't know. We haven't been friends for years. Why would I keep up with her?" At that revelation, Bucky can practically feel the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets, a dreadful feeling creeping in to his system.

"Wait—hold on. You haven't been friends with her for years? When did that happen?" He's trying his best to wrap his head around it all. His brain picking out every memory from the last few years, holidays and birthdays he attended and not once did anyone mention you and his sister no longer being friends. Well, no one mentioned you at all, and your absence was felt, but he thought your absence had to do with what happened between you and him, not what apparently happened between you and Becca.

"Years ago," she replies simply.

"Becca."

"What? You asked, I answered."

Bucky stays silent, staring at his sister expectantly. She glances at him briefly, biting the inside of her lip knowing her brother is too stubborn to not keep pushing for more answers. "We stopped being friends after our first year of college. Things were already rocky when we started, but… I don't know we drifted apart—things happened." Her response was vague, like it took effort to reach into the past and look for a proper explanation.

"Things?" He couldn't help, but keep pushing.

Rebecca sighs, "Yeah, things. New friends, boyfriends, different schedules—look, it was a lot of things, but mainly she changed. A lot."

"What do you mean she changed?"

She rolls her eyes, Bucky evidently having pushed her too much, "God, what's with all the questions? Why do you even care?"

The truth is on the tip of his tongue, but he's too much of a coward to let it out. "I don't know, maybe because the three of us were best friends from the moment you two were put in the same kindergarten class. Because we were basically like family to each other."

"Yeah, well, that's in the past now."

The sadness in her voice tugs at Bucky's heart, watching her slump in her seat. It's obvious she wants the conversation to end, retreating into herself the way that she is. Whatever happened between you still weighs heavy on her heart. Whatever Bucky hoped to learn about you upon his return will have to wait. He thought his sister would be the one to give him answers, but all she managed to do was raise more questions.

Bucky turns to face the window, deciding it's best to not bring you up anymore. Rebecca's shoulders relax at that, reaching over to turn on the radio so the music can fill the tense silence. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the music, but nothing can stop his thoughts from drifting to things he's been avoiding.

When he first decided to take a longer break than he usually gives himself, it was to give himself a chance to figure out what comes next. Racing professionally had always been his dream, but once he achieved it, he felt lost on the after. His racing career took off when he was young, too young to understand when something takes off so fast and bigger than himself, some people get left behind in the dust.

For years, his racing career was overwhelming in the best way. Making a name for himself, proving he was good enough, was all he strived for. His parents and sister had always been supportive, even when certain family members gave their unwanted opinions on how he'd never make it, certain he'd fail. And even though they only got to see him during the holidays or when he flew them out to one of his competitions, his parents and Rebecca cheered him on every step of the way. Promotions, sponsorships, media events, touring—it took up all his time for over half a decade.

But when he finally has made a name for himself, when he finally has the fame, the recognition, when he always wins… what's the next big thing he has to look forward to?

That question brought him back here, back home. Feeling lost on his purpose and fulfillment in life made him come back to where it all started. But being back here brings him back to you. And back to the biggest regret of his entire life.

Beyond the window of the car, the streets stretch out into something more familiar. They pass his old high school, the local bakery his mother used to send him to get fresh bread every week, the street that leads to his father's office, the corner store where your first boyfriend used to work, a sleazy guy he remembers punching the hell out of in that very corner for breaking your heart. They pass a park that's been here for ages, the rusty almost rundown playground evidence of its lack of maintenance, but all the years of usage. He remembers taking you and Becca there all the time when you were kids. Chasing you two with his friends around the playground, or pushing you on the wings just a little harder every time to hear you laugh harder. Every inch of this town were where his roots were founded on and surely it must have the answers to what he's looking for.

It takes another fifteen minutes before Becca pulls into the driveway of their childhood home, a cozy light blue two story building with his mother's meticulously cared for flower beds with blue and pink hydrangeas proudly displayed in the front. There's more cars on the street than he last remembered, but he guesses the number neighbors must have grown since the last time he's been here. It wouldn't be the only thing that's changed since then.

Bucky steps out of the car, wondering if maybe he has a chance to take a nap before dinner. He vaguely listens to his sister ramble on about their mother's plans for tonight as he opens the backseat door to get his suitcase. Becca is whining about how they'll probably have to play Yahtzee for the millionth time, when he gathers his things and follows behind her.

His sister walks to the side of the house, confusing Bucky until she explains. "Gotta use the side door, the front's stuck again." Right. At least that's another thing that stayed consistent. No matter how many times his father or Bucky put in the effort to fix the door, it somehow always managed to get stuck. And his father was always too stubborn to replace it no matter how many time his mother asked him to. Stubbornness seems to run in the family.

They step into the backyard, and Bucky was halfway through making an amused comment about his father not fixing that damn door when a loud cacophony of the word surprise startles him. When Becca had mentioned the word everything earlier, when it came to what their parents had prepared for him, what she meant was a welcome party. Various family members and friends of the family were all gathered to welcome him home at least forty people. Tables were set up in neat rows decorated with blue race car table covers to match the balloons tied to each ends. Blue pennant banners were strewn from tree to tree, and whatever his parents were cooking at the grill had his stomach growling like he hadn't eaten in weeks.

So much for hoping to take a nap.

Bucky is touched by the effort his family put in to welcome him home. Although, from the moment he stepped into the backyard he isn't left alone. His mother comes over to engulf him in a hug that is larger than life itself. His father gives him a welcoming hug too before insisting he needs to sit down and eat. Bucky lost count on how many cousins, uncles, aunts, family friends, and others came up to him to welcome him home, hugging him, patting him on the back, and passing him around from greeting to greeting. Once he finally gets a moment to sit down his parents pile up enough cheeseburgers on his plate to stuff him full for a whole week.

The celebrations are enough to keep his mind off of other things for awhile. Between savoring some home cooked food, sharing stories and catching up his cousins on his adventures, and being pulled into a game of dodgeball, he barely has time to think of anything else. And yet, every so often, his eyes drift to different sections of the party as if they were searching for something. He could lie to himself about not what, but who he was searching for. Someone he foolishly hoped would be hear despite what he was told.

By the time the sun starts to set in the sky, Bucky can feel his energy deplete to a point where he can no longer hide it. It's an exhaustion that goes beyond having to evade dodgeballs to the face. Things have started to settle and everyone's migrated to their own corner of the yard depending on whether they wanted to keep playing games, relax by the bonfire, or eat leftovers. He spots his mother at the grill heating up leftovers and he makes his way over to her.

"Need some help, Ma?" He asks, grabbing one of the tongs not waiting for her answer. His mother shakes her head, "I got it, hun. You go back to having fun." She tries to get him back to the party, but at that Bucky shakes his head, scrunching his face up with a clear I don't want to look. His mother laughs at his expression and then instructs him to help out with the burger patties. She starts asking him about his travel here and how he's been liking his party, little things and start conversation. Bucky's giving her simple answers when he looks out at the guests one more time, biting on his bottom lip absentmindedly. His mother can tell he's distracted, and more than that. It seems like she knows exactly what's going on in his head.

"She wasn't invited," she starts, causing Bucky to whip his head in her direction, eyes wide like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing as she continues, "It's not like your dad and I didn't want to, but your sister was against it."

"What?" Bucky sounds and looks dumbfounded, and his mother can only respond with a short exhale. She says your name, and Bucky's heart races and breaks all in one. "How did you—?"

"You can't hide things from your mother, James," his mother interjects as if it were obvious. He gaze locks with his mother's for a moment, and there's something close to pity in them. She's right. He was never one to lie to his mother, much less be able to.

A defeated sigh slips past his lips, "Is it stupid I thought she'd be here?" His mother prepares another leftover plate as she responds, "No, not at all," she hands the plate to one of his younger cousins who scurries off with it. "She wouldn't have come if she had been invited anyway."

Bucky clears his throat, suddenly feeling like there's something stuck in it. "Why not?" His mother gives him a look, like she has something to say, but no explanation for it. "I talk to her mom every so often, maybe once a month. She's told me they barely have any contact with her. No one really knows where she is."

"What? And no one's gone looking for her?" Bucky can't believe what he's hearing. His question has no short of worry in it, and he doesn't bother to hide it. The thought of you being out there somewhere and no one knowing—no one even bothering to look—it didn't sit right with him. It settles within him as well as poison would.

His mother's lips draw into a thin line, a somber look in her eyes. "I'm sure they've tried. I know her parents have, but it's not easy when your kids shut you out. Especially when they're in trouble." Bucky's heart sinks, "Trouble? What trouble?" His mother starts preparing another plate, like she needs something to do, "I'm not sure, hun. Her parents don't know and even your sister hasn't been forthcoming with the way things ended between them. All I know is she got mixed in with the wrong crowd and ended up dropping out of college. The last time I saw her was when Becca found out and they had a screaming match over it. I don't think I've ever seen your sister so angry…"

Out of all the thing Bucky could have been preparing himself to hear about you from his mother, none of this would have ever come close. There's something sickly brewing in his stomach and he thinks if he hears another word of your apparent disappearance, he'll spill his dinner all over the grill.

His mother can tell something is off, so she promptly sends him to bed. He wants to protest until he realizes he burned the burger patty he had been reheating and agrees some rest would be for the best. His mother gives him a goodnight hug and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Everyone at the gathering is still preoccupied with their own things, so Bucky forgoes any farewells and instead slips inside the house without anyone noticing. Every step up the stairs and toward his childhood bedroom feels heavier than the last.

When he enters his room, there's an appreciative smile that appears on his face when he realizes not much has changed in here either. He can tell his mother has changed the sheets and installed one of those little air freshener devices in preparation for his coming home. And besides his suitcase in the corner, which he still has to thank his father for bringing it up for him, everything else is exactly the same. Which isn't saying much since he's always kept his room simple the older he got. A few racing posters on his walls, shelves decorated with knickknacks, a bookcase filled with books he has yet to revisit, there's not much besides that.

He strips out of his clothes lazily just wanting to get into bed already, when his eyes stray to his desk. He knows why they did. He knows what he'll find when he looks. And yet, he walks over to it anyway, feeling the lump in his throat grow when he sees it's been left untouched. Above his desk on the wall there's a bulletin board frozen in time to the last time he ever used it. He has pictures pinned all across it, happy memories from his childhood with you with him in almost all of them. Every birthday card and letter you ever wrote him is pinned on the board too. Anything you ever gave him he saved and treasured down to the smallest thing. Even to the four leaf clover you once found, gently tucking it between tape for safe keeping. Giving it to him as a good luck charm, promising him it would help him win every race he ever dreamed up as long as he kept it close.

He keeps it in his wallet to this day.

Bucky blinks away the tears he can feel forming in the corner of his eyes. He finds himself more than upset now, maybe even bordering on an anxious frustration as he wills himself to look away. He hastily strips out of his clothes and climbs into his bed, hoping that his mind can quiet once he's bundled up in it. But of course that's not the case. All he can think about now is you. Why would you disappear? Why would you leave and tell no one? Why does no one know where you are? Why did you and Becca get into a big fight and stop being friends?

And why does he feel like it's all his fault?

As he drifts off into a restless slumber, there's a final image that haunts him. It's you. Holding back tears as you look at him with the kind of ire he deserved, but never excepted he would ever have caused you.

That image takes him back to where it all ended.

It happened at his parent's lake house, the summer after his sophomore year of college concluded. The summer you and Becca graduated high school, and had to adjust transitioning into adulthood and newfound independence. Your families had thrown a big graduation party for the two of you, but it was a little too family friendly for Bucky's liking. So without telling his parents, a couple weeks later, he threw a massive party at his parent's lake house in celebration of you two.

You had always held a special place in Bucky's heart, there was no denying that. Whether you or Bucky acknowledged it was another thing entirely. Your friendship with Bucky was just as deeply bonded as yours and Rebecca's, but it was different in its own way. Somehow you found yourself being more vulnerable with Bucky about your fears of the future, about school and life. There were times you wanted to appear strong or dependable to Becca when she was going through a rough patch, and yet Bucky was always able to crumble down your walls almost as if those walls didn't exist when it came to him. From patching up a cut on your knee you'd gotten when you were six while playing hopscotch, to holding you close and soothing you when you cried over your first boyfriend breaking your heart—Bucky had always been there for you. The trust between you ran deep, deep in a way that felt rooted in something tied to your souls.

Perhaps that's what always frightened him about acting on his feelings. If he ever told you how he truly felt, that he loved you in ways that went far beyond just friends, and you didn't feel the same or it didn't work out—he'd lose you for good. And the thought of that, he couldn't even imagine it. Not having you in his life. He honestly thought he'd never survive that.

Nothing was supposed to happen that night. He kept his drinks to a minimum, not wanting to get drunk so he could watch over the party guests. He threw it without his parents knowledge or permission, the last thing he needed was to have an accident happen that he couldn't explain away. You hadn't been drinking much, if at all, either. Mingling throughout the party a little lost since Becca had been hanging out with her boyfriend at the time. Bucky shouldn't have gone over to you when you were standing in the corner by yourself, but he did. He shouldn't have invited you to dance, but he wanted to so badly, so he did.

But he should've known things would end in more than a dance. Having you so close, your body pressed against his, touching him, all over him—it drove him crazy. Careful touches at your hips and waist turned into greedy handfuls that couldn't be satisfied despite the lack of distance. It lead to you two kissing for the first time, desperate and inevitable. And that one kiss led to two then three, until the two of you stumbled up the stairs, not being able to keep your hands or lips off of each other as you made your way to Bucky's bedroom. It led to Bucky caging you underneath him on his bed, kissing you senselessly until the heat between you became too much and you slept together for the first time.

The next morning, you were tucked into his side with his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight to his chest like it would hurt him to let you go. You looked so peaceful in your sleep, beautiful as the morning sunlight blanketed your form. Bucky didn't want to get up, but he knew he had to survey whatever potential damage was leftover from the party and possibly kick out anyone who overstayed their welcome. He kissed your forehead, whispering a promise of not taking too long before slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He groaned inwardly as he made his way downstairs, hoping the damage wasn't too bad. But a quick survey of the house settled his worry. Every room was trashed, but at least nothing seemed broken or irreparably stained. When Bucky made his way back to the living room he noticed Sam, his closest friend, stirring awake on the crouch.

"You crashed on the couch?" Bucky eyed his friend weirdly, he hated sleeping on couches. Sam yawned, stretching dramatically, "Yeah, figured you'd need help cleaning up."

"Aw, aren't you sweet."

"Shut up."

Sam threw a pillow at Bucky's head, which he dodged at the last second. Sam sat up on the couch, scratching the back of his head like he was still trying to come to, "Saw you two go up to your room last night. Congrats on finally getting the guts to make a move—thought you'd never do it. I can hear the bells already," Sam teased, humming out the tune for 'here comes the bride' while wiggling his brows at Bucky suggestively. Bucky can't remember why, can't understand why, but he panicked in that moment. The image of you in a wedding dress and saying I do freaked him out so badly because for the first time it dawned on him that's something that he wanted. But you were both still so young, with so much life and experiences to love ahead of you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. He didn't even know if you liked him like he loved you.

Fuck, he's in love with you.

Bucky tried to play it cool. Tried to ignore the way his heart squeezed uncomfortably with the truth. He shook his head, playing it down, "Nah, it… it was just an itch I had to scratch. Nothing more. Just something I needed to get out of my system…" Sam was not amused by his lies, painfully seeing through them, "Bullshit. You and I both know you're hopelessly in love with that girl." Bucky's mouth opened to deny it, but another hard look from Sam had him crumbling.

"I know I know. And I think I messed everything up." Bucky slumped on the couch next to Sam, a devastated look on his face. Sam definitely was judging him. "You did not mess anything up, Buck."

"No I did. I wanted to do this the right way, ask her out on a date. Treat her right, like she deserves to be. Show her what she means to me—" A couch pillow hit Bucky square in the face, stopping him mid sentence. "Buck, you're spiraling, stop it. You didn't mess anything up. Trust me, just go up there and tell her how you feel."

Bucky rubbed at his face, soothing it from the hit, "But what if she doesn't feel the same?" Sam looked like he was two seconds from throwing another pillow, "I'm starting to think those engine fumes have caused you to go stupid or blind. Buck, that girl is so in love with you."

For a brief moment, Bucky dared to hope that Sam was right. That you do feel the same. That you'd want it to work out between you as much as he does. But then the image of you in a wedding dress flashed across his mind again, and that unrelenting voice in his head made him doubt everything once more. A voice that strangely sounded like his uncles. His father's brothers who constantly let him know how his racing career would never work out. How he'll never make good enough money and he'll just disappoint his parents. How he should just play it safe, smart. Become an accountant like his father and get rid of those silly childhood dreams because his parents didn't give up everything for him just to go "play racer." Scolding him like a child to stop being so ungrateful with his parents and get a proper job so he can take care of them like they took care of him. Voices of people who were supposed to love and encourage him and instead reminded him everyday that he wasn't good enough to ever achieve his dreams.

And if he wasn't good enough for his dreams, then he certainly wasn't good enough for you.

"Even if she is," Bucky swallowed hard, the words feeling bitter on his tongue, "even if we are, she deserves so much more than what I can give her right now."

"Buck."

"No, I mean it. Her life's just starting Sam. She's going to her dream college, finally getting away from this town like she's always wanted to," Bucky shook his head, like admitting his fears cost him something, "I'm pursuing something I don't even know will work out. And if it doesn't… I don't want to drag her into that. I don't want to drag her into my failures."

Sam sighed, feeling for his friend, "You're not going to fail, Buck. And even if you do—loves so much more than the good times. It's being there despite what happens, despite the obstacles." Bucky mulls over his friend's words knowing there's some truth to them. But, unfortunately, the voice in the back of his mind refused to let him go.

"Yeah, but loves also about walking away when the timing isn't right."

"Not when, if. You don't know which one it is yet."

With those last words, Bucky managed to find the courage to go back up those steps and back to you. With his heart on his sleeve, his hopes in the palm of your hands, and his blood pumping a mile a minute. But when he opened the door to his room, you were already making your way out of it. Eyes wide and teary when they narrowed on him.

"Hey, baby, hey," he reached out to cup your face, "What's wrong?" You flinched back from his hold like his hands were made of ice, his heart stopped. "Nothing. I'm fine," you bite out, clearly holding back. He stood his ground, "You know you've never been able to lie to me, come on tell me what's wrong." He pleaded, feeling distressed at your change in attitude.

"Nothing is wrong, just let me through already," you tried pushing past him, but his arm shot out between you and the doorway. "No. Not until we talk. Not until you tells me what's going on." He tried to get you to look at him, but your eyes were on everything but him.

"Bucky—" He cut you off by saying your name in a way that sounded somewhere between utter devotion and utter devastation. You sighed, broken and like you had something caught in your throat. "There's nothing we have to talk about, nothing important anyway."

Now that stung. Bucky would have preferred you slapping him across the face instead.

"What? So did last night mean nothing to you?" Bucky didn't stop the anger that was seeping through his hurt. You looked like you didn't know what to say or did and just didn't want to, "That's not what I said. And it doesn't matter what I think of it anyway. You got what you wanted." Bucky stared at you, scoffing in offense, "I got what I wanted? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what I mean," you said with a finality that caused him to panic. You tried evading his arm by ducking below it. But he was faster than you and stopped you from getting past him. He was frustrated by your vagueness and confused on what you tried telling him without really telling him anything. This was a complete switch up from last night and he didn't know how to handle it.

"Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but just listen to me, sweetheart. I know I can't… I know I'm not," He ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated that he couldn't put his vulnerabilities into words, "My career's just starting. There's big opportunities ahead of me and I know I'm not guaranteed success. I'm not thinking of…I don't want to make any mistakes—" That last word, he should've never used that word. Because you didn't even let him finish when something between a cynical laugh and broken sob came out of you. "I get it. I was a mistake."

Bucky was quick in his attempt to shut that accusation down, "No! No! Absolutely not, that is not what I said," you tried to squeeze past him again, but this time he held onto your arm, "Would you please just listen to me?" You pushed at his chest, hard enough to hurt, the ire in your eyes and tone made his blood run cold. "Don't touch me." There was something close to hatred in your voice and that had him stunned, frozen in place. He was so stunned he could only watch you walk away to the guest bedroom. By the time he came to on what happened, he ran to chase after you only to have you slam the door right in his face. And no matter how hard he knocked, how long he waited, how much he pleaded into the wooden oak for you to talk to him, you never responded.

He was heartbroken beyond what you could every imagine. He couldn't understand where everything went wrong and why you were so upset. He wanted to talk to you, but he also knew he needed to give you space to cool down. He figured at some point in the day he'd be able to get you aside for a private conversation and clear things up.

He was wrong.

That small glimpse of you before the door slammed in his face was the last time he saw you for the next six whole years.

Reliving that moment in his dream was so vivid it startles him awake. Chest heaving, and face covered in sweat as the memory of that regretful morning resurfaces. Thinking back to the way you looked at him, to the way you spoke to him—it's enough to rip his heart to pieces all over again.

Even after all these years he still doesn't understand what happened back then, what had you so upset. At first he thought it was over his slip up and using that damn word, mistake. But thinking back on that moment throughout the years, he realized you had been upset before that. Something happened between falling asleep that night and him going up those stairs the next morning to confess to you that had set you off. And to this day he hasn't figured out what it was. The absence of you in his life, the hollow cavity losing you left in his chest—that's all he's really come to understand.

Bucky is surrounded by the darkness of his room, the crescent moon in the sky not providing much light to filter in through the window. His room suddenly feels stuffy, and the ache in his chest seems like it's going nowhere any time soon, so he gets up and decides to take a hot shower. Hoping maybe that can help him relax. He's in and out before he knows it, careful to not make too much noise in the hallway as to not wake his parents or his sister in case she stayed for the night. Thankfully, the bathroom's right across the hall from him, so there's not much noise he can make anyway.

By the time Bucky's back in his room he catches the screen on his phone light up. He reaches for it where it lies on his nightstand, seeing he's gotten a couple recent messages. He frowns when he looks at the time, it's just past midnight. Who could be texting him at this hour?

Mini Falcon: Heard you're back in town! You do not want to miss this.

Mini Falcon: [Attachment: 1 movie]

Bucky has an idea of what he's going to find when he opens the video from his old street racing friend. When he clicks on the video, sure enough it's Joaquin showing off a car meet he's at. There's a crowd of people already forming, showing off their cars and probably figuring out who's going to race tonight. He plays the video a few times, reminiscing on his street racing days, and a little envious at how nice some of the cars have gotten. God, there's no amount of money he wouldn't have bet to get a chance to race against some of those machines.

On one of his rewinds, he spots someone in the background that catches his eye. No, not someone, not just anyone.

It's you.

Bucky's jaw drop comically, pausing the video and hating how pixelated it looks when he zooms in, but even through the blurriness he swears that's you. An older you for sure, but it's still you nonetheless. He's recognize you anywhere. You're laughing with a brunette and a blonde, he thinks maybe they're you're friends.

But what the hell are you doing there? Since when are you involved in the street racing scene?

Bucky's mind is working a mile a minute, but if that is you—which he sure it is—he can't miss this opportunity to see you. Especially not after finding out no one knows where you are. If he's found you, then he's taking the chance to bring you home.

Bucky texts Joaquin back asking for the location of the car meet. He's scrambling to look decent, throwing open his suitcase and putting on the first outfit he finds, a matching pair of black sweatpants and hoodie, topping it off with a jean jacket and cap for good measure.

When he looks at his phone again Joaquin's sent him the location of the car meet, and when he puts it in his phone's maps it shows it's being held at an abandoned industrial complex in the next town, over thirty minutes away. With his skills he knows he can get there in half the time, so he wastes no more in getting ready and heading out the door. Extremely grateful that his father kept up with the maintence of his first car, a modified Honda Civic, and he has something of his own to get him there.

Just as he thought, he's able to get to the meet in half the expected time. He vaguely remembers racing here once or twice, which means he also remembers how it's one of the easier spots to get caught at because of the parameters of the race. He decides to park his car a few blocks away, hidden and tucked into a parking lot, a large patch of overgrown foliage and trees obstructing the view of it to anyone passing by. He makes his way over to the car meet on foot, locating it by the booming music echoing throughout the abandoned walls of the complex.

And yet, despite the music and all the engine revving getting louder as he approaches, he can still hear Joaquin's laugh above all that.

When Joaquin spots Bucky, he excitedly waves him over to where he's resting on the hood of what Bucky assumes is his car. "Bucky, man you made it!" They greet each other with one of those hand clasping, one armed embraces that guys do. "Yeah, after seeing the video you sent I knew I couldn't miss it." Bucky responds, making Joaquin grin, "Told you," he points to the guy next to him, "This is my friend Bob. Bob this is Bucky thee legendary Bullet." The man standing next to Joaquin turns to Bucky impressed, his doe eyes wide in awe as they greet each other. Bucky shakes his head, side eyeing Joaquin as if saying 'he's exaggerating'.

"He used to win all the races back in the day, he set all the records," Joaquin adds.

Bucky was going to say something when Bob beat him to it, "All the records Blitz beat?"

"Blitz?" Bucky inquires, not remembering that name in the roster of racers he knew back when he was racing here. Joaquin nods to the car positioned in the middle of the lineup race, a gorgeous blue Nissan GT-R Bucky's sure has been tuned up like hell. "That's what they call her. She's part of Rumlow's crew."

That catches Bucky's attention, "Rumlow's got a crew now?"

Joaquin hums in confirmation, "A few years back he got into a nasty car wreck. Car went up in flames and fucked up his body. He can't race now, so he got a crew to do that and his dirty work for him."

"Dirty work?"

Joaquin shrugs, "Don't know much about it. I just know he imports illegal parts from overseas to modify his cars, but I stay out of whatever they got going on."Bucky makes a clicking noise with his tongue, feeling sorry for any unlucky bastard that got stuck working for Rumlow.

"His crew hard to beat?" Bucky can't help but ask, reminiscing on all the times he beat Rumlow in a race. If his crews anything like him, then they're probably not that good. Bob is the one who answers his question, "Nope. Blitz is the best racer he's got. When he wants a certified win he has her race." Bucky takes that information in. If at any point he wanted to relive his street racing days, then it seems Blitz is the one to beat.

The three of them chat for another while. Bucky learns that Bob races too—for a team called the Thunderbolts—although he's still pretty new at it, so there's much he has to learn. Bucky offers to teach Bob a few things while he's in town and Bob seems more than eager to learn from him. Joaquin and Bob try to catch Bucky up on all the new faces in the racing scene, but it's too many names at once for him to really take anything in. Once the race starts, Bucky excuses himself from them, pretending like he saw someone he wanted to go catch up with so he could step away.

In reality, he's going back to concentrate on what he really came for. To find you.

He weaves through the crowds of people gathered, being careful not to bump into any of the showcase vehicles. As much as his eyes want to stray to admire them, he keeps his mind focused on you. He pays close attention to every single face he passes, hope blooming and then dying in his chest when he walks past someone that looks like you. When he circles back to where he started he's distraught at the realization that he might've missed you.

He goes back to Joaquin feeling dejected and like he has to start all over again with something he never really started. Bob is no longer standing with Joaquin, and Bucky barely catches the finish of the race. As expected by what he was told, Blitz comes in first with Yelena, one of Bob's teammates he pointed out to Bucky earlier, coming in a close second. He can't remember the names of the other races and quite frankly he doesn't care. They're not why he came here.

Although, even though Bucky only got a glimpse of how the race finished and a bit of the start, he's seen enough to know that whoever is racing for Rumlow is good—really good. Blitz drives like the car she's in is an extension of her body and she knows how to get it to do exactly what she wants it to. She's got the kind of control he's only seen with a handful of drivers. Him being one of them.

He finds it impressive.

Blitz's car door opens, and there's a small part of him that's anticipating putting a face to the name. And when Blitz steps out of the car, he finds himself receiving the shock of a lifetime for the second time that night.

You are the one to step out of the car.

You are Blitz.

That means, you're the one who's part of Rumlow's crew.

Shit.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

Bucky is convinced this has to be a dream, he's rubbing the hell out of his eyes in hopes that it is. But it's not. You're standing by your car with a self-satisfied smile on your face as you're handed the winnings of the race. Yelena steps out of her car and heads toward you with a giant grin, congratulating you on your win. It's clear you two are friends. You look every part of belonging here and he doesn't know what to do with that.

Bucky clears his throat, bumping Joaquin's shoulder, "Hey, is that..?" He can't even finish the sentence, but Joaquin doesn't need him to as he follows the direction Bucky is looking in. "Blitz? Yeah, that's her." Joaquin's confirmation only makes the pit in Bucky's stomach grow. "And you said she's part of Rumlow's crew?"

Joaquin nods, not understanding the weight of what Bucky is asking. "Yeah, I don't know much about what else she does for him, but she's his main racer. Any time he wants a guaranteed win he sends her." Bucky's scared to know, but he has to ask, "And when you mention that Rumlow's got some shady business going on, how shady are we talking?"

"Class B felonies dude," Joaquin says it like it's gossip and not the worst news he could've possibly given Bucky. At his silence, Joaquin gives Bucky a look over. "Are you good? Bro, you look like you're about to spill your guts—literally." Joaquin steps back a bit just in case Bucky does.

"I know her."

"Who?"

"Blitz." He says your real name after. The name he knows you by, the name he knew you by.

"Oh shit." Joaquin doesn't know what to say. Not with Bucky looking like he's seen a ghost. "Look, dude, she's friends with Yelena and Kate, they're good friends of mine and I know they're always looking out for her. I'm sure she's okay. Maybe Rumlow's only got her racing, not in his other shit." Joaquin attempts to comfort Bucky, but it doesn't seem like what he said did at all.

"Yeah, maybe…"

"Are you gonna go talk to her or just stare at her with your mouth open?" Joaquin teases, trying to lighten the mood. Bucky shuts his mouth and glares at Joaquin causing him to laugh. Bucky roles his eyes at him, Joaquin might've grown up, but he's still like that annoying little brother he remembers. He won't tell him, but Bucky is a grateful to have that unchanged connection to his old friend.

Joaquin's words might've not done much to comfort Bucky, but his teasing was enough to give Bucky the push to walk away from him and toward you. Joaquin whistles to cheer Bucky on, throwing some words his way that resemble good luck. Bucky shakes his head, wondering how crazy you're going to think he is for finding you here.

Every step closer Bucky is to you throws his nerves into high gear. You've already gotten your car and yourself away from the concrete race track. Somewhere over by the corner where a cluster of smaller buildings and a smaller group of people were in. He really doesn't know what to expect once he finally reaches you, or what he'll say, but he knows he can't leave without trying.

The moment you spot him approaching time seems to freeze, your eyes widening and your lips parting like you can't believe what your eyes are seeing. But just as fast as the shock hits your face, you mask it with indifference, but the iciness in your gaze is something he feels penetrate down to his bones.

He sees the door slamming in his face again. The look you gave him the last time he saw you, staring at him through the closing door like he had reached into your chest and snatched your heart right out of its cavity. And now? Now, you were glowering at him like you would put a bullet through his head and not bat an eye. Eyes looking at him with such a disdain it makes him feel physically ill.

When he finally reaches you, Bucky can only come up with one word, "Hey." He says lamely, quietly like there's an obstruction in his throat. You blink at him, crossing your arms as your friends at your side give him wary glances.

"You." Is all you say back, the word coming out almost like an accusation. Bucky grimaces, but he knows he deserves that so he tries to stay calm. He doesn't say anything else, but he glances at Yelena and who he guesses is Kate next to you, before his eyes find yours again, feeling a bit awkward at involving anyone else in your conversation.

You sigh, taking the hint, turning to your friends to ask them for a bit of space. The girls don't look happy about it, but they listen to you. Kate doesn't spare him another glance while Yelena makes sure to give him one hard glare, acting like she'd break his arm if you asked her to.

He really hopes you don't.

"Please, don't look at me like that," he finds himself saying, to which you barely react to. There's clearly a wall you've built between you, one he doesn't know how to lower for the first time in his life.

"Like what."

"Like I'm the last person you'd wanna see here."

"Well," you shrug like that's enough of an answer. Bucky takes a tentative step closer to you, making you tense up. Your reaction makes something break inside him. He steps back, feeling too many emotions all at once. A frustration at you running away, fear at you working for Rumlow, disheartened at the way you're acting like he's a stranger—confusion over everything that has and hasn't happened in the last six years. It all accumulates the second he has you this close again.

"What the hell are you even doing here?" He didn't mean for the question to come out as harsh as it did. "Excuse me? What the hell are you doing here?" You throw the question back at him with bit of venom in your tone. He elects to ignore it.

"Looking for you," he replies honestly. And that catches you off guard, he can see it written all over your face. "A friend invited me to come watch the race, sent me a video and everything. I saw you in the background of it and I thought I was seeing things. But I had to come see for myself only to find out that not only are you a racer, but you're racing for fucking Rumlow of all people. What the hell is that about?"

You wave him off, "It's none of your concern." He says your name like you're testing his patience. "It's not," you reiterate, rolling your eyes and leaning on the hood of your car, “It’s not even that big of a deal.” 

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bucky growls out with something deeper than frustration, debating on whether or not he should just drag your ass back home instead of trying to reason with you. You stare at him like you could bite his head off. "I haven't seen you in years and all of a sudden you want to show up here and act like you're looking out for me? Fuck off, Bucky," you raise your voice at him, your own anger increasing by the minute. Bucky's arms shoot out in exasperation, tired of you twisting his actions and words into something negative, "I am looking out for you! I did all my life and that care doesn't just go away because I left for some time."

"Six years," you correct him, the heaviness of all the time apart settling between you like a wound that hasn't healed. He swallows hard, letting out a shaky breath, "Doesn't matter, sweetheart. I thought about you all the damn time during those years. I cared about you then, and I care about you now."

You don't believe him, scoffing, "I'm sure you do." He doesn't know how to get through to you. Feeling as though his efforts are going nowhere. "I'm serious. I've been thinking about you all damn day since I got here—its been driving me crazy. Especially after Becca told me you two stopped being friends. What happened there?"

"It's none of your business," you're quick to say—too quick.

He says your name again, but this time in a plea, but you're done talking. "I'm serious, Bucky, fuck off. None of this is of your concern, none of this is your business. Leave me alone."

"No."

Before you can even start ripping him a new one, the music is cut off. Someone's voice can be heard yelling, warning everyone to get the hell out as the cops are on their way. Bucky doesn't hesitate, having through this same scenario many times before. You don't even see it coming, how fast he swipes the keys from your hand, rushing over to the driver's side of your car.

"Get in the car," he urges, and you're smart enough not to argue with him over this. He can tell you're biting your tongue as you get in the passenger's side of the car, not at all happy with him being the driver. Bucky turns on the ignition and speeds out of the industrial complex while others still scramble to get into their cars and do the same. He doesn't drive in the same direction as everyone else. Making a swift u-turn in the opposite direction everyone else is going. He ignores your protests directing him on which way to go and drives the car in the direction he left his. You don't know what he's doing until he ends up back in the secluded parking lot, parking right next to his car. There's no doubt you recognize it, having been in it more times than he can count. He shuts off the engine, making everything go quiet. There's only one streetlight working, the light flickering every so often making it even harder to see the cars past the foliage. If anyone were to drive by at this time of night, there's absolutely no chance you'd be seen.

The tension in the car is palpable, thick with everything left there is to say between you. Bucky's holding his breath like even his breathing could set you off at any moment.

"You can get out now," you say after a painfully long silence. "Not until we talk," Bucky sees the way the word spark that anger in you again. "I don't want to talk." Bucky shrugs, leaning back in the seat like he's got at all night to go back and forth, "That's too damn bad, 'cause I'm not leaving until we do." He pockets your keys in the chest pocket of his jacket, not giving you a chance to take them back.

"You're fucking unbelievable," you growl out, getting out of the car and slamming the door closed. You practically stomp your way to the other side, yanking the driver door open. "Get out," you grind out through gritted teeth.

"Don't want to."

"James."

You used his first name, clearly he's pushing you past your limits, and truthfully he doesn't want that. He just wants you to talk to him, that's all he wants. He wants to get to the bottom of whats going on with you in hopes he can help you in some way. So he gets out of the car, slower than you'd like him to, stepping to the side to give you enough room to look inside and notice your keys are missing.

"Barnes, give me my keys."

"Not until we talk."

"Are you serious?

"Deadly."

You let the door shut, before holding out your hand expectantly, ignoring his request. "Bucky give me back the keys, the car isn't mine. I have to take it back to Rumlow." Bucky's worry only grows at your words, "Why are you working for him? How did you get involved with him?"

"It's a long story."

"I got time."

"Well I don't."

You're at a stand still, neither of you willing to budge. But in the interest of moving things along, you're the first to break. "My ex got me into this mess alright? Now I gotta get myself out of it. It's that simple," you explain, but Bucky isn't satisfied with just that. "What mess?"

You take a deep breath before confessing, eyes lowering to the ground, "I dated Rumlow's cousin for about a year. I didn't know they were cousins back then, and I didn't know about the family business. He swiped some money from Rumlow and then disappeared. Since I was the girlfriend, Rumlow made me responsible for paying off the money my ex stole." At the revelation of your predicament, of you being taken advantage of, Bucky has to take a deep breath and reign in his anger before he takes his car over to Rumlow's and finishes off what the car wreck didn't.

"How much?" He's apprehensive to ask, but he needs to know. You shrug, "I don't know the exact amount. I just know it's in the six figures." Bucky's heart drops, blood running cold with dread, "Fuck, sweetheart," a beat passes as his head wraps around the amount of debt Rumlow's put you in, "How much do you have left to pay off?" You shrug again, "I don't know, Rumlow adds interest every time I race with one of his cars or some other bullshit reason. I don't think he's gonna let me go any time soon." His jaw clenches so tight, you'd think he's about to break a tooth.

"Let me go with you, let me talk to him," he says it not like he's asking you, but like he's letting you know in advance you're not doing this alone. You shake your head, refusing, "No, absolutely not."

"He knows me. I used to race against him all the time. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and let me help you." They weren't friends by any means, but there had always been a mutual respect between them.

"I don't want your help. I don't need your help." You deny, but Bucky isn't having any of that. "Yes you do. Look at you. You run away from home, you drop out of college, no one knows where you are, and Rumlow's got you racing and doing his dirty work." You bristle at being reminded of your situation. Like if it were the first time anyone's said it out loud and addressed it head on with you.

"And why do you give a fuck? I'm not your responsibility, Bucky," you spit out, making Bucky feel like he's back to square one with you. But this time, you've ran through the last of his patience. "Fuck, this isn't about that! I give a fuck because I care! I give a fuck because despite all these years you still mean everything to me! Because the thought of anything happening to you would actually kill me." His admission causes you to lock eyes with him and within yours he can see something is cracking, he's getting through to you.

"Shut up, and go," you whisper out the words weakly, but he shakes his head, "No. I'm not leaving you. Not again," he cups your face, brushing away a stray tear from your cheek, "I don't fully understand why you ran, although I can take a pretty good guess its got to do with that piece of shit…," a horrifying thought strikes him, "Is he threatening you?"

You tense in his hold, "Bucky drop it."

"He is, isn't he?"

Your silence is the only confirmation he needs.

A few things finally start connecting for him, "That's why your parents don't know where you are, why you barley contact them. Is he also why you and Becca stopped being friends?" The mention of Becca has you stepping out of grasp, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides, "Becca and I stopped being friends before that. So you don't have to worry about her being mixed up in this mess."

"So why did you? Is it because of us? Because of what happened between us?" He doesn't think he's ready for the answer. But he should know better by now that answers from you don't come easily.

"Nothing happened between us."

"No, don't brush it off like it meant nothing."

"Well I wouldn't be the first to do that."

There you go again being vague and cryptic—and sounding accusatory toward him when he doesn't even know what he did. "Are you saying that because of the whole mistake thing? You don't even know what I was actually going to say. You didn't even let me finish what I wanted to say back then. Not before you stormed out of my room and slammed that door in my face. Before you blocked me on everything and I couldn't even reach out to talk to you."

His grievances don't seem to move you, "Seems like you still haven't gotten the hint." Bucky doesn't know how many more of your dismissals he can take, so he decides to leave it all out in the open once and for all. "No I haven't, and I won't because I was so hopelessly in love with you and you left my room like what happened between us meant nothing to you. You left and took my heart with you. And now that I have it back I have some things I want to say to you."

His confession throws you off balance, stumbling over your own footing as you take a step back. But he's not letting you get away this time, he's saying his peace like it's the last time you two might ever speak. "That night scared the absolute shit out of me. Because it was the first time in my life I felt as alive as I do when I'm behind the wheel. The thought of you feeling the same way I did brought that out in me and I didn't know how to handle it, and that's on me."

"Bucky, please stop."

He doesn't.

"That morning, I was trying to tell you that deep down I knew I wasn't good enough for you. I was still getting my shit together, still trying to prove myself to people who didn't give a damn about me. But on the off chance that you felt the same way, I would've dropped everything for you. I would've pursued something that would've had me better off, something close to home, close to you. I would've done what I could to help you pursue your dreams and—" this time you don't cut him off with words, but with your lips crashing against his, hard and with purpose. Knocking the cap right off his head. He's taken by surprise, but when your lips press harder, insistent on not being ignored, he kiss you back. His hands landing at your waist to keep him grounded to you.

You pull away slightly out of breath, "I just wanted you to shut up," you tease, and Bucky takes in a shaky breath staring down at your lips like he wants another taste, "You wanna shut me up again?" You don't hesitate to take the invitation, kissing him again with a passion bordering on hunger. You're stumbling backwards, pulling him in as he's crashing full force into you, lips parting to let him fully in. You're making out, your back pressed against his car, as you pull sounds out from each other that echo in the night air. He takes a moment to tell you this conversation isn't over, but you quickly shush him with another kiss. The heat between you is growing quickly, and it's no surprise when you find yourselves stumbling into the backseat of his car to take things further.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, his body hovering over yours. One of his knees slots between your legs, deliberately pressing on your core causing you to whine. You can feel the way you've soaked through your panties and tights already. He helps you take off your leather jacket and matching shorts, and he can't help himself as he tears away at your tights, making you gasp. "Bucky, what the—" He kisses you, mumbling into your lips, "I'll buy you as many new pairs as you want, sweetheart." His answer seems to quell your annoyance for now.

His hand reaches down to rub you through your panties, finding out just how soaked you are for him. He grins wolfishly into the kiss, "Fuck, baby. Didn't know fighting with me would turn you on so much." His tease is met with a slap to his bicep, which only makes him press harder along your slit making you cry out. He kisses your lips one last time, trailing featherlight kisses to cheek and jaw, all the way down to your neck where he nips at the skin. His fingers brush upwards toward your sensitive bundle of nerves to continue his ministrations there.

You only let him have his way for a few more seconds before you're pushing impatiently at his chest. He's already dazed by just a few kisses from you, so when you tell him to sit back he listens without putting up a fight. He sits back in the seat, watching you with something close to devotion as you go to straddle his lap, bracketing his thick thighs with your legs. You strip him of his jean jacket and hoodie, throwing it on the car floor somewhere, raking your nails down his chest with just enough pressure to make him bite down on his lip, looking like he's moments away from coming undone.

You start to grind on him, making a mess of his sweatpants, but he doesn't care, it feels too good to care. His cock twitches beneath you and with the way you smirk at him he knows you felt it. You're making him go crazy, drunk on you, and you're living for every second of it.

One hand snakes it's way beneath your white tee to palm at your breasts, while the other grips your hip to press you down on him harder. A deep groan leaves his chest, and it mingles with your own as you crash your lips to his again, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him whine. Your hips continue their grinding motion, leaving you both breathing heavily enough to start fogging up the windows of the car. One of your hands finds the back of his head and tugs at his hair, pulling his attention long enough to slip your other hands into his sweats, giving him a teasing squeeze that his seems stars with how hard he's holding back from coming undone so embarrassingly soon.

"Oh, fuck," a deep groan rumbles with his chest when you squeeze him again, "Wait, baby, I can't. I don't got a condom on me," he grabs your wrist to stop you, "Just let me make you feel good okay? Let tonight be all about you." He tries to coax you, his hand leaving your wrist to bring the attention back to your cunt when you swat his hand away. He pouts, confused as he watches you pull your white tee off and reach into your bra to grab a condom out it.

His eyes narrow at you, "Why the hell do you have that there?"

You huff, the jealousy in his tone not getting past you, "Don't ask what you don't wanna know, Barnes."

Whether or not he wants to pry into that detail, you don't let him. Making his breath catch in his throat as you tear the condom wrapper with your teeth—an action he found incredibly hot.

He takes himself out of his sweats, squeezing the base of his cock to get himself under control. He's already leaking as you hastily roll the condom down his length. You're getting yourself into position when he stops you. Your gazes meet, a questioning look in your eyes. "You sure about this? We can stop if you're not. It's okay." He assures you, needing you to confirm you really want this. When you realize what he's asking, you smile at him. Taking his lips in a softer kiss, one that conveys how sure you are of this happening. "I'm sure, Bucky. I want this."

That's all Bucky needed to hear.

He rubs your folds through your panties a few more times before his fingers hook into the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. He helps guide himself inside you as you lower yourself down on him, inch by inch. "Baby, you're squeezing the hell outta me—fuck," he curses under his breath, urging you to take it slow. He hasn't told you, but it's been a long time since it's been anything other than his hand and him. And he feels every bit of that longing as your walls squeeze him tighter the more of him you take.

"Sweetheart, you gotta give me a minute. I can't. I don't want this to end so soon," he's pleading with you, breathing heavily as the need to thrust up into you gets harder to restrain. You cup his face, making sure he's staring right into your eyes as you lower yourself completely. His breath his hot against your mouth as he gasps, the sound turn into a moan the second you start riding him. Not giving him any time to adjust as if this were your way of getting payback for the way he pushed your buttons all night.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, guiding your hips with his hands to move you in ways that have you both moaning out for each other. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in for a makeout that's all tongue and teeth—messy and passionate all in one. Breathing each other in like the only source of air you need can be found within each other. And that's when Bucky feels it again, his heart soaring with how right this feels, just like the first time you slept together.

"I missed you, I—" he mumbles into your lips, but when you pick up your pace, he forgets what he was going to say. You've got him pussy drunk and wrapped around your finger—right where he wants to be.

He can tell he won't last much longer at this pace, and he needs you to come before he does. His hand goes to where you're connected, pressing circles onto your clit in the way he knows you like, making you mewl. "That's it baby, you're doing so good for me, pretty girl." His other hand grips you tighter, keeping you steady as he starts fucking up into you, meeting your hips. You whine at how deep he's going, one of your hands shooting out to the fogged up glass like that'll help anchor you. He can feel how close you are, so he doubles down, fucking up into you harder and increasing the pressure on your clit. "Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go, sweetheart, I got you," he whispers affectionately and wrecked, bringing you in for another kiss that undoes you. You come hard, crying out his name, and he follows suit, coming harder than he has in years. You got him seeing stars with the way your cunt squeezes him for all he's got.

You're both panting in the aftermath, his head resting against the backseat as he tries to catch his breath. Your head drops onto his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing at your back to help you with the aftershocks of your coupling. He kisses your temple reverently, whispering soft praises and sweet nothings as you both come down from your highs. For a few minutes, the car is quiet with a tranquility Bucky wasn't sure you two would ever get to again.

Your head rises from his shoulder, moments later, a dopey smile on your face. He laughs fondly, his hand rising to stroke your cheek affectionately, "You're so beautiful." He doesn't know if it's what he says or the way he said it, but your smile no longer reaches your eyes. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest uncomfortably.

"Everything okay?" He's looking you over to make sure you're okay, fearing he might've been a little rough with you. You clear your throat, wincing, "Yeah, it's just—I'm feeling a bit sure already." His eyes widen at that and he apologizes right away, helping you gently off of him as you both wince, sensitive at the disconnection.

You start redressing yourself, confusing him, but he didn't question you. He had hoped you two could stay together a little longer in the backseat, talk a few things out and just enjoy this pocket of happiness you had granted each other. But whatever spell you two were under seemed to be broken. And faster than Bucky could process it, you were already dressed and getting out of his car. He scrambled to clean himself up with what he had at his disposal, tucking himself back in his sweats and hastily slipping on his hoodie just as he heard the engine to your car turn on.

He gets out of his car, rushing over to you and knocking on the window for you to lower it. You do, staring at him in a way that he can't read, but it makes him uneasy nonetheless.

"You're leaving already?" Bucky can't hide the disappointment in his tone. You sigh, picking at a nonexistent thread on your jacket to keep your eyes somewhere that isn't on him. "I told you I have to return the car to Rumlow, it's not mine. He's got trackers on all his cars, so I have to return it before he comes looking for it."

"I can go with—"

"No, you'd only make things worse for me, okay? It's best if you just stay out of this."

He can't accept that, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Especially after being the only one who knows exactly how much trouble you're in. "I dont know how to help you, but I want to. Maybe I can't help, but maybe I can find someone who can."

"No, Bucky, just drop it," your tone made it clear you weren't budging from this. And maybe he couldn't make you budge on this now, but later, later he could fully convince you to let him help. "Fine, I will—for now. But, there's still some stuff I want to talk about," you give him a look and he's quick to dispel your apprehension, "Not now, I know you have to go. But later I'd like to have a proper talk. About us."

Something about you changes in this moment. Bucky can almost see it in the way you straighten up in the driver's seat, in the way your eyes glaze over with something deeply broken crawling it's way to the surface. Something meant to hurt him just as badly as he once hurt you.

"Us? Bucky, there is no us. Tonight… you were just an itch I had to scratch. Something I had to get out of my system, so thanks for that," your voice doesn't sound like your own when you say that. It sounds distant and cold, like you're trying your best to keep yourself together. However, the way in which you said certain things rings alarms bells inside his head. He's barley able to stutter out a reply when you pull back and drive off, leaving him in the dust of the engine fumes.

Those words. He's heard them before, but not from you, no, from his own mouth. He's replayed those words time and time again in his mind for the last six years. The things he once said to Sam way back then when he stupidly was trying to deny how he felt about you. You used those exact words against him tonight. It dawns on him, horrifically, that you heard him say that back then. Your anger and frustration—the heartbreak of that morning. It came from you thinking you weren't anything, but a one night stand for him.

And now youd done the same thing to him, as if trying to make things even. Maybe you had.

Bucky slumps against his car, sliding down it until he hits the floor. Pieces of a puzzle he could never solve slowly start clicking together until he gets a better picture of what happened. He had messed everything up like he feared he would. And it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had said. He wanted to kick himself for ever saying those things. If you were still angry at him all these years later, then you must have not heard the rest of the conversation. You only heard the part that broke your heart and made you hate him all this time.

Was there ever a possibility you would forgive him?

Could you forgive him?

Bucky doesn't know the answers to those questions, but what he does know is that he won't find out unless he tries to earn it.

a/n Well my darling barbies, you now have a choice to make. If you decide to not forgive Bucky, then your story ends here. If you decide to give him a second chance, then you're in luck! A part two is already in the works. Once again, comments and reblogs are so appreciated! ♡♡♡

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.

“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”

She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.

You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.

It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!

It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.

“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.

It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.

Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.

You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.

But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.

They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.

Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.

“Chocolate chip?”

A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.

“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.

“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”

“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”

“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.

No matter how much you may wish that was the case.

You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.

You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?

Or is he still searching, all these decades later?

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.

You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”

There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”

“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”

“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”

“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”

You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.

“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”

He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.

You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”

He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle that.”

You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.

Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.

It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.

It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.

For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.

He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.

“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.

So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.

Well, partially lied.

Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.

But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.

What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.

No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.

You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.

Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.

He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.

Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?

But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.

He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.

Right where his soul mark used to be.

Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.

It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.

He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.

He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.

Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.

Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.

But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.

So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”

The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.

There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.

Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”

You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—

Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.

You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.

“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.

“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”

“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.

He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.

“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.

“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—

Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”

Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.

As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“I have a confession to make.”

You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”

“Nope.”

You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.

“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”

You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.

From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”

“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”

You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.

“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”

The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.

“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.

“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”

You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”

“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”

When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”

You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”

You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.

Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.

But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.

That was before Bucky.

“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”

She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”

“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”

“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”

As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?

No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.

Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.

He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.

You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.

You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.

It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.

Reality is never quite as sweet.

Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.

You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.

“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.

“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.

Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.

He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.

Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.

“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”

“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”

“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”

Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.

“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”

Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.

“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”

“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”

“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”

“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.

Bucky doesn’t move.

You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”

You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”

You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”

“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”

You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.

He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.

It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You don’t go back to your room.

You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.

There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.

There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.

You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.

Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.

Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.

Archives with information about you.

You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.

It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.

And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?

You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.

You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.

Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.

Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?

If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?

Or would you still love him?

Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.

But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.

That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.

“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”

The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”

You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”

Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.

“Like I said. I know you well enough.”

You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.

Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”

You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.

“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”

He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”

You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.

“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”

For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”

We.

You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.

It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.

It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?

But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.

“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”

“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.

Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.

And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.

But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.

Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.

Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”

Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.

A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.

“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”

“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”

He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”

You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.

“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”

He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”

That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.

For better or for worse.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.

Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.

You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.

Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.

The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”

Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”

You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.

A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.

Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”

You swallow and nod once.

Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.

Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.

You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.

Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”

He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?

You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.

Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.

Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.

You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.

You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.

Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.

You grab one at random and flip it open.

Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?

“Any luck yet?”

Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.

“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”

You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.

Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—

Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.

“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.

You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.

Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.

But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.

You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.

“Wait.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.

“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”

He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.

You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”

You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.

“Bucky—”

Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.

Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.

“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”

Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.

“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”

You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.

And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.

You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.

You do none of these things, of course.

Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.

You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”

You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.

But you don’t pull your hand away, either.

“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”

His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”

God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.

You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.

Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.

Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.

Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.

As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.

You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.

Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.

You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.

I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.

Say something. Anything.

But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.

Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.

The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.

Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.

The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.

The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.

He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.

And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.

You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.

And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.

He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.

He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.

Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.

And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.

That wasn’t fair.

He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.

A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.

He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.

“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.

He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.

“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.

Bucky swallows. “Hi.”

“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”

For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.

He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”

“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.

“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”

His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”

You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.

He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.

Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.

The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.

He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.

He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.

You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.

He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.

“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.

He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.

“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”

He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.

I love you, Bucky. I choose you.

Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.

Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.

“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.

Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.

You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”

“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”

You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”

“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”

You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”

He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”

You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.

His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.

You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.

He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.

“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.

His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.

A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.

The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.

His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.

Home.

“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.

He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.

The picture nearly falls out of his hands.

“дом.”

“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”

But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Bucky?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.

He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.

In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.

He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—

There.

A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.

Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.

A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.

Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.

Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.

That you’re his soulmate.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.

You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.

He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”

He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.

“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.

“Home?”

You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.

Home.

It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.

You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.

“Does this really mean what I hope—”

“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”

You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”

They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.

“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”

You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.

He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.

He’s really yours.

“Come here,” you murmur.

He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.

His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.

“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.

“Yeah? You should do that now.”

Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.

This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.

You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.

He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.

There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.

You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.

With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.

He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”

“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”

He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.

You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.

His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.

“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.

He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.

Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.

He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.

“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”

Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.

“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.

“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”

His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.

He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.

The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.

Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.

When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”

Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”

“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.

“All of me.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”

Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.

It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.

But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.

Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.

Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.

“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.

“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”

You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”

You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.

“Dead serious.”

“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”

By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.

“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.

His soulmate.

“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”

“Okay.”

“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”

“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”

He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”

He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.

“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”

The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”

You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.

Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”

“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”

He was so hoping you would say that.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You hadn’t even taken off the last pieces of your outfit yet. The mask sat on the table in front of you, slightly crooked, like everything about tonight had been. Your champagne dress was hiked up to your thighs, heels discarded somewhere in the hallway.Yelena was sprawled sideways in her chair, boots hooked over the metal armrest. Alexei was mid-snack, loudly crunching dry cereal to fuel his metabolism. Ava was next to John, and Bob sat upright, attentive but clearly confused about half of what had just happened.

And in the corner, quiet as ever, Bucky watched.

“Alright,” John started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mission was mostly clean. Minor hiccup in—”

You snorted.

John shot you a glance, shaking his head. “Anyway. Point is… we hit a snag in the east wing.”

You laughed under your breath.

He pointed at you immediately. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, I do,” you said sweetly.

“You had three guards coming straight at you.”

“And yet,” you gestured vaguely, “we are here. Alive. With the intel.”

“That’s because we had to improvise,” he shot back.

Yelena’s head lifted slightly, suspicious. “‘Improvise?’”

John didn’t even hesitate. He leaned back, completely unbothered. “We kissed.”

“Eugh.” Yelena physically recoiled, pulling her legs in like the concept alone might touch her. 

You let out a short laugh. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It is always that bad,” she insisted, shaking her head at you like you’d personally betrayed her. “Kissing a teammate? I hate everything about this.”

“I leave you two alone for one mission,” Ava said, “and you turn it into a romcom.”

“Nothing about that was romantic,” John insisted, and that fact was true to the both of you. 

“Every mission is romantic if you are brave enough,” Alexei declared.

“It’s not,” You kicked his chair lightly. “But whatever. They bought it, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” John admitted, waving a hand. 

“Wait.” Bob blinked. “So the guards just… left you alone?”

John shrugged. “People see two idiots making out in a hallway, they mind their business.”

Yelena gagged. “I would not mind my business. I would report you immediately.”

You grinned. “You’d be the worst undercover operative for this mission.”

“I would be the best,” she snapped. “Because I would simply not kiss anyone.”

John snorted, then leaned back further in his chair, glancing around like he was about to make things worse.

“Anyway,” he added casually, “not a bad trade-off.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

He ignored you. “She’s not a bad kisser.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “It was a cover, Walker.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grinning now. “Still counts. You’re good. It was very… convincing.”

“Wow. Glowing reviews,” you rolled your eyes, sinking even further into the chair. 

“I mean,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “if I didn’t know it was fake, I’d think it wasn’t fake.”

Ava took a deep breath, like it was a burden to admit. “No, he’s right.”

You turned your head toward her slowly. Oh no. 

“It's anything, that’s an understatement.” She met your eyes, completely calm. “She’s a great kisser.”

The room paused again.

You closed your eyes briefly. “Ava—”

Bob leaned forward so fast his chair squeaked. “You’ve kissed her too?”

Ava shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah. A couple of months ago.”

“It was also for a mission,” you added, unhelpfully.

“Of course it was,” Alexei said. “Of course everyone is just kissing everyone for espionage purposes. Very professional capitalist behaviour.”

Bob looked between all of you, clearly trying to recalibrate his understanding of teamwork. “How many undercover kisses are happening that I don’t know about?”

You just shrugged, trying to look unbothered despite the way the room had zeroed in on you. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

From the corner, where he’d been quiet the entire time, Bucky finally spoke. “I don’t buy it.”

The room stopped talking just long enough for everyone to turn toward him.

You lowered your hands from your face, eyes narrowing. “Oh, you don’t buy it?”

Bucky shrugged, pushing himself off the wall. “I’m just saying,” he continued, stepping closer to the table, “it’s a kiss. How good can it be?”

John let out a short laugh. “Oh no, man. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Bucky asked, brows lifting slightly.

“Set yourself up like that.”

“I’m not setting anything up,” Bucky said, but there was the faintest edge to it now. “I’m just being realistic. People exaggerate stuff like that all the time.”

Ava shook her head. “I didn’t think it’d be that good either.”

You shot her a look. She didn’t even flinch.

“…but you just gotta try it,” she finished, completely deadpan.

Alexei made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “Oh my stars.”

Bob’s eyes widened like this had officially become too much information. “Okay—wow… this is—wow.”

John pointed at Ava like she’d just proven his case. “Thank you.” Then he looked back at Bucky. “Trust me. She’s a good kisser.”

You wanted to crawl out of your own skin.

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head slightly, though his teeth tightened just a bit.

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky went on, eyes flicking to you for half a second before looking away again, “Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline. The High-stress of undercover, the close proximity. People read into things that aren’t there.”

You stared at him. “No one is reading into anything.”

“So,” he said quickly. “How do you know it’s actually good and not just… situational?”

John leaned forward, grinning like this was the best thing he’d heard all day. “You questioning my judgment, Barnes?”

“Constantly,” Bucky shot back without missing a beat.

John leaned forward, looking like this was the most interesting debrief he’d ever attended. “I’ve been on similar missions before. That wasn’t just adrenaline.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly. “You’re an expert now?”

“I’ve got data,” John shot back.

“You’ve got one data point.”

“Two,” Ava corrected calmly.

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “Those were two data sets collected under very similar circumstances—” 

“And your review would be based on zero,” Ava shot back.

“You sound jealous, Bucky,” Yelena said bluntly.

“I’m not jealous.”

“You do.”

You made a noise somewhere between a strangled groan and a warning. “This is great!” you snapped sarcastically. “Love this conversation for me.”

John had the decency to at least look a little sheepish. Ava just watched you.

“Look, I just got back from spying on a government official,” you sighed. “I’d really rather not sit here while my teammates debate whether or not I’m worth kissing.”

There was a flicker of emotion on Bucky’s eyes— sympathy, maybe, but you didn’t stick around long enough to read it.

You turned toward the door. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Your hand paused on the handle just long enough for one last, dry addition. “Try not to start a rating system while I’m gone.”

And then you walked away, flipping the room off on your way out.

—

You knew it was going to be one of those days the second you opened your eyes the morning after.

Not because anything was wrong. It was quite the opposite. Everything was… normal. 

Sunlight slipped through the blinds of your room, the faint hum of the tower already alive outside your door. There was no chaos, no emergencies, no lingering tension from last night.

Which, frankly, felt suspicious.

You brushed it off.

You showered. You got dressed. You tried to ignore the vague memory of being publicly evaluated like a five-star Yelp listing. 

You definitely didn’t think about it. Definitely didn’t think about him.

You stepped into the common room and immediately saw the schedule board.

Cleaning rotations were scribbled across one side. Names were crossed out, arrows added, Alexei’s handwriting aggressively large for no reason. But your eyes slid right past that, locking onto today’s sparring column.

You scanned once.

There it was.

Ava — rest day

Yelena / Bob

Alexei / John

You / Bucky

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” you muttered.

You turned on your heel. Considering, briefly, going back to bed. Considered faking an injury. Considered faking your own death.

Instead, you took a deep breath and headed for the gym.

—

The doors slid open with a soft hiss.

He was already there.

Of course he was.

Bucky stood in the center of the mat, sleeves pushed up, metal arm catching the overhead light in. He was rolling his shoulders, loosening up, but he looked like he’d been there a while.

His eyes flicked up the second you walked in. “You’re late.”

You didn’t even break stride, dropping your bag by the wall like nothing had just shifted in the atmosphere. “I’m on time.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Then back at you. “You’re three minutes late.”

“Wow,” you said flatly, starting to wrap your hands. “Didn’t know you were so invested in punctuality.”

“I’m not,” he replied easily. “I just don’t like waiting.”

You huffed a small laugh. “You’ve lived, what, a hundred years? Pretty sure waiting is your whole thing.”

“Wow,” he said, adjusting the strap on his flesh hand. “You’re hostile today.”

You tightened the wrap around your knuckles, not looking at him. “I’m never hostile.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Then what do you call storming out of the room yesterday?”

You paused for half a second then kept wrapping. “That was me choosing not to commit a felony.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Seemed more like you were running away.”

You finally looked up at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said sweetly. “Did you want me to stay while you all debated my mouth?”

The corner of his lips twitched.

That was the moment he moved quickly. 

You barely had time to react before he closed the distance, aiming a clean strike you just managed to deflect.

“Oh, we’re starting already?” you shot back, pivoting away.

“You talk too much.”

“You’re just trying to shut me up.”

“Is it working?”

You blocked again, stepping into him this time, forcing him to shift his weight. “Not even a little.”

He adjusted quickly countering your movement with a more controlled reaction. You felt the brush of his hand against your wrist, the near-miss of him catching you off-balance.

You twisted free, stepping back. You met his eyes. “You almost had me.”

“I did have you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I will.”

Oh? What did that mean?

Fuck! Focus.

This time, you lunged first, and he met you halfway.

The next few minutes blurred into movement. You knew he was holding back, just enough to keep it controlled, but not enough to make it easy. And you matched him, pushing, testing, refusing to give him anything for free.

At one point, he caught your arm properly this time, and twisted, pulling you forward.

Your back hit the mat.

Before you could fully recover, he was braced over you, one hand pinning your wrist, the other planted beside your head.

You were breathing heavier now, being closer to him than either of you had any business being.

You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna help me up, or…?”

He didn’t move immediately. His eyes  dropped, even just for a second, to your mouth. Then snapped back to your eyes. “…You gonna tap out, or…?” he echoed.

Your lips curved up slowly. “Not a chance.”

You shifted suddenly, using the position against him. You hooked your leg, twisting your weight just enough to break his balance.

It worked.

You rolled, flipping the position, and suddenly he was the one on the mat.

You leaned over him, breathing a little uneven, one hand braced near his shoulder.

He looked like he was about to say something stupid, eyes darting around your face frantically, but you wouldn’t let that happen. Instead, you got up and offered him a hand. Not that he needed it. 

He took it anyway. 

“Again?” you asked.

He stood, rolling his shoulders once more. “Yeah,” he said. “Again.”

—

You called it after the sixth round.

Not because either of you needed to stop, but because neither of you was really focusing on sparring anymore.

You dropped down onto the edge of the mat, grabbing your water bottle and taking a long drink, chest still rising and falling faster than it should. Across from you, Bucky did the same, dragging a hand through his hair, shoulders damp with sweat.

You were definitely not staring at his tank top clinging on to his skin. Definitely not. 

For a minute, it was quiet.

Surprisingly, you were the one to break the silence. 

You glanced at him sideways. “You’re not so bad, Barnes.”

He didn’t look over right away. He took another sip, then lowered the bottle slightly. “Wow.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he said, finally turning his head toward you. “I’m just surprised you can admit it.”

“I didn’t say you were good.”

“Mm. Sure.”

You nudged his boot lightly with your foot. “Don’t push it.”

There was that almost-smile again.

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he opened his stupid mouth before his brain could filter through the words again.

“So,” he said casually, screwing the cap back onto his bottle, “does that translate to your other… skills?”

You froze for half a second. “Oh my god.”

“What?” he asked, too innocent.

“You are still on this?”

“I’m just curious.”

“About what happened yesterday?” you shot back.

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s come up.”

“Yeah, because you keep bringing it up.”

“I made one comment,” he said, clicking his human knuckles with his flesh ones. 

“And then kept going,” you pointed out.

“So did everyone else.”

“Yeah, but everyone else dropped it eventually,” you said. “You didn’t.”

“I told you,” he insisted, I’m just curious.”

You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “About my kissing ability.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds weird,” he shook his head, inching towards you. 

“It is weird.”

Now, you both were closer than you’d been a second ago. Neither of you were stepping back.

You dragged a hand through your hair. “No. I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This—” you gestured between you both, frustrated now. “Whatever this is.”

His eyes dropped briefly to your hand, then back up again. “Feels like a normal conversation.”

“It feels like you trying to pick a fight over something that doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe it matters a little.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “To who?”

He didn’t answer that, which was answer enough.

You rolled your eyes. You were so close to leaving, but his metal hand took your wrist as if to say, stay. 

You did, even as he pulled his touch away abruptly. 

“I’m trying to figure out if it’s skill,” he said, casual as anything, “or if Walker and Ava just have low standards.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Oh my—“

“What?” He shrugged, looking unbearably smug, though you could tell it was a facade for something more vulnerable underneath.  “I’m bringing up a valid point.”

“You are not,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “You’re being annoying.”

“And you’re avoiding it.”

You shook your head, leaning to the wall like you needed the support just to reset. “You know what? Believe whatever you want.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Great.”

“But I’d rather you prove it.”

You froze. Slowly, you turned your head toward him again. “…I’m sorry?”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, it got more intent.

“Prove it,” he repeated.

Your eyebrows shot up. “You think you’re funny.”

“I think I’m being thorough.”

You stepped closer again. Close enough that the space between you felt… intentional.

“Why are you so obsessed with me?” you said flatly.

That did it.

For the first time since this started, he hesitated. It was small, but you caught it. And suddenly the tension wasn’t just teasing anymore.

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking down for half a second before returning to yours. “I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in immediately. “You’ve been needling me about a stupid kiss for, what, twelve hours now?”

“It’s not stupid.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Was that… jealousy?

Your head tilted slightly. “No?”

His jaw ticked.

He should’ve dropped it. He didn’t.

“You keep saying it didn’t mean anything,” he said, taking a step closer. “That it was just part of the mission.”

“It was.”

“Then why are you so defensive about it?”

“I’m not defensive—”

“You kind of are.”

You huffed, dragging a hand through your hair. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Still dodging.”

“I am not dodging anything,” you shot back, stepping forward to meet him. “You’re the one acting like this is some kind of—of—test.”

“Maybe it is.”

“There is no test!” You exclaimed.

“Then it should be easy.”

Your teeth clenched. “You’re insufferable.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And you’re wrong.”

“Then prove it.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh. “Fuck, you just keep repeating that like it’s going to magically make sense.”

“It does make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It does if you stop overthinking it.”

“I am not overthinking it—”

“Then do something about it,” he said, unbearably cocky.

You stared at him, chest rising a little faster now, frustration simmering under your skin.

“Why do you care so much?” you demanded again, quieter this time.

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you with those unbearable gently sky-blue eyes. 

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “You’ve been pushing this—”

“And you’ve been avoiding it.”

“I’m not avoiding—”

“You are,” he insisted.

“I’m not—”

“Then stop talking.”

That was the final straw.

Your patience snapped, but you were not angry, not really you were just done with the back-and-forth.

“Fine,” you said.

And before you could second-guess it, you grabbed the front of his tank top and kissed him.

It was decisive, meant to shut him up more than anything else. Meant to prove the point he so desperately needed to be disproved.

For half a second, he didn’t move. You’d actually caught him off guard.

And then, he kissed you back.

His metal hand came up, hovered for the briefest second like he was deciding whether he should, before settling at your waist, pulling you in just enough to erase whatever space had been left between you.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

This wasn’t a hallway in a gala, wasn’t adrenaline, wasn’t a cover. And it definitely wasn’t nothing.

Your grip tightened slightly in his shirt without meaning to, but even then, you were making the conscious decision to run your tongue against his lips, opening your mouth just enough to feel him sigh into you.

You let it build, just enough to make a point, just enough to feel the shift when it stopped being a challenge and started being… something he enjoyed.

You gently his lower lip, and he couldn’t help but moan. 

You tilted your head just a fraction, deepening it, not messy or careless, just confident. Like you knew exactly what you were doing.

His other hand came up to cradle your have as if he almost thought about pulling you closer, and that hesitation, that split second where he didn’t have control anymore—

That was the moment you were aiming for.

You broke the kiss slowly pulling back just enough to breathe, but not far enough to fully step away.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “…There.”

Like that settled it. Like that proved your point. But your hand was still fisted in his shirt. And he hadn’t let go of your waist.

“I…” Bucky started, and for a man who had faced down wars, gods, and ghosts, he looked completely, utterly undone. “I—I…”

You didn’t move away. You didn’t even give him space to recover.

“I, I,” you echoed, mocking him as you tilted your head, though there was a clear undertone of fondness in your teasing. “You what, huh?”

His eyes flicked between yours like he was trying to find solid ground to stand on, and failing.

“I need you to do that again,” he said finally, quieter now, like the words were being pulled out of him against his will. “For… a better understanding of the data.”

A smile spread across your face, equal parts amused and dangerous. “You are so fucking obsessed with me.”

His mouth opened probably to argue, to deflect, to pretend, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You kissed him again, just as he asked.

Bucky stilled.

For a split second, he didn’t react at all. Like his brain had short-circuited, like he didn’t trust himself to move and ruin it.

Then you pressed in just a little more and he exhaled against your mouth.

It wasn’t rushed: that was the difference. You gave him time to feel the warmth, the pressure, the way you moved your mouth in that slow, controlled pace.

His hand tightened at your waist, fingers flexing like he needed to check you were real.

You parted your lips slightly, just enough to shift the kiss heavier. 

He leaned into you, deeper now, following your rhythm but adding just a bit more pressure, like he couldn’t help chasing it. His thumb shifted slightly against your neck, a subtle touch that made the whole thing feel more intentional.

There was no control left in the way he kissed you now. His breathing had gone uneven, soft, hiccuping exhales slipping between each movement.

You were all all he was paying attention to.

When your lips finally slowed, the kiss didn’t break right away. It faded, gradually, like neither of you were in a rush to end it.

Your mouths brushed once, twice, until there was just space again.

Barely.

His forehead hovered close to yours, his hand still at your neck, his grip at your waist not loosening in the slightest.

His eyes didn’t open immediately.

When they did, they dropped to your lips first, then back to your eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathed, the word catching on the way out like he hadn’t quite recovered. “Yeah… I’m—” he shook his head once, an  almost disbelieving laugh slipping through. “I’m definitely more… convinced.”

You tilted your head, watching him closely, lips still curved with satisfaction. “Good.”

His eyes dropped to your form again, like he wasn’t even pretending not to look anymore.

“But,” he added, voice lower now, roughened at the edges, “I’m not convinced that mouth of yours is only good for kissing.”

You blinked at him once.

You can’t help the mischievous smile pulled at your lips. You weren’t stupid. You were pulled flush against him— you could feel the tightness in his trousers. You knew he was excited.

“Oh my god,” you said, almost too calm. “Are you asking for a blowjob, Barnes?”

He choked.

Not metaphorically. He actually choked, coughing once as he dragged a hand down his face, composure cracking in real time. 

“I… what—no-I mean…” he let out a deep breath, clearly flustered now, words tripping over each other. “Yes, but… not just that— I didn’t say- well, I did but that’s not—”

You folded your arms, leaning back just enough to take him in, enjoying the way he unraveled.

“Wow,” you murmured. “Look at you.”

His teeth tightened, like he was trying to pull himself back together, but the flush creeping up his neck gave him away.

“All that confidence,” you added, “just gone.”

He huffed under his breath, forcing himself upright again, like he was rebuilding the version of himself he’d had five minutes ago.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, voice still a little off, a little less steady than he wanted it to be, “there’s… a broader range of data that could be evaluated.”

You leaned forward again, close enough that his breath hitched before you even touched him.

“Mm,” you hummed, reaching out, fingers grazing lightly along the front of his shirt again, enough to make his shoulders tense. “Very thorough of you.”

Your voice dropped as he gulped. 

“Ask nicely, Barnes,” you said, your lips just a fraction too close to his, “and I’ll think about it.”

He swallowed.

His hand shifted at your waist, not pulling this time, but holding. Like he was waiting, like he couldn’t figure out what to do or what to say, for once in goddamn life. 

“…Ask nicely,” you repeated, offering guidance.

For a second, you wondered if he would even speak at all. Until…

“Please,” he rasped out.

There was no sarcasm, no edge to his words. He just wanted you.

Your eyes softened just a fraction, warmer slipping in under the teasing.

“You’re so gone,” you chuckled triumphantly, affectionately rubbing small circles on his cheeks with your thumb.

“Yeah,” he admitted, without hesitation this time. “Yeah, I am.”

You kissed him again. Not to prove anything, but just because you wanted to.

Normally by now, you’d already be getting ready for work. The flower shop opened early, and mornings were always busy. People would be rushing in for last-minute bouquets, anniversary flowers, or apology roses.

Today, though, you could barely breathe.

You sniffled miserably and unlocked your phone, opening your messages. You made a call before staring at Bucky’s name, sitting pinned at the top like it always did.

You stared at it for a second before typing.

You: buckyyyy

The reply came almost immediately. It was lovely to think that he was always waiting for a message for you, especially before either of you had to leave for work.

Bucky: good morning to you too

You smiled faintly despite the way your head throbbed.

You: i think im dying

There was a brief pause.

Bucky: are you okay? Where are you? Do you need any help? Do I need to bring the team?

You stifled a small giggle.

You: no baby!!! I’m okay. Just a bit of sore throat, stuffy nose, and headache. very tragic stuff.

Three dots appeared. You could almost hear the sigh of relief in his voice when he realised you were not, in fact, kidnapped by a supervillain trying to get to him. Occupational hazard, I guess.

Bucky: did you take your temperature?

You: no

Bucky: why

You: because im dying

A moment passed before Bucky replied.

Bucky: stay home from work

You sniffled again, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sleep shirt.

You: already called in sick

Bucky: good

You set the phone down on your chest and stared at the ceiling, exhausted from doing absolutely nothing.

Being sick sucked. Especially when your job was what kept your hands busy most days.

You worked at a little florist shop a few blocks away, and until you met Bucky, it was your favorite place in the world. It always smelled like roses and eucalyptus and fresh greenery. Your hands were almost always covered in tiny scratches from thorns, and your apron pockets were constantly full of ribbon scraps.

You loved it.

There was something about being stuck at home, away from all those bright colors and soft petals, that made everything feel duller.

Your phone buzzed again.

Bucky: drink water

You huffed softly, taking a sip from your overnight bottle on the bedside table. You took an unflattering selfie of you doing exactly what he told you to.

You: happy now?

Bucky: very

You rolled onto your side, hugging your blanket tighter around yourself.

You and Bucky had been together for six months now. And he had turned out to be the most thoughtful boyfriend in existence.

He remembered everything: from your favorite snacks to your coffee order. The fact that you hated horror movies but would still watch them if you could hide behind him.

He showed up with little things constantly. He’d bring you chocolate bars when he visited the shop. He’d get your favorite bakery cake after long shifts. Most of all, he loved getting you cute cards with messy handwriting that always made you laugh. Last week, he’d even gotten you a silver necklace “just because.”

You still wore it almost every day.

Your eyes drifted toward the chain resting against your collarbone now.

He was perfect. 

Which was probably why the one thing he didn’t do stuck in your mind so much.

You sighed quietly. Because in six months of dating Bucky Barnes… He had never brought you flowers, not even once.

It felt silly to be upset about. You literally work with flowers every day.

Maybe in his head it was like bringing a chef more food. Or bringing a librarian another book. But still…

You spent hours arranging bouquets for strangers to give to their partners. You put so much care and love into all of them, arranging beautiful ones, romantic ones, soft pastel ones tied with ribbon because a husband said his wife preferred yellow carnations over red roses. 

And sometimes you’d look at them and think, Wow. I wish Bucky would bring me flowers like this.

Your phone buzzed again. You glanced down.

Bucky: open the door

You blinked. “What?”

Confused, you dragged yourself out of bed, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak, and shuffled toward the door of your apartment.

When you opened it, Bucky was standing there. His hair was slightly messy, jacket half zipped, looking like he’d come straight from the gym.

Your heart immediately melted.

“What are you doing here?” you croaked, voice scratchy.

He stepped inside, already reaching up to press the back of his human hand to your forehead.

“You sound terrible,” he said, concerned.

“Wow, thank you.”

He ignored that. “You’re warm.”

“I’m just sick, Buck,” you chuckled, thinking you couldn't hold back the little sneeze coming out of your throat. “I’m not dead.”

“I get worried, sweets.”

You sniffled, watching as he moved toward the kitchen and started unpacking the takeout.

“Soup,” he said simply.

Your chest tightened a little. “My favourite one?”

“Obviously.”

He set the chocolates beside it on the counter. “And these.”

You stared at them. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure I did,” he glanced back at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re sick.”

Your throat tightened, but not from the cold this time. He was a blessing. Six months of this man showing up with the sweetest, most thoughtful little gifts.

You leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling a little emotional. He was so good to you, so unbelievably good, and yet—

Your eyes drifted briefly to the empty windowsill across the apartment.

Still no flowers. 

Ugh, maybe it was silly to care.

You didn’t even realize you were sniffling until Bucky looked up from the soup he was pouring into a bowl.

You were already shaking because of the cold. Your nose was stuffed up, throat scratchy, head heavy and foggy. Everything felt just a little too much when you were sick like this. Your body was tired, your brain was slow, and your emotions sat much closer to the surface than usual.

He frowned slightly. He knew that look on your face: Something’s wrong.

You quickly wiped under your eyes, hoping he’d think it was just the cold. Unfortunately for you, your boyfriend noticed the littlest of details.

He set the bowl down and walked over, both metal and flesh hands settling gently on your waist below the blankets you were currently wearing like a cape.

“Hey,” he lulled, rubbing soothing circles on your body. Before you could protest, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Your chest tightened immediately. You hadn’t meant to say anything. It felt stupid now that he was looking at you attentively like that, but the words came out anyway.

“I just…” you rubbed, rubbing your sleeve across your nose again. “I make flowers for people all day, Buck.”

He tilted his head, clearly not following yet.

“And they’re always for someone’s girlfriend or boyfriend or partner,” you continued, whispering this time. “Anniversaries, birthdays, apologies, everything.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay…”

You shrugged weakly, suddenly embarrassed. “And I don’t even get to bring them home.” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Because they’re never for me.”

Bucky blinked.

“And you bring me so many sweet things,” you rushed on, gesturing vaguely toward the chocolates on the counter. “These and cakes and jewellery and cards and—” You sniffed again .“But you’ve never gotten me flowers.”

Bucky froze, his brows slowly pulled together as realization dawned on him. “Oh.”

You instantly regretted saying anything. “I know it’s dumb,” you said quickly. “It’s literally my job, so I get why—”

“Oh,” he said again, cutting you off before spiraling

You blinked.

Bucky looked stunned, like a billboard filled with boyfriend 101 advice had just smacked him in the face. “I…  thought you’d be sick of them,” he admitted.

You stared at him. “Sick… of flowers?”

“You work with them all day.”

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s like saying a baker wouldn’t want cake.”

He paused. “That… makes sense.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way.” He reached up, gently brushing your hair away from your face, tilting your chin up so you were looking at him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your chest warmed up, and you were pretty sure that wasn't the fever. Like, 70% sure. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Yes I do.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead again. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.

Your brows lifted slightly. “You don’t have to…”

“I promise.”

You know when he said it like that, he meant it.

Before you could argue any further, Bucky suddenly seemed to remember something. His eyes flicked toward the microwave clock behind you.

He froze. “...shit.”

You narrowed your eyes, confused. “What?”

Bucky grabbed the soup bowl quickly and guided you toward the couch. “Sit.”

“Buck—”

“Sit,” he repeated, softer this time.

You barely had time to react before he gently but firmly sat you down on the couch like you weighed nothing at all. The blanket got tugged over your legs, and the warm bowl of soup was placed carefully into your hands.

“There,” he said, satisfied.

You looked down at the soup, then back up at him. “Bucky—”

“I’m late,” he said frantically.

“How late?”

“Very.”

“Bucky—”

“Briefing started ten minutes ago.”

You let out a small laugh as he rushed around the apartment, grabbing his jacket. He made it halfway to the door before abruptly stopping, as if forgetting something.

Then he turned around and hurried back to you.

“What—”

Your words were cut off when he gently held your face and kissed you. It was quick and a little rushed, but still soft enough to make your stomach flutter.

When he pulled back, you were smiling.

“Bucky,” you laughed hoarsely, lifting the soup slightly. “You’re gonna get sick too!”

He was already backing toward the door again.

“I’m a super soldier,” He said incredulously, pointing at himself with a boyish grin. “Dont’cha worry about me, sweets.”

You rolled your eyes as he slipped out the door in a rush.

—

By the time Bucky finished his day at the Watchtower, the conversation from that morning replayed endlessly in his mind.

You’ve never brought me flowers.

Bucky groaned to himself as he stepped out onto the street, already turning in a different direction than usual.

Six whole months of dating the sweetest girl he’d ever met, and somehow he had never brought you flowers.

He dragged a hand through his hair, shaking his head at himself. In his defense, you literally worked with flowers every day. In Bucky’s mind it had made perfect sense not to bring more of them home.

But now that he thought about it?

Yeah.

That was a pretty dumb reason.

Because if there was one thing Bucky Barnes had learned in the last six months, it was that he would absolutely do anything to see you smile.

So instead of heading to yours immediately, he walked the few blocks toward the little florist shop you worked in. The lights were still on.

Good.

He pushed the door open, the little bell above it chiming softly.

The familiar scent of fresh roses and greenery hit him immediately. It smelled exactly like you did after a long shift.

Behind the counter, your coworker looked up. 

“Hey—” Then she paused when she saw who it was. “Well, well, well.”

Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. He has met her a couple of times, mostly when you were having a girls day out, and she handed you over back to him at the end of the night. “Hi, Marie.”

Marie leaned her elbows on the counter, looking way too entertained. She raised an eyebrow. “The florist’s boyfriend finally buying flowers?”

Bucky laughed, a little sheepish. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess I’m a little late on that one.”

She shook her head now. “Took you long enough.”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest “I’m trying to fix that right now.”

She chuckled. “So what can I help you with, Barnes?”

Bucky glanced around the shop. Buckets of flowers lined the walls, from rose to tulips, lilies, and daisies. Ribbons and greenery and half-finished arrangements sat on the big wooden table in the center.

He could already picture you standing there, sleeves rolled up, carefully tying ribbons and adjusting petals.

“I want to pick my own flowers,” he said. “Make a custom bouquet for her.”

“That’s really cute,” Marie said, though she glanced at the clock behind the counter. “Unfortunately,” she sighed, “we’re closing in like.. four minutes.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. He should have known this. Perhaps, in his guilt-ridden panic, the fact had completely got lost from his mind. “Right.”

She pointed toward the front of the shop. “But… we’ve got pre-made bouquets by the window.”

He turned to look. There were several beautiful arrangements displayed, wrapped in paper, tied with ribbons, all different colors and styles.

“Just pick one from there,” Marie said with a small shrug. “They’re all good.”

Bucky walked over, and one bouquet immediately caught his eye.

It had soft pinks and lavender, with little hints of yellow and white tucked between the blooms. It was bright and pretty in a way that reminded him of you.

Without hesitation, he picked it up.

Maria watched from the counter, smiling knowingly. “That one’s a good choice.”

Bucky looked down at the flowers again, smiling a little to himself. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” She rang it up casually. “Someone’s got good taste.”

Bucky carefully took the bouquet once she handed it back to him, holding it like it was fragile glass.

—

You were still on the couch, exactly where Bucky had left you that morning.

The blanket had somehow multiplied into a full nest around you during the day, one draped over your shoulders, another tucked over your legs, the corner of a third bunched under your chin like you’d been subconsciously building a fortress against the cold that had settled into your bones.

Your hair was a mess. Your nose was still red. You were currently clutching a large mug of tea, steam curled up toward your face. You took another careful sip, wincing slightly as the warmth hit your throat. It helped, a little. It was certainly not a miracle cure, but enough to make breathing feel less like swallowing broken glass.

You sniffled and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.

The apartment was silent. Late afternoon light spilled in through the windows in golden patches, warming the floorboards. Somewhere down the street, you heard a car door slam, and a faint breeze rattled the branches outside.

You were just settling in for another miserable, tea-powered recovery moment when you heard the doorhandle move. 

You had left your apartment unlocked when he texted that he was going over to yours tonight. 

Unwise? A little. But you were too ill and lazy to care. 

Your life’s your head, “Buck?”

Sure enough when the door opened, Bucky stepped inside.

But that wasn’t the first thing you noticed.

In his hands, he was holding a bouquet.

Bucky shut the door behind him and turned around, suddenly looking a little less like the confident super soldier who could take down an entire squad of assassins and a little more like a boy wanting to take a hit to prom and not knowing if the bouquet was good enough.

“Hey,” he said.

Your voice came out hoarse. “Hi.”

He walked over, careful with the bouquet. When he reached the couch, he paused for a second, looking down at you wrapped up in blankets like a sleepy, feverish burrito.

Your cheeks were flushed from the cold and the tea. Your hair had definitely not recovered from your earlier nap.

He smiled, holding the flowers out toward you. “These are for you.”

You blinked at them for a moment before reaching out.

Your fingers curled around the stems gently, lifting the bouquet into your lap.

They were beautiful. Everything was wrapped neatly in paper and tied with ribbon, the colors cheerful and warm against the muted light of the apartment.

You adjusted your grip slightly, then your mouth curved up.

“Thank you,” you said sweetly, but there was something else in your voice. And it sounded suspiciously close to laughter.

Bucky narrowed his eyes almost immediately. “What?”

You quickly shook your head, pressing your lips together as a giggle threatened to escape. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed further.

You were clutching the bouquet against your chest now, shoulders tucked up inside your blanket, eyes sparkling in that very specific way that meant you were holding back.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m not smiling!”

You were.

Soon enough, a small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Bucky crossed his arms. “What’s that laugh for?”

“M’not!” you insisted, though another giggle slipped out immediately afterward.

He stepped closer to the couch, leaning over the back of it slightly, his metal hand braced against the cushions while his other hand reached out to poke your side.

You squeaked. “Buck!”

“What’s so funny?” he demanded, poking you again.

You squirmed under the blanket, hugging the bouquet protectively against your chest like you were shielding it from interrogation. “Nothing!”

He poked you again, more insistently.

You wriggled away with another laugh, nearly spilling your tea in the process. “Stop!” you wheezed.

Bucky huffed, clearly unconvinced, and then sat down, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him. He buried his face into the side of your head, nuzzling into your hair affectionately while squeezing you closer.

You made a gently protesting noise, but didn’t resist.

“I just…,” he started, nudging you again with his nose. “You do like them, right?”

You tilted your head up toward him. “I do,” you said honestly.Your fingers tightened around the bouquet. “But…”

Bucky groaned instantly. “But what?” he repeated suspiciously.

You tilted your head. “Why did you get me this one?”

He blinked at the question, clearly not expecting that. “Because…” he gestured vaguely toward the flowers in your arms, “well, it’s a little pricey, but it’s got all your favorite flowers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And your favorite colors.”

Your smile widened slightly. “And?”

Bucky stared at you now, confusion beginning to creep in. “And it reminds me of you,” he finished, like that was the obvious conclusion.

Your eyes sparkled. “And….?”

“…And what?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, clearly enjoying this far too much. “And… why do you think that is?”

Bucky frowned, glancing down at the bouquet again. His eyes flicked back up to you. Then back to the flowers.

His brain visibly started connecting dots. “Oh, fuck.” 

Your shoulders shook as you tried not to laugh.

His eyes lifted back to you, realization settling fully across his face. “You made this bouquet, didn’t you?”

You nodded proudly. “Mmhm. Made it yesterday.”

Bucky looked back down at the flowers again, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god.”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore, a small, wheezy laugh escaped as you snuggled deeper into your blanket.

Bucky let out a quiet groan, dropping his head forward for a moment. “I’m so stupid.”

You set the bouquet gently on the couch beside you before reaching up and grabbing the front of his jacket.

He barely had time to react before you tugged him down.

Your lips pressed against his.

The kiss was gentle and just a little clumsy because you were still sick, but it made him freeze anyway.

When you pulled back, you were smiling up at him. “I’m flattered,” you said.

He shook his head, embarrassed.

Your fingers slid up into his hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. “I love you, Bucky.”

Then he leaned down until your foreheads touched. “I love you too, sweets.”

You glanced down at the bouquet on the side again, gently brushing your fingers over the petals. A small smile tugged at your lips.

“Pricey, huh?” you teased.

Bucky groaned beside you, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It was,” he said defensively. “That thing was like ninety dollars!”

You gasped dramatically and turned to glare at him. “Hey! Do you know how hard I worked on that?” you protested, pointing at him in the chest. “The balance of hues? The ribbon choice? The rare flowers I had to source from a dutch importer?”

Bucky blinked at you. “There are rare flowers there?”

You crossed your arms playfully. “Art takes effort, babe.”

For a second he just stared at you, and the blankets piled around your shoulders, cheeks flushed from your cold, stubbornly defending the bouquet you’d accidentally sold to your own boyfriend.

“Well,” he said,a little gruffly, “you’re priceless to me, so I figured it evened out.”

Your heart did that stupid little flip it always did when he said things like that.

You squinted at him. “Sap.”

Bucky rolled his eyes like he hated being called out, but the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. He leaned down anyway, pressing a quick kiss to one cheek.

Then the other.

“Hey!” you laughed, trying to dodge him as he squeezed you gently against his side.

But you were still smiling when he pulled the you into his lap. 

The warehouse smells like dust, oil, and something faintly metallic. You step carefully over a coil of cables on the concrete floor, your flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the dim room. Most of the building had looked exactly like this – abandoned offices, empty storage areas, rusting equipment that hadn’t been touched in years. Except for the few rooms that clearly weren’t abandoned. Those had been…different. Too clean. Too organized. Too full of tech that absolutely did not belong in a run-down warehouse in the middle of nowhere. The entire team had been assigned to this mission, and Fury thought they were storing intel and possibly some tech related to the multiverse.

You lower the beam of your light as Bucky pushes open the next door.

“Clear,” he mutters automatically, stepping inside first.

You follow him, sweeping the corners out of habit. “Also empty,” you say after a second.

“Shocking.”

You snort softly. You and Bucky have been paired together most of the mission. It’s not unusual – Steve likes putting you two together because you’re both thorough. Also because, according to Sam, you’re both “stubborn enough to out-stubborn the other.” Which is not true…okay, maybe a little. But the two of you work well together. Even when you butt heads.

You step farther into the next room, your eyes adjusting. This one isn’t like the others.

“Uh…Bucky?” you say slowly.

He’s already noticed. The entire far wall is lined with equipment. Sleek metal consoles. Monitors. A circular platform built into the floor with glowing lines etched into it. You whistle quietly.

“Okay,” you say. “That definitely does not scream abandoned.”

Bucky moves closer, eyes scanning everything. “Looks recent,” he mutters.

You crouch beside a console, brushing dust off a panel. The screens are dark, but the machinery around them hums faintly. “Multiverse tech maybe?” you say.

Bucky huffs. “Great.”

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Because that always goes well.”

You grin. “Hey, last time we dealt with multiverse stuff you only almost got thrown into a different dimension once.”

“Still counts.”

You reach for a stack of folders beside the console. Most of the papers inside are diagrams – dense scientific schematics that make your brain hurt just looking at them. “Yeah, okay,” you mutter. “Definitely experiments.”

Bucky walks slowly around the circular platform. “There’s power running to it,” he says.

“Probably some kind of portal system.”

You flip through another folder. Nothing useful, just equations. “Great,” you sigh. “So we found the science nerd room but not the intel room.”

“Let’s keep looking.”

You nod, tossing the folder aside as you stand. But when you step backward, your boot catches one of the loose cables trailing from the console.

There’s a sharp click. Both of you freeze.

“Did you just–” Bucky starts.

The console lights up.

“–trigger something?” you finish weakly.

Every screen flickers to life. The circular platform glows brighter. “Oh no.”

The hum of the machines deepens into a low vibrating thrum. You spin toward the door.

“Steve–” you start, reaching for your comm.

But the words never finish. The air in the room suddenly warps. Your vision bends. The floor tilts sideways.

“What the–”

Your stomach lurches violently.

Then–

Everything goes black.

--

You wake up with a gasp. Your chest heaves as you bolt upright. Or try to. Something tight around your waist stops you. You freeze. Your brain struggles to catch up with reality. You’re in a bed. A warm bed. Soft blankets. Your heart is still racing when you realize something else. There’s an arm around you. A very familiar arm. Metal fingers curl loosely against your stomach.

Your head snaps sideways. Bucky is lying right next to you. His face is inches away. His hair is messy, his expression slack with sleep. He’s shirtless. Your eyes widen. Your brain short-circuits. You both stare at each other. Two seconds pass. Then three. Then both of you explode into motion. You scramble backward, nearly falling off the bed as he jerks upright at the same time.

“What the hell–”

“What is happening–”

“Why am I–”

“Why are we in bed–”

You both stop. You blink. “Wait,” you say.

He frowns. “What?”

You look around the room. Your stomach drops. “Oh my god.”

Bucky follows your gaze. His eyes widen too. “…This is my room.”

You stare at him. “I know.”

You both go quiet. Your heart is still racing as you drag a hand through your hair. You glance down at yourself. Sleep shorts. An oversized t-shirt. You freeze. You know this shirt. Your stomach flips. You’re about 99.9% sure it belongs to Bucky. You immediately decide not to acknowledge that. You get up and start pacing the room instead.

“Okay,” you say quickly. “Okay okay okay.”

Bucky swings his legs off the bed and stands. He’s only wearing boxers. You accidentally glance down. Your brain short circuits again. Nope. Eyes up. Focus.

“Why were we–” he starts. Then he stops. “Cuddling?”

Your face goes hot. “We were not cuddling,” you say.

“We definitely were.”

“We were unconscious!”

“Still counts.”

You point at him. “That does not count!”

Bucky runs a hand over his face. “Okay, forget the cuddling – why are we in my room?”

Your pacing speeds up. “Because,” you say slowly, thinking it through, “we triggered that machine.”

“The one in the warehouse?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And–”

Your brain finally catches up. Your steps stop. “…Oh shit.”

Bucky looks at you. “What.”

You point between the two of you. “I think we’re in another universe.”

Silence. He stares at you. “…No.”

“Yes.”

“There is absolutely no way.”

“Think about it!” You start pacing again. “That room had multiverse tech. We triggered it. Then we blacked out and woke up here.”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly. “But why would we be in my room?”

You gesture around wildly. “Because we’re in the bodies of our other universe selves!”

He blinks. “…That sounds insane.”

You throw your hands up. “You have a metal arm and are from the 1940s and you’re telling me that sounds insane?”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. “…Fair.”

You keep pacing. Your brain is running a mile a minute. “Okay,” you say. “Okay. If we’re in another universe…” You glance toward the bed. Your stomach drops again. “…Then that means.”

Bucky follows your gaze. Then he slowly looks back at you. “…Yeah.”

You both say it at the same time. “We’re dating.”

You stare at each other. “Oh god.”

“Oh no.”

You rub your face. “This is so weird.”

Bucky exhales hard. “We need to figure out how to get back,” you say.

“Yes.”

“Immediately.”

“Yes.”

You nod rapidly. Then, your eyes drift downward again. Bare chest. Muscle. Boxers. You snap your gaze back up.

“…Also you need to put pants on.”

Bucky stares at you. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“That’s your concern right now?”

“It’s distracting!”

He squints at you. “You’re an Avenger.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve fought aliens.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve jumped out of planes.”

“Yes.”

“And my legs are where you draw the line?”

Your face burns. “PUT. PANTS. ON.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but walks over to the dresser. You very deliberately stare at the wall while he pulls on sweatpants.

“…Happy?” he mutters.

“Yes.”

You glance over again. Your brain betrays you. Still distracting. You turn away immediately. “This is a nightmare.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah.”

You lean against the wall, trying to think. “So we triggered the machine,” you say slowly. “Which means if we want to get back…”

“We probably need to find the machine in this universe.”

You nod. “Exactly.”

Bucky looks around the room. “Which means we might have to pretend to be…us.”

Your stomach flips again. “Oh my god.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What.”

“You realize everyone in this universe thinks we’re dating.”

“…Yeah.”

“And we just woke up screaming in your bedroom.”

“…Yeah.”

You both pause. Footsteps echo faintly in the hallway outside. You slowly turn toward the door.

Bucky groans. “…We’re screwed.”

Your eyes widen. “Bucky–”

There’s a knock on the door. Then Sam’s voice comes through. “Hey lovebirds,” he calls. “You two alive in there?”

You and Bucky stare at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“Say something!” you whisper.

“You say something!”

“It’s your room!”

Bucky groans quietly, then raises his voice. “Yeah, we’re fine!”

There’s a pause. You both freeze. Then Sam snorts on the other side of the door.

“Alright, just checking. Sounded like somebody got murdered in there.”

Bucky rubs his face. “Dropped something,” he calls back.

“Uh huh,” Sam says, clearly not believing that for a second. “Well try not to kill each other before breakfast.”

Footsteps start walking away down the hallway. You both wait. Then you collapse onto the edge of the bed. “Oh my god.”

Bucky exhales and drags a hand through his hair. “This is already a disaster.”

“We haven’t even left the room yet.”

“Exactly.”

You push yourself up again, pacing. “Okay, okay. Focus.”

Bucky leans back against the dresser, arms crossed. “You said the warehouse.”

You nod immediately. “Yes! We know where it is.”

“The one from the mission.”

“Exactly.”

“Which means the machine should be there in this universe too.”

“Hopefully.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly. “So we just go back there.”

You stop pacing. “…Right.”

He waits. You stare at him. “…How are we getting there?”

Bucky pauses. “…Quinjet.”

“Correct. Which we don’t currently have access to.”

He exhales slowly. “So we either explain this to the team–” he starts.

“Or steal a jet.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You went straight to stealing.”

“Weird multiverse emergency!”

“That’s not a real excuse.”

“It should be!”

Bucky pushes off the dresser, pacing now too. “If we try to explain it…”

“They might believe us.”

“Weirder things have happened,” he says.

“Exactly!”

“But,” he continues, “we also might sound insane.”

You rub your face. “Yeah.”

“And if they don’t believe us,” he adds, “they definitely won’t let us take a jet.”

You groan. “This is impossible.”

You’re both pacing now, circling the room like stressed animals.

“We could try to slip away after breakfast,” Bucky says.

“And just casually take a jet?”

“Yes.”

“From the Avengers compound.”

“Yes.”

You stare at him. “That sounds like the worst plan I’ve ever heard.”

“You suggested stealing it first.”

“That was hypothetical!”

Another knock interrupts you. You both freeze. “…We didn’t answer fast enough,” you whisper.

Bucky sighs and opens the door. Steve stands in the hallway. He smiles slightly. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Bucky says.

Steve glances past him briefly, then back. “You two coming down for breakfast?”

You step closer to the door. “Yeah, we will.”

“Training starts soon,” Steve adds. “Figured I’d check.”

Bucky nods. “We’ll be right there.”

Steve studies both of you for a second. Your heart rate skyrockets. Then he nods. “Alright. See you downstairs.”

He walks away. Bucky closes the door. You both immediately spin toward each other.

“Training?!” you whisper-yell.

“We cannot go to training!”

“We have to get to the warehouse!”

“I know!”

You start pacing again. “Okay okay okay, we need an excuse.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know!”

“We can’t just skip it.”

“Steve will hunt us down!”

“Exactly!”

Your brain spins. You run through every possible idea. Sick? Injured? Definitely not convincing. Then suddenly, a thought hits you. You stop pacing. Your face twists.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “What.”

“Nothing.”

“You thought of something.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

You wave your hands. “It’s stupid.”

He crosses his arms. “What is it.”

You groan. “Bucky.”

“What.”

“It’s weird.”

“Just say it.”

You rub your face dramatically. “We could say I might be pregnant.”

Bucky blinks. He stares at you. Then his expression slowly shifts. “…That might actually work.”

Your eyes widen. “WAIT.” You immediately start backtracking. “Wait wait wait – how long have we even been dating in this universe?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if it’s like two weeks?!”

“Then that’s concerning.”

“Exactly!”

You start pacing again. “And also – maybe we haven’t even–” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “–you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly. Then very casually says, “That hickey on your neck says otherwise.”

You freeze. “…What.”

Bucky nods toward your neck. “Right there.”

Your hand flies up instantly. “WHAT?!”

“Shh!”

“Are you serious?!”

“Yes!”

You spin toward the mirror across the room and nearly trip rushing over. You yank your shirt collar down slightly. Your eyes widen. “Oh my god.” There is absolutely a hickey on your neck. You whip back around. “BUCKY.”

He’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“This is not funny!”

“I didn’t do it!”

“You kind of did!”

He shrugs. “Technically.”

You stare at him. Your brain short circuits briefly. Then you close you eyes and shake your head. “Focus.”

“Right.”

You point at him. “We need to figure something out.”

“Agreed.”

“Soon.”

“Also agreed.”

You both pause. Then glance at the door. You look back at Bucky. “…This is a disaster.”

Bucky exhales. “Yep.”

You both stand there for a second. “…We really need a plan,” you say.

You and Bucky stare at each other for another long second.

“…We should just act normal,” you finally say.

Bucky exhales. “Normal?”

“Yes.”

“You mean pretend we know how our alternate universe selves act?”

You point at him. “Exactly.”

He rubs his face. “This is going to go badly.”

“Probably. But it’s still the best plan. Gather information. Don’t look suspicious. Then figure out how to get a jet.”

Bucky sighs. “Alright.”

You hesitate near the door. “…I should probably go get ready.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You open the door slowly, peeking down the hallway like you’re committing a crime. No one’s there. You slip out quickly and head toward your room. The second the door shuts behind you, you lean back against it and exhale. Your heart is still racing. You cross the room, running a hand through your hair as your brain replays the last twenty minutes.

The warehouse. The machine. Waking up in Bucky’s bed. The hickey.

You groan and drag your hands over your face. “This is insane.”

You move to the mirror while pulling a clean shirt from your drawer. Your eyes immediately land on the mark on your neck again. You turn your head slightly, examining it. Your brain betrays you by imagining the very obvious person who could have put it there. You shake your head violently. “Nope.”

You change quickly, then go to the bathroom and wash your face, run a brush through your hair and put it into a ponytail. But while you’re tying your shoes, your mind drifts again. Because the thing that’s bothering you the most isn’t the multiverse. It’s the other part. You and Bucky. Dating.

You sit on the edge of your bed for a second. It feels weird. Really weird. But…you can also kind of see it. Which you absolutely do not want to admit. You and Bucky already spend a lot of time together. You already know each other’s habits. You already bicker like an old married couple half the time. And apparently in this universe…you just skipped the whole “figuring it out” part.

You shake your head again. “Nope,” you mutter. You stand up quickly. Mission first. Existential romantic crisis later.

You head back into the hallway and knock on Bucky’s door. He opens it a second later. He’s still in the sweatpants from earlier and now a dark t-shirt. You both pause awkwardly for half a second. Then he nods toward the hallway.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

You start walking toward the elevator together. Your shoulders almost bump. Both of you subtly adjust your steps at the same time. It’s awkward. But also weirdly easy. You both know each other’s pace without thinking. Neither of you mentions it. When you walk into the kitchen, everyone is already there. Every single one of them turns to look at you. Sam immediately grins.

“Well look who finally decided to join us.”

Your stomach drops. You force a casual smile. “Morning.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Rough morning?”

You sit down at the table quickly. “Why does everyone think that?”

Sam gestures between you and Bucky. “You two were yelling.”

Clint smirks. “Very loudly.”

You freeze. Bucky grabs a mug and starts making coffee. “Dropped something,” he says.

Sam leans back in his chair. “You drop things every morning?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re very interested in our morning routine.”

“Oh, I’m extremely invested,” Sam says.

Natasha smirks into her coffee. Bucky sets a mug in front of you.

You blink. You didn’t even ask. He already made it exactly how you like it.

Sam notices immediately. “See?” he says loudly. “Domestic.”

Your face heats. “It’s coffee.”

“You didn’t even ask for it.”

“He knows how I like it.”

Sam leans toward Steve. “Domestic.”

Steve hides a smile behind his cup. You take a sip of the coffee. Yep. Exactly right. You refuse to acknowledge that.

Natasha watches you both carefully. “You two are acting weird today.”

You almost choke. “We are not.”

“You’re quieter.”

Clint nods. “Way quieter.”

Thor looks confused. “Are they usually louder?”

“Much,” Sam says.

You glare at him. Bucky sits down beside you. Not touching. Just…close. You feel hyper aware of it.

Tony sets down his fork. “So,” he says casually, “did you two sleep well?”

You and Bucky both choke. Sam immediately bursts out laughing.

“OH my god,” he says. “You definitely slept in.”

“We did not!” you say quickly.

Natasha smirks. “You look like you did.”

You shove a piece of toast in your mouth to stop talking. Wanda tilts her head.

“Didn’t you stay in Bucky’s room last night?”

You freeze. “…What?”

She looks confused. “You usually do.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, you basically live there.”

You look at Bucky. Bucky looks at you.

Clint grins. “You might as well just move in together already. You already spend like every night together.”

Your brain short circuits. Every night. Together. You stare very hard at your toast.

Sam grins at you both. “You two are red.”

“We are not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Natasha watches you. “You two fight or something?”

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” Bucky says at the exact same time.

You both look at each other.

“…What?”

“…What?”

Sam slaps the table laughing. “Oh this is gold.”

Steve stands. “Training in five.”

You and Bucky both look horrified.

--

Training is worse. Because now everyone is watching you. And training starts with sparring rounds of course.

You stand across from Bucky on the mat. Sam leans against the wall.

“This is gonna be good.”

Natasha folds her arms. “Fight like you usually do.”

You and Bucky glance at each other. “…How do we usually do it?” you whisper.

“No idea.”

“Great.”

You lunge first. Bucky blocks easily. Your movements fall into rhythm almost instantly. Years of fighting together kick in automatically. You dodge. He counters. You spin. He catches your wrist. You freeze for half a second. He lets go quickly.

Sam whistles. “You two are weird today.”

You shove Bucky lightly. “Focus.”

He smirks. “You’re the one distracted.”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh really?”

You sweep his leg. He stumbles and grabs your arm to steady himself. For a split second you’re very close. You both freeze again.

Sam groans dramatically. “Just kiss already.”

“SAM!” you yell.

“WHAT.”

Natasha is watching with a small smile. “You two are adorable.”

You groan. “This is a nightmare.”

“Agreed,” Bucky mutters beside you.

Steve claps his hands. “Alright,” he says. “A few more sparring rounds.”

You wipe sweat from your forehead and groan quietly. Of course.

Natasha smirks from across the mat. “You two again.”

Sam grins. “Yeah, let’s see if they’re still mad at each other.”

“We are not mad at each other,” you say immediately.

Bucky glances at you. “You literally swept my leg five minutes ago.”

“That was training!”

Sam points at you both. “See? Tension.”

Steve sighs, but he’s smiling a little. “Alright, let’s go.”

You step onto the mat again, rolling your shoulders. Bucky stands across from you. For a second you both just look at each other.

“…We’re doing this again?” you mutter.

“Apparently.”

Sam leans on the wall again. “Don’t hold back just because you’re dating.”

Your face burns. “We are not holding back!”

“Sure,” Clint says from the corner. “Last week you pinned him in thirty seconds.”

You freeze. “…I did?”

Clint nods. “You bragged about it for like an hour.”

Your eyes slowly shift to Bucky. You blink. Then shake your head.

“Okay.” You square up again. “Let’s go.”

You move first again. This time the rhythm is smoother. You’ve trained together so many times your bodies just…know. He blocks. You twist. He counters. You duck under his arm and shove him backward.

Sam whistles. “There it is.”

You try not to think about the fact that Bucky’s hands keep catching you before you stumble. Or that every time you step wrong he steadies you automatically. You swing again. He dodges.

At one point, your ponytail comes loose slightly, strands sticking to the side of your sweaty face.

You try to blow them away. But before you can fix it, Bucky reaches out. His fingers brush lightly against your temple as he tucks the loose strands back into your ponytail.

The movement is automatic. Effortless. Like he’s done it a thousand times. You freeze for half a second. Your heart does something weird in your chest.

“…Thanks,” you mutter.

He just nods.

Sam immediately groans from across the room. “Oh my god.”

You glare at him. “What?”

“That was disgustingly domestic.”

“It was practical!”

Natasha smirks. “Sure.”

You spin back toward Bucky quickly. “Focus.”

“Right.”

You attack again just to distract yourself. But now you’re hyper aware of everything. Every time his hand brushes your arm. Every time he steadies you. Every time he adjusts his stance slightly so you don’t collide with someone behind you.

It’s not over-the-top couple stuff. It’s small things. Subtle. Things most people wouldn’t notice. But you notice.

Because in your universe…he doesn’t do them. At least not like this.

You step back to catch your breath. Bucky immediately reaches down and grabs your water bottle from the bench. He holds it out without looking. You stare at it.

“…How did you know I was about to grab that?”

“You always do after the second round.”

Your brain stalls. “Oh.” You take it slowly. “…Right.”

Sam is watching you both again. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Why?” you ask defensively.

“You move like a married couple.”

“We are not married!”

“Yet,” Clint says.

You choke on your water. “CLINT.”

Natasha laughs quietly. Steve walks past, shaking his head. “Alright, next drill.”

You hand the bottle back to Bucky automatically. He takes it without looking. Your brains are apparently on the same weird autopilot.

The drills continue. You and Bucky end up paired together again for partner work. Of course. While Steve explains the exercise, Sam leans toward you.

“So,” he says quietly, “you two good now?”

You blink. “…What?”

“You were arguing yesterday.”

You glance at Bucky. He shrugs slightly. You quickly nod.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

Sam grins. “Good. Because the silent treatment thing you two do is exhausting.”

Your brain trips. “…We do that?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint calls from the other side of the room. “You two get petty.”

Bucky mutters beside you, “That sounds accurate.”

You elbow him lightly.

“Hey.” Steve claps his hands. “Focus.”

The drill starts. This one is closer. Grappling practice. You try very hard not to think about the fact that Bucky’s hands are on your arms. Or your waist. Or that he’s standing way closer than usual.

He shifts your stance slightly. “Foot back,” he murmurs.

You adjust automatically. Your shoulder brushes his chest. Your heart flutters again. You try very hard to ignore that.

“Better,” he says.

You glance up at him. “…You’re very good at this boyfriend thing.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. His eyebrow lifts slightly.

“I’m just doing what I normally do.”

You blink. “…Right.”

Sam watches the two of you again. “You guys seem less weird now.”

You straighten quickly. “We were never weird.”

“Uh huh.”

You and Bucky exchange a quick glance. Apparently you’re faking it well enough now. But the teasing doesn’t stop. It just becomes…normal.

Sam bumps Bucky’s shoulder as everyone takes a break. “You still taking her to that place tonight?”

You freeze. “…What place?”

Sam looks confused. “The diner.”

Bucky nods slowly. “Yeah.”

You stare at him. Diner. Okay. New information.

Clint grins. “Your weekly date.”

Your brain short circuits. Weekly. Date.

Natasha smirks at your expression. “You two are very routine.”

You rub your face. “Good to know.”

Sam looks at you suspiciously. “You forget?”

“No!” You clear your throat. “I was just…thinking about something else.”

Sam shrugs. “Alright.”

Training resumes. But now your brain is spinning with all the little pieces of information you’ve gathered. You and Bucky spend most nights together. You have a weekly diner date. You fight and give each other the silent treatment.

And apparently…you’re very good at acting like a couple. Which is somehow the weirdest part of all. Because the more the morning goes on…the more natural it starts to feel.

--

Training finally ends. Everyone starts breaking off and grabbing water, stretching, or talking.

You and Bucky end up staying on the mat for a minute, stretching out sore muscles. Your shoulders ache. Your legs definitely ache.

Bucky sits on the mat beside you, stretching one arm across his chest. “…Well,” he says quietly.

You stretch forward, touching your toes. “That was horrible.”

“You handled it fine.”

“I did not,” you respond.

“You did.”

You glance sideways at him. “You kept doing boyfriend things.”

He shrugs. “They came naturally.”

“That’s concerning.”

He smirks slightly. “Maybe you just make it easy.”

You immediately look away. “Nope.”

You stand up quickly. “We should go before someone asks us more questions.”

Bucky nods. “Good idea.”

You both grab your things. A few people are still around, but no one really says anything as you leave the training room together. You exhale the second you step into the hallway.

“Okay.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “So.”

“So.” You start walking toward the elevators. “New plan,” you say. “We act normal for a little longer.”

“Meaning?”

“Shower. Lunch. Normal routine.”

“And then?”

“Then we meet back up and figure out how to get to the warehouse.”

He nods slowly. “That works.”

You stop outside your door. “Alright.”

You point at him. “Go.”

“What?”

“Your room.”

He looks down the hall. “You’re kicking me out now?”

“Yes.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fine.”

--

The shower feels amazing. The second the hot water hits your shoulders, you let out a long breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. It loosens the tension in your shoulders. Your brain is still spinning though.

Multiverse.

Machine.

Other universes.

You and Bucky dating.

Your brain trips over that thought again. You sigh loudly. You grab shampoo and run a hand through your hair. You try to focus on the actual problem.

Step one: figure out what your other-universe selves have been doing.

Step two: figure out how to get to the warehouse.

Step three: activate the machine again.

Simple.

Except your brain keeps drifting back to the same thought. You and Bucky. Dating. You scrub your face. It’s so weird. But…

You sigh again.

You can kind of see it. Which is the annoying part. You rinse the shampoo out of your hair. You force your brain back to the plan.

Then a thought hits you. You straighten slightly under the water.

Your phone. You put everything in your calendar. Appointments. Training. Meetings. You’ll be able to see what you’ve done in this universe the past couple weeks and what you have coming up.

You rinse off quickly. You’re almost done when there’s a knock at the door. You blink. “…Yeah?”

The bathroom door opens. “Hey.”

You jump slightly. “Bucky!”

“What?”

“I’m showering!”

“And?”

Your eyes widen. “What do you mean and?”

“I can’t see you.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Plus we’re dating so–”

“No we aren’t.”

“Technically we are in this universe.”

You close your eyes and sigh. “…Whatever. Can you at least leave so I can dry off?”

“Yeah, alright.”

The door shuts. You turn the water off and step out of the shower. Then immediately freeze.

You realize you didn’t bring clothes into the bathroom. You look toward the door. You are about 95% percent sure Bucky did not actually leave your room. You sigh.

You dry off a little bit then wrap the towel around yourself and slowly open the bathroom door. Bucky is sitting on your bed. Of course he is.

You stop in the doorway. “…Seriously?”

He looks up. “What?”

You walk to your dresser. “Can you leave so I can get dressed?”

He tilts his head. “Uhh…that’s not really gonna convince anyone we’re a couple.”

You groan loudly. “Fine. But turn around.”

“Alright.”

He rotates on the bed so his back is facing you. “Better?”

“Yes.”

You change as fast as humanly possible. You try very hard not to think about the fact that Bucky Barnes is sitting a few feet away while you’re changing clothes. You pull your shirt down quickly.

“…Okay.”

He turns back around. “So,” he says.

“So.” You sit on the bed. “I was about to check my phone.”

“For what?”

“My calendar.”

He nods. “That’s smart.”

“I put everything in there.”

“Good.”

You point at him. “You should check yours too.”

He stands up. “Alright. It’s in my room.”

You stare at him. “You came here without your phone?”

“I wasn’t thinking about that.”

You sigh. “Go get it.”

“Okay.” He heads for the door. “I’ll be back.”

The door shuts. Silence fills the room. You take a deep breath.

“Okay.”

You grab your phone off the nightstand and tap the screen – then freeze. Your background is a picture of you and Bucky.

It’s clearly a selfie. Both of you are smiling so wide your cheeks look like they hurt. The photo is slightly blurry, like it was taken mid-laugh. Bucky’s face is close to yours. Really close. His nose is almost brushing your cheek. It looks like he either just kissed your cheek or was about to.

Your stomach flips. Your heart does something stupid in your chest.

“Ugh.”

You unlock the phone quickly. Your layout is almost identical to your phone in your universe. Same apps. Same folders.

But your eyes keep drifting back to that picture.

You sigh. Then you open the photos app.

The first few pictures are random things.

Screenshots. Food. A picture of the team during training. Then—

You and Bucky again. This one is clearly taken by someone else. You’re both sitting on the compound couch. You’re leaning against his shoulder while he’s looking down at something on his phone. Your expression is soft and relaxed. He’s smiling slightly.

You stare at it. “…Okay that’s cute.”

You scroll. Another one. This time it’s a group photo. Everyone is outside the compound. But Bucky has one arm around your shoulders and you’re both laughing at something. Your head is tilted toward him.

You zoom in slightly. “…Wow.”

You scroll again. There’s a mirror selfie. You’re both in your room. You’re holding a mug and Bucky’s standing behind you with his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

You squint at the picture. “…Did we take this at like six in the morning?” Your hair looks messy. His looks worse. But you’re both smiling.

You scroll again. A picture from what looks like the diner Clint mentioned. You’re sitting across from each other in a booth. Someone clearly took it from the next booth over. You’re mid-laugh, leaning forward. Bucky is looking at you like you just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Your heart flutters again.

“…Why do we look so happy?”

You scroll again. A candid one. You’re walking across the compound lawn. Bucky is slightly behind you, grabbing your hand to pull you back toward him. You’re laughing over your shoulder.

You stare at the screen. “…Oh my god.”

You zoom in. His hand is wrapped around yours. Comfortable. Easy. Like it happens all the time.

You scroll again. This one is from a mission. You’re both in tactical gear. Your helmet is off and you’re both sweaty and dirty. But you’re leaning against him while he holds the camera. Both of you look exhausted and completely happy.

You groan quietly. “This is stupid.”

You keep scrolling anyway. There are so many. Selfies. Candids. Pictures someone else took. Pictures from dinners. Training. Random moments around the compound.

In almost every one, you’re touching, or leaning against him, or standing close. Smiling. And it looks so natural and so real.

You stare at the screen. “…This is ridiculous.”

But you can’t help it. You smile a little at one of them anyway.

The door opens a few minutes later. You react instantly, closing the photos and opening your calendar. You sit up straighter just as Bucky walks back in.

He shuts the door behind him and walks over, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Find anything?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

He drops onto the bed next to you and unlocks his phone.

“…Huh.”

You look up. “What?”

He tilts the phone slightly. “Cute.”

You lean over to see. It’s a picture you hadn’t seen on your phone. Someone else clearly took it. You’re outside somewhere on the compound lawn, sunlight bright behind you. Bucky is giving you a piggyback ride. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, your faces are pressed together, and you’re both laughing. Your cheek is smushed against his and you both have huge stupid grins.

Your stomach flips. You immediately lean back. “Can you focus?”

He looks at you. “What?”

“We’re supposed to be looking for useful information.”

“I just said it’s cute.”

You roll your eyes dramatically and go back to your calendar. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Relax,” he mutters.

You scroll through your calendar. He glances over at your phone.

“What was your background?”

You stop. “…Why does it matter?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m curious.”

You keep scrolling. “Focus.”

A second passes. Then–

“Was it the same picture?”

“No.”

“Was it even me?”

You sigh loudly. “Yes.”

“I wanna see it.”

You close your eyes for a second. “…Bucky.”

“What?”

You sigh again and lock your phone. Then you tap the screen so the lock screen lights up.

The selfie appears again. Bucky studies it.

“…That’s cute too.”

You immediately unlock the phone again. “Focus.”

You look more closely at your schedule for today.

“Okay,” you say.

“What?”

“I have a meeting at two.”

“With who?”

“The whole team I’m assuming.”

He nods. “That sounds right.”

You scroll farther down. “…And apparently we have a diner date tonight.”

He snorts quietly. “Weekly.”

“Clint mentioned that.”

You scroll through the past few days. Training. Meetings. Some random things. You frown slightly. “No mission.”

“What?”

“In our universe we had that warehouse mission.”

“Right.”

You tilt the phone toward him. “Nothing like that here.”

He nods slowly. “Huh.”

You keep scrolling. The last few weeks are mostly the same routine. You sigh and toss the phone onto the bed. “Nothing helpful.”

Bucky shrugs. “Same.”

He scrolls through something else. You lean over slightly. “What are you looking at?”

“Texts.”

“Oh.”

You grab your phone again and open your messages. You scroll through conversations.

Then, you open your conversation with Bucky. It’s surprisingly short. “…Huh.”

“What?”

“We barely text.”

He glances over. “Probably because we’re always together.”

You roll your eyes. “Very funny.”

You scroll through the messages anyway.

Most of them are random messages or reminders. You keep scrolling. Then you stop.

“…Oh my god.”

“What?”

You tilt the phone away slightly. “Nothing.”

He leans closer. “What?”

You sigh. “You sent me a shirtless gym picture.”

He grins immediately. “I bet I look good.”

“No.”

Bucky laughs. “Well I’m sure you liked it in this universe.”

You roll your eyes and scroll again. Then you half laugh half groan.

“You sent me a meme that just says ‘date night?’ with a picture of a grilled cheese.”

“We were probably making grilled cheeses.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, closing the messages. “Nothing helpful.”

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe pictures?”

You try very hard to act normal. “Yeah.”

You open the photos app again. Bucky immediately starts scrolling through his. A second later he turns the phone toward you.

“Look at this one.”

It’s another picture of the two of you. This one you saw earlier. The couch one.

“Nice,” you say quickly.

He scrolls again. “Oh, look at this one.”

He shows you another. You both look half-asleep in the compound kitchen. His chin is resting on your shoulder, similar to the mirror picture you saw.

You sigh. “Okay.”

He scrolls again. “Oh wow.”

“What now?”

He turns the phone. It’s a picture of you sitting cross-legged on the training mat. Your hair is a mess and you’re glaring at the camera.

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Bucky laughs. “You look so mad.”

“Because I probably was.”

He scrolls again. “Oh this is embarrassing.”

“What?”

He shows you another one. It’s a selfie you apparently took of him while he was asleep on the couch. His mouth is slightly open and you’re doing a thumbs up.

You burst out laughing.

“I’m not proud of that,” he says, shaking his head.

He scrolls again.

“Wait.”

“What?”

He shows you another one. You’re both at the diner again. But this time you’re sitting on the same side of the booth. Your head is leaning on his shoulder while you’re looking at the menu.

Your heart does that stupid flutter thing again. You try to ignore it.

“I’m assuming this is at the diner,” he says.

“Yeah.”

You scroll for a few more minutes.

“Anything useful?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Not really.”

You open a few other apps. Notes, maps, but don’t find anything helpful. You sigh and fall back onto the bed. “Well.”

Bucky sets his phone down. “That was productive.”

“Not really.”

You stare at the ceiling. “…At least we know we’re cute.”

He snorts. You immediately sit up.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.”

You point at him. “Focus.”

He’s still half-smirking at you. You narrow your eyes.

“What.”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing that face.”

“What face?”

“The I know something you don’t face.”

He leans back against the headboard. “I’m just saying.”

“Oh no.”

“You’re the one who said we’re cute.”

You groan and drop back against the mattress. “That is not what I meant.”

“Sure.”

You point at him again. “We need to decide what we’re doing.”

“Right.”

You sit up again. “I think we should just tell Steve.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Already?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because this is ridiculous!” You gesture between the two of you. “We’re pretending to be ourselves in a universe where we’re apparently dating and living the same life except not exactly and we don’t know anything about what’s happened here!”

He nods slowly. “Fair.”

“So we tell Steve.”

Bucky thinks about it. Then shakes his head slightly. “I think we should wait.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because we still don’t know how different this universe is.”

You cross your arms. “So?”

“So maybe we gather a little more information first.”

You sigh. “Like what?”

“The meeting.”

You pause. “…Right.”

You forgot about that. You glance at your phone.

“Two o’clock.”

“Exactly.”

You groan. “That’s hours away.”

He shrugs. “We go to lunch.”

“And?”

“Hang around.”

You stare at him. “This is the worst plan.”

“It’s a patient plan.”

“It’s a slow plan.”

He smirks. “You’re impatient.”

You shake your head. “I’m practical.”

“Sure.”

You sigh dramatically and stand up. “Fine. Lunch.”

“Lunch,” he agrees.

--

The kitchen is busy again when you walk in. Everyone is already there.

Sam looks up the second you and Bucky walk in.

“Look who it is.”

You sigh. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“The commentary.”

He grins. “Relax. You two seem normal again.”

You glance at Bucky. “…Normal?”

Clint nods. “Less weird.”

Bucky moves past you toward the fridge while you grab a plate. Conversation flows around the table, mostly the same kind of random chatter you’re used to.

At one point Wanda asks Thor about something from a mission. Clint argues with Sam about football. It all feels…normal. Almost exactly like your universe. You relax slightly. Maybe this universe isn’t that different after all.

There’s food laid out to make sandwiches, so you and Bucky do what you always do whenever there’s sandwiches for lunch. You each make your own sandwich, easily moving around each other and handing each other stuff because you know exactly what the other needs next. Then, once the sandwiches are made, you each cut yours in half and trade one half for the other, so you each have a half of each sandwich.

When you start walking towards the table, you realize everyone is staring.

“…Wow,” Tony says.

You look at him. “What?”

“You guys were…weirdly synced up while making those.”

“And did you guys just trade halves?” Sam says, laughing.

“Uhh, yeah,” you say. “And?”

Clint grins. “I’ve never seen something more…coupley.”

“Yeah, that was kinda gross,” Nat agrees.

“I think it’s cute,” Wanda says.

Steve just tries to hide a proud grin.

You glance over at Bucky, realizing that in this universe, you must not do the famous “sandwich swap” as everyone else calls it. In your universe, they think it’s funny. In this universe, they think it’s a couple thing. Which makes you realize it really does look like a couple thing.

You make your way to the table and sit down, with Bucky sitting right next to you.

Natasha smirks. “You two are ridiculous.”

You feel your face heating up.

Sam grins. “You two are so obvious.”

You shove your sandwich into your mouth just to avoid talking.

--

After lunch everyone ends up lingering in the common room. Sam and Clint are arguing over something on TV. Thor is explaining something loudly to Bruce. Natasha is reading on the couch.

You sit in one of the chairs with Bucky beside you. “Anything different?” you murmur.

“Not really.”

You nod slightly. “So far everything seems the same.”

“Mostly.”

Steve walks through at one point. “Meeting in ten.”

You sigh. “Great.”

The meeting takes forever. And it’s about the most boring thing possible. A follow-up discussion about a mission from a few months ago. You sit at the table beside Bucky trying very hard to look interested, but your brain is already fried.

Halfway through you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. You glance down under the table.

Bucky: Did we do this mission in our universe?

You type back quickly.

You: Yeah but we wrapped it up faster

Bucky: This meeting is brutal

You glance sideways at him. He’s staring forward like he’s paying attention. You bite back a smile and type.

You: Focus

Bucky: No

You kick his foot lightly under the table. He doesn’t react. Steve finally finishes the meeting nearly an hour later. “Alright,” he says. “That’s it for today.”

You exhale. Finally. You get up to leave and head to Bucky’s room.

You drop onto the bed. “…Okay.”

Bucky shuts the door. “So.”

“So.” You sit up again. “Do we go tell Steve now?”

He leans against the dresser. “Well…”

You stare at him. “What.”

“Our diner date.”

Your brain stalls. “…Oh.” You forgot about that. You stare at him. “Do you want to go?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about those burgers all day.”

You laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grins. “So?”

You sigh. “Fine. We can go. Then we figure out the warehouse tonight.”

He nods. “Deal.”

He sits down on the bed next to you.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s find diner pictures to see what time we usually go.”

You both open your phones. You scroll through photos again.

“Here,” Bucky says.

He turns the phone toward you. It’s another diner picture. You’re sitting across from him holding a milkshake. He’s halfway through a burger.

“This was around 8:15,” he says.

“So we go around eight.”

You scroll farther. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

You turn your phone. It’s a picture of Bucky trying to fit an entire stack of fries into his mouth.

He squints at it. “…Delete that.”

“No.”

He scrolls again. “Oh wow.”

“What now?”

He turns the phone. It’s a picture of you at the diner with food all over your face. Your hand is blurry with a napkin in it like you were trying to wipe it off, but Bucky took the picture before you had the chance.

You groan. “You’re lucky you have super soldier reflexes.”

He just laughs.

You scroll more, then find a picture where you’re both in the kitchen wearing matching hoodies. You freeze.

“…Are those the same hoodie?”

Bucky squints. “…I think so.”

You both stare at the picture. Then quickly scroll past it.

You scroll through more photos.

Some from missions. Some from training. Some random ones around the compound. One where Sam clearly shoved both of you into a photo together. One where Bucky is making a stupid face behind you while you’re brushing your teeth.

You burst out laughing. “You look ridiculous.”

“You’re the one taking a picture while you brush your teeth.”

You scroll again. You find another candid. You’re both sitting outside on the compound steps watching the sunset. You’re leaning against his shoulder. You stare at the picture a little longer than you mean to.

Bucky nudges you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.”

You keep scrolling. Eventually both of you lean back against the headboard. Your shoulders press together naturally. Neither of you moves. You keep showing each other pictures and laughing, and groaning at embarrassing ones.

You shake your head. “This is humiliating.”

“Some of these are great.”

You glance at him. “…They are.”

You scroll to another picture. This one is a blurry selfie where you’re both laughing so hard the photo shook. You smile despite yourself. You hate how warm your chest feels. You glance sideways at him. He’s smiling at the picture too. Your heart flutters again.

You quickly look back at your phone. But a quiet thought slips through your brain anyway. Despite everything. Despite the stress. Despite not knowing how you’ll get home. You realize something.

As long as Bucky’s here, you’ll be okay.

And you really, really try not to think about what that might mean.

--

By the time you leave the compound, the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky.

You and Bucky walk side by side down the sidewalk toward the little diner a few blocks away. The air is cooler now, and the quiet of the evening makes everything feel strangely normal. Which is weird, because nothing about today has been normal.

You shove your hands into your jacket pockets. “What if this doesn’t work?” you ask.

“What?”

“If Steve doesn’t believe us.”

Bucky shrugs slightly. “Then we steal a jet.”

You snort. “That’s your backup plan?”

“Worked earlier.”

“We didn’t steal anything earlier.”

“We talked about it.”

“That’s not the same.”

He glances at you with a small smirk. “You’re still considering it.”

“…Maybe.”

The diner comes into view at the corner. You both slow slightly. “Alright,” you say. “Game faces.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “For burgers?”

“For pretending we know what we’re doing.”

He pushes the door open. The bell above it jingles. Immediately the smell of fries and grilled burgers fills the air. Your stomach growls.

“Okay,” you admit. “Maybe this part isn’t so bad.”

You slide into a booth near the window. Bucky sits across from you. You barely have time to look at the menu before a waitress walks over. She smiles brightly when she sees you.

“Well hey there.”

You blink. “Hi.”

Without asking anything, she sets two drinks down. Then a milkshake. With two straws. You and Bucky both stare at it.

“Your usual?” she asks casually.

You and Bucky glance at each other. Then back at her.

“Yeah,” you say carefully.

She nods. “Alright, that’ll be right out.”

She disappears toward the kitchen. You both stare at the milkshake. Then you both start laughing quietly.

“She knows us,” you say.

“Apparently.”

You tap the side of the glass. “Shared milkshake. Very romantic.”

He smirks. You both take a sip. It’s really good.

You lean back in the booth. “Okay,” you say. “Plan.”

“Right.”

You lower your voice slightly. “We tell Steve everything.”

Bucky nods.

You sigh. “I just hope he believes us.”

“He probably will.”

“You sound very confident.”

“He’s dealt with stranger things.”

“That’s fair.”

The waitress returns a few minutes later and drops two plates in front of you. Both have a cheeseburger with fries piled high on the sides.

“Enjoy,” she says with a smile.

“Thank you,” you say.

She walks away as you pick up your burger and take a bite. Your eyes widen. “Oh wow.”

Bucky laughs. “Told you.”

You both eat for a few minutes. The tension of the day slowly fades a little. But eventually you set your burger down.

“We should go after this.”

He nods. “We need to figure this out.”

“And we have no idea what’s happening in our universe.”

“Exactly.”

You both finish eating. Bucky grabs the check before you can even look at it.

“You don’t have to–”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

He pays quickly. A few minutes later you’re walking back toward the compound. The common room is busy when you walk back in.

They all look up. Sam immediately grins. “Well?”

You blink. “Well what?”

“The date.”

You sigh. “It was good.”

Clint smirks. “Burgers?”

“Yes.”

Bucky looks over at Steve, who’s standing near the table. “Hey Steve?”

Steve looks up. “Yeah?”

“Can we talk?”

Steve nods immediately. “Sure.”

You and Bucky start walking toward the hallway. Steve follows you. You lead the way back to Bucky’s room. Once the door shuts behind you, Steve looks between the two of you.

“What’s going on?”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “…Okay.”

Steve’s expression grows slightly concerned.

“This is gonna sound really weird,” Bucky says.

Steve nods slowly.

“But you have to trust me.”

Steve folds his arms. “…Okay.”

Bucky takes a breath. “We’re not from this universe.”

Steve blinks. Silence fills the room.

You add quickly, “We were on a mission.”

Steve looks between you again. “What kind of mission?”

“Warehouse sweep,” Bucky says. “Abandoned building.”

“We were looking for intel,” you explain. “We thought it was related to multiverse experiments.”

Steve’s brow furrows. Bucky continues.

“We found some tech there too.”

“And we accidentally triggered a machine,” you say.

Steve’s expression grows more confused.

“And it sent us here,” Bucky finishes.

Another pause. Steve looks…very lost. And a little concerned.

Bucky gestures vaguely. “That’s why we were yelling this morning.”

Steve blinks. “…What?”

“When we woke up,” you say quickly. “We had no idea where we were.”

“And also we were cuddling,” Bucky adds.

You bury your face in your hands. “Bucky.”

“What?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Cuddling?”

“We’re not dating in our universe,” Bucky explains.

Steve slowly nods. “…Okay.”

He thinks for a second. “You were acting really weird this morning.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Steve rubs his chin. “Wait.” He looks up. “Where is this warehouse?”

“Romania,” Bucky answers.

Steve’s eyes widen slightly. “Romania?”

You nod. “You have that intel too?”

Steve exhales. “We just got word about this a few days ago.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “We don’t have much information yet.”

He closes the folder. “So actually…” He looks between you both. “This helps.”

You feel a small spark of relief. “So you believe us?” you ask.

Steve nods slowly. “…Yeah.”

You and Bucky exchange a quick look. Steve straightens slightly.

“Then we should go. If that machine sent you here, maybe it can send you back.”

“That’s what we were thinking,” you say.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Do you guys know how to get there?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers.

“Alright. Get suited up, meet at the jet in 10.”

As soon as Steve leaves, you glance over at Bucky. “That went better than expected.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

You leave to get ready, then you walk into the hangar the same time Bucky does. When Steve comes in a few minutes later, he says that he told the team they’d be leaving and that he’d explain when he got back.

You get on the jet and it’s not long before you’re in the air.

“This could work,” you say quietly.

Bucky nods. “I think so.”

“Unless it sends us somewhere else.”

He smirks slightly. “…Let’s not think about that.”

The flight is quiet. The warehouse sits in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and empty fields. You land about a mile out. Steve powers the jet down.

“You two lead the way,” he says.

You nod. You and Bucky head toward the treeline. The walk is quick. Adrenaline pushes you forward. Soon the warehouse comes into view. It’s dark and silent, exactly like the first time.

“Clear,” Bucky mutters as you enter.

The building echoes softly with your footsteps as you make your way to the room. You stop in the doorway.

“It’s the same,” you say.

The equipment is exactly where it was. The circular platform in the floor. The consoles along the walls. Steve steps inside slowly.

“This is it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

You walk over to the console. “Now we just have to remember what we did.”

You stare at the controls. Bucky starts checking cables. Steve watches from a few steps back.

“Try that,” Bucky says.

You press a button. Nothing happens. “Great.”

You flip a switch. Still nothing. Bucky suddenly reaches over and reconnects one of the loose cables. The console hums to life. Lights flicker across the platform. You jump slightly. The platform begins to glow.

Steve steps back immediately. “Alright,” he says. “Looks like it’s working.”

You glance at Bucky. He nods. “Ready?”

“As we’ll ever be.”

You both step toward the platform. The air begins to vibrate. That same low hum fills the room. Steve watches carefully from the corner of the room.

“Good luck,” he says.

You take one more breath. Then you both step onto the platform. The light intensifies. Your vision bends. Your stomach flips violently.

Then–

Everything goes black.

----