Marvel Fan || I reblog and recommend fan fiction I like (mainly Bucky) || 25 F Bucky recommendations masterpost | TBR List | Masterpost of Masterlists I also sometimes help find fics #lost and found
Hi! Iâm Jimena and I love reading fanfics. I usually just like them and eventually I end up losing some fics I really liked. So I decided to create this type of masterlist for me to organize and revisit fics I really really enjoy.
So please take this as some recommendations of fics you should read! In my opinion these authors deserve so much recognition for their incredible works đ
Also if you have any recommendations please let me know, I would love to read them.
summary: When two strangers meet on a layover in the Charlotte Airport, they are sent on a whirlwind weekend filled with cancelled flights, painful questions over giant checkers, an ex-boyfriendâs wedding, and a confrontational graduation. They find that a lifetime can sit in the span of three days and it doesnât take very long at all to fall in love.
Pairing: Bucky x Reader, modern!au
For the Love of the Game - @pellucid-constellations
Summary: Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYUâs top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldnât figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore offâand his feelings for you began to growâhe made it his mission to fix it.Â
Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x ReaderÂ
The Number One Rule - @justkending
Series Summary: Y/N has always been seen as âSteveâs rambunctious sister.â However, she grew up, graduated, and moved to London to study abroad for 4 years and get her bachelorâs degree. The girl that returns looks nothing like the teenager that left. But donât worry, the attitude is still there and stronger than ever. Whatâs to come of the two grown adults that used to push each otherâs buttons, but now have a lot more in common than theyâve ever realized?
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Y/N Rogers (Steveâs little sister)
Save me (Mini Series) - @espinosaurusrexex
summary: Bucky Barnes has never had it easy, which ultimately turned him into a caveman-like introvert with no desire to see the positive side of life. But what happens when the clumsily charming art student, Y/N, stumbles to his rescue, determined to show Bucky how truly wonderful the world is?
Pairing: College!BuckyBarnes x College!reader AU
Everything's Better in Westview - @espinosaurusrexex
summary: Bucky and Y/N sneak into Westview to have the perfect life. Away from late Steve and Tony, Vision and Natasha, they let themselves be consumed by suburban magic. To their surprise, however, some of these people arenât so dead in the town. And there are some other weird things happening that make them question their sanity. But thatâs okay, right? âCause everythingâs better in Westview.
Pairing: BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader
Bulletproof - @amandaoftherosemire
Summary: You, Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes have been the best of friends since middle school. On top of that, youâve been in love with Bucky pretty much the whole time. Everything changed after the three of you got to college, however. Over the past couple of years you and Steve have become even closer but things between you and Bucky have been strained since the night he broke your heart. Can anything bring you back together?
Pairing: BuckyBarnes x Reader
Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five // Part Six // Part Seven // Part Eight ** // Part Nine // Part Ten // Part Eleven** // Part Twelve // Part Thirteen ** // Part Fourteen // EpilogueÂ
Sunrise - @wkemeup
summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is discharged from active duty and sent back to civilian life. Left with a storm of unchecked guilt, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU)
Paring: bucky x reader (veteran!bucky x librarian!reader)
Winter Canvas Masterlist - @sebbytrash
Summary - AU Reader is an Art Major and needs a life model for a major assessment. The catch? Itâs gotta be a stranger. Then you gotta remind yourself that itâs just an assignmentâŠright?
Pairing: College!Bucky x reader
Ice ice baby - @endless-summer-soldier
Summary: Bucky is a college hockey player, Y/N is a figure skater without a partner. What's happens when these two opposites start sharing the ice...
Pairing: CollegeHockeyPlayer!Bucky x CollegeFigureSkater!Reader | Enemies to lovers
Method acting - @kinanabinks
Summary: frat!steve and y/n are close friends, but the lines are starting to blur. if that isn't confusing enough, enter beryl; a girl who's hell-bent on making steve rogers hers, no matter what it takes.
Pairing: Frat!Steve x reader x Frat!Bucky
â The Worst Time of The Year â - @delaber
Summary: Bucky hates everything about Christmas - well, everything apart from one thing: you.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
â home for the holidays â - @classylo
Summary: When your family begs you to come home for the holidays and to bring the new guy youâve been seeing, you donât have the heart to tell them your good-for-nothing-ex cheated on you⊠good thing your roommate is available and will do absolutely anything you ask.
Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x f!reader
â THIS MUST BE MY DREAM â - @lunarbuck
Summary: Youâve been best friends with Becca Barnes since third grade and have been pining over her older Bucky just as long
Pairing: bestfriend'sbrother!Bucky x f!reader
â Fuck up the Friendshipâ - @summerofsnowflakes
Summary: Fed up with having your feelings played with you decide to have some fun with a with your friend Steve.
Pairing: College!SoccerPlayer!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader and College!SoccerPlayer!Steve x Fem!Reader
â Honey Girlâ - @violentdelightsandviolentends
AN: Series still on going but it is SO good I had to add it
Summary - The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.
Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au
Summary: Reader gets hurt in the subway, Bucky helps
Pairing: Bucky x reader
Suburbia - @wkemeup
summary: Posing as husband and wife, you and Bucky infiltrate a quaint suburban neighborhood in search of a Hydra hacker. Perhaps if you werenât so in love with him and he hadnât broken your heart, the act of pretending wouldnât hurt so much.
Pairing: bucky x reader
letâs play pretend - @khimili
Summary: Youâre supposed to attend your sisterâs wedding, but when you learn your ex-boyfriend is coming with his newly found girlfriend, you come up with a lie. Yes, youâre in a relationship, and yes, youâll bring someone to the wedding. Since your sister already knows about your best friend Steve, you decide to set your sights on his taciturn friend, the infamous Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. Whatâs the worst that could happen?
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
Sheâs not mad - @subwaysurf45
Summary: Bucky Barnes was a known people pleaser, it was second nature to him. After meeting you and getting close you both try to navigate his eternal stressed state, working together you try your best to tone down his obsessive ways.Â
Pairing: College!Bucky x reader
Golden Life, Gutters - @castieltrash1
Summary: patience is a virtue and you show bucky barnes heâs worth waiting for
Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!reader
(One part but it has 17k words)
Itâs called: freefall - @kikixreverie
Summary - Things get heated between you and your closest friend Bucky, when you're made to play a married couple on an important mission. Neither of you can help yourselves when you end up stuck in a hotel room together, with sexual tension you could cut with a knife.
Pairing: Bucky x female reader
Flirting and Football - @lovelybarnes
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a soccer player, most girls are interested in him but Bucky is surprised and interested in reader when reader is the only one who isnât interested in him. College AU
Pairing: CollegeAthlete!Bucky x reader
The right partner - @bucky-bucket-barnes
Summary: You and Bucky have always possessed a complicated history, and even more strained relationship with one another. Begrudgingly, you're sent out on a mission with Barnes where you two are posing as a newly wed couple. In an effort to investigate the consistent disappearance of young women in a certain neighborhood, you find yourselves forced to confront a whirlwind of emotions.
Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!Reader Enemies to lovers
â When the Morning Comes â - @pellucid-constellations
Summary: An entire childhood, an entire life, and Bucky just hopes youâll be there when the morning comesâthat youâll get tired of this town and follow him. If not, heâll try again next summer. And the summer after that.
Pairing: Modern!Bucky x reader
â The Safest Place in New York - @wkemeup
summary:Â A stranger comes to your rescue when you find yourself held at knifepoint, alone in an alleyway, by a man demanding your moneyÂ
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
â Obsessionâ - @wkemeup
summary: Targeted after your complicated relationship with Bucky ends up on every news channel in the city, your stalker takes things into his own hands to ensure that you belong to him, and him alone.
pairing: bucky x reader
â Under the Sheetsâ - @vanderlustwords
Summary: Bucky spends more time out of his dorm than in it with how much his roommate amorously makes love to his girlfriend. Luckily, his cute across-the-hall neighbor is generous about lending her place to him. Buckyâs unsure if he wants to hug or kiss his roommate for putting him in the situation he is in now.Â
Pairing: College!Bucky x Reader
â My Everydayâ - @pellucid-constellations
Summary:Â Bucky Barnes was aggressive, annoying, andâworst of allâa hockey player. Not your type. At all. But, unfortunately, your roommate.Â
Pairing:Â College Athlete!Bucky x Reader
â I Can Save You This Timeâ - @pellucid-constellations
Summary: Itâs the 4th of July and youâve never been more sick. Turns out you arenât the only one in the compound that stayed home from the celebration.
Pairing: Bucky x reader
â the forever third wheelsâ - @witchywithwhiskey
summary: it's the weekend of your town's annual valentine's day carnival and you go with your group of friends, though you can't help but be sad you don't have someone special in your life. your friend, and fellow third wheel, bucky barnes makes it his mission to give you a valentine's day you won't soon forgetâand show you how special you are to him.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
â Not a study dateâ - @marvelouslizzie
Summary: You have the biggest crush on Bucky Barnes but despite all your efforts, he doesnât seem to notice you. Can one study date change it all?
Pairing: College Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
â two thousand, five hundred and sixty-nineâ - @kinanabinks
Summary:you and bucky have been best friends since you were kids, but ended up going to colleges thousands of miles apart. your student experience begins terribly, but bucky is having the time of his life - you can't let him know the truth. because if he did, you know he'd drop everything to come and save you.
Pairing: Frat Bucky Barnes x Best Friend Female Reader
â Are You Bored Yet?â - @pellucid-constellations
Summary: God, you hated Bucky. Bucky probably hated you, too. Maybe. It was hard to tell when he was drunk and calling you pretty at a party you shouldn't have gone to.
Pairing: College!Bucky x Tutor!Reader
â Bubblegum Ice Creamâ @bucky-at-bedtime
Summary: You had been forced to babysit when your brother showed up at the door to your apartment - you were just stuck with a child at 9am on Sunday. Sundays were meant to be for sleep. At least your roommate, Bucky, was out on a mission, or that's what you thought.
Pairing: Roomate!Bucky x Reader
â Like Someone I Know â - @marvelouslizzie
summary: You decide to take a break from studying and go to a masked party but your casual hookup turns out to be your biggest rival, Bucky Barnes.
pairing: College!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
â Give Me A Sign â - @lostgirlmuseum
AN: TW | But I must say, if you decide to read this you won't regret it. It was SOOOO beautifully done, I loved it so much
Summary:Bucky asks the universe for a reason to live. The universe delivers you.
Pairing: Bucky x f!reader
â The Cafe â - @subwaysurf45
Summary: Bucky works in the cafe you usually go to. He is to shy to talk to you
Pairing: College!Bucky x f!reader
â A little longerâ - @buckyalpine
Summary: Sam is always pestering Bucky about being single. One day, Bucky decides to lie and tells Sam he has a girlfriend. Now, Sam insists that Bucky bring this so-called girlfriend to his family cookout.
Pairing: Neighbour!Bucky x f!reader
â Read Between The Linesâ - @thevillainswhore
Summary: There shouldnât have been anything unusual about your routine visit to the local bookstore. Your life was simple and mundane, even if you were a daydreamer at heart. But you were pleasantly surprised when this time you met a handsome stranger between the shelves.
Pairing: Modern!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
â JEALOUSY & FLIRTATIONâ - @kinanabinks
Summary: There's nothing you want more than Bucky Barnes - but you and his best friend, Juniper, seem to have that in common.
summary: you and bucky have been best friends your entire life and itâs never been anything but platonic. so why do things get so bad when he gets a new girlfriend? | part two.
Pairing: college!bucky x reader
â Let me Love You â - @scifinerd1818
Summary: When your roommate introduced you to Bucky Barnes, you never imagined it would start an almost three year long feud. When he and Steve come to visit, truths are revealed that change everything. | Part 2
Pairing: College!Buck x Reader
â You're my desireâ - @marvelouslizzie
summary:Â Your best friend drags you out on a double date. You were supposed to be Steve Rogersâ date but plans change pretty quickly and you end up in Bucky Barnesâ arms. | trust in what tomorrow brings
pairing:Â 40s Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
â Consequencesâ - @duuhrayliegh
Summary: Your long term boyfriend decides to ask for an open relationship. You decide to cope by drowning your sorrows in the Howling Commandos bar, your barista is tired of seeing you so sad. | equal and opposite
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SUMMARY. Bucky Barnes doesnât lose control. He doesnât blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesnât feel so important.
WORD COUNT. 17.8k (sheâs biiiig, iâm sorry)
WARNINGS. workplace romance, age gap, power imbalance, lowk grump! bucky, switching povs, smut, lowkey love/lust at first sight, MDNI, 18+, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), soft dom! bucky, unprotected pnv, tit play, food play, public-ish sex, misogyny and sexism in workplace (not from Bucky or Steve), miscommunication, angst, no use of y/n.
Switching povs - Reader is always referred to in second person â you/your, Bucky is always referred to in third person â he/him.
Reader is able-bodied, has hair, has a scar on her right hand (needed for plot) from a kitchen accident. Itâs mentioned a couple of times. Bucky doesnât have a metal arm, thereâs a scar instead.
Hierarchy in the kitchen goes like this â executive chef > head chef > sous chef >>> line cooks. âPassâ is the area/counter where finished dishes are kept to be picked up.
NOTES. Babyâs first collab yayy. I am beyond excited to participate in the Buckyâs dream house collab with these amazingly talented authors of the @stantastic-association. Thank you @miraclediviner for organising this and making it a reality and a success. Iâll always adore you. Also thank you for the âscar on Buckyâs armâ idea, I owe you baby. Ilysm â€ïž
READ ON AO3
BUCKYâS DREAM HOUSE MASTERLIST
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:Â You up?
Bucky: Yeah
Steve:Â 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 â"
"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 â 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:Â 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 â
"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 â
"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.Â
"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 â 8:47 AM, fuck â 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 â"
"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.Â
"How did you â"
"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.Â
"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality.Â
"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.Â
"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.Â
"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 â your face â, 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 â" 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 â"
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 â not to mention inappropriate â 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.Â
"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.
You turn to look at him.Â
"Don't â" 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?Â
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 â" 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.Â
The second thing he notices â and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't â 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."Â Â
You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose.Â
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.Â
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 â
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 â this desperate want, this intense need â 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.Â
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 â 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 â Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't â 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 â" 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."Â 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 â"
"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 â
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 â"
"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 â 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.Â
Steve:Â You're in trouble
Bucky:Â Fuck off
Steve:Â She's pretty
Steve:Â And she saved alpine
Steve:Â And you looked at her like she hung the moon
Bucky:Â I said fuck off
Steve:Â 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. ButâŠ
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 â you think â, 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.Â
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.Â
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 â"
"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 â 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 â" 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 â"
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 â 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 â uh â 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."Â
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 â"
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 â 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.Â
"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.
"Mhmm."
"Earlier. In the kitchen⊠What were you looking at?"
"I â"Â
"Because you were definitely looking at something."
"I wasn't â okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's â 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. Â
"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 â"
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 â" 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 â I â "
"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall.Â
He sets you down on the bed â his bed â 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.Â
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 â Buck â It's too much â"
"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.Â
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 â you're â" 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 â oh â"
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. Â
"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 â"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me. Please fuck me."
"Well â 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 â fuck."
You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move.Â
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 â Do that again."
Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours.Â
"Fuck â 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 â fuck, right there â"
He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm â"
"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 â inside, please â"
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.Â
"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots â" 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.Â
"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 â"
"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 â"
Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open.Â
"Hey Buck, we need you on the â 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 â fuck âI didn'tâ" 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.Â
"Oh my god. Steve just â he saw us â" you gasp.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 â It's the same honey," you reply dumbly.Â
"No. It's not."Â
"Bucky â"
"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.Â
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 â "
"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 â"
"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 â" 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 â" 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.Â
"That's â" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck â"
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 â" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please â"
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 â"
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 â"
"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 â"
"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.
"Oh god â"
"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.Â
"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.
"You â You know what I mean â"
He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh â you think â 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 â"
"But, I'm not done â"
"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 â"
"How bad?"
"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds â"
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 â You feel â Jesus fucking Christ â"
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 â wanted to â fuck â wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad â"
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 fuckingâ"
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 â please â"
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 â I'm so close â"
"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."Â
"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.Â
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 â"
"Just one more taste."
"Alpine, no â 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 â"
"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 â whatever it is, whatever it was becoming â 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 â"
"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.Â
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 â 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 â 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 â"
"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 â"
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 â"
"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just â 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.Â
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 â"
"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 â"
"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable â"
"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's â 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 â"
"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 â"
"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.Â
"That's â no one here would â"
"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 knowâŠ" 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 â"
"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 â"
"The hell it doesn't."
"Steve â"
"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 â"
"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 â"
"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 â 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 â"
"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 â"
"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 â"
"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.Â
"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues.Â
"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word.Â
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 â" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's â that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever â we weren't even â"
"I know."
"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She â" 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 â"
"They're talking about her like she's â like she â" 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 â"
"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't â" 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 â me?"
"Yeah."
"That's â 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 â"
"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you â"
"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 â 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 â 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 itâs 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.Â
"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 â" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just â 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 â every time I try, she shuts down."
"Try harder."
"Steve â"
"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 â multiple someones, apparently â have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."
More uncomfortable shifting.Â
"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 â" 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. Â
"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 â"
"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 â"
"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 â"
"I can. I just did. Out. Now."
"This is bullshit â"
"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 â Miller, Bucky thinks his name is â 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.Â
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 â"
"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 â 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 â 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 â" 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 â I should've just read your mind or something â"
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 â 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 â 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 â" 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 â"
"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."Â
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."Â Â
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.Â
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 â 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 â 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 â§ 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.
Pairing:Racer!Bucky x Ex!Childhood Best Friend!Reader
Summary: James Bucky âBulletâ Barnes hasnât taken a proper break from his professional racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and return to his hometown. What he doesnât expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no oneâs heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made in his sophomore year of college, is the cause of that.
WC: 13.3k
Contains: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / smut / female reader / childhood friends to enemies to âŠ? / ex!best friendâs brother / miscommunication / misunderstandings / reunion & revenge / street racing (I did some research, but I took some liberties for plot purposes) / bucky is clueless and down bad / illegal activities tied to street racing / not everything is as it seems / lots of back and forth between these two idiots in love / backseat car protected p in v / dream sequence that takes bucky down memory lane / fun cameos / buckys pov so the truth of it all isn't revealed until the end
a/n hi barbies! đ this fic is for @stantastic-association's barbie collab! thank you to our darling @miraclediviner for putting this gorgeous collab together đ And thank you to the prettiest barbie of them all, my bestie @thelomlbuckybarnes who listened to me yap endlessly about this fic until it was ready for everyone to read. đ Thank you for reading! âËâč⥠Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! âĄâĄâĄ
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist
This was it.
Bucky was home.
Nostalgia should be hitting him the hardest right now. The longing pull to be back in his childhood home with his Ma's cooking, his Pa's laughter, stupid arguments he can only get into with his sister that always end with Bucky giving her the reason. Sleeping in until his body feels like waking up, getting to pick what he wants to do in the day instead of sticking to a tight scheduleâbeing able to just exist instead of only living for the sake of his career. He should be looking forward to all of that and more right now.
And he is, to some extent.
Underneath the nostalgia, there's an persistent thrum beneath his ribcage. Poking at a part of his heart that's been deeply tucked away within him for years. It made itself known the moment he decided to take a break from racing and come home. It followed him through press conferences and meetings, to his apartment while he was packing his bags and preparing to head to the airport. The thrumming only got louder, harder to ignore, the second he landed in his home town.
And it has your name written all over it.
"Hey! James! Over here!" Rebeccaâs 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.
"Waitâhold 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 apartâthings 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 schedulesâlook, 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, touringâit 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 youâ?"
"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 knowingâno one even bothering to lookâit 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 angryâŠ"
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 heartâBucky 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 outâhe'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 himâit 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 moveâthought 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 systemâŠ" 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 meâ" 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 doâloves 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.
"Buckyâ" 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 ofâŠI don't want to make any mistakesâ" 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 himâit'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 chestâthat'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 youâwhich he sure it isâhe 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 tooâfor a team called the Thunderboltsâalthough 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 goodâreally 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 gutsâliterally." 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, maybeâŠ"
"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 strangerâconfusion 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, âItâs not even that big of a deal.âÂ
âOh, youâve got to be fucking kidding me,â 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 hereâits 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 sayâtoo 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 shitâŠ," 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 crypticâand 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 andâ" 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 theâ" 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 teethâan 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 meâfuck," 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 teethâmessy 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, Iâ" 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 fingerâright 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 justâI'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 withâ"
"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 willâfor 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 frustrationâthe 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! âĄâĄâĄ
bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist | purple divider by @/cursed-carmine ĘââË.â
everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmateâs. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?
word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab
authorâs note: i havenât posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else iâve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.
i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by âthe prophecyâ by taylor swift ⥠i highly recommend giving it a listen!
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
Soulmate.
A word that fills most people with hope and peace.
Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that itâs only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that theyâre exactly where theyâre destined to be.
For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.
But for you, it means nothing. Thereâs no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.
Because thereâs no point in hoping for something thatâs impossible, and you canât lose what you werenât allowed to have in the first place.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
âAre you sure you donât want to come with us?â
You smile, and shake your head. Itâs the third time sheâs 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.
âIâm sure, Lena.â You try your hardest to sound convincing. âItâs been a long week, anyway. Iâm just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.â
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 canât help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelenaâs shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.
It wouldnât be as big of a deal if Valentina hadnât 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!
Itâs an effective strategy, youâll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.
âIf you change your mind, you know where weâll be,â 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.
Itâs 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, Yelenaâs 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 youâd 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 youâd 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 mateâs 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. Youâve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and youâve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.
âChocolate chip?â
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.
âPeanut butter, actually,â you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.
âPeanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.â
âWhat can I say?â You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. âFelt like changing things up.â
âItâs my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.â
Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you donât tell him that. Just like the way youâve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details heâs never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isnât 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 donât know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.
Youâve never seen it, so itâs safe to assume that it isnât somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you canât stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? Heâs 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 heâs already lost?
Or is he still searching, all these decades later?
As curious as you are, you donât ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. Itâs taboo - you just donât 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 youâre staring at him and try to play it off. âReally? I wouldâve guessed chocolate chipâs your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.â
Thereâs a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he canât hide the amusement in his eyes. âI canât believe youâd say that to your most loyal taste-tester.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if heâs going to keep eating half of the product.â
âPulling my weight?â 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. âI mean, Iâd be happy to, but youâre gonna have to teach me.â
âTeach you?â You snort, unsure if heâs just messing with you. âHave you never made cookies before?â
âWell, not from scratch, no,â he admits with a sheepish grin. âBut itâs better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?â
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 donât doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that youâd rather spend your time, but you donât want to seem overeager. He probably just doesnât have anything better to do tonight.
âI suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.â
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 canât help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. âDonât tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.â
He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. âBy baking? Psh. No. By how youâre going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.â
âIâll try to go easy on you,â you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. âNow start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until itâs smooth. Sound easy enough?â
âI think I can handle that.â
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, heâs focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, youâd think heâs 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.
Itâs 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 heâs concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.
Itâs 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 donât 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. âLike this?â He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.
âPerfect,â you hum, hoping that your face doesnât 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 itâll never be anything more.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
Bucky had lied to you, and he doesnât regret it.
Well, partially lied.
Peanut butter cookies arenât his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days heâs more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies heâs 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 heâs never baked cookies from scratch before.
What can he say? Baking wasnât exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and heâs 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, heâs 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 Watchtowerâs 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 hadnât noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that youâd somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldnât 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 couldnât 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 youâre 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. Heâd 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 heâs imagining it. Even if his mark hadnât been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isnât how soul marks work. They arenât magnets. They donât tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.
Itâs wishful thinking for something that heâll never have. Thatâs 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 arenât Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didnât get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.
He wonders though, when heâs 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 doesnât 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 doesnât 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, heâd be forced to face the reality that it isnât 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.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
âThis sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.â
The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avengerâs 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.
Thereâs no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but itâs been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You donât remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.
Bob rolls his eyes at Walkerâs teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. âWhy donât you try to fly, Walker?â says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. âJust step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.â
You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you donât 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 longerâ
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. Youâre 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.
âI assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,â 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.
âHe doesnât have enough eggnog in him yet,â you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. âGive it another hour and weâll see if this tree is still standing upright.â
Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that youâd been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. âWhere did you want this?â
âOh - uh,â 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. âJustâŠright here,â you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where youâd been reaching.
He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.
âIs that good?â He asks, his gaze back on you.
âThatâs perfect.â You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesnât say anything.
Heâs just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didnât want you to fall into a tree. You wouldâve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and thenâ
Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. Sheâs climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. âWe are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?â
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 didnât 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.
âI have a confession to make.â
You exhale. âLet me guess. We arenât actually out of hooks?â
âNope.â
You brace yourself. This would not be the first time sheâs broached the subject - you and Bucky. Sheâs made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but sheâs 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.
âSo,â she continues, infuriatingly casual. âWho 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.â
You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. âI hate to disappoint, but youâre wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. Weâre just friends. Thatâs all. You know that,â you add in a smaller voice.
From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. âJust friends do not look at each other like that.â
âAnd how do we look at each other, exactly?â
You canât help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldnât matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says wonât change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.
âHeâŠlooks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.â She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but sheâs completely serious now. âAnd youâŠwell, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.â
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 canât 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 donât 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, thereâs no point in trying to convince her otherwise.
âI donât suppose it really matters, does it?â You sigh. âAt the end of the day, facial expressions arenât what make peopleâŠâ You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.
âSoulmates?â
âYeah,â you grimace. âSoulmates.â
She doesnât 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.
âHave you ever considered that it doesnât matter as much as you think it does?â
You tense beneath her touch. âThatâs easyââ
âEasy for me to say, I know,â she interrupts. âI 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 otherâŠit 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.â
When you donât respond, she continues. âIt 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?â
You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. âI donât think itâs that simple.â
âMaybe not,â she agrees. âBut simple or not, itâs still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All Iâm saying is that you should not let them.â
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 isnât entirely wrong.
Truthfully, youâve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesnât matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. Youâd 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.
âYouâre really nosey sometimes. You know that?â
She snorts a laugh. âI might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.â
You roll your eyes. âThatâs reassuring.â
âLet me ask you this,â she implores. âIf 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?â
âNo pressure to answer me,â she continues quickly. âJustâŠgive it some thought, yes?â
As if it doesnât already consume your every waking thought.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
Bucky had been naive to think that heâd actually get to sleep in today. He hasnât had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?
No, he isnât surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the teamâs group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.
Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. Thatâs not Valentinaâs communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and donât ask any questions.
Heâd been having the best dream, too. A dream heâs 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 doesnât recognize the place, but it looks how heâd 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 Buckyâs legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.
You never say a word. You donât need to. Heâs 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.
Itâs simple. Impossibly so. Thereâs no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. Itâs 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 oâclock in the morning on a Saturday, before heâs had a chance to take a sip of coffee⊠thatâs 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 morningâs agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesnât surprise him in the slightest, as you arenât much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.
âAlright, alright!â Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, âHow lovely of you all to join me this morning.â
âDidnât really have a choice, did we?â Ava mumbles.
âNo, you didnât,â Valentina agrees. âI have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.â 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 youâre seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.
âWhat the hell is this?â You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.
Buckyâs 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. Heâs never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.
Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like sheâs seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.
âThis should be straight forward,â Val answers. âDetails can be found in the dossiers Iâve given you all. All you really need to know is that thereâs some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. Itâs weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.â
âSo? What?â Yelena huffs. âYou want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?â
âYouâre verifying that the site is empty,â Val clarifies impatiently. âIf itâs not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.â
Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.
âYou know your way around, I presume?â Val directs the question at you. âYou were stationed there for a brief time, after all.â
Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, heâs drawing blanks. When youâd 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 theyâre being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.
Whatever youâre feeling, whatever youâre thinking, youâre doing a great job at hiding it.
âIf by brief time you mean over ten years,â you say flatly, âthen yes. I know my way around.â
âThatâs why youâre running point on this operation. No one else has beenââ
âIt canât be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?â Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. âMost Hydra bases are roughly the same. Iâm sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.â He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. âI donât think itâs necessary to make her go backââ
âIâm fine, Bucky,â you interrupt, gentle but firm. âNo one is making me do anything.â
âPerfect.â The annoyed look on Valâs face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. âThe jet leaves in twenty-four hours. Youâre dismissed.â
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 heâs 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 donât look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.
Bucky doesnât move.
You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you donât look at him. Youâre the only two left in the room, and you donât say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.
âHey,â he calls softly, standing to follow you. âWait.â
You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you wonât turn around at all. When you do, your expression isnât quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but thereâs a storm of emotions in your eyes.
âYouâre sure youâre okay with this?â He asks, his voice low even though youâre alone now. âGoing back there?â
You give a small shrug. âWeâve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.â
He frowns. âThatâs not what I asked. Iâm asking about you.â
âI know what youâre asking, Bucky,â you say flatly, âand I said Iâm fine. Iâm going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.â
Youâre 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.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
You donât go back to your room.
You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. Itâs windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.
Thereâs something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when itâs whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.
Thereâs a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you arenât surprised when he doesnât. Youâd been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didnât deserve that.
Youâll apologize to him later. Itâs probably for the best that you arenât near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what youâre about to do.
Of course you donât 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 youâd undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.
Itâs a long shot. But it isnât impossible.
And if youâre 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 youâll 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 canât retain any of the information because you canât 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 doesnât 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 wouldnât make a difference. Youâd love him. Youâd love him no matter the truth.
But he has a mate. Thereâs someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that thereâs someone, somewhere meant for you - itâll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.
Thatâs what youâre going to keep telling yourself, anyway.
âI can tell that youâre plotting something.â
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.
âIâm not sure what it is,â Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. âBut I know you well enough to know youâre plotting something.â
You huff, though this time itâs more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. âHowâd you know that Iâm up here?â
Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.
âLike I said. I know you well enough.â
You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isnât wrong.
Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.
âIâm sorry I snapped at you,â you say, partially because itâs true and partially because itâs easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that heâs already looking at you.
He shrugs again. âIâll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.â
You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isnât going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what youâre about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.
âIâm thinking about something Iâm going to do in Slovakia.â
He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. âOkay,â he says patiently. âDo you want to tell me what that is?â
You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.
âThere might be files in the base,â you start. âMight be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.â Your face warms under his stare but you still canât bring yourself to look up. âI want to check. I want to see if thereâs anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what wasâŠtaken from me.â
For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And thenâ
âOkay,â he murmurs.
Your head snaps up. You blink. âOkay..?â
âYeah,â he nods. âIf you think thereâs something there worth looking for, then we will look.â
We.
You shake your head. âNo. You donât have toââ
âI know.â His voice is gentle, but thereâs no trace of pity. âI know I donât have to. But you shouldnât have to face that alone.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You arenât entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasnât this - no hesitation, no questions asked.
It makes your chest ache in a way that you canât fully explain. Thereâs gratitude, but thereâs also fear. Gratitude that heâs willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what youâre searching for - wonât 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 donât. Youâre too scared of the answers.
âIt might be a giant waste of time,â you murmur instead. âI donât even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years laterâŠâ
âIf it helps bring you peace of mind,â he says softly, his gaze unwavering, âthen it isnât a waste of time.â He offers a small smile, though it doesnât quite reach his eyes. âYou deserve answers. Whatever they may be.â
You nod because you donât 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 youâve had since learning youâll be returning to Slovakia.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
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 didnât love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldnât hesitate to tell you that he doesnât 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 isnât 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, itâs you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isnât with him.
âSo, whatâs the plan?â Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. âVal put you in charge here, so Iâm assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?â
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 isnât snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isnât convinced.
A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, youâre 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.
âMy memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,â you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. âBut from what I can remember, the buildingâs layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.â
âWeâll sweep the basement,â you continue, now looking at him. âYou and me. If there are any sort of archives, thatâs where theyâll 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 wonât have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.â
He nods in agreement. âHowever much time we have, weâll make it count.â
You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. Youâre nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way youâre fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isnât sure if youâre more scared of not finding answers⊠or finding them.
âHey.â 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 heâs there. That heâs with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.
âI mean it,â he murmurs. âWeâll take however much time we can get it. If thereâs anything down there worth finding, weâll do everything in our power to find it.â
You huff a humorless laugh. âYou seem awfully sure for someone whoâs never seen the place.â
He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. âCall it a gut feeling.â
Thatâs what heâs been calling it, anyway. Because he doesnât know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.
For better or for worse.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, youâre sweating through your tactical suit.
Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. Youâd 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 youâre back on the jet.
Youâd tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that youâre fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didnât 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. Heâs 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.
âThis is it,â you whisper, more to yourself than to him. âThis is the last level. I think.â
Bucky nods. âYouâre doing good.â
You want to laugh at that. Your hands wonât stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like itâs trying to break out of your ribs. Youâre barely keeping your composure.
A left turn. Then a right. You donât have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didnât. 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.
âSorry,â he murmurs. He isnât looking at the door - heâs looking at you, checking if youâre still with him. âYou okay?â
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, itâs in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.
You donât even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, youâd 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. âWeâll start on opposite sides,â he suggests quietly. âMeet in the middle?â
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 youâre ready for this?
You wouldnât 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.
âOkay,â 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 donât recognize. Words in a language you arenât fluent in.
You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until youâre 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 donât 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 donât recognize any names.
You grab one at random and flip it open.
Not you. Another widow - someone you didnât 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?
âAny luck yet?â
Buckyâs voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.
âNo,â you murmur, voice strained. âNothing yet. Nothing about me.â
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 thereâs nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time andâ
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 - itâs how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.
âBucky.â
Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what heâs doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.
â68465,â he breathes, then glances up at you. âThatâs you?â
âYeah,â you whisper. âThis is me.â You place the flashlight youâre 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 youâre hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, thereâs 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.
âWait.â
Buckyâs vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. Heâs already looking at you, mouth parted like heâs on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.
âWhat?â You breathe. âWhat is it?â
He doesnât drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But youâre still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.
âBefore you open that, thereâs something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,â he says, voice low.
You nod because you donât trust your voice enough to speak.
âI donât care what that file says,â he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that youâve never seen from him before. âIt doesnât matter to me.â He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.
You shake your head meekly. âI donât understandââ
âBecause Iâm in love with you.â
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 isnât 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.
âIâm sorry if thatâs weird for you to hear,â he continues, swallowing thickly. âI know my timing isnât great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. Iâm in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that youâre meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it wonât change the way I feel about you. Iâll love you just the same as I do right now.â
You hold your breath the entire time heâs speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.
âBuckyââ
Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.
Yelenaâs voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.
âGuys? We think we found the source of the signal,â she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. âLooks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.â
Walkerâs voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but youâre not paying attention to him.
Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.
âBarnes?â Yelena calls, followed by your name. âCan you two hear us?â
You click on your comm without looking away from him. âYeah,â you answer, your voice cracking. âWe hear you. Letâs get out of here.â
Itâs not that you want to walk away from him. Itâs that you canât fucking think straight while heâs 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 didnât 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 donât know what to think. What to feel. Youâre 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 havenât 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.
âSay something,â he pleads, voice low. âAnything.â
You donât look back. Canât quite bear to face him. At least until youâve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what youâre feeling right now.
But you donât pull your hand away, either.
âI just need some time to think,â you whisper, though it feels like youâre shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. âI donât know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.â
His fingers twitch around your wrist like heâs debating whether he should let go or hold on. âOkay,â he whispers back. âI can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.â
God. Heâs so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you canât 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, youâll let your heart make a decision that you arenât ready for.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
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. Youâre 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.
Youâd 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. Heâs in love with you.
You havenât gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.
I donât care what that file says. It doesnât matter to me. Because Iâm in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.
Say something. Anything.
But it isnât any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, itâs something else that he said - something that answers a question youâve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.
Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it wonât change the way I feel about you.
The implication of the words isnât lost on you. Maybe your mark doesnât match his - but thereâs a chance that it could. Thereâs a chance it could because heâs 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 heâs meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And thatâs enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.
And when you get back home, thatâs exactly what you plan to do.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
Bucky doesnât 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, itâs 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 didnât say it then, he may never say it at all.
And saying it hadnât 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 doesnât care if your mark doesnât 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 itâs nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasnât 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 youâd looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.
He doesnât blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? Youâd 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 youâd 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 heâd essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.
That wasnât fair.
He wonders if youâve 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 itâs just sleep deprivation and heâs hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.
âBucky?â You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didnât have heightened senses, he likely wouldnât have heard you at all.
Heâs on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, youâre standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.
âHi,â you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you havenât used it since the warehouse.
Bucky swallows. âHi.â
âI know itâs late butâŠâ You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. âIs it okay if I come in?â
âOf course,â he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. âAlways.â
For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you arenât 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.
âIâm sorry,â you blurt out.
He stiffens. âSorry? For what?â
âForâŠback there.â You lift your eyes to meet his. âFor not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.â Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you donât owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldnât have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.
âI havenât looked,â you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. âHavenât opened it. I didnât even touch it again until I came here.â
His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldnât feel that way, but selfishly does. âYou didnât?â
âNo.â You shake your head. âThereâs something else I want to do more.â
You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until youâre close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until youâre close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.
He doesnât move. Couldnât even if he tried.
Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you arenât 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. Thereâs 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.
Youâre somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined youâd 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 heâs convinced heâs dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.
Heâd happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.
âDid you mean it?â You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.
He doesnât need to ask what youâre referring to.
âYes,â he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. âMore than you know.â
You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. âThatâs all I need. Thatâs all that matters to me.â You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. Itâs 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 canât tell if itâs from your tears or his own.
âI love you, Bucky,â you whisper. âAnd I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.â
He doesnât know who kisses who this time, but that doesnât 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.
âWait,â he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. âHold on just a second, baby.â The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.
Fuck, he hopes he wonât regret his next words.
You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. âWhatâs wrong? Did I do somethingââ
âNo, no. God, no,â he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. âNot at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly Iâve 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.â
You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. âBucky, it doesnât matterââ
âLook⊠whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But itâs yours. Itâs a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please⊠donât do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, Iâm yours.â
You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. âIf I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?â
He releases a breath that he hadnât even realized he was holding in. He smiles. âOf course.â
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 youâre ready to share whatever you may find. He doesnât move, doesnât sit, doesnât 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 youâre expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesnât, 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 canât see what youâre looking at from where heâs standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.
âItâs your mark,â he murmurs. âIsnât it?â
You donât 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 canât make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.
âItâs in Russian,â you huff, holding the photograph out to him.
The brief hope heâd felt immediately disappears.
His soul mark hadnât been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.
Home.
âMy Russian is rusty. What does it say?â You ask softly.
He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldnât 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.
âĐŽĐŸĐŒ.â
âĐŽĐŸĐŒ?â You repeat, dumbfounded. âWhat does that mean?â
But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like itâs beating a mile a minute.
âBucky?â
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.
Heâs going to answer you. Heâs going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, thereâs something he wants to find.
In just three large strides, heâs 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 heâs doing from behind him.
He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But itâll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just findâ
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 heâs 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 heâs looked at it, until now.
Because now, it isnât 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, itâs 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 youâre his soulmate.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
âBucky, what the hell are you doing?â
Itâs the third time youâve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.
You can see what heâs doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you donât know is why. He hadnât given you any explanation as to what heâs doing - what heâs 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.
âJesus Christ,â you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. âIf youâre not going to tell me what youâre looking for, will you at least tell me what ĐŽĐŸĐŒ means? I didnât bring my phone with me so I canât exactly ask Google Translateââ
He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.
âIt means home,â he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when heâs standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.
âHome?â
You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what youâre looking at. Itâs an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that itâs him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what youâre looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.
Home.
Itâs English. Not Russian like yours. But itâs on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelenaâs and Bobâs marks - each otherâs initials. They may not be identical, but theyâre still a perfect match.
You look up at him to find him smiling at you. âHome,â he repeats quietly, as if heâs still trying to believe it himself.
âDoes this really mean what I hopeââ
âYes.â His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. âThatâs exactly what it means.â
You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. âYouâre my soulmate. Iâm your soulmate.â
They arenât questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but itâs the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so youâll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.
âI am,â he hums. âYou are. Always have been.â He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. âIâve waited more than a century to be able to say that.â
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.
Heâs so fucking pretty. You canât help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but itâs true. Heâs 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 heâs yours.
Heâs really yours.
âCome here,â 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. Heâs 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.
âI love you,â you hum. He swallows hard, like heâs 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 arenât 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 werenât already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.
âI love you,â he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. âRemember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?â Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.
âYeah? You should do that now.â
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 thereâs 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 youâre lying flat and heâs 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.
Thereâs an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isnât a want, itâs a need - like if you donât get as close to him as humanly possible, youâre going to fucking combust.
You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what youâre 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.
âYouâre so pretty,â 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. âPretty,â he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he canât conceal the smirk growing on his lips. âYouâre one to talk.â He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. âIs it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?â
âYes.â You canât 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. âPlease.â
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.
Youâre left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, youâd 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 doesnât make you feel like you need to shrink. Youâre happy to open yourself up for him because youâre made for him. And heâs made for you.
His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. âĐąŃ ĐžĐŽĐ”Đ°Đ»ŃĐœĐ°,â he whispers, voice strained but still soft.
Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. âGonna have to tell me what that means,â you murmur. âMy Russian isnât the best, remember?â
He doesnât 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 towerâs chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.
âI said youâre perfect.â 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. âPerfect and so sweet.â
âFuck,â you whimper. âFuck, Bucky. Please.â
You arenât even sure what youâre begging for. Something. Anything. Thereâs 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.
âWhat is it, baby?â He croons. âTell me what you want.â Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. âDo you want my fingers?â
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.
âOr my mouth?â 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.
âTake your pick and stop being such a menace,â you sigh. âYouâre really gonna torture your soulmate like this?â
âSorry,â he huffs a laugh. âIâll be nice now.â
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 youâre 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, youâre 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. Youâre 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. âWe donât 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.â
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.
âBucky,â you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. âI want you. All of you. Now that I have youâŠIâm always going to want all of you.â
âYou have me,â he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.
âAll of me.â
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ one year later â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
âIf we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? Thatâs too much chicken. Right?â
Before Bucky can give you an answer, youâre switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker canât 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.
Itâs 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, itâs usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.
But youâre on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and itâs time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things youâve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine oâclock this morning.
Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. Heâd 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 sheâs trying to ask if youâre alright.
âAnd 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 andââ
Bucky doesnât 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.
âWhat aboutâŠno chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?â
You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. âWhat are you talking about?â
He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but itâs worth a shot. âWhat if we justâŠdidnât? Didnât worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.â
You freeze where youâre standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like youâre trying to figure out if heâs joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.
âYouâre serious,â you scoff. It isnât a question.
âDead serious.â
âBut we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, andââ
By this point, heâs already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.
âLook,â he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. âIf you want to have a wedding, weâll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.â He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His motherâs ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.
His soulmate.
âBut Iâve 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 theââ
âOkay.â
âWait. What?â He takes an involuntary step back as if youâve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. âReally?â
Youâre smiling from ear to ear. âReally. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, butâŠthis is a lot.â 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. âYouâre right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably wonât even remember any of it. When weâre old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that itâs me and you.â
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. âSpeaking of vowsâŠâ He sighs, pulling back, âif weâre doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.â
âFinish them? I havenât even started mine. Iâve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.â
He cackles at that. âWell, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning weâre driving to the county clerkâs office and Iâm making you my wife.â
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.
âWhat do you think, Alpine?â You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. âDo you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?â
The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. âSee? She thinks itâs a great idea, too.â
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. âTomorrow,â he murmurs into your hair. âI canât wait.â
You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. âTomorrow,â 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. âShould we, uhâŠdo something about all of that?â
âHm?â You follow his gaze to see what heâs talking about. âOh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.â
He was so hoping you would say that.
â§Ë*°àżâ.âËàŁȘâ
if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3
          VACANT MIRRORS   ;   MASTERPOST Â
                      PINTEREST   |   AO3   |   SPOTIFY
    shitâs been rough. shit was rough even before the blip. dr. hart shares an office with dr. raynor, and you share with waiting room with bucky barnes. set before tfatws; a friends-to-lovers, slowburn, eventual smut.
â Â Â CHAPTERS Â / Â completed!
1. Â Â Â I LANDED ON YOU LIKE A SUCKER PUNCH
2. Â Â Â BUT IâVE HAD WORSE NIGHTMARES
3. Â Â Â SO IâLL BE PLUGGED IN & TUNED OUT
4. Â Â Â WHILE YOU & I RIDE INTO THE SUNÂ
5.   PLATONICALLY SO, OF COURSE
6. Â Â GO AHEAD & PLUCK MY HEARTSTRINGSÂ
7. Â Â Â TOGETHER WEâRE LOVERS ON THE LAM
8. Â Â Â SPIRALING TOWARDS THE STORM
9. Â Â Â KISSING IN THE AFTERMATH
10. Â Â TO THE TEMPO OF YOUR HEARTBEAT.
â Â Â DRABBLES & ONE-SHOTS
1. Â Â ALL BLACK
â Â Â OTHER
1. Â dollyâs jukebox, an audio imagine
2.  the vacant mirrors tag
3.  readers make their rabbit!
4. Â fan art & memes
5. Â the glass cannonâs club set list
                           â birbs              Â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Summary: You know that point in adulthood where disappointment stops surprising you? Yeah. Thatâs where youâre sitting tonight â literally â wedged between three nauseatingly happy couples, stirring the ice in your drink while everyone else plays footsie under the table. Your plus-one bailedâno, dumped youâand your dignityâs hanging by a thread, and the universe seems committed to clowning you in 4K. But fine. Whatever. Itâs not like youâre new to being the single friend in a Noahâs Ark dinner party. This is justâŠanother Thursday.
Themes: Love Triangle, Heavy Pining, Romcom, Jealousy, Crude Humor, Friends-To-Lovers, Eventual Smut, Dating Life, Swoon Worthy, Post New Avengers, Doctor!FemReader, Tatted!Bucky, Biker!Stucky, Retired!Steve, BeefyRoommate!Bucky.
Author's Note: Based on the song WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! by RAYE. Let me know if you want to be tagged. GONNA POST 3 CHAPTERS LATER.
You were raised to dislike men like Bucky Barnes, and he made it easyâ he's arrogant, infuriating, and far too interested in getting under your skin. What starts as nothing but friction turns into something reckless, something neither of you is supposed to want. You donât belong in his world, and he has no place in yours, which is exactly why it canât last. But someday, when you leave him behind like you were always meant to, youâll both realize the same thing too lateâenemies were never supposed to feel like this.
 ĘĘâ themes: HISTORICAL/WESTERN AU, Established Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Romance, Opposites attract, He falls first but she falls harder, Forced Proximity, Yearning/Pining, Angst, Crude Humor, Banter, Emotional Damage, Eventual Smut.
part i ᄫᥠpart ii á„« áĄpart iii ᄫᥠpart iv ᄫᥠpart v ᄫᥠfinal
Summary : Bucky tries to ragebait you into kissing him, but it works out a little too well.Â
Pairing : New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!reader (she/her)Â
Warnings/tags : Tower fic!!! Steamy but not outright smut. Hints of jealous!bucky. Ava and John describes reader as good kisser (whatever that means to you), Bucky ragebaits. Sub-ish!Bucky. Set after Thunderbolts* (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 4.2k
Note : Trying italics for my titles, and I kinda like it! Enjoy!
The debrief room at the watchtower still smelled like expensive perfume and champagne, leftovers from the masquerade gala you and John Walker had infiltrated tonight, no doubt. You had just gone undercover, and things had gone⊠fine.Â
You hadnât 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.
âAlright,â John started, rubbing the back of his neck. âMission was mostly clean. Minor hiccup inââ
You snorted.
John shot you a glance, shaking his head. âAnyway. Point is⊠we hit a snag in the east wing.â
You laughed under your breath.
He pointed at you immediately. âYou know exactly what Iâm talking about.â
âOh, I do,â you said sweetly.
âYou had three guards coming straight at you.â
âAnd yet,â you gestured vaguely, âwe are here. Alive. With the intel.â
âThatâs because we had to improvise,â he shot back.
Yelenaâs head lifted slightly, suspicious. ââImprovise?ââ
John didnât even hesitate. He leaned back, completely unbothered. âWe kissed.â
âEugh.â Yelena physically recoiled, pulling her legs in like the concept alone might touch her.Â
You let out a short laugh. âIt wasnât that bad.â
âIt is always that bad,â she insisted, shaking her head at you like youâd personally betrayed her. âKissing a teammate? I hate everything about this.â
âI leave you two alone for one mission,â Ava said, âand you turn it into a romcom.â
âNothing about that was romantic,â John insisted, and that fact was true to the both of you.Â
âEvery mission is romantic if you are brave enough,â Alexei declared.
âItâs not,â You kicked his chair lightly. âBut whatever. They bought it, didnât they?â
âYeah,â John admitted, waving a hand.Â
âWait.â Bob blinked. âSo the guards just⊠left you alone?â
John shrugged. âPeople see two idiots making out in a hallway, they mind their business.â
Yelena gagged. âI would not mind my business. I would report you immediately.â
You grinned. âYouâd be the worst undercover operative for this mission.â
âI would be the best,â she snapped. âBecause I would simply not kiss anyone.â
John snorted, then leaned back further in his chair, glancing around like he was about to make things worse.
âAnyway,â he added casually, ânot a bad trade-off.â
You narrowed your eyes immediately. âDonât.â
He ignored you. âSheâs not a bad kisser.â
You dragged a hand down your face. âIt was a cover, Walker.â
âYeah, yeah,â he said, grinning now. âStill counts. Youâre good. It was very⊠convincing.â
âWow. Glowing reviews,â you rolled your eyes, sinking even further into the chair.Â
âI mean,â he said, gesturing vaguely, âif I didnât know it was fake, Iâd think it wasnât fake.â
Ava took a deep breath, like it was a burden to admit. âNo, heâs right.â
You turned your head toward her slowly. Oh no.Â
âIt's anything, thatâs an understatement.â She met your eyes, completely calm. âSheâs a great kisser.â
The room paused again.
You closed your eyes briefly. âAvaââ
Bob leaned forward so fast his chair squeaked. âYouâve kissed her too?â
Ava shrugged one shoulder. âYeah. A couple of months ago.â
âIt was also for a mission,â you added, unhelpfully.
âOf course it was,â Alexei said. âOf course everyone is just kissing everyone for espionage purposes. Very professional capitalist behaviour.â
Bob looked between all of you, clearly trying to recalibrate his understanding of teamwork. âHow many undercover kisses are happening that I donât know about?â
You just shrugged, trying to look unbothered despite the way the room had zeroed in on you. âItâs really not that big of a deal.â
From the corner, where heâd been quiet the entire time, Bucky finally spoke. âI donât buy it.â
The room stopped talking just long enough for everyone to turn toward him.
You lowered your hands from your face, eyes narrowing. âOh, you donât buy it?â
Bucky shrugged, pushing himself off the wall. âIâm just saying,â he continued, stepping closer to the table, âitâs a kiss. How good can it be?â
John let out a short laugh. âOh no, man. Donât do that.â
âDonât do what?â Bucky asked, brows lifting slightly.
âSet yourself up like that.â
âIâm not setting anything up,â Bucky said, but there was the faintest edge to it now. âIâm just being realistic. People exaggerate stuff like that all the time.â
Ava shook her head. âI didnât think itâd be that good either.â
You shot her a look. She didnât even flinch.
ââŠbut you just gotta try it,â she finished, completely deadpan.
Alexei made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. âOh my stars.â
Bobâs eyes widened like this had officially become too much information. âOkayâwow⊠this isâwow.â
John pointed at Ava like sheâd just proven his case. âThank you.â Then he looked back at Bucky. âTrust me. Sheâs a good kisser.â
You wanted to crawl out of your own skin.
Bucky scoffed, shaking his head slightly, though his teeth tightened just a bit.
âYeah, sure,â Bucky went on, eyes flicking to you for half a second before looking away again, âOr maybe itâs just the adrenaline. The High-stress of undercover, the close proximity. People read into things that arenât there.â
You stared at him. âNo one is reading into anything.â
âSo,â he said quickly. âHow do you know itâs actually good and not just⊠situational?â
John leaned forward, grinning like this was the best thing heâd heard all day. âYou questioning my judgment, Barnes?â
âConstantly,â Bucky shot back without missing a beat.
John leaned forward, looking like this was the most interesting debrief heâd ever attended. âIâve been on similar missions before. That wasnât just adrenaline.â
Bucky tilted his head slightly. âYouâre an expert now?â
âIâve got data,â John shot back.
âYouâve got one data point.â
âTwo,â Ava corrected calmly.
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. âThose were two data sets collected under very similar circumstancesââÂ
âAnd your review would be based on zero,â Ava shot back.
âYou sound jealous, Bucky,â Yelena said bluntly.
âIâm not jealous.â
âYou do.â
You made a noise somewhere between a strangled groan and a warning. âThis is great!â you snapped sarcastically. âLove this conversation for me.â
John had the decency to at least look a little sheepish. Ava just watched you.
âLook, I just got back from spying on a government official,â you sighed. âIâd really rather not sit here while my teammates debate whether or not Iâm worth kissing.â
There was a flicker of emotion on Buckyâs eyesâ sympathy, maybe, but you didnât stick around long enough to read it.
You turned toward the door. âIâm gonna go shower.â
Your hand paused on the handle just long enough for one last, dry addition. âTry not to start a rating system while Iâm gone.â
And then you walked away, flipping the room off on your way out.
â
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.Â
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.Â
You definitely didnât think about it. Definitely didnât 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, Alexeiâs handwriting aggressively large for no reason. But your eyes slid right past that, locking onto todayâs sparring column.
You scanned once.
There it was.
Ava â rest day
Yelena / Bob
Alexei / John
You / Bucky
âOh, youâve gotta be kidding me,â 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.
â
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 heâd been there a while.
His eyes flicked up the second you walked in. âYouâre late.â
You didnât even break stride, dropping your bag by the wall like nothing had just shifted in the atmosphere. âIâm on time.â
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Then back at you. âYouâre three minutes late.â
âWow,â you said flatly, starting to wrap your hands. âDidnât know you were so invested in punctuality.â
âIâm not,â he replied easily. âI just donât like waiting.â
You huffed a small laugh. âYouâve lived, what, a hundred years? Pretty sure waiting is your whole thing.â
âWow,â he said, adjusting the strap on his flesh hand. âYouâre hostile today.â
You tightened the wrap around your knuckles, not looking at him. âIâm never hostile.â
âYeah?â he said. âThen what do you call storming out of the room yesterday?â
You paused for half a second then kept wrapping. âThat was me choosing not to commit a felony.â
âMm,â he hummed. âSeemed more like you were running away.â
You finally looked up at him.
âOh, Iâm sorry,â you said sweetly. âDid you want me to stay while you all debated my mouth?â
The corner of his lips twitched.
That was the moment he moved quickly.Â
You barely had time to react before he closed the distance, aiming a clean strike you just managed to deflect.
âOh, weâre starting already?â you shot back, pivoting away.
âYou talk too much.â
âYouâre just trying to shut me up.â
âIs it working?â
You blocked again, stepping into him this time, forcing him to shift his weight. âNot even a little.â
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. âYou almost had me.â
âI did have you.â
âYou didnât.â
âI will.â
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. âYou gonna help me up, orâŠ?â
He didnât move immediately. His eyes dropped, even just for a second, to your mouth. Then snapped back to your eyes. ââŠYou gonna tap out, orâŠ?â he echoed.
Your lips curved up slowly. âNot a chance.â
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 wouldnât let that happen. Instead, you got up and offered him a hand. Not that he needed it.Â
He took it anyway.Â
âAgain?â you asked.
He stood, rolling his shoulders once more. âYeah,â he said. âAgain.â
â
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.Â
For a minute, it was quiet.
Surprisingly, you were the one to break the silence.Â
You glanced at him sideways. âYouâre not so bad, Barnes.â
He didnât look over right away. He took another sip, then lowered the bottle slightly. âWow.â
You rolled your eyes. âDonât make it weird.â
âIâm not making it weird,â he said, finally turning his head toward you. âIâm just surprised you can admit it.â
âI didnât say you were good.â
âMm. Sure.â
You nudged his boot lightly with your foot. âDonât push it.â
There was that almost-smile again.
Then, like he couldnât help himself, he opened his stupid mouth before his brain could filter through the words again.
âSo,â he said casually, screwing the cap back onto his bottle, âdoes that translate to your other⊠skills?â
You froze for half a second. âOh my god.â
âWhat?â he asked, too innocent.
âYou are still on this?â
âIâm just curious.â
âAbout what happened yesterday?â you shot back.
He shrugged one shoulder. âItâs come up.â
âYeah, because you keep bringing it up.â
âI made one comment,â he said, clicking his human knuckles with his flesh ones.Â
âAnd then kept going,â you pointed out.
âSo did everyone else.â
âYeah, but everyone else dropped it eventually,â you said. âYou didnât.â
âI told you,â he insisted, Iâm just curious.â
You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. âAbout my kissing ability.â
âWhen you put it like that, it sounds weird,â he shook his head, inching towards you.Â
âIt is weird.â
Now, you both were closer than youâd been a second ago. Neither of you were stepping back.
You dragged a hand through your hair. âNo. Iâm not doing this.â
âDoing what?â
âThisââ you gestured between you both, frustrated now. âWhatever this is.â
His eyes dropped briefly to your hand, then back up again. âFeels like a normal conversation.â
âIt feels like you trying to pick a fight over something that doesnât matter.â
âMaybe it matters a little.â
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. âTo who?â
He didnât 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.Â
You did, even as he pulled his touch away abruptly.Â
âIâm trying to figure out if itâs skill,â he said, casual as anything, âor if Walker and Ava just have low standards.â
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. âOh myââ
âWhat?â He shrugged, looking unbearably smug, though you could tell it was a facade for something more vulnerable underneath. âIâm bringing up a valid point.â
âYou are not,â you said, leaning forward slightly. âYouâre being annoying.â
âAnd youâre avoiding it.â
You shook your head, leaning to the wall like you needed the support just to reset. âYou know what? Believe whatever you want.â
âOh, I will.â
âGreat.â
âBut Iâd rather you prove it.â
You froze. Slowly, you turned your head toward him again. ââŠIâm sorry?â
His expression didnât change. If anything, it got more intent.
âProve it,â he repeated.
Your eyebrows shot up. âYou think youâre funny.â
âI think Iâm being thorough.â
You stepped closer again. Close enough that the space between you felt⊠intentional.
âWhy are you so obsessed with me?â 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 wasnât just teasing anymore.
He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking down for half a second before returning to yours. âIâm notââ
âYou are,â you cut in immediately. âYouâve been needling me about a stupid kiss for, what, twelve hours now?â
âItâs not stupid.â
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Was that⊠jealousy?
Your head tilted slightly. âNo?â
His jaw ticked.
He shouldâve dropped it. He didnât.
âYou keep saying it didnât mean anything,â he said, taking a step closer. âThat it was just part of the mission.â
âIt was.â
âThen why are you so defensive about it?â
âIâm not defensiveââ
âYou kind of are.â
You huffed, dragging a hand through your hair. âYouâve gotta be kidding me.â
âStill dodging.â
âI am not dodging anything,â you shot back, stepping forward to meet him. âYouâre the one acting like this is some kind ofâofâtest.â
âMaybe it is.â
âThere is no test!â You exclaimed.
âThen it should be easy.â
Your teeth clenched. âYouâre insufferable.â
âSo youâve said.â
âAnd youâre wrong.â
âThen prove it.â
You let out a short, sharp laugh. âFuck, you just keep repeating that like itâs going to magically make sense.â
âIt does make sense.â
âNo, it doesnât.â
âIt does if you stop overthinking it.â
âI am not overthinking itââ
âThen do something about it,â he said, unbearably cocky.
You stared at him, chest rising a little faster now, frustration simmering under your skin.
âWhy do you care so much?â you demanded again, quieter this time.
He didnât answer. He just looked at you with those unbearable gently sky-blue eyes.Â
âUnbelievable,â you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. âYouâve been pushing thisââ
âAnd youâve been avoiding it.â
âIâm not avoidingââ
âYou are,â he insisted.
âIâm notââ
âThen stop talking.â
That was the final straw.
Your patience snapped, but you were not angry, not really you were just done with the back-and-forth.
âFine,â 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 didnât move. Youâd 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 wasnât part of the plan.
This wasnât a hallway in a gala, wasnât adrenaline, wasnât a cover. And it definitely wasnât 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 couldnât help but moan.Â
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 didnât have control anymoreâ
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. ââŠThere.â
Like that settled it. Like that proved your point. But your hand was still fisted in his shirt. And he hadnât let go of your waist.
âIâŠâ Bucky started, and for a man who had faced down wars, gods, and ghosts, he looked completely, utterly undone. âIâIâŠâ
You didnât move away. You didnât even give him space to recover.
âI, I,â you echoed, mocking him as you tilted your head, though there was a clear undertone of fondness in your teasing. âYou what, huh?â
His eyes flicked between yours like he was trying to find solid ground to stand on, and failing.
âI need you to do that again,â he said finally, quieter now, like the words were being pulled out of him against his will. âFor⊠a better understanding of the data.â
A smile spread across your face, equal parts amused and dangerous. âYou are so fucking obsessed with me.â
His mouth opened probably to argue, to deflect, to pretend, but you didnât give him the chance.
You kissed him again, just as he asked.
Bucky stilled.
For a split second, he didnât react at all. Like his brain had short-circuited, like he didnât trust himself to move and ruin it.
Then you pressed in just a little more and he exhaled against your mouth.
It wasnât 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.Â
He leaned into you, deeper now, following your rhythm but adding just a bit more pressure, like he couldnât 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 didnât 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 didnât open immediately.
When they did, they dropped to your lips first, then back to your eyes.
âYeah,â he breathed, the word catching on the way out like he hadnât quite recovered. âYeah⊠Iâmââ he shook his head once, an almost disbelieving laugh slipping through. âIâm definitely more⊠convinced.â
You tilted your head, watching him closely, lips still curved with satisfaction. âGood.â
His eyes dropped to your form again, like he wasnât even pretending not to look anymore.
âBut,â he added, voice lower now, roughened at the edges, âIâm not convinced that mouth of yours is only good for kissing.â
You blinked at him once.
You canât help the mischievous smile pulled at your lips. You werenât stupid. You were pulled flush against himâ you could feel the tightness in his trousers. You knew he was excited.
âOh my god,â you said, almost too calm. âAre you asking for a blowjob, Barnes?â
He choked.
Not metaphorically. He actually choked, coughing once as he dragged a hand down his face, composure cracking in real time.Â
âI⊠whatâno-I meanâŠâ he let out a deep breath, clearly flustered now, words tripping over each other. âYes, but⊠not just thatâ I didnât say- well, I did but thatâs notââ
You folded your arms, leaning back just enough to take him in, enjoying the way he unraveled.
âWow,â you murmured. âLook at you.â
His teeth tightened, like he was trying to pull himself back together, but the flush creeping up his neck gave him away.
âAll that confidence,â you added, âjust gone.â
He huffed under his breath, forcing himself upright again, like he was rebuilding the version of himself heâd had five minutes ago.
âIâm just saying,â he muttered, voice still a little off, a little less steady than he wanted it to be, âthereâs⊠a broader range of data that could be evaluated.â
You leaned forward again, close enough that his breath hitched before you even touched him.
âMm,â you hummed, reaching out, fingers grazing lightly along the front of his shirt again, enough to make his shoulders tense. âVery thorough of you.â
Your voice dropped as he gulped.Â
âAsk nicely, Barnes,â you said, your lips just a fraction too close to his, âand Iâll think about it.â
He swallowed.
His hand shifted at your waist, not pulling this time, but holding. Like he was waiting, like he couldnât figure out what to do or what to say, for once in goddamn life.Â
ââŠAsk nicely,â you repeated, offering guidance.
For a second, you wondered if he would even speak at all. UntilâŠ
âPlease,â 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.
âYouâre so gone,â you chuckled triumphantly, affectionately rubbing small circles on his cheeks with your thumb.
âYeah,â he admitted, without hesitation this time. âYeah, I am.â
You kissed him again. Not to prove anything, but just because you wanted to.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her)Â
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Cursing. Established Relationship. You have a cold. Set after Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 3.6k
Note : Finally, another short-ish story! Enjoy!
You woke up feeling like absolute death.
Your throat burned, your nose was hopelessly stuffed, and your head felt heavy, as if aliens had replaced your brain with a brick sometime during the night. You groaned into your pillow and reached blindly for your phone on the nightstand.
6:42 a.m.
Normally by now, youâd 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 Buckyâs 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!!! Iâm 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. Heâd bring you chocolate bars when he visited the shop. Heâd 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, heâd even gotten you a silver necklace âjust because.â
You still wore it almost every day.
Your eyes drifted toward the chain resting against your collarbone now.
He was perfect.Â
Which was probably why the one thing he didnât 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 stillâŠ
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.Â
And sometimes youâd 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. âWhat?â
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 heâd come straight from the gym.
Your heart immediately melted.
âWhat are you doing here?â you croaked, voice scratchy.
He stepped inside, already reaching up to press the back of his human hand to your forehead.
âYou sound terrible,â he said, concerned.
âWow, thank you.â
He ignored that. âYouâre warm.â
âIâm just sick, Buck,â you chuckled, thinking you couldn't hold back the little sneeze coming out of your throat. âIâm not dead.â
âI get worried, sweets.â
You sniffled, watching as he moved toward the kitchen and started unpacking the takeout.
âSoup,â he said simply.
Your chest tightened a little. âMy favourite one?â
âObviously.â
He set the chocolates beside it on the counter. âAnd these.â
You stared at them. âYou didnât have to do that.â
âSure I did,â he glanced back at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. âYouâre sick.â
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 yetâ
Your eyes drifted briefly to the empty windowsill across the apartment.
Still no flowers.Â
Ugh, maybe it was silly to care.
You didnât 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: Somethingâs wrong.
You quickly wiped under your eyes, hoping heâd 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.
âHey,â he lulled, rubbing soothing circles on your body. Before you could protest, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart?â
Your chest tightened immediately. You hadnât meant to say anything. It felt stupid now that he was looking at you attentively like that, but the words came out anyway.
âI justâŠâ you rubbed, rubbing your sleeve across your nose again. âI make flowers for people all day, Buck.â
He tilted his head, clearly not following yet.
âAnd theyâre always for someoneâs girlfriend or boyfriend or partner,â you continued, whispering this time. âAnniversaries, birthdays, apologies, everything.â
He nodded slowly. âOkayâŠâ
You shrugged weakly, suddenly embarrassed. âAnd I donât even get to bring them home.â Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. âBecause theyâre never for me.â
Bucky blinked.
âAnd you bring me so many sweet things,â you rushed on, gesturing vaguely toward the chocolates on the counter. âThese and cakes and jewellery and cards andââ You sniffed again .âBut youâve never gotten me flowers.â
Bucky froze, his brows slowly pulled together as realization dawned on him. âOh.â
You instantly regretted saying anything. âI know itâs dumb,â you said quickly. âItâs literally my job, so I get whyââ
âOh,â 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. âIâŠÂ thought youâd be sick of them,â he admitted.
You stared at him. âSick⊠of flowers?â
âYou work with them all day.â
âBucky.â
âYeah?â
âThatâs like saying a baker wouldnât want cake.â
He paused. âThat⊠makes sense.â
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
âI didnât realize you felt that way.â He reached up, gently brushing your hair away from your face, tilting your chin up so you were looking at him. âIâm sorry, sweetheart.â
Your chest warmed up, and you were pretty sure that wasn't the fever. Like, 70% sure. âYou donât have to be sorry.â
âYes I do.â He leaned down and kissed your forehead again. âIâll make it up to you,â he promised.
Your brows lifted slightly. âYou donât have toâŠâ
âI promise.â
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. â...shit.â
You narrowed your eyes, confused. âWhat?â
Bucky grabbed the soup bowl quickly and guided you toward the couch. âSit.â
âBuckââ
âSit,â 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.
âThere,â he said, satisfied.
You looked down at the soup, then back up at him. âBuckyââ
âIâm late,â he said frantically.
âHow late?â
âVery.â
âBuckyââ
âBriefing started ten minutes ago.â
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.
âWhatââ
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.
âBucky,â you laughed hoarsely, lifting the soup slightly. âYouâre gonna get sick too!â
He was already backing toward the door again.
âIâm a super soldier,â He said incredulously, pointing at himself with a boyish grin. âDontâcha worry about me, sweets.â
You rolled your eyes as he slipped out the door in a rush.
â
By the time Bucky finished his day at the Watchtower, the conversation from that morning replayed endlessly in his mind.
Youâve 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 heâd 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 Buckyâs 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.Â
âHeyââ Then she paused when she saw who it was. âWell, well, well.â
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. âHi, Marie.â
Marie leaned her elbows on the counter, looking way too entertained. She raised an eyebrow. âThe floristâs boyfriend finally buying flowers?â
Bucky laughed, a little sheepish. âYeah,â he admitted. âGuess Iâm a little late on that one.â
She shook her head now. âTook you long enough.â
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest âIâm trying to fix that right now.â
She chuckled. âSo what can I help you with, Barnes?â
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.
âI want to pick my own flowers,â he said. âMake a custom bouquet for her.â
âThatâs really cute,â Marie said, though she glanced at the clock behind the counter. âUnfortunately,â she sighed, âweâre closing in like.. four minutes.â
Buckyâs eyes widened. He should have known this. Perhaps, in his guilt-ridden panic, the fact had completely got lost from his mind. âRight.â
She pointed toward the front of the shop. âBut⊠weâve got pre-made bouquets by the window.â
He turned to look. There were several beautiful arrangements displayed, wrapped in paper, tied with ribbons, all different colors and styles.
âJust pick one from there,â Marie said with a small shrug. âTheyâre all good.â
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. âThat oneâs a good choice.â
Bucky looked down at the flowers again, smiling a little to himself. âYeah?â
âOh yeah.â She rang it up casually. âSomeoneâs got good taste.â
Bucky carefully took the bouquet once she handed it back to him, holding it like it was fragile glass.
â
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 youâd 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.Â
You had left your apartment unlocked when he texted that he was going over to yours tonight.Â
Unwise? A little. But you were too ill and lazy to care.Â
Your lifeâs your head, âBuck?â
Sure enough when the door opened, Bucky stepped inside.
But that wasnât 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.
âHey,â he said.
Your voice came out hoarse. âHi.â
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. âThese are for you.â
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.
âThank you,â you said sweetly, but there was something else in your voice. And it sounded suspiciously close to laughter.
Bucky narrowed his eyes almost immediately. âWhat?â
You quickly shook your head, pressing your lips together as a giggle threatened to escape. âNothing.â
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.
âWhy are you smiling like that?â he asked cautiously.
âIâm not smiling!â
You were.
Soon enough, a small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Bucky crossed his arms. âWhatâs that laugh for?â
âMânot!â 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. âBuck!â
âWhatâs so funny?â he demanded, poking you again.
You squirmed under the blanket, hugging the bouquet protectively against your chest like you were shielding it from interrogation. âNothing!â
He poked you again, more insistently.
You wriggled away with another laugh, nearly spilling your tea in the process. âStop!â 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 didnât resist.
âI justâŠ,â he started, nudging you again with his nose. âYou do like them, right?â
You tilted your head up toward him. âI do,â you said honestly.Your fingers tightened around the bouquet. âButâŠâ
Bucky groaned instantly. âBut what?â he repeated suspiciously.
You tilted your head. âWhy did you get me this one?â
He blinked at the question, clearly not expecting that. âBecauseâŠâ he gestured vaguely toward the flowers in your arms, âwell, itâs a little pricey, but itâs got all your favorite flowers.â
You raised an eyebrow. âAnd?â
âAnd your favorite colors.â
Your smile widened slightly. âAnd?â
Bucky stared at you now, confusion beginning to creep in. âAnd it reminds me of you,â he finished, like that was the obvious conclusion.
Your eyes sparkled. âAndâŠ.?â
ââŠAnd what?â
You bit the inside of your cheek, clearly enjoying this far too much. âAnd⊠why do you think that is?â
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. âOh, fuck.âÂ
Your shoulders shook as you tried not to laugh.
His eyes lifted back to you, realization settling fully across his face. âYou made this bouquet, didnât you?â
You nodded proudly. âMmhm. Made it yesterday.â
Bucky looked back down at the flowers again, dragging a hand down his face. âOh my god.â
You couldnât 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. âIâm so stupid.â
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. âIâm flattered,â you said.
He shook his head, embarrassed.
Your fingers slid up into his hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. âI love you, Bucky.â
Then he leaned down until your foreheads touched. âI love you too, sweets.â
You glanced down at the bouquet on the side again, gently brushing your fingers over the petals. A small smile tugged at your lips.
âPricey, huh?â you teased.
Bucky groaned beside you, scrubbing a hand down his face. âIt was,â he said defensively. âThat thing was like ninety dollars!â
You gasped dramatically and turned to glare at him. âHey! Do you know how hard I worked on that?â you protested, pointing at him in the chest. âThe balance of hues? The ribbon choice? The rare flowers I had to source from a dutch importer?â
Bucky blinked at you. âThere are rare flowers there?â
You crossed your arms playfully. âArt takes effort, babe.â
For a second he just stared at you, and the blankets piled around your shoulders, cheeks flushed from your cold, stubbornly defending the bouquet youâd accidentally sold to your own boyfriend.
âWell,â he said,a little gruffly, âyouâre priceless to me, so I figured it evened out.â
Your heart did that stupid little flip it always did when he said things like that.
You squinted at him. âSap.â
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.
âHey!â 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.Â
Summary: During a mission, you and Bucky accidentally trigger a machine that sends you to a different universe. As you travel the multiverse together, you have to find each other in every universe. But will you ever make it back to your original universe?
Word Count: 9,127
Author's Note: Hey guys!! I know I've promised some fics that I haven't done yet, and I've also gotten some requests that I'll try to work on, but I had this idea and kinda ran away with it (aka I have senioritis and this fic is what I've been doing instead of school work), so I hope you enjoy! I'm making this a series and I hope it has the same vibes as Grumpy and the New Girl!! Also idk if you guys are fans of the whole multiverse thing or not, but hopefully you enjoy! Lmk what you thinkđ
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 â abandoned offices, empty storage areas, rusting equipment that hadnât been touched in years. Except for the few rooms that clearly werenât abandoned. Those had beenâŠdifferent. 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.
âClear,â he mutters automatically, stepping inside first.
You follow him, sweeping the corners out of habit. âAlso empty,â you say after a second.
âShocking.â
You snort softly. You and Bucky have been paired together most of the mission. Itâs not unusual â Steve likes putting you two together because youâre both thorough. Also because, according to Sam, youâre both âstubborn enough to out-stubborn the other.â Which is not trueâŠokay, 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 isnât like the others.
âUhâŠBucky?â you say slowly.
Heâs 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.
âOkay,â you say. âThat definitely does not scream abandoned.â
Bucky moves closer, eyes scanning everything. âLooks recent,â he mutters.
You crouch beside a console, brushing dust off a panel. The screens are dark, but the machinery around them hums faintly. âMultiverse tech maybe?â you say.
Bucky huffs. âGreat.â
You glance up at him. âWhat?â
âBecause that always goes well.â
You grin. âHey, last time we dealt with multiverse stuff you only almost got thrown into a different dimension once.â
âStill counts.â
You reach for a stack of folders beside the console. Most of the papers inside are diagrams â dense scientific schematics that make your brain hurt just looking at them. âYeah, okay,â you mutter. âDefinitely experiments.â
Bucky walks slowly around the circular platform. âThereâs power running to it,â he says.
âProbably some kind of portal system.â
You flip through another folder. Nothing useful, just equations. âGreat,â you sigh. âSo we found the science nerd room but not the intel room.â
âLetâs keep looking.â
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.
Thereâs a sharp click. Both of you freeze.
âDid you justââ Bucky starts.
The console lights up.
ââtrigger something?â you finish weakly.
Every screen flickers to life. The circular platform glows brighter. âOh no.â
The hum of the machines deepens into a low vibrating thrum. You spin toward the door.
âSteveââ 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.
âWhat theââ
Your stomach lurches violently.
Thenâ
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. Youâre in a bed. A warm bed. Soft blankets. Your heart is still racing when you realize something else. Thereâs 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. Heâs 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.
âWhat the hellââ
âWhat is happeningââ
âWhy am Iââ
âWhy are we in bedââ
You both stop. You blink. âWait,â you say.
He frowns. âWhat?â
You look around the room. Your stomach drops. âOh my god.â
Bucky follows your gaze. His eyes widen too. ââŠThis is my room.â
You stare at him. âI know.â
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. Youâre about 99.9% sure it belongs to Bucky. You immediately decide not to acknowledge that. You get up and start pacing the room instead.
âOkay,â you say quickly. âOkay okay okay.â
Bucky swings his legs off the bed and stands. Heâs only wearing boxers. You accidentally glance down. Your brain short circuits again. Nope. Eyes up. Focus.
âWhy were weââ he starts. Then he stops. âCuddling?â
Your face goes hot. âWe were not cuddling,â you say.
âWe definitely were.â
âWe were unconscious!â
âStill counts.â
You point at him. âThat does not count!â
Bucky runs a hand over his face. âOkay, forget the cuddling â why are we in my room?â
Your pacing speeds up. âBecause,â you say slowly, thinking it through, âwe triggered that machine.â
âThe one in the warehouse?â
âYes.â
âAnd?â
âAndââ
Your brain finally catches up. Your steps stop. ââŠOh shit.â
Bucky looks at you. âWhat.â
You point between the two of you. âI think weâre in another universe.â
Silence. He stares at you. ââŠNo.â
âYes.â
âThere is absolutely no way.â
âThink about it!â You start pacing again. âThat room had multiverse tech. We triggered it. Then we blacked out and woke up here.â
âOkay,â Bucky says slowly. âBut why would we be in my room?â
You gesture around wildly. âBecause weâre in the bodies of our other universe selves!â
He blinks. ââŠThat sounds insane.â
You throw your hands up. âYou have a metal arm and are from the 1940s and youâre telling me that sounds insane?â
He opens his mouth. Then closes it. ââŠFair.â
You keep pacing. Your brain is running a mile a minute. âOkay,â you say. âOkay. If weâre in another universeâŠâ You glance toward the bed. Your stomach drops again. ââŠThen that means.â
Bucky follows your gaze. Then he slowly looks back at you. ââŠYeah.â
You both say it at the same time. âWeâre dating.â
You stare at each other. âOh god.â
âOh no.â
You rub your face. âThis is so weird.â
Bucky exhales hard. âWe need to figure out how to get back,â you say.
âYes.â
âImmediately.â
âYes.â
You nod rapidly. Then, your eyes drift downward again. Bare chest. Muscle. Boxers. You snap your gaze back up.
ââŠAlso you need to put pants on.â
Bucky stares at you. âSeriously?â
âYes.â
âThatâs your concern right now?â
âItâs distracting!â
He squints at you. âYouâre an Avenger.â
âYes.â
âYouâve fought aliens.â
âYes.â
âYouâve jumped out of planes.â
âYes.â
âAnd my legs are where you draw the line?â
Your face burns. âPUT. PANTS. ON.â
Bucky rolls his eyes but walks over to the dresser. You very deliberately stare at the wall while he pulls on sweatpants.
ââŠHappy?â he mutters.
âYes.â
You glance over again. Your brain betrays you. Still distracting. You turn away immediately. âThis is a nightmare.â
Bucky sighs. âYeah.â
You lean against the wall, trying to think. âSo we triggered the machine,â you say slowly. âWhich means if we want to get backâŠâ
âWe probably need to find the machine in this universe.â
You nod. âExactly.â
Bucky looks around the room. âWhich means we might have to pretend to beâŠus.â
Your stomach flips again. âOh my god.â
He raises an eyebrow. âWhat.â
âYou realize everyone in this universe thinks weâre dating.â
ââŠYeah.â
âAnd we just woke up screaming in your bedroom.â
ââŠYeah.â
You both pause. Footsteps echo faintly in the hallway outside. You slowly turn toward the door.
Bucky groans. ââŠWeâre screwed.â
Your eyes widen. âBuckyââ
Thereâs a knock on the door. Then Samâs voice comes through. âHey lovebirds,â he calls. âYou two alive in there?â
You and Bucky stare at each other like deer caught in headlights.
âSay something!â you whisper.
âYou say something!â
âItâs your room!â
Bucky groans quietly, then raises his voice. âYeah, weâre fine!â
Thereâs a pause. You both freeze. Then Sam snorts on the other side of the door.
âAlright, just checking. Sounded like somebody got murdered in there.â
Bucky rubs his face. âDropped something,â he calls back.
âUh huh,â Sam says, clearly not believing that for a second. âWell try not to kill each other before breakfast.â
Footsteps start walking away down the hallway. You both wait. Then you collapse onto the edge of the bed. âOh my god.â
Bucky exhales and drags a hand through his hair. âThis is already a disaster.â
âWe havenât even left the room yet.â
âExactly.â
You push yourself up again, pacing. âOkay, okay. Focus.â
Bucky leans back against the dresser, arms crossed. âYou said the warehouse.â
You nod immediately. âYes! We know where it is.â
âThe one from the mission.â
âExactly.â
âWhich means the machine should be there in this universe too.â
âHopefully.â
Bucky tilts his head slightly. âSo we just go back there.â
You stop pacing. ââŠRight.â
He waits. You stare at him. ââŠHow are we getting there?â
Bucky pauses. ââŠQuinjet.â
âCorrect. Which we donât currently have access to.â
He exhales slowly. âSo we either explain this to the teamââ he starts.
âOr steal a jet.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou went straight to stealing.â
âWeird multiverse emergency!â
âThatâs not a real excuse.â
âIt should be!â
Bucky pushes off the dresser, pacing now too. âIf we try to explain itâŠâ
âThey might believe us.â
âWeirder things have happened,â he says.
âExactly!â
âBut,â he continues, âwe also might sound insane.â
You rub your face. âYeah.â
âAnd if they donât believe us,â he adds, âthey definitely wonât let us take a jet.â
You groan. âThis is impossible.â
Youâre both pacing now, circling the room like stressed animals.
âWe could try to slip away after breakfast,â Bucky says.
âAnd just casually take a jet?â
âYes.â
âFrom the Avengers compound.â
âYes.â
You stare at him. âThat sounds like the worst plan Iâve ever heard.â
âYou suggested stealing it first.â
âThat was hypothetical!â
Another knock interrupts you. You both freeze. ââŠWe didnât answer fast enough,â you whisper.
Bucky sighs and opens the door. Steve stands in the hallway. He smiles slightly. âMorning.â
âMorning,â Bucky says.
Steve glances past him briefly, then back. âYou two coming down for breakfast?â
You step closer to the door. âYeah, we will.â
âTraining starts soon,â Steve adds. âFigured Iâd check.â
Bucky nods. âWeâll be right there.â
Steve studies both of you for a second. Your heart rate skyrockets. Then he nods. âAlright. See you downstairs.â
He walks away. Bucky closes the door. You both immediately spin toward each other.
âTraining?!â you whisper-yell.
âWe cannot go to training!â
âWe have to get to the warehouse!â
âI know!â
You start pacing again. âOkay okay okay, we need an excuse.â
âLike what?â
âI donât know!â
âWe canât just skip it.â
âSteve will hunt us down!â
âExactly!â
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. âWhat.â
âNothing.â
âYou thought of something.â
âNo I didnât.â
âYes you did.â
You wave your hands. âItâs stupid.â
He crosses his arms. âWhat is it.â
You groan. âBucky.â
âWhat.â
âItâs weird.â
âJust say it.â
You rub your face dramatically. âWe could say I might be pregnant.â
Bucky blinks. He stares at you. Then his expression slowly shifts. ââŠThat might actually work.â
Your eyes widen. âWAIT.â You immediately start backtracking. âWait wait wait â how long have we even been dating in this universe?â
âI donât know.â
âWhat if itâs like two weeks?!â
âThen thatâs concerning.â
âExactly!â
You start pacing again. âAnd also â maybe we havenât evenââ You gesture vaguely between the two of you. ââyou know.â
Bucky tilts his head slightly. Then very casually says, âThat hickey on your neck says otherwise.â
You freeze. ââŠWhat.â
Bucky nods toward your neck. âRight there.â
Your hand flies up instantly. âWHAT?!â
âShh!â
âAre you serious?!â
âYes!â
You spin toward the mirror across the room and nearly trip rushing over. You yank your shirt collar down slightly. Your eyes widen. âOh my god.â There is absolutely a hickey on your neck. You whip back around. âBUCKY.â
Heâs trying very hard not to laugh.
âThis is not funny!â
âI didnât do it!â
âYou kind of did!â
He shrugs. âTechnically.â
You stare at him. Your brain short circuits briefly. Then you close you eyes and shake your head. âFocus.â
âRight.â
You point at him. âWe need to figure something out.â
âAgreed.â
âSoon.â
âAlso agreed.â
You both pause. Then glance at the door. You look back at Bucky. ââŠThis is a disaster.â
Bucky exhales. âYep.â
You both stand there for a second. ââŠWe really need a plan,â you say.
You and Bucky stare at each other for another long second.
ââŠWe should just act normal,â you finally say.
Bucky exhales. âNormal?â
âYes.â
âYou mean pretend we know how our alternate universe selves act?â
You point at him. âExactly.â
He rubs his face. âThis is going to go badly.â
âProbably. But itâs still the best plan. Gather information. Donât look suspicious. Then figure out how to get a jet.â
Bucky sighs. âAlright.â
You hesitate near the door. ââŠI should probably go get ready.â
He nods. âYeah.â
You open the door slowly, peeking down the hallway like youâre committing a crime. No oneâs 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 Buckyâs bed. The hickey.
You groan and drag your hands over your face. âThis is insane.â
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. âNope.â
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 youâre tying your shoes, your mind drifts again. Because the thing thatâs bothering you the most isnât the multiverse. Itâs the other part. You and Bucky. Dating.
You sit on the edge of your bed for a second. It feels weird. Really weird. ButâŠyou 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 otherâs habits. You already bicker like an old married couple half the time. And apparently in this universeâŠyou just skipped the whole âfiguring it outâ part.
You shake your head again. âNope,â you mutter. You stand up quickly. Mission first. Existential romantic crisis later.
You head back into the hallway and knock on Buckyâs door. He opens it a second later. Heâs 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.
âReady?â
âAs Iâll ever be.â
You start walking toward the elevator together. Your shoulders almost bump. Both of you subtly adjust your steps at the same time. Itâs awkward. But also weirdly easy. You both know each otherâs 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.
âWell look who finally decided to join us.â
Your stomach drops. You force a casual smile. âMorning.â
Natasha raises an eyebrow. âRough morning?â
You sit down at the table quickly. âWhy does everyone think that?â
Sam gestures between you and Bucky. âYou two were yelling.â
Clint smirks. âVery loudly.â
You freeze. Bucky grabs a mug and starts making coffee. âDropped something,â he says.
Sam leans back in his chair. âYou drop things every morning?â
You narrow your eyes at him. âYouâre very interested in our morning routine.â
âOh, Iâm extremely invested,â Sam says.
Natasha smirks into her coffee. Bucky sets a mug in front of you.
You blink. You didnât even ask. He already made it exactly how you like it.
Sam notices immediately. âSee?â he says loudly. âDomestic.â
Your face heats. âItâs coffee.â
âYou didnât even ask for it.â
âHe knows how I like it.â
Sam leans toward Steve. âDomestic.â
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. âYou two are acting weird today.â
You almost choke. âWe are not.â
âYouâre quieter.â
Clint nods. âWay quieter.â
Thor looks confused. âAre they usually louder?â
âMuch,â Sam says.
You glare at him. Bucky sits down beside you. Not touching. JustâŠclose. You feel hyper aware of it.
Tony sets down his fork. âSo,â he says casually, âdid you two sleep well?â
You and Bucky both choke. Sam immediately bursts out laughing.
âOH my god,â he says. âYou definitely slept in.â
âWe did not!â you say quickly.
Natasha smirks. âYou look like you did.â
You shove a piece of toast in your mouth to stop talking. Wanda tilts her head.
âDidnât you stay in Buckyâs room last night?â
You freeze. ââŠWhat?â
She looks confused. âYou usually do.â
Sam nods. âYeah, you basically live there.â
You look at Bucky. Bucky looks at you.
Clint grins. âYou might as well just move in together already. You already spend like every night together.â
Your brain short circuits. Every night. Together. You stare very hard at your toast.
Sam grins at you both. âYou two are red.â
âWe are not.â
âYou absolutely are.â
Natasha watches you. âYou two fight or something?â
âNo,â you say quickly.
âYes,â Bucky says at the exact same time.
You both look at each other.
ââŠWhat?â
ââŠWhat?â
Sam slaps the table laughing. âOh this is gold.â
Steve stands. âTraining in five.â
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.
âThis is gonna be good.â
Natasha folds her arms. âFight like you usually do.â
You and Bucky glance at each other. ââŠHow do we usually do it?â you whisper.
âNo idea.â
âGreat.â
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. âYou two are weird today.â
You shove Bucky lightly. âFocus.â
He smirks. âYouâre the one distracted.â
You narrow your eyes. âOh really?â
You sweep his leg. He stumbles and grabs your arm to steady himself. For a split second youâre very close. You both freeze again.
Sam groans dramatically. âJust kiss already.â
âSAM!â you yell.
âWHAT.â
Natasha is watching with a small smile. âYou two are adorable.â
You groan. âThis is a nightmare.â
âAgreed,â Bucky mutters beside you.
Steve claps his hands. âAlright,â he says. âA few more sparring rounds.â
You wipe sweat from your forehead and groan quietly. Of course.
Natasha smirks from across the mat. âYou two again.â
Sam grins. âYeah, letâs see if theyâre still mad at each other.â
âWe are not mad at each other,â you say immediately.
Bucky glances at you. âYou literally swept my leg five minutes ago.â
âThat was training!â
Sam points at you both. âSee? Tension.â
Steve sighs, but heâs smiling a little. âAlright, letâs go.â
You step onto the mat again, rolling your shoulders. Bucky stands across from you. For a second you both just look at each other.
ââŠWeâre doing this again?â you mutter.
âApparently.â
Sam leans on the wall again. âDonât hold back just because youâre dating.â
Your face burns. âWe are not holding back!â
âSure,â Clint says from the corner. âLast week you pinned him in thirty seconds.â
You freeze. ââŠI did?â
Clint nods. âYou bragged about it for like an hour.â
Your eyes slowly shift to Bucky. You blink. Then shake your head.
âOkay.â You square up again. âLetâs go.â
You move first again. This time the rhythm is smoother. Youâve trained together so many times your bodies justâŠknow. He blocks. You twist. He counters. You duck under his arm and shove him backward.
Sam whistles. âThere it is.â
You try not to think about the fact that Buckyâs 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 heâs done it a thousand times. You freeze for half a second. Your heart does something weird in your chest.
ââŠThanks,â you mutter.
He just nods.
Sam immediately groans from across the room. âOh my god.â
You glare at him. âWhat?â
âThat was disgustingly domestic.â
âIt was practical!â
Natasha smirks. âSure.â
You spin back toward Bucky quickly. âFocus.â
âRight.â
You attack again just to distract yourself. But now youâre 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 donât collide with someone behind you.
Itâs not over-the-top couple stuff. Itâs small things. Subtle. Things most people wouldnât notice. But you notice.
Because in your universeâŠhe doesnât 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.
ââŠHow did you know I was about to grab that?â
âYou always do after the second round.â
Your brain stalls. âOh.â You take it slowly. ââŠRight.â
Sam is watching you both again. âYou two are ridiculous.â
âWhy?â you ask defensively.
âYou move like a married couple.â
âWe are not married!â
âYet,â Clint says.
You choke on your water. âCLINT.â
Natasha laughs quietly. Steve walks past, shaking his head. âAlright, next drill.â
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.
âSo,â he says quietly, âyou two good now?â
You blink. ââŠWhat?â
âYou were arguing yesterday.â
You glance at Bucky. He shrugs slightly. You quickly nod.
âYeah, weâre good.â
Sam grins. âGood. Because the silent treatment thing you two do is exhausting.â
Your brain trips. ââŠWe do that?â
âOh yeah,â Clint calls from the other side of the room. âYou two get petty.â
The drill starts. This one is closer. Grappling practice. You try very hard not to think about the fact that Buckyâs hands are on your arms. Or your waist. Or that heâs standing way closer than usual.
He shifts your stance slightly. âFoot back,â he murmurs.
You adjust automatically. Your shoulder brushes his chest. Your heart flutters again. You try very hard to ignore that.
âBetter,â he says.
You glance up at him. ââŠYouâre very good at this boyfriend thing.â
The words slip out before you can stop them. His eyebrow lifts slightly.
âIâm just doing what I normally do.â
You blink. ââŠRight.â
Sam watches the two of you again. âYou guys seem less weird now.â
You straighten quickly. âWe were never weird.â
âUh huh.â
You and Bucky exchange a quick glance. Apparently youâre faking it well enough now. But the teasing doesnât stop. It just becomesâŠnormal.
Sam bumps Buckyâs shoulder as everyone takes a break. âYou still taking her to that place tonight?â
You freeze. ââŠWhat place?â
Sam looks confused. âThe diner.â
Bucky nods slowly. âYeah.â
You stare at him. Diner. Okay. New information.
Clint grins. âYour weekly date.â
Your brain short circuits. Weekly. Date.
Natasha smirks at your expression. âYou two are very routine.â
You rub your face. âGood to know.â
Sam looks at you suspiciously. âYou forget?â
âNo!â You clear your throat. âI was justâŠthinking about something else.â
Sam shrugs. âAlright.â
Training resumes. But now your brain is spinning with all the little pieces of information youâve gathered. You and Bucky spend most nights together. You have a weekly diner date. You fight and give each other the silent treatment.
And apparentlyâŠyouâre very good at acting like a couple. Which is somehow the weirdest part of all. Because the more the morning goes onâŠthe 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. ââŠWell,â he says quietly.
You stretch forward, touching your toes. âThat was horrible.â
âYou handled it fine.â
âI did not,â you respond.
âYou did.â
You glance sideways at him. âYou kept doing boyfriend things.â
He shrugs. âThey came naturally.â
âThatâs concerning.â
He smirks slightly. âMaybe you just make it easy.â
You immediately look away. âNope.â
You stand up quickly. âWe should go before someone asks us more questions.â
Bucky nods. âGood idea.â
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.
âOkay.â
Bucky runs a hand through his hair. âSo.â
âSo.â You start walking toward the elevators. âNew plan,â you say. âWe act normal for a little longer.â
âMeaning?â
âShower. Lunch. Normal routine.â
âAnd then?â
âThen we meet back up and figure out how to get to the warehouse.â
He nods slowly. âThat works.â
You stop outside your door. âAlright.â
You point at him. âGo.â
âWhat?â
âYour room.â
He looks down the hall. âYouâre kicking me out now?â
âYes.â
He huffs a quiet laugh. âFine.â
--
The shower feels amazing. The second the hot water hits your shoulders, you let out a long breath you didnât realize youâd 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. Itâs so weird. ButâŠ
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. Youâll be able to see what youâve done in this universe the past couple weeks and what you have coming up.
You rinse off quickly. Youâre almost done when thereâs a knock at the door. You blink. ââŠYeah?â
The bathroom door opens. âHey.â
You jump slightly. âBucky!â
âWhat?â
âIâm showering!â
âAnd?â
Your eyes widen. âWhat do you mean and?â
âI canât see you.â
âThatâs not the point!â
âPlus weâre dating soââ
âNo we arenât.â
âTechnically we are in this universe.â
You close your eyes and sigh. ââŠWhatever. Can you at least leave so I can dry off?â
âYeah, alright.â
The door shuts. You turn the water off and step out of the shower. Then immediately freeze.
You realize you didnât 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. ââŠSeriously?â
He looks up. âWhat?â
You walk to your dresser. âCan you leave so I can get dressed?â
He tilts his head. âUhhâŠthatâs not really gonna convince anyone weâre a couple.â
You groan loudly. âFine. But turn around.â
âAlright.â
He rotates on the bed so his back is facing you. âBetter?â
âYes.â
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 youâre changing clothes. You pull your shirt down quickly.
ââŠOkay.â
He turns back around. âSo,â he says.
âSo.â You sit on the bed. âI was about to check my phone.â
âFor what?â
âMy calendar.â
He nods. âThatâs smart.â
âI put everything in there.â
âGood.â
You point at him. âYou should check yours too.â
He stands up. âAlright. Itâs in my room.â
You stare at him. âYou came here without your phone?â
âI wasnât thinking about that.â
You sigh. âGo get it.â
âOkay.â He heads for the door. âIâll be back.â
The door shuts. Silence fills the room. You take a deep breath.
âOkay.â
You grab your phone off the nightstand and tap the screen â then freeze. Your background is a picture of you and Bucky.
Itâs 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. Buckyâs 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.
âUgh.â
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. Thenâ
You and Bucky again. This one is clearly taken by someone else. Youâre both sitting on the compound couch. Youâre leaning against his shoulder while heâs looking down at something on his phone. Your expression is soft and relaxed. Heâs smiling slightly.
You stare at it. ââŠOkay thatâs cute.â
You scroll. Another one. This time itâs a group photo. Everyone is outside the compound. But Bucky has one arm around your shoulders and youâre both laughing at something. Your head is tilted toward him.
You zoom in slightly. ââŠWow.â
You scroll again. Thereâs a mirror selfie. Youâre both in your room. Youâre holding a mug and Buckyâs standing behind you with his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.
You squint at the picture. ââŠDid we take this at like six in the morning?â Your hair looks messy. His looks worse. But youâre both smiling.
You scroll again. A picture from what looks like the diner Clint mentioned. Youâre sitting across from each other in a booth. Someone clearly took it from the next booth over. Youâre mid-laugh, leaning forward. Bucky is looking at you like you just said the funniest thing heâs ever heard. Your heart flutters again.
ââŠWhy do we look so happy?â
You scroll again. A candid one. Youâre walking across the compound lawn. Bucky is slightly behind you, grabbing your hand to pull you back toward him. Youâre laughing over your shoulder.
You stare at the screen. ââŠOh my god.â
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. Youâre both in tactical gear. Your helmet is off and youâre both sweaty and dirty. But youâre leaning against him while he holds the camera. Both of you look exhausted and completely happy.
You groan quietly. âThis is stupid.â
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, youâre touching, or leaning against him, or standing close. Smiling. And it looks so natural and so real.
You stare at the screen. ââŠThis is ridiculous.â
But you canât 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. âFind anything?â he asks.
âNot yet.â
He drops onto the bed next to you and unlocks his phone.
ââŠHuh.â
You look up. âWhat?â
He tilts the phone slightly. âCute.â
You lean over to see. Itâs a picture you hadnât seen on your phone. Someone else clearly took it. Youâre 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 youâre both laughing. Your cheek is smushed against his and you both have huge stupid grins.
Your stomach flips. You immediately lean back. âCan you focus?â
He looks at you. âWhat?â
âWeâre supposed to be looking for useful information.â
âI just said itâs cute.â
You roll your eyes dramatically and go back to your calendar. âWe donât have time for this.â
âRelax,â he mutters.
You scroll through your calendar. He glances over at your phone.
âWhat was your background?â
You stop. ââŠWhy does it matter?â
He shrugs. âI donât know. Iâm curious.â
You keep scrolling. âFocus.â
A second passes. Thenâ
âWas it the same picture?â
âNo.â
âWas it even me?â
You sigh loudly. âYes.â
âI wanna see it.â
You close your eyes for a second. ââŠBucky.â
âWhat?â
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.
ââŠThatâs cute too.â
You immediately unlock the phone again. âFocus.â
You look more closely at your schedule for today.
âOkay,â you say.
âWhat?â
âI have a meeting at two.â
âWith who?â
âThe whole team Iâm assuming.â
He nods. âThat sounds right.â
You scroll farther down. ââŠAnd apparently we have a diner date tonight.â
He snorts quietly. âWeekly.â
âClint mentioned that.â
You scroll through the past few days. Training. Meetings. Some random things. You frown slightly. âNo mission.â
âWhat?â
âIn our universe we had that warehouse mission.â
âRight.â
You tilt the phone toward him. âNothing like that here.â
He nods slowly. âHuh.â
You keep scrolling. The last few weeks are mostly the same routine. You sigh and toss the phone onto the bed. âNothing helpful.â
Bucky shrugs. âSame.â
He scrolls through something else. You lean over slightly. âWhat are you looking at?â
âTexts.â
âOh.â
You grab your phone again and open your messages. You scroll through conversations.
Then, you open your conversation with Bucky. Itâs surprisingly short. ââŠHuh.â
âWhat?â
âWe barely text.â
He glances over. âProbably because weâre always together.â
You roll your eyes. âVery funny.â
You scroll through the messages anyway.
Most of them are random messages or reminders. You keep scrolling. Then you stop.
ââŠOh my god.â
âWhat?â
You tilt the phone away slightly. âNothing.â
He leans closer. âWhat?â
You sigh. âYou sent me a shirtless gym picture.â
He grins immediately. âI bet I look good.â
âNo.â
Bucky laughs. âWell Iâm sure you liked it in this universe.â
You roll your eyes and scroll again. Then you half laugh half groan.
âYou sent me a meme that just says âdate night?â with a picture of a grilled cheese.â
âWe were probably making grilled cheeses.â
âYouâre ridiculous,â you say, closing the messages. âNothing helpful.â
Bucky shrugs. âMaybe pictures?â
You try very hard to act normal. âYeah.â
You open the photos app again. Bucky immediately starts scrolling through his. A second later he turns the phone toward you.
âLook at this one.â
Itâs another picture of the two of you. This one you saw earlier. The couch one.
âNice,â you say quickly.
He scrolls again. âOh, look at this one.â
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. âOkay.â
He scrolls again. âOh wow.â
âWhat now?â
He turns the phone. Itâs a picture of you sitting cross-legged on the training mat. Your hair is a mess and youâre glaring at the camera.
You groan. âOh my god.â
Bucky laughs. âYou look so mad.â
âBecause I probably was.â
He scrolls again. âOh this is embarrassing.â
âWhat?â
He shows you another one. Itâs a selfie you apparently took of him while he was asleep on the couch. His mouth is slightly open and youâre doing a thumbs up.
You burst out laughing.
âIâm not proud of that,â he says, shaking his head.
He scrolls again.
âWait.â
âWhat?â
He shows you another one. Youâre both at the diner again. But this time youâre sitting on the same side of the booth. Your head is leaning on his shoulder while youâre looking at the menu.
Your heart does that stupid flutter thing again. You try to ignore it.
âIâm assuming this is at the diner,â he says.
âYeah.â
You scroll for a few more minutes.
âAnything useful?â you ask.
He shakes his head. âNot really.â
You open a few other apps. Notes, maps, but donât find anything helpful. You sigh and fall back onto the bed. âWell.â
Bucky sets his phone down. âThat was productive.â
âNot really.â
You stare at the ceiling. ââŠAt least we know weâre cute.â
He snorts. You immediately sit up.
âThatâs not what I meant.â
âSure.â
You point at him. âFocus.â
Heâs still half-smirking at you. You narrow your eyes.
âWhat.â
âNothing.â
âYouâre doing that face.â
âWhat face?â
âThe I know something you donât face.â
He leans back against the headboard. âIâm just saying.â
âOh no.â
âYouâre the one who said weâre cute.â
You groan and drop back against the mattress. âThat is not what I meant.â
âSure.â
You point at him again. âWe need to decide what weâre doing.â
âRight.â
You sit up again. âI think we should just tell Steve.â
Bucky tilts his head. âAlready?â
âYes.â
âWhy?â
âBecause this is ridiculous!â You gesture between the two of you. âWeâre pretending to be ourselves in a universe where weâre apparently dating and living the same life except not exactly and we donât know anything about whatâs happened here!â
He nods slowly. âFair.â
âSo we tell Steve.â
Bucky thinks about it. Then shakes his head slightly. âI think we should wait.â
You blink. âWhy?â
âBecause we still donât know how different this universe is.â
You cross your arms. âSo?â
âSo maybe we gather a little more information first.â
You sigh. âLike what?â
âThe meeting.â
You pause. ââŠRight.â
You forgot about that. You glance at your phone.
âTwo oâclock.â
âExactly.â
You groan. âThatâs hours away.â
He shrugs. âWe go to lunch.â
âAnd?â
âHang around.â
You stare at him. âThis is the worst plan.â
âItâs a patient plan.â
âItâs a slow plan.â
He smirks. âYouâre impatient.â
You shake your head. âIâm practical.â
âSure.â
You sigh dramatically and stand up. âFine. Lunch.â
âLunch,â 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.
âLook who it is.â
You sigh. âDonât start.â
âStart what?â
âThe commentary.â
He grins. âRelax. You two seem normal again.â
You glance at Bucky. ââŠNormal?â
Clint nods. âLess weird.â
Bucky moves past you toward the fridge while you grab a plate. Conversation flows around the table, mostly the same kind of random chatter youâre used to.
At one point Wanda asks Thor about something from a mission. Clint argues with Sam about football. It all feelsâŠnormal. Almost exactly like your universe. You relax slightly. Maybe this universe isnât that different after all.
Thereâs food laid out to make sandwiches, so you and Bucky do what you always do whenever thereâs 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.
ââŠWow,â Tony says.
You look at him. âWhat?â
âYou guys wereâŠweirdly synced up while making those.â
âAnd did you guys just trade halves?â Sam says, laughing.
âUhh, yeah,â you say. âAnd?â
Clint grins. âIâve never seen something moreâŠcoupley.â
âYeah, that was kinda gross,â Nat agrees.
âI think itâs cute,â 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 âsandwich swapâ as everyone else calls it. In your universe, they think itâs funny. In this universe, they think itâs 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. âYou two are ridiculous.â
You feel your face heating up.
Sam grins. âYou two are so obvious.â
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. âAnything different?â you murmur.
âNot really.â
You nod slightly. âSo far everything seems the same.â
âMostly.â
Steve walks through at one point. âMeeting in ten.â
You sigh. âGreat.â
The meeting takes forever. And itâs 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. Heâs staring forward like heâs paying attention. You bite back a smile and type.
You: Focus
Bucky: No
You kick his foot lightly under the table. He doesnât react. Steve finally finishes the meeting nearly an hour later. âAlright,â he says. âThatâs it for today.â
You exhale. Finally. You get up to leave and head to Buckyâs room.
You drop onto the bed. ââŠOkay.â
Bucky shuts the door. âSo.â
âSo.â You sit up again. âDo we go tell Steve now?â
He leans against the dresser. âWellâŠâ
You stare at him. âWhat.â
âOur diner date.â
Your brain stalls. ââŠOh.â You forgot about that. You stare at him. âDo you want to go?â
He shrugs. âIâve been thinking about those burgers all day.â
You laugh. âYouâre unbelievable.â
He grins. âSo?â
You sigh. âFine. We can go. Then we figure out the warehouse tonight.â
He nods. âDeal.â
He sits down on the bed next to you.
âOkay,â you say. âLetâs find diner pictures to see what time we usually go.â
You both open your phones. You scroll through photos again.
âHere,â Bucky says.
He turns the phone toward you. Itâs another diner picture. Youâre sitting across from him holding a milkshake. Heâs halfway through a burger.
âThis was around 8:15,â he says.
âSo we go around eight.â
You scroll farther. âOh my god.â
âWhat?â
You turn your phone. Itâs a picture of Bucky trying to fit an entire stack of fries into his mouth.
He squints at it. ââŠDelete that.â
âNo.â
He scrolls again. âOh wow.â
âWhat now?â
He turns the phone. Itâs 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. âYouâre lucky you have super soldier reflexes.â
He just laughs.
You scroll more, then find a picture where youâre both in the kitchen wearing matching hoodies. You freeze.
ââŠAre those the same hoodie?â
Bucky squints. ââŠI think so.â
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 youâre brushing your teeth.
You burst out laughing. âYou look ridiculous.â
âYouâre the one taking a picture while you brush your teeth.â
You scroll again. You find another candid. Youâre both sitting outside on the compound steps watching the sunset. Youâre leaning against his shoulder. You stare at the picture a little longer than you mean to.
Bucky nudges you.
âWhat?â you ask.
âNothing.â
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. âThis is humiliating.â
âSome of these are great.â
You glance at him. ââŠThey are.â
You scroll to another picture. This one is a blurry selfie where youâre both laughing so hard the photo shook. You smile despite yourself. You hate how warm your chest feels. You glance sideways at him. Heâs 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 youâll get home. You realize something.
As long as Buckyâs here, youâll 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. âWhat if this doesnât work?â you ask.
âWhat?â
âIf Steve doesnât believe us.â
Bucky shrugs slightly. âThen we steal a jet.â
You snort. âThatâs your backup plan?â
âWorked earlier.â
âWe didnât steal anything earlier.â
âWe talked about it.â
âThatâs not the same.â
He glances at you with a small smirk. âYouâre still considering it.â
ââŠMaybe.â
The diner comes into view at the corner. You both slow slightly. âAlright,â you say. âGame faces.â
Bucky raises an eyebrow. âFor burgers?â
âFor pretending we know what weâre doing.â
He pushes the door open. The bell above it jingles. Immediately the smell of fries and grilled burgers fills the air. Your stomach growls.
âOkay,â you admit. âMaybe this part isnât so bad.â
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.
âWell hey there.â
You blink. âHi.â
Without asking anything, she sets two drinks down. Then a milkshake. With two straws. You and Bucky both stare at it.
âYour usual?â she asks casually.
You and Bucky glance at each other. Then back at her.
âYeah,â you say carefully.
She nods. âAlright, thatâll be right out.â
She disappears toward the kitchen. You both stare at the milkshake. Then you both start laughing quietly.
âShe knows us,â you say.
âApparently.â
You tap the side of the glass. âShared milkshake. Very romantic.â
He smirks. You both take a sip. Itâs really good.
You lean back in the booth. âOkay,â you say. âPlan.â
âRight.â
You lower your voice slightly. âWe tell Steve everything.â
Bucky nods.
You sigh. âI just hope he believes us.â
âHe probably will.â
âYou sound very confident.â
âHeâs dealt with stranger things.â
âThatâs fair.â
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.
âEnjoy,â she says with a smile.
âThank you,â you say.
She walks away as you pick up your burger and take a bite. Your eyes widen. âOh wow.â
Bucky laughs. âTold you.â
You both eat for a few minutes. The tension of the day slowly fades a little. But eventually you set your burger down.
âWe should go after this.â
He nods. âWe need to figure this out.â
âAnd we have no idea whatâs happening in our universe.â
âExactly.â
You both finish eating. Bucky grabs the check before you can even look at it.
âYou donât have toââ
He shakes his head. âItâs fine.â
He pays quickly. A few minutes later youâre walking back toward the compound. The common room is busy when you walk back in.
They all look up. Sam immediately grins. âWell?â
You blink. âWell what?â
âThe date.â
You sigh. âIt was good.â
Clint smirks. âBurgers?â
âYes.â
Bucky looks over at Steve, whoâs standing near the table. âHey Steve?â
Steve looks up. âYeah?â
âCan we talk?â
Steve nods immediately. âSure.â
You and Bucky start walking toward the hallway. Steve follows you. You lead the way back to Buckyâs room. Once the door shuts behind you, Steve looks between the two of you.
âWhatâs going on?â
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. ââŠOkay.â
Steveâs expression grows slightly concerned.
âThis is gonna sound really weird,â Bucky says.
Steve nods slowly.
âBut you have to trust me.â
Steve folds his arms. ââŠOkay.â
Bucky takes a breath. âWeâre not from this universe.â
Steve blinks. Silence fills the room.
You add quickly, âWe were on a mission.â
Steve looks between you again. âWhat kind of mission?â
âWe were looking for intel,â you explain. âWe thought it was related to multiverse experiments.â
Steveâs brow furrows. Bucky continues.
âWe found some tech there too.â
âAnd we accidentally triggered a machine,â you say.
Steveâs expression grows more confused.
âAnd it sent us here,â Bucky finishes.
Another pause. Steve looksâŠvery lost. And a little concerned.
Bucky gestures vaguely. âThatâs why we were yelling this morning.â
Steve blinks. ââŠWhat?â
âWhen we woke up,â you say quickly. âWe had no idea where we were.â
âAnd also we were cuddling,â Bucky adds.
You bury your face in your hands. âBucky.â
âWhat?â
Steve raises his eyebrows. âCuddling?â
âWeâre not dating in our universe,â Bucky explains.
Steve slowly nods. ââŠOkay.â
He thinks for a second. âYou were acting really weird this morning.â
You nod. âYeah.â
Steve rubs his chin. âWait.â He looks up. âWhere is this warehouse?â
âRomania,â Bucky answers.
Steveâs eyes widen slightly. âRomania?â
You nod. âYou have that intel too?â
Steve exhales. âWe just got word about this a few days ago.â
You blink. âReally?â
He nods. âWe donât have much information yet.â
He closes the folder. âSo actuallyâŠâ He looks between you both. âThis helps.â
You feel a small spark of relief. âSo you believe us?â you ask.
Steve nods slowly. ââŠYeah.â
You and Bucky exchange a quick look. Steve straightens slightly.
âThen we should go. If that machine sent you here, maybe it can send you back.â
âThatâs what we were thinking,â you say.
âOkay,â Steve says. âDo you guys know how to get there?â
âYes,â Bucky answers.
âAlright. Get suited up, meet at the jet in 10.â
As soon as Steve leaves, you glance over at Bucky. âThat went better than expected.â
âYeah,â 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 theyâd be leaving and that heâd explain when he got back.
You get on the jet and itâs not long before youâre in the air.
âThis could work,â you say quietly.
Bucky nods. âI think so.â
âUnless it sends us somewhere else.â
He smirks slightly. ââŠLetâs not think about that.â
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.
âYou two lead the way,â 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. Itâs dark and silent, exactly like the first time.
âClear,â 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.
âItâs the same,â you say.
The equipment is exactly where it was. The circular platform in the floor. The consoles along the walls. Steve steps inside slowly.
âThis is it?â
âYeah,â Bucky says.
You walk over to the console. âNow we just have to remember what we did.â
You stare at the controls. Bucky starts checking cables. Steve watches from a few steps back.
âTry that,â Bucky says.
You press a button. Nothing happens. âGreat.â
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. âAlright,â he says. âLooks like itâs working.â
You glance at Bucky. He nods. âReady?â
âAs weâll ever be.â
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.
âGood luck,â he says.
You take one more breath. Then you both step onto the platform. The light intensifies. Your vision bends. Your stomach flips violently.
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Summary : You were looking for a strictly casual hookup during your first ever Olympic Games. Bucky Barnes, though, ruined that plan.Â
Pairing : Ice Hockey Player! Bucky Barnes x Snowboarder! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : WINTER OLYMPICS AU, cursing, nudity, Olympic Village shenanigans, sexual content (intimate moments are detailed and sex strongly implied), references to STIs (not contracted by Bucky or reader), Olympic Village Hookup, Hookups to Lovers, reader is from Madripoor, I think this might be a He Falls She Falls Harder (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 11.5k
Note : Iâm back after a busy week, and very much watching the Winter Olympics every day. That is how this fic was born. Enjoy!
Your first Winter Olympics did not feel real, though it shouldâve felt big. It shouldâve felt like a grand gesture, perhaps a love letter to all long days and sleepless nights that got you this far. Instead, it felt like stepping into a snow globe someone else had shaken.
The air was much thinner here, in this elevation. It burned your lungs, unlike the heavy, salt-thick air of home. Back in Madripoor, humidity clung to you like a second skin. Here, the cold pierced clean through the down jackets and straight to your spine.
On the first day, you watched delegations arrive in coordinated waves.
The Americans came in a flood of navy and red, laughing loudly, arms slung over each otherâs shoulders like they were already immortalized in a documentary. Canada followed in a rush of maple-leafed pride. Smaller European nations moved like sleek, efficient machines, used to the attention.Â
Most of them had teammates, countrymen to support them from the inside, people who understood what it felt like to be hereâ in the biggest stage in your sport.Â
You⊠didnât.Â
After all, Madripoor only sent one athlete.
Which made you the centre of attention. You even spent the entire media day answering questions from reporters that didnât hide their curiosity.
âWinter sports arenât exactly common there, right?â One asked. Your answer was âitâs literally on the equator.â Another asked âYou trained where?â When you said you used a specialised indoor facility to best replicate the conditions here when you donât have time to travel.
You learned, very quickly, that you were nothing but a novelty to most.
â
The Olympic Village was a world of its own.Â
The buildings were stacked high with flags draped from balconies. Hallways were always humming at all hours, with laughter ricocheting off concrete walls at midnight. Sometimes, you got annoyed at the music thumping faintly from rooms that never seemed to sleep.
But still, when you shut your door, it was⊠isolating.
Your room was clean and sleek with white furniture and white bedding, with a pale wood desk, same as everyone elseâs. But theirs were filled with teammates. Yours held a single suitcase and a snowboard bag propped against the wall like a reminder of why you were here.
Even your coach insisted the rest of the team stayed two doors down. He was a precise man, always structured, always measured.Â
He discussed weather conditions and amplitude and risk management. He did not ask if you were lonely. He did not sit cross-legged on your bed and tell you it was okay to feel small in a place this big.
He was just professional. Always professional. Which was why he insisted that he and your manager slept in a different room, to keep you away from any âdistractions.â
The other snowboarders, especially the halfpipe girls, did try to keep you company, though.
Theyâd known you for years through X Games circuits, and even added you to the group chat before youâd even unpacked: Halfpipe Girlies đ„đ
It was chaos. Most nights you saw many videos of team dance-offs on there, photos of overflowing cafeteria trays asking you to join in (you did), and selfies with national flags draped around shoulders. They sent many pictures of crowded lounges where entire delegations sprawled across couches like they owned the place.
USA floor is insane right now, one of them sent. Team Canada is crashing the party and they brought speakers.
As if right on cue, you heard a Celine Dion song blasting from the balconies. Â
Can a couple of the big air girls and me join? We can bring hot chocolate? Typed a girl from South Korea.Â
Yes ofc!!! Someone responded quickly.
The next message sent into the group chat specifically tagged you. WHERE ARE YOU. ISN'T THIS YOUR FIRST OLYMPICS?
You typed back: In my room :( got early training tomorrow.
Which was true. But not the whole truth.
The whole truth was that walking into those spaces alone felt harder than staying put. They were all so lovely, but as the night went on, they would all peel away eventuallyâ back to their roommates, their teammates, their inside jokes in languages you didnât speak.
You would go back to being alone.
â
The next night, as snow fell thick outside your window, coating the world in soft white, you laid flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on your stomach. The radiator hissed faintly. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed loud and carefree.
Your phone buzzed.
And buzzed.
And buzzed again.
You know what it was about. After all, in the last 24 hours, the group chat had taken a turn.
Okay but REAL talk, someone texted in, yâall HAVE to download the apps.
Ik! the village is literally hookup central đ
Update: Half the hockey teams are on there
I matched with the Latvia captain yesterday đ
You huffed out a laugh despite yourself. Another message popped up, and you were tagged in it, donât tell me the entire Madripoor delegation is behaving.
Cultural exchange is important đ, another added cheekily.
You stared at the screen longer than you meant to.
You were here for glory, right? To prove that a girl from a humid island could fly twenty feet above frozen walls and land with her head high. Not to fuck around and find out.Â
But you were also young and alone.
And are you imagining things, or are the walls starting to close in�
Fuck it.Â
You rolled onto your side and opened the app store before you could talk yourself out of it. You downloaded the dating app, feeling slightly humiliated and entirely impulsive.
When you opened it, you set up your profile. You put in your name and chose your pictures carefully.
Snowboarding didnât show up until photo six; mid air with your knees tucked.
The bio field blinked expectantly as you tried to type a clever line.Â
You typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Finally, you settled with something straightforward: Hookup only. Here for a good time, not a long time.
Ugh. You physically cringed.
It sounded way too detached. Not at all like you. But hey, you just wanted to have a little fun, right?
You hit save before your nerves could override you.
Then you got down to business and started swiping.
Among many people staying near the village, you saw other athletes as well, as expected. A downhill skier posing shirtless in a mirror. A speed skater flexing with a protein shake. A snowboarder you recognized immediatelyâ hard pass. You didnât need any immediate distractions.
You swiped left.
Again.Â
And again.
After a solid twenty minutes, your thumb moved lazily, almost numb. Until it didnât.
James B.Â
That was the next profile on your phone.Â
Hmm. He looked cute. Tall, dark-haired, and handsome. So⊠exactly your type.Â
His profile picture was dimly lit but clear enough, showing hair falling into steel blue eyes. He had a stubble along his strong jaw. He looked like trouble in the most controlled way.
You tapped.
James Bucky Barnes. 6â0.
Bio: Olympic Village. Donât waste my time.
Your pulse picked up, even as you snorted at the caption. After all, that was exactly what youâre looking for.Â
There was a second photo of him on the ice, helmet off, sweat-damp hair pushed back. Another with teammates in red, white, and blueâ a team USA hockey athlete. The next one was a candid shot in a farm somewhere in an unfamiliar countryside.Â
He didnât look like the mirror-selfie types.
He looked⊠solid.
You told yourself it didnât matter. It was just an app. Just a distraction. Besides, there was no guarantee heâd be attracted to you, too.Â
So you swiped right.Â
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the screen flashed.
Itâs a Match!
Oh.Â
Oh, fuck.
Your thumb hovered across the screen for exactly three minutes before you sucked it up and typed. Gotta pull the bandage off quickly, right?
You: Donât waste your time, huh?
You hit send before you could overanalyze the text. The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
James: Yep.
Then, before you could think of another witty message, he double texted.Â
James: What building and floor you on? You still down for hooking up?
Your stomach dipped a little. Of course he was direct. There was no small talk. No pretending this was anything else.
You glanced around your room as if someone might be watching. No one was, of course, just your lone Madripoor flag draped over a chair:Â
You: Building B, Floor 6.
You hesitated, then added:Â
And yeah. Iâm still down.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
James: Huh
The bubbles paused long enough to make your chest tighten.
James: Iâm in the same building, on the same floor.Â
Shit.Â
James: Iâm in a blue hoodie, in front of the machine on the far left of the corridor.
You stared at the screen, the world suddenly felt very small. Of course he was only twenty steps away. The Olympic gods had a sense of humour.Â
James: You free now?
You could say no. You should say no.
You had training at seven. You didnât know this guy. This was reckless.
StillâŠ
You: Yeah. Give me two minutes.Â
You threw your phone onto the bed and immediately groaned into your hands.
âWhat are you doing,â you scolded yourself, but you were already pulling on a hoodie.
You glanced down at yourself.
Your legs were bare, only sleep shorts on. Hair loose over your shoulders, still slightly damp from your shower. You hadnât dressed for anyone, and you hadnât expected to.
You slid your feet into your slippers, the plush lining warm against your toes, and paused at the door.
With a deep breath stepped into the hallway.
The carpet swallowed the sound of your footsteps as lights cast a golden glow down the corridor. The air smelled faintly of detergent and sweet from the vending machines.
And then you saw him.
Far left of the corridor, just like he said.
Blue hoodie, back against the vending machine, finishing a Snickers as he was waiting for you. One ankle was crossed casually over the other, hands tucked into the front pocket.
He looked up when your door clicked shut. And his eyes found you immediately.
The casual lean shifted subtly. His shoulders straightened just a fractionâ so you could tell he was a bit nervous, too. His gaze dragged slowly, from your face down to your legs and back up again.
For a second you both just⊠stared.
Because photos hadnât done him justice. Like, at all.
He was unfairly handsome with long lashes, tired eyes, a crooked mouth like he smiled more with one side.
Pretty, but dangerously so. Like youâd absolutely make bad decisions around him.
You cleared your throat and stepped closer. ââŠJames?â
He flinched a little, like youâd surprised him.
Then he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. âUhâ yeah. Thatâs technically my name.â A small smile. âBuckyâs fine.â
Bucky. It suited him way better.
âOkay,â you said softly. âBucky.â
The way you said it made his ears go pink. Cute.
âYou look even prettier in person,â he managed to say, voice rougher than you thought it wouldâve sounded over text. âDidnât know that was possible.â
Heat rushed straight to your cheeks.
As you stepped up closer, you noticed the details. He was broader than the photos suggested, taller than youâd imagined. His dark hair was slightly messy, like heâd run a hand through it one too many times. You forced yourself to keep walking, closing the last few feet between you.
âYou donât waste time, huh?â you teased.
âDidnât plan to tonight,â he shrugged.Â
His eyes lingered on the way your hoodie pooled against your collarbones. The way your slippers looked comically soft against the sterile hallway.
âI donât realise there were any hockey guys on this floorâ you teased lightly. âI thought this was reserved for freestyles.â
The corner of his mouth curved up. âI live two floors down,â he admitted. âNo vending machines on my floor.â
You were close enough now to see the faint flush on his cheeks from the cold outside. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.
âStill down?â he asked quietly, as if afraid of a rejection now.Â
Your pulse hammered, but your voice stayed steady. âYeah.â
His eyes darkened just slightly.
âYour room,â he said, nodding toward your door, âor mine?â
â
Your room.
Of course the answer was always gonna be your room.
You had no roommates, no teammates wandering in unannounced. No shared space to negotiate.
You grabbed his hand and tugged him toward your door before either of you could overthink it. He followed wordlessly.
Inside, your room felt smaller with him in it, warmer.Â
He stepped in and glanced around, taking in the single suitcase, the neatly folded Madripoor jacket draped over the bathroom door, your snowboard bag propped carefully against the wall.
âNo way,â he said, lifting his eyebrows up. âMadripoor? Iâve heard about you.â
You huffed a small laugh, shutting the door behind him. âYeah?â
âYeah. Not exactly known for winter sports.â
âWow,â you rolled your eyes, knowing he didnât mean any harm. âOriginal.â
He grinned.
You didnât give either of you more time to talk. You stepped forward, fisted your hands into the front of his blue hoodie, and pulled him down to you.
The kiss hit hot and immediate.
He made a low sound in his throat that surprised but pleased, and his hands came to your waist instinctively, fingers pressing into the fabric of your hoodie.
His mouth was warm, firm, confident. He wasnât clumsy in the slightest.Â
You backed him toward the door for half a second, then turned and pushed him further into the room until the backs of his knees hit the edge of your bed.
Between kisses, he shifted just enough to look at you.
âSaw your profile photo,â he murmured, fingers sliding under the hem of your hoodie. He pulled it slowly over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him before leaning down to press his mouth to the curve of your neck. âSnowboard cross?â
âNoâ mmmphââ you sucked in a breath as his teeth grazed a sensitive spot just below your collarbone. âHalfpipe.â
He hummed against your skin, clearly pleased with the reaction heâd gotten.
âFair,â he said, lips trailing lower, hands mapping the lines of your waist. âExplains the balance.â
You laughed softly, a little breathless, and stepped back just long enough to tug at the hem of his hoodie.
âArms up,â you ordered lightly.
He obeyed without hesitation. The hoodie came off, and for a split second, you just stared.
Ainât you glad you swiped right?Â
He had a strong core, arms thick with muscle earned from years of contact and controlled aggression.
âYouâre built like a fridge,â you said honestly, eyes sweeping over him. âIn a good way.â
He snorted, amused. âComes with the job,â he shrugged simply, reaching down to undo his belt.Â
You watched, heart racing, as he stripped the rest of his clothes away without ceremony. This was the most efficient a hook up has ever been, the most⊠unselfconscious.
And then⊠you swallowed.
Um. Wow.
He caught the look on your face and smirked, reaching into the pocket of his discarded sweats and pulling out a condom.
He came prepared.
You stepped out of your shorts slowly, letting them fall to the floor before pushing him gently back onto the bed. The look on his face as he took your bare skin in was as devilish as yours.Â
âGoalie?â you asked innocently as you climbed over him, bracketing his hips with your thighs.
He laughed, hands coming to rest on your waist.
âDefenseman,â he corrected, eyes dragging over you openly now. âI hit other guys for a living.â
âThat checks out,â you laughed, leaning down to kiss him again.
He rolled just enough to reach the bedside table, tearing the foil open with practiced ease before settling back, hands guiding you closer.
His gaze flicked up to yours, briefly serious now. âYou clean?â he asked.
âOf course,â you answered without hesitation.
His jaw tightened slightly in approval. Then his hands slid up your back, fingers splaying wide, pulling you flush against him as his mouth found yours again, slower this time, deeper, less about proving something and more about learning what you liked in a man.Â
â
Much later, after the little fun you both had, the room felt⊠warmer.Â
The radiator hummed against the wall, snow drifting past your window in lazy spirals. The bed creaked faintly as Bucky shifted beside you, staring up at the ceiling like heâd just skated overtime and couldnât quite believe the scoreboard.
You turned onto your side, watching him.
He looked completely undone. His hair was mussed, lips slightly swollen. He had a dazed little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was trying not to grin too hard and failing miserably.
Then he actually started laughing.
You couldnât help it, you started giggling too.
âWhat?â you asked, nudging his arm with your knee. âWhy are you laughing?â
He shook his head, dragging a hand down his face like he needed to reset himself.
âThat,â he said, still smiling at the ceiling, âwas my first ever Olympic hookup.â
You blinked. âNo way.â
âSwear.â He turned his head toward you, blue eyes bright and a little stunned. âThis is my first games. Youâre my first⊠that.â
You burst out laughing, flopping onto your back beside him. âYouâre kidding.â
âIâm not.â
âWell,â you said, grinning at the ceiling now too, âme too.â
That got him to prop himself up on one elbow instantly. âWait. Really?â
âMmhmm.â
He stared at you for a long second like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew.
âYouâŠ?â he said slowly. âYou seem really good at it.â
You gasped, mock offended. âOh my god.â
âI mean it!â he insisted, laughing now. âYou justââ he made a vague gesture with both hands. ââtook control.â
You rolled your eyes, but you could feel your cheeks warming.
âMaybe I just didnât want to waste your time,â you teased.
He groaned softly, falling back against the pillow again, smiling to himself like heâd just discovered something he hadnât known he was looking for.
For a moment, you just lay there side by side, shoulders brushing. It felt strange how comfortable it was.
You eventually slipped off the bed, wobbling across the room in your slippers, hoping your legs would reset by morning. The cold air made you shiver a little as you knelt by your suitcase and dug through the side pocket.
Bucky pushed himself up slightly to watch you. âWhat are you doing?â
âHang on.â
You pulled out the small pouch filled with pins. Being the only athlete from Madripoor had meant your Olympic committee had gone overboard with dozens of little enamel flags and sunbursts and tropical designs for you to trade.
You picked one carefully and walked back over.
âWant one?â you said, holding it out.
He sat up fully this time, âNo way.â
He took it from your hand like it was precious.
The Madripoor flag caught the light in bright colors, bold lines. It was tiny but mighty, a symbol of a country that didnât belong in winter but showed up anyway.
âYouâre the only one here from there, right?â he asked quietly.
âYeah.â
âI⊠thanks.â
You shrugged, suddenly shy under his gaze. âThey gave me a lot of pins.â
He reached down to his pile of clothes on the floor and fished through his jacket pocket. âHold on.â
He came back with a Team USA pin, sleek and shiny, red and white stripes curving behind the bold letters.
He held it out to you with a little grin. âFair trade.â
You accepted it, smiling. âYou know I already got one from one of the girls, right?â
His eyes narrowed playfully. âYeah, but this oneâs special.â
âYeah? Whyâs that?â You raised an eyebrow.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. âBecause itâs mine.â
You snorted, but your smile widened. âSmooth.â You pinned it carefully to the inside of your jacket that hung on the bathroom door, pressing it flat against the fabric.
He watched you do it.
He stood after a minute, pulling on his hoodie and sweats again, not rushing to leave, just⊠settling back into himself.
At the door, he paused. âIâll keep in touch,â he said.
You crossed your arms, leaning against the desk. âYou better.â
He smiled at that. âHalfpipe, right?â
âYeah.â
âIâll be watching.â
Your heart did something annoyingly soft at that.
He opened the door, then hesitated, glancing back at you one more time. âYouâre cool, you know,â he added.
You rolled your eyes to hide how much that pleased you. âGo away, Barnes.â
He laughed quietly and slipped into the hallway. The door clicked shut.
And for the first time since arriving at the Olympics, you didnât feel lonely at all.
â
The Olympic Village only got wilder as the days went on.
It was like someone had shaken the entire mountain and let a few thousand elite athletes loose with too much adrenaline and not enough supervision. Music thumped through walls at all hours. Elevators opened to people fixing their hair and pretending they hadnât just sprinted down six flights of stairs. The halfpipe group chat was feral beyond repair.
Iâm never looking at Team Sweden the same.
Why are figure skaters secretly the most freaky?
Must be their training regimen.
Youâd laugh at the messages, curled up in your bed with your training schedule open beside you, and your phone lighting up with Buckyâs name more often than not, while his team jacket was folded neatly on the foot of your desk. He left it there. âAccidentally.â
Yeah, sure.Â
It started becoming routine.
Youâd train. Heâd practice. Youâd both pretend you were going to be social that night.
And then one of you would text.
Bucky : You alive?
You : Barely. Quali was brutal.
Five minutes later he was outside your door with two vending machine hot chocolates and a grin, inviting him in as he peels your clothes away, drinks forgotten.
The night after, you met him in the rec room, surrounded by half of Team USA. His friends pretended not to notice when Bucky slipped away mid-conversation.
By the end of the week, it became⊠assumed.
The conversation that made it official happened a bit later.
You were in his room this time, his roommates out to get food for the night. He made up some bullshit excuse about being tired to spend the night with you, alone.Â
You sat cross-legged near the foot of the bed while he leaned back against the headboard, scrolling through something on his phone.
He snorted.
âWhat?â you asked.
âWalkerâs not playing tomorrow.â
You frowned. âIs he injured?â
Bucky barked out a laugh. âNot exactly.â
He tossed his phone onto the nightstand and rubbed a hand over his face, half amused, half exasperated.
âHe picked up an STI.â
Your eyes widened. âNo.â
âYeah. Team docâs got him under lockdown.â He shook his head, âthe teams calling it horny jail.â
You burst out laughing.
âNo way.â
âWay.â He grinned. âCoach is pissed. He warned us not to go to that party in building D.â
You fell back onto the mattress, still giggling. âThatâs brutal.â
âItâs stupid,â Bucky corrected, but there was something thoughtful underneath the humor.
The noise of the Village hummed faintly through the walls. Somewhere down the hall, someone whooped loudly.
You rolled onto your side to look at him. âYou couldâve been at that party.â
âYeah,â he said.
âYou werenât?â
âNo.â
He looked at you for a long moment, a bit more serious now, not joking.
âYou hooking up with anyone else?â he asked, and you took that as a safety question. It wasnât accusatory at all.
You shook your head slowly. âAre you?â
âNo.â
There were options for both of you, that much was obvious. Youâd seen the way people looked at him in the cafeteria. Heâd definitely noticed the way other guys lingered a little too long near you as they asked, âwhat sport do you play?â
âItâs not like Iâd be mad,â you said quietly. âWe didnâtâlike⊠say anything.â
âI know.â
âBut I- Iâm clean.â
âMe too,â he exhaled, gaze drifting to the ceiling before coming back to you.
âMaybe itâs just easier like this,â he admitted.
You understood exactly what he meant.
No awkward introductions. No wondering if someone was going to ghost you after. No worrying about health or drama. No ending up in horny jail.
You smiled faintly, agreeing with him. âItâs just efficient, isnât it?â
âExactly.â
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows. âSo what are you saying, Barnes?â
He studied you for a second, like he was weighing whether to make it sound casual or not.
âIâm saying,â he began, slower now, âwe stick with each other while weâre here.â
You raised an eyebrow. âExclusive hookup?â you teased.
He groaned. âSounds terrible when you say it like that.â
You laughed.
âBut, it would work,â he continued. âWeâre both here to compete. We trust each other. We know weâre clean.â His lips curved up slightly. âAnd, you know⊠itâs not exactly a hardship.â
You rolled your eyes playfully, but warmth bloomed low in your chest.
âItâs not like weâd be mad if the other didnât,â you said carefully.
âNo,â he agreed. âItâs just⊠easier.â
But there was something else there. Something neither of you said out loud.
Perhaps, you started to like each other.Â
You reached out your hand.
âOkay,â you said.
He looked down at it, confused for half a second.
âDeal,â you clarified.
A smile spread across his face. He took your hand and shook it solemnly like you were signing a contract. âDeal.â
From that night on, it was a thing.
The parties still raged. The rumors still swirled. The group chat still detonated every evening with scandal and chaos. The halfpipe girls teased you relentlessly for âmysteriously disappearing.â He got chirped by his teammates every time he checked his phone and smiled.
But you didnât waver.
You trained. He played. You texted between sessions. Sometimes it was flirty. Sometimes it was just, Howâd practice go? or You eat yet?
It stopped being just about nights.
It became coffee runs and walks after dinner. Him showing up at the halfpipe during your practice just to watch, hands shoved into his jacket, pretending he didnât look proud when you landed clean.
Soon enough, if someone asked where you were, the answer was usually, âWith that Barnes guy.â If someone asked him where he disappeared to after practice, the guys would just groan knowingly.
It wasnât dramatic. It wasnât possessive. You didnât label it anything. You started recognizing his knock on your door before he even texted. Heâd show up with tea or protein bars or some ridiculous story about practice. Youâd steal his hoodie and pretend you werenât keeping it on purpose.
Youâd wish each other luck before competitions. Sit close in the cafeteria.Â
You told yourselves it was practical, safe, and convenient.
But you werenât stupid, you noticed the way he watched you train when he thought you couldnât see him. He noticed the way you checked the hockey schedule before planning your own nights.
That wasnât just convenient.
That was fondness.
â
It was almost midnight when your phone lit up.
You were already in bed, lights off, semifinal schedule replaying in your head like a loop you couldnât shut down. The ceiling above you felt too close.Â
Your phone buzzed again.
Bucky: You awake?
You didnât even try to hide your smile.
You: Yeah. Whatâs up?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Bucky: Canât sleep.
Bucky: Germany guys next door are throwing a full-blown rave with half my team.
As if summoned, a faint bass thudded through your floor. A guy shouted something unintelligible as laughter erupted.
You could picture it perfectly now, hockey players crammed into a room not built for that many bodies, someone definitely dancing on a chair.
You: Youâre missing out.
Bucky: Hard pass. I need to get my beauty sleep. I donât get this pretty with no effort.Â
You laughed softly into your pillow as another message came through.
Bucky: I also think Iâm more nervous about your semis than you are.
That made your chest go warm. You stared at the screen for a second before offering something stupid.
You: You can sleep at mine?
The typing bubble blinked. Stopped. Blinked again.
Bucky: You have semis tomorrow.
You rolled onto your back, phone above your face.
You: Yes.
Bucky: So maybe inviting a 200-pound defenseman who's gonna keep you up all night in your tiny bed is not ideal.
You smiled.
You: I didnât say weâre having sex tonight, did I?
There was a long pause.
Bucky: Weâre not?
You snorted.
You: Behave, Bucky.Â
You: Just come by and sleep. Weâll be fine.
The bubble appeared again.
Bucky: You sure? I donât want to mess with your focus.
You sighed. He was struggling to get some shut eye and frustrated by his floorâs lack of awarenessâ he didnât have to be this⊠sweet.
You: You wonât.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock at your door.
You slipped out of bed and padded across the room in your socks. When you opened the door, he was there in gray sweats and a loose t-shirt, hair slightly messy, eyes tired but lighting up the second he saw you.
The bass from down the hall echoed faintly behind him.
âYouâre a hero,â he murmured.
âDonât get used to it,â you smiled.Â
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The noise dulled instantly, replaced by the hum of your radiator.
For a moment, he just stood there, looking at you like he was trying to memorize something.
âYou okay?â he asked softly.
âYeah.â
âYou sure?â
âYeah,â you repeated. âYou?â
He shrugged. âJust couldnât shut my brain off.â
You understood that. You climbed back into bed and lifted the blanket. He hesitated for half a second, then slid in carefully.
The bed was small. You both lay flat on your backs at first, shoulders barely touching.
âSee?â you whispered into the dark. âVery professional.â
âHmmm,â he agreed solemnly.
But then you felt him shift slightly, turning onto his side.
âYou nervous?â he asked quietly.
âA little,â you admitted.
He let out a deep breath. âYouâre going to crush it.â
The certainty in his voice made your chest loosen. âYou sound very sure.â
He shrugged, the music down the hall fading into background noise.
Without really thinking about it, you turned onto your side too. The space between you disappeared. Your knee brushed his thigh. His arm hovered awkwardly for a second before resting lightly at your waist.
After a moment, his hand shifted slightly, fingers spreading gently against your back like he was checking if this was still allowed.
You didnât move away. Instead, you scooted a fraction closer.
âThought we were behaving,â he whispered.
âWe are,â you said. âThis is just⊠cuddling.â
He huffed a quiet laugh against your hair.
The mattress dipped as he adjusted, sliding his arm fully around you this time, pulling you carefully into his chest. You fit there surprisingly well, your forehead tucked under his chin, your hand resting against his ribs.
He pressed his lips gently to the top of your head. His thumb started tracing absentminded circles against your back, a soothing, repetitive motion.Â
âI like this,â he said quietly.
âSleeping?â
âYeah,â he paused, only a little, âWith you.â
You tucked your face back against his chest to hide the smile you couldnât suppress.
âDonât get attached,â you teased softly.
âToo late.â
Your heart skipped a beat.
Outside, the music finally died down. His breathing evened out first this time.
You lay there a little longer, listening to it, feeling the And wrapped up in his arms, in a bed too small for two, you drifted off knowing that when you stepped onto the halfpipe tomorrow⊠Heâd be there.
â
The rest of the Games were⊠fine.
Neither of you got a storybook ending, but you didnât tragically embarrass yourself, either.Â
You landed your first two runs in finals clean, high amplitude, solid grabs. On the third, you pushed just a little. A bit more rotation. A touch more risk. If you wanted a chance, you had to at least attempt those triple corks and high-rotation switch tricks you trained so damn hard to do.Â
But you scuffed it.
It wasnât a catastrophic fall, not even a yard sale across the pipe. But it was just enough of a hand drag and sketchy landing to drop you to fifth.
The commentators called it âimpressive for a first Olympic Gamesâ in a tone that feels like a consolation prize.
You sat in the snow at the bottom of the halfpipe for a few seconds longer than you meant to, helmet still on, staring at the scoreboard.Â
When the scores were finalized and your name stayed in fifth, you didnât cry.
You nodded at your coach. You did the interviews. You said the right things â âproud of the progression, grateful for the experience, excited for whatâs next.â
You meant some of it.
Fifth in your first Olympic Games from a snow-less, tiny, tropical country on the equator. It was objectively historic.
But you still felt like missing something you could almost taste.
â
He was waiting when you got back to the Village.
He was outside the building, hand shoved into his Team USA jacket, breath fogging in the cold. You saw him in the stands earlier, so he mustâve not been able to pass through the crowd to see you.Â
And if you were honest, you almost didnât see him at first. You were still half inside your own head, before he stepped forward to meet you halfway.Â
âYou okay?â he asked.
You shrugged.
That was the worst part; you werenât devastated. You werenât shattered. You were just⊠disappointed in a manageable way.Â
âI couldâve done better,â you shook your head.
He shook his head immediately. âYou⊠shit, you scared the hell out of me on that last run,â he muttered into your hair.Â
You huffed a small laugh. âYou hate watching me.â
âI hate watching you launch yourself into the sky,â he corrected. âBut it doesnât mean I hate that you do.â
You stayed there a second longer than pride would usually allow.
â
By the time you and Bucky made it back to the Village, the sun had dipped behind the mountains and the air had gone sharp and blue with evening cold. He kept one hand at the small of your back the whole walk, comforting enough to feel cosy.Â
Inside, the hallway was louder than usual. Someone down the corridor was blasting music. A group in matching jackets hurried past.
You unlocked your door.
The room felt different now.
Your helmet hit the desk with a dull thud. You toed off your boots and stood there for a second, staring at your snowboard bag propped against the wall like it had been waiting for this outcome.
Bucky shut the door behind you.
âYou wanna talk about it?â he asked.
You shrugged, pulling at the zipper of your jacket. âThereâs not much to say.â
He didnât push.
You knelt by the snowboard bag and unzipped it, fingers moving automatically. You wiped the base down with a cloth from your kit, checking edges out of habit even though youâd done it a hundred times before.
He crouched down across from you without being asked.
âYou heading out tomorrow?â he asked.
You shook your head. âNo. Iâm staying a couple more days. Media obligation and all that.â
He nodded, hiding his small smile of knowing heâd get you for another couple more days.Â
âCoach wants the gear packed for transport tomorrow though,â you added. âTheyâre shipping everything back in bulk.â
âGot it,â he said simply.
You started disassembling your bindings, hands steady even if your brain felt fuzzy.
He watched for a second, then reached for the tool kit beside you. âShow me.â
You glanced up. âYou donât have to helpââ
âI know,â he insisted, and that determined look in his eyes was familiar. He was not backing down.Â
You handed him the screwdriver.
He followed your instructions carefully, brow furrowed in concentration like it was a play diagram instead of hardware.
âLefty loosey?â he confirmed.
âOther left,â you muttered.
He huffed a small laugh. âFine motor skills arenât my brand.â
Despite yourself, you smiled.
âYou know,â he said after a minute, not looking up, âmost people donât go that big on a last run.â
âI shouldâve played it safe,â you said automatically.
He stopped adjusting the binding and looked at you.
âWould you have been happy with fourth if youâd gone smaller?â
You hesitated. âNo.â
âExactly.â
Oh.Â
You looked away first, reaching for your gloves.
âGoggles need to go in the hard case,â you said, voice steadier now.
âGot it.â
He worked methodically, packing each piece where you directed. Helmet wrapped in your thermal layer. Competition bib folded flat. Wax kit zipped into the side pouch.
It felt strangely intimate, more than any of the nights his lips were dragging across your skin.Â
This⊠was different.
This was him kneeling on the carpet of your tiny Olympic Village room, helping you close out something youâd spent four years building toward.
When everything was finally packed, the bag looked too neat. He zipped it shut slowly.
âThere,â he said.
You stared at it for a long second.
âFifth in the world,â he added.
You huffed softly. âThatâs not how they announce it.â
âMaybe they should.â
You leaned back on your hands and laughed. When you thought about it like thatâ that only four people in the world were better than you⊠it did make you feel better.Â
You let him sit next to you on the bed as he pulled you down with him until you were tucked against his side. The mattress dipped under the combined weight.
You expected him to make a joke.
He didnât.
He just slid an arm around your waist and pulled you in close.
Your head rested on his chest. His heartbeat was steady. You traced a lazy line along his ribs with your fingertip. âYou staying the night?â you asked quietly.
âIf you want.â
You shifted slightly so you could look up at him. âI do.â
He didnât say anything cheesy. Instead, he just pressed a kiss to your forehead.
You kicked your slippers off and wriggled under the blanket, tugging him down with you. He followed easily, body folding around yours.
His arm slid under your neck, the other settling securely at your waist. You fit against him like youâd practiced.
âYou okay now?â he asked into your hair.
You thought about it.
Fifth place was a disappointment. You hated that the gear was leaving without you, and you were restless in waiting another four years for another chance at this stage.Â
But Bucky was there.Â
âYeah,â you said finally. âI think so.â
â
A couple nights later, you were in the stands for his bronze medal match.
Youâd never understood hockey beyond puck goes in net = good, but you learned fast.
More importantly, you learned how to spot Bucky instantly by the number on his back and the way he moved.
You screamed when he slammed someone into the boards. You stood when he blocked a shot. You nearly threw up when it went into overtime.
Then⊠they lost on a rebound in front of the net.Â
Silver wouldâve meant something.Â
Bronze wouldâve meant something.
Them coming fourth now meant nothing.
You waited until the handshake line was done. Until the team gathered around the coaches. Until the cameras drifted toward the celebrating side.
He didnât notice you at first when he came out of the tunnel.
âHey, Buck.â
He looked up.
The second he saw you, his shoulders dropped just a fraction. âHey,â he said, like he hadnât just left everything on the ice.
You didnât try to spin it. âThat sucked.â
He let out a humorless laugh. âYeah.â
You stepped into him the same way he had with you a couple nights before.
His arms wrapped around you instantly. âYou played well,â you said into his chest.
âDoesnât matter.â
âIt does.â
He was quiet for a second.
âI shouldâve cleared that rebound,â he sighed.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. âYou donât get to âshouldâveâ me after what you said about my scuffed landing.â
He blinked. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, forehead dropping to yours for a brief second in the middle of a crowded corridor, his team patting his back as they passed. âThanks for coming,â he said.
âOf course.â
â
He excused himself for team duties, but it wasnât long before you found him outside after the media scrum, after the forced smiles and the âproud of the boysâ soundbites. His hair was still damp from the shower, scarf loose around his neck like heâd given up halfway through fixing it.
âTheyâre going out,â he said when he saw you. âTo a bar in town.â
âAre you going?â
He shook his head once. âI donât feel like it.â
âThatâs okay,â you said gently, squeezing his arm.
His eyes flicked up at that.
You didnât talk about the or the missed coverage after that. You just walked with him back to his building.
His room was empty when he unlocked it.
âSam with the rest of the team tonight?" you asked about his roommate
âYeah,â he said. âAnd heâll be loud when he comes back.â
You stepped inside anyway, and the door clicked shut.
For a second, you just looked at each other.
It didnât take long for him to grab your face and kiss you. It was urgent, like he needed to prove some things in this world were still under his control.Â
Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt as you peeled layers away, pulling him closer as his palms slid to your waist. He pulled clothes out of the way as best he could without breaking the kiss, breath uneven, fingers already working at your sweats.
âWe donât have long,â he whispered against your mouth, voice rough.
You almost laughed. âYou always say that.â
âThis time I mean it.â
You blinked up at him. âWhat?â
âWe donât have long,â he breathed out, pressing his forehead to your, âBefore my teammates come back. Before someone decides to grab something they forgot. BeforeâŠâ He exhaled, eyes flicking over your face. âBefore this ends.â
The last part slipped out more fragile than he meant it to.
Right.
You didnât know what to say, so you kissed him.
It wasnât frantic, unlike that first night. It was deeper, even a little desperate around the edges.
He kissed you back like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hands slid from your waist up your back, fingers spreading wide like he was grounding himself.
His fingers tangled in your hair. Yours hooked into the waistband of his sweats. You walked him backward until the backs of his knees hit his bed.
âYouâre soâŠâ he started, then stopped, like he couldnât find the right word.
âWhat?â you whispered.
He shook his head and pulled shirt over your head instead, hands lingering at your skin afterward like he didnât want to let go.
âYou make this place feel different,â he admitted.
Your eyebrows softened as you pushed him gently back against the pillows, climbing over him. He pulled you down into another kiss that was slower than anything youâd shared before.Â
When he rolled you gently beneath him to hover over you, it wasnât about taking control. It was about feeling close to you. His forehead rested against yours as your breathing synced.
âDonât disappear on me after this,â he said.
You blinked up at him. âIâŠâ
Before you finished, he tugged his shirt over his head, mouth tracing along your jaw, down your neck, slower than usual, like he was deliberately taking his time.
And boy⊠did he take his time on you that night.Â
And when you finally ended up tangled in sheets and breathless laughter and skin-to-skin warmth, it felt less like a hookup and more like a promise neither of you had agreed to make.
You were half-draped over him, your head resting just below his collarbone. His breathing was slower now, as his fingers traced idle patterns along your shoulder, down your arm and across your waist.
âYou know,â he said carefully, eyes on the ceiling, âI think I adored you a little bit from the start.â
Your brain short-circuited, lifting your head slightly. âYou⊠what?â
He glanced down at you, almost sheepish now. But he didnât take it back.
âAdored you,â he repeated, softer. âWhen you walked down that hallway the first night, you were nervous but pretending not to be.â His thumb brushed along your side. âI have adored you every night since.â
You just stared at him.
Oh.
Right.
That.
Youâd wanted just a hookup. You were supposed to leave the Winter Olympic Village with a couple good stories and no complications.
So how exactly had you ended up here?
Naked in a hockey playerâs bed while he admitted he adored you like this was normal?
You didnât realize youâd gone quiet until his hand froze.
He shifted slightly beneath you. âHey.â
You blinked back into focus.
âIf that freaked you out, you can tell me,â he said carefully. âI didnât mean toâ I justââ
You pushed yourself up on one elbow.
âYou didnât scare me.â
His brows knit together. âThen why do you look like I just handed you a ring?â
Before you could respondâ
The door burst open.
âYo, Barnes! You sure you donât want toââ
Sam Wilson stopped dead in the doorway and took in the sight of you in Buckyâs bed, sheets twisted around your waist, Bucky half-propped up behind you.
âWHOOOAAA.â
Bucky moved at lightning speed.
He yanked the blanket up over you so fast it nearly smacked you in the face and grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be his dirty sock, and hurled it at Sam.
âGet the fuck out!â Bucky barked.
Sam dodged easily, laughing so hard he had to grab the doorframe for balance.
âOh my god,â he called over his shoulder to whoever was lingering in the hallway, probably Steve. âThey look like they're there talking about some sappy shit!â
The door slammed shut.
You and Bucky stared at each other for half a second. And then you both burst out laughing.
He fell back against the pillow, dragging you with him, blanket still clutched protectively around you like you might evaporate out of embarrassment.
âIâm so sorry,â he muttered. You were still giggling when he tucked his chin against your temple.
âItâs okay,â you shrugged, âthis was fun.â
âThis is fun,â Bucky corrected.
You hesitated for a second. He wasnât asking to define it, and you werenât sure how this would work if you triedâŠÂ but whatâs wrong with enjoying the last few days, right?
You leaned up, kissing his cheek and agreed. âIt is.â
â
Those last few days before the closing ceremony felt strangely⊠weightless. Like someone had lifted a backpack you didnât realize youâd been carrying for years.
For the first time in months you had nowhere you had to be.
No 6 a.m. lifts, no course inspection, no âthree more reps.â Not even a mobility routine before bed.Â
You just had⊠time.Â
You still woke up early out of habit, heart jumping like you were late for a competition.
Then you remembered that your schedule was clear, save for a couple of media hits about your âhistoric participationâ and âwhat it means for winter sports in non-traditional climates,â which was journalist code for wow, youâre from the equator, thatâs craaaazy. You couldâve been surfing, dude.Â
You did the interviews in your team jacket, smiling politely, saying stuff like, âYes, I trained abroad a lot.â
âYes, we have indoor facilities.â
âYes, hopefully more kids back home will try winter sports now.â
âYes, fifth place is huge for us.â
You meant that last one more each day.
Especially when the gold medalist in your event ran into you in your elevator and bumped your shoulder.
âYouâre gonna be unstoppable in four years,â she said casually, like it was obvious. âYour amplitudeâs insane.â
You blinked. She was close to a legend in your sport, and you have seen her around, but she had always seemed so untouchable. âOh. Uhâ thanks.â
âIâm not kidding,â she added, âWeâre all scared of you already.â
And then she just walked away to her floor like she hadnât detonated your brain.
Bucky nearly choked on his drink when you told him.
âSee?â he said, smug. âIâve been saying that.â
âYouâre biased,â you rolled your eyes.
âBut Iâm right,â he countered.
You kicked him under the table. He kicked you back.
It was stupid and easy and normal with him.Â
After that, the days just⊠melted together.
Youâd wander the compounds with no destination.
Sometimes with the halfpipe girls your age, raiding pantries and sneaking into other buildings just to see what the vibes were.
Sometimes Bucky was there with your friends, too, just ⊠blending in.
Which was ridiculous, because he was a giant compared to most of you. But still, heâd sit there listening to them argue about edge angles like it was fascinating.
At one point one of the girls leaned over and stage-whispered, âHeâs weirdly boyfriend-coded.â
You choked on your drink. He went pink all the way to his ears.
Sometimes, though, it was just you and him.
Those were your favorite.
Youâd sit in the stands watching random sports you didnât understand at all.
Curling. Speed skating. Luge.
âWhy are they sweeping?â heâd whisper.
âI donât know.â
âShould we clap?â
âProbably.â
Youâd clap late and awkwardly together and start laughing.
Sometimes you were technically a plus one to his team bonding activities.Â
Heâd show up at your door like it was a given. âCâmon. The boys are having a movie night.â
âAm I invited?â
Heâd just stare at you. âOf course.â
And then youâd end up wedged between him and one of his teammates on a too-small couch while they argued about some play from practice.
Heâd casually drape an arm behind you, leaving the door open if you wanted to lean. You always leaned.
Nobody made a big deal of it. Neither did you. It was all very⊠unspoken.
You stole his hoodies constantly. He carried your gloves in his pockets without comment.
Once, you fell asleep on his shoulder during a curling match and woke up with his jacket draped over you and his chin resting lightly on your head like thatâs where it belonged.
It was disgustingly cute, the kind of cute youâd roll your eyes at if it were happening to someone else. Which was exactly the problem.
Because every time you were walking back to the building at night, every time he looked at you like he was about to say something importantâŠ
Heâd start by saying âSo⊠what happens to us after thisââ
And youâd immediately cut in.
âDid you see that wipeout earlier?â Or, âOh my god I forgot I have to email my coach.â Or, âWe should get food.â
Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.
Not because you didnât care, and maybe because you cared too much. Maybe, talking about after felt like touching a bruise. Like if you looked at it too hard, it would end faster.
It was easier to stay here.
So you just⊠didnât have the conversation.
And he, weirdly, let you. Heâd just nod. âYeah, okay,â like he understood you were buying time.
â
Then, the night before the closing ceremony, you were alone for once.
Girls were out somewhere. Buckyâs teammates were having a boys night out, and insisted he just had to be there.Â
You were in your room, half-packing, half-scrolling, lying sideways across the bed when your email notifications pinged.
Subject: Guest Credentials â Confirmation
You opened it.
You still have one unused guest pass available for X Games Aspen â SuperPipe. Please assign before travel.
The first person you thought about was⊠Bucky.Â
Oh.Â
â
The closing ceremony was much more relaxing than the opening ceremony.
Music was everywhere, fireworks already in the sky. Flags were wrapped around shoulders instead of marching in neat lines, and when everything was done, athletes were trading jackets, pins, and hats.
It was loud and messy and nothing like the lonely white room youâd cried in three weeks ago. And somehow, you couldnât walk three steps.
âWait, are you the Madripoor snowboarder?â
âCan we get a picture?â
âOh my god, please tell me you still have pins left!â
You kept laughing, a little overwhelmed, a little breathless. âYeah, yeah, of course- IâŠhold onââ
Your lanyard kept getting lighter as you handed out enamel flags. A Brazilian skater draped their countryâs scarf around your shoulders for a selfie, saying you were in this together. A group of curlers insisted on teaching you their handshake. Two skiers asked you to sign their bib like you were famous or something.
It was sweet. It was surreal. It was exactly the kind of attention youâd pretended you didnât want your whole life.
Still, every time you smiled for a photo, your eyes were already scanning over their shoulders, looking for a certain defenseman that you needed to say goodbye to.Â
Where is he?
You spotted flashes of Team USA men's national ice hockey team jackets across the stadium floor like little beacons.
Every time you thought you saw him, someone stopped you again for "just one more pic.â
You tried to be present. You really did.
But your heart was doing that dumb, impatient thing. Because if you didnât find him now⊠you wouldnât be able to say what you really wanted to say.Â
âSorry! Sorry⊠excuse meââ you muttered, slipping sideways through a group of French biathletes.
You stood on your toes to see⊠there!
You could place that broad shoulder and stupidly familiar way he stood anywhere.Â
But of course, some random skier had already grabbed him for a selfie.
You watched him smile politely, leaning down for the photo.
But his eyes kept flicking over the crowd, searching, the same way youâd been. Your heart basically melted on the spot.
You started moving at the exact same time he tried to step away, and immediately got stopped by two Canadian skaters.
You tried to wave your hand and get his attention when a pair of snowboard girls tackled you into a group hug. âWHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL NIGHT?â
âI⊠I needâ hold onââ You wiggled free, half laughing, half desperate.
You both spotted each other at the same time.
And then it got fucking stupid, because now you were both trying to walk fast without looking like you were running, Which just absolutely just looked like running.
You almost crashed into a speed skater. He apologized to a photographer and kept going. It felt like one of those slow-motion movie scenes except neither of you were cool enough to look graceful about it.
By the time you reached each other, you were both a little breathless, smiling like idiots, like you couldnât quite believe the other one was actually there.
âHiââ
âHiââ
And then neither of you said anything.
Which was ridiculous, because you had rehearsed approximately twelve speeches while fighting through the crowd.
But now he was just⊠there. Close enough that you could see the fresh tiny scar near his eyebrow. Close enough that the noise of the stadium sort of faded into mush.
He looked a little flushed, a little out of breath, like heâd jogged the last stretch.
âYouââ he started, then huffed a soft laugh. âIâve been trying to get to you for like ten minutes.â
âMe too,â you said immediately..Â
You both just stood there smiling like absolute idiots.
And then⊠panic hit. Because this was it, right?
You swallowed.
âHeyâ so⊠okay-â you started.
He immediately straightened. âYeah?â
You spoke lower at first, careful, like stepping onto ice. âIâve kind of been⊠avoiding this conversation.â
His eyes widened just a bit. âAh.â
âNot in a bad way!â you rushed. âJustâ the last few weeks have been a whirlwind and everythingâs been so⊠snow globe-y.â
âSnow globe-y?â he repeated, smiling though not quite understanding what you meant.
âYeah. Snowglobe-y. Like everythingâs been shaken up and magical and weird and not real?â you gestured wildly. âAnd I didnât want it to just⊠end without saying something.â
He went very still.
And that triggered something in your brain. Before you knew it, words were accelerating out of your mouth before you could filter through them.
âIâm leaving tonight,â you started âand youâre leaving tomorrow. AndI donât want this to just end like some random Olympic fling story I tell in four years like âhaha remember that hockey guyâ because youâre not just some hockey guy and this wasnât justâ thatâ and Iââ
âHey,â he said softly.
You kept spiraling.
âAnd we donât even know each other that long and maybe this is crazy and maybe Iâm being dramatic but snow globe! Right, remember that! I felt like we got shaken together and itâs magic and fake at the same time and I donât want to lose you when the snow settlesââ
His hands came up to your shoulders, squeezing gently.
âBreathe,â he said, smiling.
You inhaled.
âAgain.â
You did. Your brain slowed from 200 mph to maybe 60.
âThere you go,â he murmured.
God. Why was he like this?
âIâm leaving tonight,â you said, voice smaller now.
âYeah,â he nodded.
âAnd I donât want this to be it.â
His eyes widened, as if he was waiting for the conversation all along.Â
Before you could chicken out, you yanked a lanyard from your jacket pocket and shoved the laminated badge into his chest. âHere.â
He caught it on instinct and looked down to the card that said: Visitor pass.
He frowned. âWhatâs this?â
âIâve got X Games Aspen in three weeks,â you rushed. âI have one guest access left.â
He looked back up, and your throat tightened. âItâs yours. If you want it. Come see me.â
He just stared at you.
So you kept rambling, because apparently silence was illegal.
âBecause I⊠I havenât known you long, but everything I know about you so far, I love, so I justâ Iâd like a chance to actually get to know you. Like normal life know you.â Your voice wobbled. âI want to see if this could⊠go somewhere.â
For half a second, he just stared at you.
Then he laughed softly, disbelieving, like youâd just said the wildest imaginable. âYouâre unbelievable,.â
Your stomach dropped. âIn a bad wayâŠ?â
He hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you close.Â
Oh.
âI adore you,â he said, gently. âOf course Iâll go. Iâd get on a plane tomorrow if you asked.â
Your heart felt like it would burst. âYeah?â you whispered.
âYeah.â
You didnât even remember deciding to move, but you just grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him down.
He kissed you mid-laugh, right there in the middle of the stadium floor, in front of thousands of athletes and even more cameras. In front of very nosy press who lost their minds.
Someone whooped, another yelled, âGET IT!â
A snowboarder friend of yours screamed your name like youâd won gold.
You didnât care.
His hands slid warm and certain around your waist. Yours tangled in his hair as fireworks burst overhead like the sky was celebrating with you.
When you finally pulled back, both of you grinning like fools, he rested his forehead against yours.
âHookups only, huh?â he murmured.
You laughed, dizzy. âShut up.â
And then you kissed him again anyway.
â
Four years laterâŠÂ
You were both wearing your medals when you left the Olympic Village for the last time this year.
The security volunteer at the exit had said, âCongratulations,â with this dazed sort of awe, glancing from your credential to the gold resting against your chest, then to Buckyâs, and doing a visible double take.
Four years ago, youâd walked out of the Village with a snow globe feeling in your chest and a defenseman you werenât sure youâd ever see again. This time, you walked out with your fingers threaded through his, both of you laughing at nothing and everything, the mountain air clean around you.
âAre we gonna be one of those insufferable double gold couples?â you asked as you crossed the plaza toward the hotel transport.
âYes,â he said immediately. âBut we earned it.â
You closed your eyes, thinking about how you got yours four days ago.
You had imagined winning Olympic gold a thousand different ways.
In most versions, you were alone at the bottom of the halfpipe with your helmet off, tears freezing on your cheeks, Madripoor flag wrapped around your shoulders. You wouldâve been the first person from the tiny island to do so.Â
You had not imagined looking up into the stands and locking eyes with your boyfriend of four years, the team USA captain, already crying harder than you.
But here you were.
And just earlier today, you were in the stands when he captained Team USA through a brutal overtime final and played nearly thirty minutes. He blocked a shot with his ankle and refused to leave the ice.
When the klaxon sounded, you shouted and tapped the glass. Heâd won gold.Â
And to think, this all started because four years ago, he had kept his promise and gone to Aspen.
You still remembered spotting him at the bottom of the pipe, looking wildly out of place among energy drink banners. Heâd flown in on a two-day break, half-delirious from travel, just to stand there and watch you drop in. It didnât help that heâd been in the front row with a sign that said: HOOKUPS ONLY?
Youâd nearly crashed laughing.
You won silver that weekend, though he hugged you like you won gold.Â
After a couple of visits here and there, you both realized that you liked who you were when you were around each otherâ and that you loved him as a person outside that snow globe. So when you decided to close the relationship long-distance, it wasnât easy.
But it was worth it.
He got drafted by the New York Rangers two months later. You got the call when you were training in your residence in Laax, and you shouted at the phone, feeling very pleased for your boyfriend.
You watched most of his games on your laptop at 2 a.m., wrapped in one of his hoodies. He watched your World Cup stops between practices, texting you sweet little nothings, telling you he was proud.Â
You flew in a couple of times to watch him in Madison Square Garden after a podium, shouting profanities when someone on the opposite team picked a fight with Bucky and lost. He flew to one of your games once, straight from a playoff exit, still exhausted. You lost that one, but he held your hand through it anyway.
And then, two years in, the trade that changed it all happened.
âSweetheart,â he called you from the car. âDonât freak out,â heâd started.
You sighed. âWhy would you start a sentence like that?â
âI think,â he breathed out from the other line, âthat weâre moving in together.â
You furrowed your eyebrows. You had been talking about this, about what it would look like and how it would work, but you just didnât know how to make that happen⊠yet. There were too many moving pieces. âWhat?â
âIâve been traded to Colorado.â
Youâd gone very quiet.
Being traded to the Colorado Avalanche meant that he would be living in Denver, where Aspen was a short flight away at best, and maybe three hours away by car at most.Â
You were already splitting your training time between Laax and Aspen with your new coach anyway, that yes, Bucky was right. It was finally feasible for you both to be moving in together, and youâd been living together ever since.
It was great.
Mornings always started with coffee and two different training schedules stuck to the same fridge. You left for the mountain as he left for the rink. You came home smelling like snow; he came home smelling like ice and sweat and tape.
You even hosted holiday dinners together. Once, his mom even asked why there wasnât a ring on your finger yet, and your answer was always the same: you both had fallen in love with each other so quickly, you wanted the time to take things slow.Â
â
And then the rule changed.
For years, NHL players didnât go to the Olympics. Youâd accepted that your Olympic dreams and his would never fully overlap.
Then the new agreement came through.
NHL players were eligible again.
Youâd been in the kitchen when he got the call confirming he was in the roster.Â
You cried immediately.
â
Now, four years after that first chaotic Games, you were walking into your hotel as two Olympic gold medalists.
He stopped outside the room door, looking at you in a way that felt almost⊠nervous.
âYou good, honey?â You asked, only a little worried.Â
He nodded, swiping the keycard. The door clicked open. âAfter you, champ.â
As you entered, he closed the hotel room door behind him.
You were still laughing, thinking about the way the bus driver had congratulated you twice when you turned toward the bed and stopped.
There was a snow globe sitting right in the centre of the white duvet. It was perfectly placed
âBuck,â You frowned slightly, thinking that the last people who stayed here mustâve left it there. âWhatâs that?â
He didnât answer.
You stepped closer, picked it up and shook it before you could think any better of it. Inside was a tiny halfpipe facing a tiny ice hockey net, two miniature figures standing between them under suspended white glitter.
Your throat tightened before you even turned it slowly.
In gold cursive letters, the text said: Will you marry me?
The air left your lungs in a rush.
Behind you, you heard him swallow. âOkay,â he started.
Oh.
You turned around.
He was already reaching into his pocket, already dropping to one knee with a determination that screamed he had rehearsed this at least fifty times in the mirror.
He pulled out the ring, and your brain stopped working.
âIââ he began, voice immediately rougher than usual. âIâ we won gold,â he said. âWeâre supposed to say that that was the best moment of our lives.â He shook his head slightly. âBut you were the best thing in my life long before that.â
Your eyes filled instantly.
âSo⊠I donât care what it takes,â he rushed, a little breathless now, like the words were tumbling out in the wrong order. âI donât care where we live or how many flights we take or what the next four years look like, as long as itâs with you.â
Your heart beat so quickly you were sure it was gonna escape your chest.
âI donât want another gold, another Stanley Cup, another anything without knowing youâreââ
He didnât get to finish, because you tackled him full force.
He didnât even get to say that he would make a million snow globes for you, like he rehearsed. He didnât even get to say he loved you when you were long distance and exhausted and living in different time zones. He didnât even get to say that he loved you before either of you ever won anything.
He didnât need to. You knew.Â
The medals clanked as you launched yourself at him, knocking him completely off balance. He yelped, a very undignified sound for the captain, and fell backward onto the hotel carpet with you on top of him. The ring box nearly flew out of his hand.
You were laughing and crying at the same time, breathless.
âItâs not even a question!â you blurted, grabbing his face with both hands. âOf course Iâll marry you. Duh.â
He stared up at you, stunned, still half-flat on the floor.
âYeah?â he breathed.
You laughed harder, forehead dropping to his.
âObviously, you idiot! Yes!â
He let out a sound that was half laugh, half a sigh, like heâd been holding his breath for months.
âYou justââ he started, still dazed. âYou just body-checked me during your own proposal.â
âYou body check people all the time,â you shot back between giggles. âYou can take it.â
He started laughing again, as you were both still tangled on the carpet, medals digging into your ribs, his knee bent awkwardly under you, the ring box miraculously still clutched in his hand.
âOkay,â he said, trying to compose himself. âOkay. Stay still.â
He pushed himself up slightly and slid the ring onto your finger with hands that were still shaking.
It fit perfectly.
You both just stared at it for a second. Then at each other.
And then you dissolved into giggles again, collapsing back onto the floor in a mess of limbs and ridiculous happiness.
After all these years, you were certain you didnât waste his time.Â
summary: When two strangers meet on a layover in the Charlotte Airport, they are sent on a whirlwind weekend filled with cancelled flights, painful questions over giant checkers, an ex-boyfriendâs wedding, and a confrontational graduation. They find that a lifetime can sit in the span of three days and it doesnât take very long at all to fall in love.
pairing: Bucky x Reader, modern!au
series word count: 31k
warnings: fluff???, some minor angst bc its me, soft!buckyÂ
Note: Ty Authors for writing these amazing pieces!
Multi-Parts
Want To Be Loved by @inheriteddutchess: He's in need of a wife, and you are in need of your own household. As you're an orphan your cousin Steven is in charge of you and arranges the marriage. Fortunately your new husband is kind and appealing. At first things are going marvelous, but when Bucky suddenly becomes distant, things take a turn. Your happiness might not be a given anymore.
Rehab by @scariusaquarius: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.
Sweet Child 'O Mine by @houseofthechaos: Y/N and Bucky become good friends after Steve (her ex-boyfriend and his ex-best friend) goes back in time to be with Peggy. They are thrown for a loop when the lawyer of one James Steven Carter appears. The alias of a now dead Steve Rogers, the lawyer reads off a will giving Y/N and Bucky custody of Steveâs orphaned baby great granddaughter, Annie. Y/N and Bucky must now come to terms with Steveâs departure, becoming adoptive parents, and maybe even their own feelings.
Super Soldier Support Group by @aquaticmercy: Sam Wilson starts a Support Group for Super Soldiers. You and Bucky sit next to each other during the sessions.
And You Are..? by @love-bucky-3000: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky doesnât recognize you anymore. What will it take to get him back?
Unhappily Ever After (Coming Soon) by @mrs-elsie-barnes: Congressman Barnes needed to show Brooklyn he's no longer the Winter Soldier, he's a modern family man. You needed to hide from bad press, a bad ex-boyfriend and potentially worse. It's a match made in the boardroom!
Convalescence Masterlist by @singularattitudeofasafetypin: On a dark and stormy night, reader comes face to face with a man she never thought sheâd see again. Can she help him remember who he was and what could happen if she does?
Graveyard by @wkemeup: As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price â one you keep secret from your friends âand when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, theyâll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too.Â
Spero by @gotta-spew-words-somewhere: HYDRA had 2 toys, and loved nothing more than to play war. When you and Bucky meet again on the other side, can you overcome your shared past, or will someoneâs throat end up on the floor?
Oneshots
Neighbours. by @imtryingbuck: Buckyâs moved next door to you and your children, your children wants to play matchmaker.
I Would Do It Again by @nostarfights: (Royal Au) After the King and Queen of your kingdom pass away and their son Prince Bucky Barnes is made King, he begins to become more aware of his loneliness.
Winter Flower by @helaintoloki: Fate binds you to the Winter Soldier, but will it be enough to keep you together when youâre constantly being pulled apart?
No Rest For The Wicked by @elixirfromthestars: When the notorious Brooklyn Ripper strikes again, youâre more determined than ever to finally catch him by any means necessary. Even if it means teaming up with your vigilante neighbor Bucky, who's wanted by the very institution you work for.
No Title by @helaintoloki: Bucky has loved you for as long as heâs known you, but heâs not willing to risk your friendship by telling you that. thankfully, you take matters into your own hands
Swipe Right by @aquaticmercy: You matched with Bucky Barnes, your teammate, on a dating app.
Elevator, Baby by @aquaticmercy: The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the towerâs interior designer. They donât know that theyâre already married.
Jackass by @aquaticmercy: Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.Â
The Thirsty Barrel by @world-of-aus: Bullrider!Bucky x Bartender!Reader
Grease Lightning by @language-rxgers: Youâre on the hair & makeup team for your schoolâs production of Grease, and Nat has signed you up to do the makeup for the lead role of Danny Zuko- played by none other than Bucky Barnes.Â
Whumpceber Day 12 by @/marvelstoriesepic: (Zombie AU) I have nowhere else to go.
Still on the List by @marvelstoriesepic: Bucky Barnes, the infamous frat guy, known for sleeping around and throwing parties left and right, constantly invites you, out of all people, to all of them. His intentions though remain a mystery to you. Following a troubling event that leaves you shaken and anxious, Bucky is there to pick up the pieces. Stolen glances and exchanged smiles gradually blossom into a connection that goes beyond what meets the eye.
Like He Means It by @marvelstoriesepic: You canât take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isnât you.
Creamy or Crunchy by @marvelstoriesepic: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyoneâs surprise.
Powder Sugar by @marvelstoriesepic: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesnât affect you.
Change Your Mind by @/marvelstoriesepic: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.
Weakness by @/marvelstoriesepic: You use Buckyâs only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.
Two by @marvelstoriesepic: Your friends Wanda and Nat drag you to a corn maze event at night. After a rather unpleasant encounter with Bucky, Sam, and Steve, you want nothing but this night to end. Unfortunately for you, youâll have to find the exit first.
Your Ghost Knows Me by @marvelstoriesepic: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Buckyâs activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?
Note: Just in general, any fics from marvelstoriesepic are amazing. They have a way with words and I truly enjoy their fics. Please check them out, their works are amazing.
Stray by @urdepressedslut: Just hours after the events in DC, you find The Winter Soldier unconscious, leaning against a gravestone in a cemetery near your home. Being sheltered you don't recognize who he is, and you care for him.
Touch Starved by @parkers-gal: touch starved Bucky that slowly warms up ;)
Requiem by @yourladyjane: A fairy without her wings and a captain without his crewâtwo misfits manage to find each other in the cruel dark world that is Neverland.
Note: I loved this fic. I'm a sucker for fairytale/fantasy, and this was just the best.
Sleepy Heads by @winterarmyy: That time when the reader accidentally fell asleep on a strangerâs shoulder in the subway ride home. The stranger in question, however, is none other than the former Winter Soldier, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.
Dog Tags by @marvelwitchergilmore: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Bucky is looking for his Dog Tags, and you just so happen to have them.
Dead of Night by @bruisedboys: bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. heâs got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. youâre too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! plot spoilers for thunderbolts
Wife Speak by @tallaennatargaryen: You asked Bucky to install the security camera a month ago, and he still hasnât done it. You take matters into your own hands, to his vexation.
Sweet Tooth by @wildflowersandvibranium: If you are accepting request could you do a chubby! Student bucky? Who got stood up on a date or maybe his date leaves in the middle of it. So he is all sad but then the reader sees him and joins him and makes him have a good time
A Cozy Fourth of July by @wildflowersandvibranium: On a chaotic Fourth of July , Bucky Barnes battles old memories beneath fireworks , but finds safety and solace in the unwavering love who never stops reaching for him.
Orchids to Ashes by @wildflowersandvibranium: In a crumbling Brooklyn neighborhood greenhouse , two childhood friends navigate survival , silence , and the love theyâve both been too scared to confess. (Post Apocalyptic)
In Another Life by @orellazalonia: Bucky Barnes lost you during WWII, and for decades, he buried the grief deep beneath war, silence, and survival. When Wanda creates her new life in Westview, her overwhelming sorrow unknowingly taps into his own, conjuring a second pocket reality where youâre alive and waiting for him untouched by pain or time. (Wandavision AU | Bucky Barnes x reader)
Drunk Call by @munsonify: when youâre in need of a safe way home from the bar, the first person you think of in your drunken haze is bucky, who comes to get you in an instant
Who's Cat is it Anyway? by @saltyjoy: For the longest time, you thought the cat roaming the tower wasnât owned by anybody. Then you eventually realize that the âTower Catâ does, in fact, have a name, and is owned by none other than Bucky Barnes himself, the one team member you arenât exactly best friends with. After Bucky finds out that Alpine has become fond of you, he starts giving you odd looks and passive-aggressive comments. This leads you to the conclusion that he is jealous of you for taking his cat. However, as time goes on, you come to the realization that it might be the other way around.
If We Talked by @pellucid-constellations: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.
Ooey Gooey by @thornsnvultures: (Lumberjack Bucky)Â Every morning, Bucky comes to your store for terrible coffee and maybe something a little sweet on the side.
Curiosity Killed The Cat by @queers-gambit: (Mafia Bucky) after rescuing you from kidnappers, you overhear your boyfriend-turned-savior complain about how clingy you've become.
Bleeding Heart by @mournthebird: (40s Bucky) You're his assigned nurse.
Floored by @/mrs-elsie-barnes: Enemies with Benefits. Things don't go entirely to plan on your next mission.
Downtime by @/marvelstoriesepic: After a hilariously avoidable gym accident, you try to hide the fact that even Avengers get hurt off-duty. But unfortunately for you, Bucky isnât easily fooled.
Bucky Barnes x Plus Size Reader Recs
Multi-Parts
The Sergeants Heart + Epilogue by @foreverindreamlandd: Sergeant Bucky Barnes has just joined the 107th, and heâs keen on learning the ins and outs of war from the best medic in the regiment, you.
Silhouettes in the Spotlight by @frostironfudge: Bucky Barnes has worked immensely hard to have a filmography expanding across genres and garnering accolades from critics, peers and fans. Y/N Y/L/N, with her debut novel (fan-fiction turned New York Times Bestseller) has two other best sellers under her belt. Next is her highly anticipated fourth book lined up for release. SHEILD Productions has acquired the film rights to her debut novel and they want Bucky Barnes to play the lead (aka himself) by any means necessary. This story is about angst, lust, heartbreak, and love. After all fairytales only exist in books and movies right?
Summary : You were looking for a strictly casual hookup during your first ever Olympic Games. Bucky Barnes, though, ruined that plan.Â
Pairing : Ice Hockey Player! Bucky Barnes x Snowboarder! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : WINTER OLYMPICS AU, cursing, nudity, Olympic Village shenanigans, sexual content (intimate moments are detailed and sex strongly implied), references to STIs (not contracted by Bucky or reader), Olympic Village Hookup, Hookups to Lovers, reader is from Madripoor, I think this might be a He Falls She Falls Harder (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 11.5k
Note : Iâm back after a busy week, and very much watching the Winter Olympics every day. That is how this fic was born. Enjoy!
Your first Winter Olympics did not feel real, though it shouldâve felt big. It shouldâve felt like a grand gesture, perhaps a love letter to all long days and sleepless nights that got you this far. Instead, it felt like stepping into a snow globe someone else had shaken.
The air was much thinner here, in this elevation. It burned your lungs, unlike the heavy, salt-thick air of home. Back in Madripoor, humidity clung to you like a second skin. Here, the cold pierced clean through the down jackets and straight to your spine.
On the first day, you watched delegations arrive in coordinated waves.
The Americans came in a flood of navy and red, laughing loudly, arms slung over each otherâs shoulders like they were already immortalized in a documentary. Canada followed in a rush of maple-leafed pride. Smaller European nations moved like sleek, efficient machines, used to the attention.Â
Most of them had teammates, countrymen to support them from the inside, people who understood what it felt like to be hereâ in the biggest stage in your sport.Â
You⊠didnât.Â
After all, Madripoor only sent one athlete.
Which made you the centre of attention. You even spent the entire media day answering questions from reporters that didnât hide their curiosity.
âWinter sports arenât exactly common there, right?â One asked. Your answer was âitâs literally on the equator.â Another asked âYou trained where?â When you said you used a specialised indoor facility to best replicate the conditions here when you donât have time to travel.
You learned, very quickly, that you were nothing but a novelty to most.
â
The Olympic Village was a world of its own.Â
The buildings were stacked high with flags draped from balconies. Hallways were always humming at all hours, with laughter ricocheting off concrete walls at midnight. Sometimes, you got annoyed at the music thumping faintly from rooms that never seemed to sleep.
But still, when you shut your door, it was⊠isolating.
Your room was clean and sleek with white furniture and white bedding, with a pale wood desk, same as everyone elseâs. But theirs were filled with teammates. Yours held a single suitcase and a snowboard bag propped against the wall like a reminder of why you were here.
Even your coach insisted the rest of the team stayed two doors down. He was a precise man, always structured, always measured.Â
He discussed weather conditions and amplitude and risk management. He did not ask if you were lonely. He did not sit cross-legged on your bed and tell you it was okay to feel small in a place this big.
He was just professional. Always professional. Which was why he insisted that he and your manager slept in a different room, to keep you away from any âdistractions.â
The other snowboarders, especially the halfpipe girls, did try to keep you company, though.
Theyâd known you for years through X Games circuits, and even added you to the group chat before youâd even unpacked: Halfpipe Girlies đ„đ
It was chaos. Most nights you saw many videos of team dance-offs on there, photos of overflowing cafeteria trays asking you to join in (you did), and selfies with national flags draped around shoulders. They sent many pictures of crowded lounges where entire delegations sprawled across couches like they owned the place.
USA floor is insane right now, one of them sent. Team Canada is crashing the party and they brought speakers.
As if right on cue, you heard a Celine Dion song blasting from the balconies. Â
Can a couple of the big air girls and me join? We can bring hot chocolate? Typed a girl from South Korea.Â
Yes ofc!!! Someone responded quickly.
The next message sent into the group chat specifically tagged you. WHERE ARE YOU. ISN'T THIS YOUR FIRST OLYMPICS?
You typed back: In my room :( got early training tomorrow.
Which was true. But not the whole truth.
The whole truth was that walking into those spaces alone felt harder than staying put. They were all so lovely, but as the night went on, they would all peel away eventuallyâ back to their roommates, their teammates, their inside jokes in languages you didnât speak.
You would go back to being alone.
â
The next night, as snow fell thick outside your window, coating the world in soft white, you laid flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on your stomach. The radiator hissed faintly. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed loud and carefree.
Your phone buzzed.
And buzzed.
And buzzed again.
You know what it was about. After all, in the last 24 hours, the group chat had taken a turn.
Okay but REAL talk, someone texted in, yâall HAVE to download the apps.
Ik! the village is literally hookup central đ
Update: Half the hockey teams are on there
I matched with the Latvia captain yesterday đ
You huffed out a laugh despite yourself. Another message popped up, and you were tagged in it, donât tell me the entire Madripoor delegation is behaving.
Cultural exchange is important đ, another added cheekily.
You stared at the screen longer than you meant to.
You were here for glory, right? To prove that a girl from a humid island could fly twenty feet above frozen walls and land with her head high. Not to fuck around and find out.Â
But you were also young and alone.
And are you imagining things, or are the walls starting to close in�
Fuck it.Â
You rolled onto your side and opened the app store before you could talk yourself out of it. You downloaded the dating app, feeling slightly humiliated and entirely impulsive.
When you opened it, you set up your profile. You put in your name and chose your pictures carefully.
Snowboarding didnât show up until photo six; mid air with your knees tucked.
The bio field blinked expectantly as you tried to type a clever line.Â
You typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Finally, you settled with something straightforward: Hookup only. Here for a good time, not a long time.
Ugh. You physically cringed.
It sounded way too detached. Not at all like you. But hey, you just wanted to have a little fun, right?
You hit save before your nerves could override you.
Then you got down to business and started swiping.
Among many people staying near the village, you saw other athletes as well, as expected. A downhill skier posing shirtless in a mirror. A speed skater flexing with a protein shake. A snowboarder you recognized immediatelyâ hard pass. You didnât need any immediate distractions.
You swiped left.
Again.Â
And again.
After a solid twenty minutes, your thumb moved lazily, almost numb. Until it didnât.
James B.Â
That was the next profile on your phone.Â
Hmm. He looked cute. Tall, dark-haired, and handsome. So⊠exactly your type.Â
His profile picture was dimly lit but clear enough, showing hair falling into steel blue eyes. He had a stubble along his strong jaw. He looked like trouble in the most controlled way.
You tapped.
James Bucky Barnes. 6â0.
Bio: Olympic Village. Donât waste my time.
Your pulse picked up, even as you snorted at the caption. After all, that was exactly what youâre looking for.Â
There was a second photo of him on the ice, helmet off, sweat-damp hair pushed back. Another with teammates in red, white, and blueâ a team USA hockey athlete. The next one was a candid shot in a farm somewhere in an unfamiliar countryside.Â
He didnât look like the mirror-selfie types.
He looked⊠solid.
You told yourself it didnât matter. It was just an app. Just a distraction. Besides, there was no guarantee heâd be attracted to you, too.Â
So you swiped right.Â
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the screen flashed.
Itâs a Match!
Oh.Â
Oh, fuck.
Your thumb hovered across the screen for exactly three minutes before you sucked it up and typed. Gotta pull the bandage off quickly, right?
You: Donât waste your time, huh?
You hit send before you could overanalyze the text. The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
James: Yep.
Then, before you could think of another witty message, he double texted.Â
James: What building and floor you on? You still down for hooking up?
Your stomach dipped a little. Of course he was direct. There was no small talk. No pretending this was anything else.
You glanced around your room as if someone might be watching. No one was, of course, just your lone Madripoor flag draped over a chair:Â
You: Building B, Floor 6.
You hesitated, then added:Â
And yeah. Iâm still down.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
James: Huh
The bubbles paused long enough to make your chest tighten.
James: Iâm in the same building, on the same floor.Â
Shit.Â
James: Iâm in a blue hoodie, in front of the machine on the far left of the corridor.
You stared at the screen, the world suddenly felt very small. Of course he was only twenty steps away. The Olympic gods had a sense of humour.Â
James: You free now?
You could say no. You should say no.
You had training at seven. You didnât know this guy. This was reckless.
StillâŠ
You: Yeah. Give me two minutes.Â
You threw your phone onto the bed and immediately groaned into your hands.
âWhat are you doing,â you scolded yourself, but you were already pulling on a hoodie.
You glanced down at yourself.
Your legs were bare, only sleep shorts on. Hair loose over your shoulders, still slightly damp from your shower. You hadnât dressed for anyone, and you hadnât expected to.
You slid your feet into your slippers, the plush lining warm against your toes, and paused at the door.
With a deep breath stepped into the hallway.
The carpet swallowed the sound of your footsteps as lights cast a golden glow down the corridor. The air smelled faintly of detergent and sweet from the vending machines.
And then you saw him.
Far left of the corridor, just like he said.
Blue hoodie, back against the vending machine, finishing a Snickers as he was waiting for you. One ankle was crossed casually over the other, hands tucked into the front pocket.
He looked up when your door clicked shut. And his eyes found you immediately.
The casual lean shifted subtly. His shoulders straightened just a fractionâ so you could tell he was a bit nervous, too. His gaze dragged slowly, from your face down to your legs and back up again.
For a second you both just⊠stared.
Because photos hadnât done him justice. Like, at all.
He was unfairly handsome with long lashes, tired eyes, a crooked mouth like he smiled more with one side.
Pretty, but dangerously so. Like youâd absolutely make bad decisions around him.
You cleared your throat and stepped closer. ââŠJames?â
He flinched a little, like youâd surprised him.
Then he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. âUhâ yeah. Thatâs technically my name.â A small smile. âBuckyâs fine.â
Bucky. It suited him way better.
âOkay,â you said softly. âBucky.â
The way you said it made his ears go pink. Cute.
âYou look even prettier in person,â he managed to say, voice rougher than you thought it wouldâve sounded over text. âDidnât know that was possible.â
Heat rushed straight to your cheeks.
As you stepped up closer, you noticed the details. He was broader than the photos suggested, taller than youâd imagined. His dark hair was slightly messy, like heâd run a hand through it one too many times. You forced yourself to keep walking, closing the last few feet between you.
âYou donât waste time, huh?â you teased.
âDidnât plan to tonight,â he shrugged.Â
His eyes lingered on the way your hoodie pooled against your collarbones. The way your slippers looked comically soft against the sterile hallway.
âI donât realise there were any hockey guys on this floorâ you teased lightly. âI thought this was reserved for freestyles.â
The corner of his mouth curved up. âI live two floors down,â he admitted. âNo vending machines on my floor.â
You were close enough now to see the faint flush on his cheeks from the cold outside. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.
âStill down?â he asked quietly, as if afraid of a rejection now.Â
Your pulse hammered, but your voice stayed steady. âYeah.â
His eyes darkened just slightly.
âYour room,â he said, nodding toward your door, âor mine?â
â
Your room.
Of course the answer was always gonna be your room.
You had no roommates, no teammates wandering in unannounced. No shared space to negotiate.
You grabbed his hand and tugged him toward your door before either of you could overthink it. He followed wordlessly.
Inside, your room felt smaller with him in it, warmer.Â
He stepped in and glanced around, taking in the single suitcase, the neatly folded Madripoor jacket draped over the bathroom door, your snowboard bag propped carefully against the wall.
âNo way,â he said, lifting his eyebrows up. âMadripoor? Iâve heard about you.â
You huffed a small laugh, shutting the door behind him. âYeah?â
âYeah. Not exactly known for winter sports.â
âWow,â you rolled your eyes, knowing he didnât mean any harm. âOriginal.â
He grinned.
You didnât give either of you more time to talk. You stepped forward, fisted your hands into the front of his blue hoodie, and pulled him down to you.
The kiss hit hot and immediate.
He made a low sound in his throat that surprised but pleased, and his hands came to your waist instinctively, fingers pressing into the fabric of your hoodie.
His mouth was warm, firm, confident. He wasnât clumsy in the slightest.Â
You backed him toward the door for half a second, then turned and pushed him further into the room until the backs of his knees hit the edge of your bed.
Between kisses, he shifted just enough to look at you.
âSaw your profile photo,â he murmured, fingers sliding under the hem of your hoodie. He pulled it slowly over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him before leaning down to press his mouth to the curve of your neck. âSnowboard cross?â
âNoâ mmmphââ you sucked in a breath as his teeth grazed a sensitive spot just below your collarbone. âHalfpipe.â
He hummed against your skin, clearly pleased with the reaction heâd gotten.
âFair,â he said, lips trailing lower, hands mapping the lines of your waist. âExplains the balance.â
You laughed softly, a little breathless, and stepped back just long enough to tug at the hem of his hoodie.
âArms up,â you ordered lightly.
He obeyed without hesitation. The hoodie came off, and for a split second, you just stared.
Ainât you glad you swiped right?Â
He had a strong core, arms thick with muscle earned from years of contact and controlled aggression.
âYouâre built like a fridge,â you said honestly, eyes sweeping over him. âIn a good way.â
He snorted, amused. âComes with the job,â he shrugged simply, reaching down to undo his belt.Â
You watched, heart racing, as he stripped the rest of his clothes away without ceremony. This was the most efficient a hook up has ever been, the most⊠unselfconscious.
And then⊠you swallowed.
Um. Wow.
He caught the look on your face and smirked, reaching into the pocket of his discarded sweats and pulling out a condom.
He came prepared.
You stepped out of your shorts slowly, letting them fall to the floor before pushing him gently back onto the bed. The look on his face as he took your bare skin in was as devilish as yours.Â
âGoalie?â you asked innocently as you climbed over him, bracketing his hips with your thighs.
He laughed, hands coming to rest on your waist.
âDefenseman,â he corrected, eyes dragging over you openly now. âI hit other guys for a living.â
âThat checks out,â you laughed, leaning down to kiss him again.
He rolled just enough to reach the bedside table, tearing the foil open with practiced ease before settling back, hands guiding you closer.
His gaze flicked up to yours, briefly serious now. âYou clean?â he asked.
âOf course,â you answered without hesitation.
His jaw tightened slightly in approval. Then his hands slid up your back, fingers splaying wide, pulling you flush against him as his mouth found yours again, slower this time, deeper, less about proving something and more about learning what you liked in a man.Â
â
Much later, after the little fun you both had, the room felt⊠warmer.Â
The radiator hummed against the wall, snow drifting past your window in lazy spirals. The bed creaked faintly as Bucky shifted beside you, staring up at the ceiling like heâd just skated overtime and couldnât quite believe the scoreboard.
You turned onto your side, watching him.
He looked completely undone. His hair was mussed, lips slightly swollen. He had a dazed little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was trying not to grin too hard and failing miserably.
Then he actually started laughing.
You couldnât help it, you started giggling too.
âWhat?â you asked, nudging his arm with your knee. âWhy are you laughing?â
He shook his head, dragging a hand down his face like he needed to reset himself.
âThat,â he said, still smiling at the ceiling, âwas my first ever Olympic hookup.â
You blinked. âNo way.â
âSwear.â He turned his head toward you, blue eyes bright and a little stunned. âThis is my first games. Youâre my first⊠that.â
You burst out laughing, flopping onto your back beside him. âYouâre kidding.â
âIâm not.â
âWell,â you said, grinning at the ceiling now too, âme too.â
That got him to prop himself up on one elbow instantly. âWait. Really?â
âMmhmm.â
He stared at you for a long second like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew.
âYouâŠ?â he said slowly. âYou seem really good at it.â
You gasped, mock offended. âOh my god.â
âI mean it!â he insisted, laughing now. âYou justââ he made a vague gesture with both hands. ââtook control.â
You rolled your eyes, but you could feel your cheeks warming.
âMaybe I just didnât want to waste your time,â you teased.
He groaned softly, falling back against the pillow again, smiling to himself like heâd just discovered something he hadnât known he was looking for.
For a moment, you just lay there side by side, shoulders brushing. It felt strange how comfortable it was.
You eventually slipped off the bed, wobbling across the room in your slippers, hoping your legs would reset by morning. The cold air made you shiver a little as you knelt by your suitcase and dug through the side pocket.
Bucky pushed himself up slightly to watch you. âWhat are you doing?â
âHang on.â
You pulled out the small pouch filled with pins. Being the only athlete from Madripoor had meant your Olympic committee had gone overboard with dozens of little enamel flags and sunbursts and tropical designs for you to trade.
You picked one carefully and walked back over.
âWant one?â you said, holding it out.
He sat up fully this time, âNo way.â
He took it from your hand like it was precious.
The Madripoor flag caught the light in bright colors, bold lines. It was tiny but mighty, a symbol of a country that didnât belong in winter but showed up anyway.
âYouâre the only one here from there, right?â he asked quietly.
âYeah.â
âI⊠thanks.â
You shrugged, suddenly shy under his gaze. âThey gave me a lot of pins.â
He reached down to his pile of clothes on the floor and fished through his jacket pocket. âHold on.â
He came back with a Team USA pin, sleek and shiny, red and white stripes curving behind the bold letters.
He held it out to you with a little grin. âFair trade.â
You accepted it, smiling. âYou know I already got one from one of the girls, right?â
His eyes narrowed playfully. âYeah, but this oneâs special.â
âYeah? Whyâs that?â You raised an eyebrow.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. âBecause itâs mine.â
You snorted, but your smile widened. âSmooth.â You pinned it carefully to the inside of your jacket that hung on the bathroom door, pressing it flat against the fabric.
He watched you do it.
He stood after a minute, pulling on his hoodie and sweats again, not rushing to leave, just⊠settling back into himself.
At the door, he paused. âIâll keep in touch,â he said.
You crossed your arms, leaning against the desk. âYou better.â
He smiled at that. âHalfpipe, right?â
âYeah.â
âIâll be watching.â
Your heart did something annoyingly soft at that.
He opened the door, then hesitated, glancing back at you one more time. âYouâre cool, you know,â he added.
You rolled your eyes to hide how much that pleased you. âGo away, Barnes.â
He laughed quietly and slipped into the hallway. The door clicked shut.
And for the first time since arriving at the Olympics, you didnât feel lonely at all.
â
The Olympic Village only got wilder as the days went on.
It was like someone had shaken the entire mountain and let a few thousand elite athletes loose with too much adrenaline and not enough supervision. Music thumped through walls at all hours. Elevators opened to people fixing their hair and pretending they hadnât just sprinted down six flights of stairs. The halfpipe group chat was feral beyond repair.
Iâm never looking at Team Sweden the same.
Why are figure skaters secretly the most freaky?
Must be their training regimen.
Youâd laugh at the messages, curled up in your bed with your training schedule open beside you, and your phone lighting up with Buckyâs name more often than not, while his team jacket was folded neatly on the foot of your desk. He left it there. âAccidentally.â
Yeah, sure.Â
It started becoming routine.
Youâd train. Heâd practice. Youâd both pretend you were going to be social that night.
And then one of you would text.
Bucky : You alive?
You : Barely. Quali was brutal.
Five minutes later he was outside your door with two vending machine hot chocolates and a grin, inviting him in as he peels your clothes away, drinks forgotten.
The night after, you met him in the rec room, surrounded by half of Team USA. His friends pretended not to notice when Bucky slipped away mid-conversation.
By the end of the week, it became⊠assumed.
The conversation that made it official happened a bit later.
You were in his room this time, his roommates out to get food for the night. He made up some bullshit excuse about being tired to spend the night with you, alone.Â
You sat cross-legged near the foot of the bed while he leaned back against the headboard, scrolling through something on his phone.
He snorted.
âWhat?â you asked.
âWalkerâs not playing tomorrow.â
You frowned. âIs he injured?â
Bucky barked out a laugh. âNot exactly.â
He tossed his phone onto the nightstand and rubbed a hand over his face, half amused, half exasperated.
âHe picked up an STI.â
Your eyes widened. âNo.â
âYeah. Team docâs got him under lockdown.â He shook his head, âthe teams calling it horny jail.â
You burst out laughing.
âNo way.â
âWay.â He grinned. âCoach is pissed. He warned us not to go to that party in building D.â
You fell back onto the mattress, still giggling. âThatâs brutal.â
âItâs stupid,â Bucky corrected, but there was something thoughtful underneath the humor.
The noise of the Village hummed faintly through the walls. Somewhere down the hall, someone whooped loudly.
You rolled onto your side to look at him. âYou couldâve been at that party.â
âYeah,â he said.
âYou werenât?â
âNo.â
He looked at you for a long moment, a bit more serious now, not joking.
âYou hooking up with anyone else?â he asked, and you took that as a safety question. It wasnât accusatory at all.
You shook your head slowly. âAre you?â
âNo.â
There were options for both of you, that much was obvious. Youâd seen the way people looked at him in the cafeteria. Heâd definitely noticed the way other guys lingered a little too long near you as they asked, âwhat sport do you play?â
âItâs not like Iâd be mad,â you said quietly. âWe didnâtâlike⊠say anything.â
âI know.â
âBut I- Iâm clean.â
âMe too,â he exhaled, gaze drifting to the ceiling before coming back to you.
âMaybe itâs just easier like this,â he admitted.
You understood exactly what he meant.
No awkward introductions. No wondering if someone was going to ghost you after. No worrying about health or drama. No ending up in horny jail.
You smiled faintly, agreeing with him. âItâs just efficient, isnât it?â
âExactly.â
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows. âSo what are you saying, Barnes?â
He studied you for a second, like he was weighing whether to make it sound casual or not.
âIâm saying,â he began, slower now, âwe stick with each other while weâre here.â
You raised an eyebrow. âExclusive hookup?â you teased.
He groaned. âSounds terrible when you say it like that.â
You laughed.
âBut, it would work,â he continued. âWeâre both here to compete. We trust each other. We know weâre clean.â His lips curved up slightly. âAnd, you know⊠itâs not exactly a hardship.â
You rolled your eyes playfully, but warmth bloomed low in your chest.
âItâs not like weâd be mad if the other didnât,â you said carefully.
âNo,â he agreed. âItâs just⊠easier.â
But there was something else there. Something neither of you said out loud.
Perhaps, you started to like each other.Â
You reached out your hand.
âOkay,â you said.
He looked down at it, confused for half a second.
âDeal,â you clarified.
A smile spread across his face. He took your hand and shook it solemnly like you were signing a contract. âDeal.â
From that night on, it was a thing.
The parties still raged. The rumors still swirled. The group chat still detonated every evening with scandal and chaos. The halfpipe girls teased you relentlessly for âmysteriously disappearing.â He got chirped by his teammates every time he checked his phone and smiled.
But you didnât waver.
You trained. He played. You texted between sessions. Sometimes it was flirty. Sometimes it was just, Howâd practice go? or You eat yet?
It stopped being just about nights.
It became coffee runs and walks after dinner. Him showing up at the halfpipe during your practice just to watch, hands shoved into his jacket, pretending he didnât look proud when you landed clean.
Soon enough, if someone asked where you were, the answer was usually, âWith that Barnes guy.â If someone asked him where he disappeared to after practice, the guys would just groan knowingly.
It wasnât dramatic. It wasnât possessive. You didnât label it anything. You started recognizing his knock on your door before he even texted. Heâd show up with tea or protein bars or some ridiculous story about practice. Youâd steal his hoodie and pretend you werenât keeping it on purpose.
Youâd wish each other luck before competitions. Sit close in the cafeteria.Â
You told yourselves it was practical, safe, and convenient.
But you werenât stupid, you noticed the way he watched you train when he thought you couldnât see him. He noticed the way you checked the hockey schedule before planning your own nights.
That wasnât just convenient.
That was fondness.
â
It was almost midnight when your phone lit up.
You were already in bed, lights off, semifinal schedule replaying in your head like a loop you couldnât shut down. The ceiling above you felt too close.Â
Your phone buzzed again.
Bucky: You awake?
You didnât even try to hide your smile.
You: Yeah. Whatâs up?
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Bucky: Canât sleep.
Bucky: Germany guys next door are throwing a full-blown rave with half my team.
As if summoned, a faint bass thudded through your floor. A guy shouted something unintelligible as laughter erupted.
You could picture it perfectly now, hockey players crammed into a room not built for that many bodies, someone definitely dancing on a chair.
You: Youâre missing out.
Bucky: Hard pass. I need to get my beauty sleep. I donât get this pretty with no effort.Â
You laughed softly into your pillow as another message came through.
Bucky: I also think Iâm more nervous about your semis than you are.
That made your chest go warm. You stared at the screen for a second before offering something stupid.
You: You can sleep at mine?
The typing bubble blinked. Stopped. Blinked again.
Bucky: You have semis tomorrow.
You rolled onto your back, phone above your face.
You: Yes.
Bucky: So maybe inviting a 200-pound defenseman who's gonna keep you up all night in your tiny bed is not ideal.
You smiled.
You: I didnât say weâre having sex tonight, did I?
There was a long pause.
Bucky: Weâre not?
You snorted.
You: Behave, Bucky.Â
You: Just come by and sleep. Weâll be fine.
The bubble appeared again.
Bucky: You sure? I donât want to mess with your focus.
You sighed. He was struggling to get some shut eye and frustrated by his floorâs lack of awarenessâ he didnât have to be this⊠sweet.
You: You wonât.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock at your door.
You slipped out of bed and padded across the room in your socks. When you opened the door, he was there in gray sweats and a loose t-shirt, hair slightly messy, eyes tired but lighting up the second he saw you.
The bass from down the hall echoed faintly behind him.
âYouâre a hero,â he murmured.
âDonât get used to it,â you smiled.Â
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The noise dulled instantly, replaced by the hum of your radiator.
For a moment, he just stood there, looking at you like he was trying to memorize something.
âYou okay?â he asked softly.
âYeah.â
âYou sure?â
âYeah,â you repeated. âYou?â
He shrugged. âJust couldnât shut my brain off.â
You understood that. You climbed back into bed and lifted the blanket. He hesitated for half a second, then slid in carefully.
The bed was small. You both lay flat on your backs at first, shoulders barely touching.
âSee?â you whispered into the dark. âVery professional.â
âHmmm,â he agreed solemnly.
But then you felt him shift slightly, turning onto his side.
âYou nervous?â he asked quietly.
âA little,â you admitted.
He let out a deep breath. âYouâre going to crush it.â
The certainty in his voice made your chest loosen. âYou sound very sure.â
He shrugged, the music down the hall fading into background noise.
Without really thinking about it, you turned onto your side too. The space between you disappeared. Your knee brushed his thigh. His arm hovered awkwardly for a second before resting lightly at your waist.
After a moment, his hand shifted slightly, fingers spreading gently against your back like he was checking if this was still allowed.
You didnât move away. Instead, you scooted a fraction closer.
âThought we were behaving,â he whispered.
âWe are,â you said. âThis is just⊠cuddling.â
He huffed a quiet laugh against your hair.
The mattress dipped as he adjusted, sliding his arm fully around you this time, pulling you carefully into his chest. You fit there surprisingly well, your forehead tucked under his chin, your hand resting against his ribs.
He pressed his lips gently to the top of your head. His thumb started tracing absentminded circles against your back, a soothing, repetitive motion.Â
âI like this,â he said quietly.
âSleeping?â
âYeah,â he paused, only a little, âWith you.â
You tucked your face back against his chest to hide the smile you couldnât suppress.
âDonât get attached,â you teased softly.
âToo late.â
Your heart skipped a beat.
Outside, the music finally died down. His breathing evened out first this time.
You lay there a little longer, listening to it, feeling the And wrapped up in his arms, in a bed too small for two, you drifted off knowing that when you stepped onto the halfpipe tomorrow⊠Heâd be there.
â
The rest of the Games were⊠fine.
Neither of you got a storybook ending, but you didnât tragically embarrass yourself, either.Â
You landed your first two runs in finals clean, high amplitude, solid grabs. On the third, you pushed just a little. A bit more rotation. A touch more risk. If you wanted a chance, you had to at least attempt those triple corks and high-rotation switch tricks you trained so damn hard to do.Â
But you scuffed it.
It wasnât a catastrophic fall, not even a yard sale across the pipe. But it was just enough of a hand drag and sketchy landing to drop you to fifth.
The commentators called it âimpressive for a first Olympic Gamesâ in a tone that feels like a consolation prize.
You sat in the snow at the bottom of the halfpipe for a few seconds longer than you meant to, helmet still on, staring at the scoreboard.Â
When the scores were finalized and your name stayed in fifth, you didnât cry.
You nodded at your coach. You did the interviews. You said the right things â âproud of the progression, grateful for the experience, excited for whatâs next.â
You meant some of it.
Fifth in your first Olympic Games from a snow-less, tiny, tropical country on the equator. It was objectively historic.
But you still felt like missing something you could almost taste.
â
He was waiting when you got back to the Village.
He was outside the building, hand shoved into his Team USA jacket, breath fogging in the cold. You saw him in the stands earlier, so he mustâve not been able to pass through the crowd to see you.Â
And if you were honest, you almost didnât see him at first. You were still half inside your own head, before he stepped forward to meet you halfway.Â
âYou okay?â he asked.
You shrugged.
That was the worst part; you werenât devastated. You werenât shattered. You were just⊠disappointed in a manageable way.Â
âI couldâve done better,â you shook your head.
He shook his head immediately. âYou⊠shit, you scared the hell out of me on that last run,â he muttered into your hair.Â
You huffed a small laugh. âYou hate watching me.â
âI hate watching you launch yourself into the sky,â he corrected. âBut it doesnât mean I hate that you do.â
You stayed there a second longer than pride would usually allow.
â
By the time you and Bucky made it back to the Village, the sun had dipped behind the mountains and the air had gone sharp and blue with evening cold. He kept one hand at the small of your back the whole walk, comforting enough to feel cosy.Â
Inside, the hallway was louder than usual. Someone down the corridor was blasting music. A group in matching jackets hurried past.
You unlocked your door.
The room felt different now.
Your helmet hit the desk with a dull thud. You toed off your boots and stood there for a second, staring at your snowboard bag propped against the wall like it had been waiting for this outcome.
Bucky shut the door behind you.
âYou wanna talk about it?â he asked.
You shrugged, pulling at the zipper of your jacket. âThereâs not much to say.â
He didnât push.
You knelt by the snowboard bag and unzipped it, fingers moving automatically. You wiped the base down with a cloth from your kit, checking edges out of habit even though youâd done it a hundred times before.
He crouched down across from you without being asked.
âYou heading out tomorrow?â he asked.
You shook your head. âNo. Iâm staying a couple more days. Media obligation and all that.â
He nodded, hiding his small smile of knowing heâd get you for another couple more days.Â
âCoach wants the gear packed for transport tomorrow though,â you added. âTheyâre shipping everything back in bulk.â
âGot it,â he said simply.
You started disassembling your bindings, hands steady even if your brain felt fuzzy.
He watched for a second, then reached for the tool kit beside you. âShow me.â
You glanced up. âYou donât have to helpââ
âI know,â he insisted, and that determined look in his eyes was familiar. He was not backing down.Â
You handed him the screwdriver.
He followed your instructions carefully, brow furrowed in concentration like it was a play diagram instead of hardware.
âLefty loosey?â he confirmed.
âOther left,â you muttered.
He huffed a small laugh. âFine motor skills arenât my brand.â
Despite yourself, you smiled.
âYou know,â he said after a minute, not looking up, âmost people donât go that big on a last run.â
âI shouldâve played it safe,â you said automatically.
He stopped adjusting the binding and looked at you.
âWould you have been happy with fourth if youâd gone smaller?â
You hesitated. âNo.â
âExactly.â
Oh.Â
You looked away first, reaching for your gloves.
âGoggles need to go in the hard case,â you said, voice steadier now.
âGot it.â
He worked methodically, packing each piece where you directed. Helmet wrapped in your thermal layer. Competition bib folded flat. Wax kit zipped into the side pouch.
It felt strangely intimate, more than any of the nights his lips were dragging across your skin.Â
This⊠was different.
This was him kneeling on the carpet of your tiny Olympic Village room, helping you close out something youâd spent four years building toward.
When everything was finally packed, the bag looked too neat. He zipped it shut slowly.
âThere,â he said.
You stared at it for a long second.
âFifth in the world,â he added.
You huffed softly. âThatâs not how they announce it.â
âMaybe they should.â
You leaned back on your hands and laughed. When you thought about it like thatâ that only four people in the world were better than you⊠it did make you feel better.Â
You let him sit next to you on the bed as he pulled you down with him until you were tucked against his side. The mattress dipped under the combined weight.
You expected him to make a joke.
He didnât.
He just slid an arm around your waist and pulled you in close.
Your head rested on his chest. His heartbeat was steady. You traced a lazy line along his ribs with your fingertip. âYou staying the night?â you asked quietly.
âIf you want.â
You shifted slightly so you could look up at him. âI do.â
He didnât say anything cheesy. Instead, he just pressed a kiss to your forehead.
You kicked your slippers off and wriggled under the blanket, tugging him down with you. He followed easily, body folding around yours.
His arm slid under your neck, the other settling securely at your waist. You fit against him like youâd practiced.
âYou okay now?â he asked into your hair.
You thought about it.
Fifth place was a disappointment. You hated that the gear was leaving without you, and you were restless in waiting another four years for another chance at this stage.Â
But Bucky was there.Â
âYeah,â you said finally. âI think so.â
â
A couple nights later, you were in the stands for his bronze medal match.
Youâd never understood hockey beyond puck goes in net = good, but you learned fast.
More importantly, you learned how to spot Bucky instantly by the number on his back and the way he moved.
You screamed when he slammed someone into the boards. You stood when he blocked a shot. You nearly threw up when it went into overtime.
Then⊠they lost on a rebound in front of the net.Â
Silver wouldâve meant something.Â
Bronze wouldâve meant something.
Them coming fourth now meant nothing.
You waited until the handshake line was done. Until the team gathered around the coaches. Until the cameras drifted toward the celebrating side.
He didnât notice you at first when he came out of the tunnel.
âHey, Buck.â
He looked up.
The second he saw you, his shoulders dropped just a fraction. âHey,â he said, like he hadnât just left everything on the ice.
You didnât try to spin it. âThat sucked.â
He let out a humorless laugh. âYeah.â
You stepped into him the same way he had with you a couple nights before.
His arms wrapped around you instantly. âYou played well,â you said into his chest.
âDoesnât matter.â
âIt does.â
He was quiet for a second.
âI shouldâve cleared that rebound,â he sighed.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. âYou donât get to âshouldâveâ me after what you said about my scuffed landing.â
He blinked. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, forehead dropping to yours for a brief second in the middle of a crowded corridor, his team patting his back as they passed. âThanks for coming,â he said.
âOf course.â
â
He excused himself for team duties, but it wasnât long before you found him outside after the media scrum, after the forced smiles and the âproud of the boysâ soundbites. His hair was still damp from the shower, scarf loose around his neck like heâd given up halfway through fixing it.
âTheyâre going out,â he said when he saw you. âTo a bar in town.â
âAre you going?â
He shook his head once. âI donât feel like it.â
âThatâs okay,â you said gently, squeezing his arm.
His eyes flicked up at that.
You didnât talk about the or the missed coverage after that. You just walked with him back to his building.
His room was empty when he unlocked it.
âSam with the rest of the team tonight?" you asked about his roommate
âYeah,â he said. âAnd heâll be loud when he comes back.â
You stepped inside anyway, and the door clicked shut.
For a second, you just looked at each other.
It didnât take long for him to grab your face and kiss you. It was urgent, like he needed to prove some things in this world were still under his control.Â
Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt as you peeled layers away, pulling him closer as his palms slid to your waist. He pulled clothes out of the way as best he could without breaking the kiss, breath uneven, fingers already working at your sweats.
âWe donât have long,â he whispered against your mouth, voice rough.
You almost laughed. âYou always say that.â
âThis time I mean it.â
You blinked up at him. âWhat?â
âWe donât have long,â he breathed out, pressing his forehead to your, âBefore my teammates come back. Before someone decides to grab something they forgot. BeforeâŠâ He exhaled, eyes flicking over your face. âBefore this ends.â
The last part slipped out more fragile than he meant it to.
Right.
You didnât know what to say, so you kissed him.
It wasnât frantic, unlike that first night. It was deeper, even a little desperate around the edges.
He kissed you back like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hands slid from your waist up your back, fingers spreading wide like he was grounding himself.
His fingers tangled in your hair. Yours hooked into the waistband of his sweats. You walked him backward until the backs of his knees hit his bed.
âYouâre soâŠâ he started, then stopped, like he couldnât find the right word.
âWhat?â you whispered.
He shook his head and pulled shirt over your head instead, hands lingering at your skin afterward like he didnât want to let go.
âYou make this place feel different,â he admitted.
Your eyebrows softened as you pushed him gently back against the pillows, climbing over him. He pulled you down into another kiss that was slower than anything youâd shared before.Â
When he rolled you gently beneath him to hover over you, it wasnât about taking control. It was about feeling close to you. His forehead rested against yours as your breathing synced.
âDonât disappear on me after this,â he said.
You blinked up at him. âIâŠâ
Before you finished, he tugged his shirt over his head, mouth tracing along your jaw, down your neck, slower than usual, like he was deliberately taking his time.
And boy⊠did he take his time on you that night.Â
And when you finally ended up tangled in sheets and breathless laughter and skin-to-skin warmth, it felt less like a hookup and more like a promise neither of you had agreed to make.
You were half-draped over him, your head resting just below his collarbone. His breathing was slower now, as his fingers traced idle patterns along your shoulder, down your arm and across your waist.
âYou know,â he said carefully, eyes on the ceiling, âI think I adored you a little bit from the start.â
Your brain short-circuited, lifting your head slightly. âYou⊠what?â
He glanced down at you, almost sheepish now. But he didnât take it back.
âAdored you,â he repeated, softer. âWhen you walked down that hallway the first night, you were nervous but pretending not to be.â His thumb brushed along your side. âI have adored you every night since.â
You just stared at him.
Oh.
Right.
That.
Youâd wanted just a hookup. You were supposed to leave the Winter Olympic Village with a couple good stories and no complications.
So how exactly had you ended up here?
Naked in a hockey playerâs bed while he admitted he adored you like this was normal?
You didnât realize youâd gone quiet until his hand froze.
He shifted slightly beneath you. âHey.â
You blinked back into focus.
âIf that freaked you out, you can tell me,â he said carefully. âI didnât mean toâ I justââ
You pushed yourself up on one elbow.
âYou didnât scare me.â
His brows knit together. âThen why do you look like I just handed you a ring?â
Before you could respondâ
The door burst open.
âYo, Barnes! You sure you donât want toââ
Sam Wilson stopped dead in the doorway and took in the sight of you in Buckyâs bed, sheets twisted around your waist, Bucky half-propped up behind you.
âWHOOOAAA.â
Bucky moved at lightning speed.
He yanked the blanket up over you so fast it nearly smacked you in the face and grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be his dirty sock, and hurled it at Sam.
âGet the fuck out!â Bucky barked.
Sam dodged easily, laughing so hard he had to grab the doorframe for balance.
âOh my god,â he called over his shoulder to whoever was lingering in the hallway, probably Steve. âThey look like they're there talking about some sappy shit!â
The door slammed shut.
You and Bucky stared at each other for half a second. And then you both burst out laughing.
He fell back against the pillow, dragging you with him, blanket still clutched protectively around you like you might evaporate out of embarrassment.
âIâm so sorry,â he muttered. You were still giggling when he tucked his chin against your temple.
âItâs okay,â you shrugged, âthis was fun.â
âThis is fun,â Bucky corrected.
You hesitated for a second. He wasnât asking to define it, and you werenât sure how this would work if you triedâŠÂ but whatâs wrong with enjoying the last few days, right?
You leaned up, kissing his cheek and agreed. âIt is.â
â
Those last few days before the closing ceremony felt strangely⊠weightless. Like someone had lifted a backpack you didnât realize youâd been carrying for years.
For the first time in months you had nowhere you had to be.
No 6 a.m. lifts, no course inspection, no âthree more reps.â Not even a mobility routine before bed.Â
You just had⊠time.Â
You still woke up early out of habit, heart jumping like you were late for a competition.
Then you remembered that your schedule was clear, save for a couple of media hits about your âhistoric participationâ and âwhat it means for winter sports in non-traditional climates,â which was journalist code for wow, youâre from the equator, thatâs craaaazy. You couldâve been surfing, dude.Â
You did the interviews in your team jacket, smiling politely, saying stuff like, âYes, I trained abroad a lot.â
âYes, we have indoor facilities.â
âYes, hopefully more kids back home will try winter sports now.â
âYes, fifth place is huge for us.â
You meant that last one more each day.
Especially when the gold medalist in your event ran into you in your elevator and bumped your shoulder.
âYouâre gonna be unstoppable in four years,â she said casually, like it was obvious. âYour amplitudeâs insane.â
You blinked. She was close to a legend in your sport, and you have seen her around, but she had always seemed so untouchable. âOh. Uhâ thanks.â
âIâm not kidding,â she added, âWeâre all scared of you already.â
And then she just walked away to her floor like she hadnât detonated your brain.
Bucky nearly choked on his drink when you told him.
âSee?â he said, smug. âIâve been saying that.â
âYouâre biased,â you rolled your eyes.
âBut Iâm right,â he countered.
You kicked him under the table. He kicked you back.
It was stupid and easy and normal with him.Â
After that, the days just⊠melted together.
Youâd wander the compounds with no destination.
Sometimes with the halfpipe girls your age, raiding pantries and sneaking into other buildings just to see what the vibes were.
Sometimes Bucky was there with your friends, too, just ⊠blending in.
Which was ridiculous, because he was a giant compared to most of you. But still, heâd sit there listening to them argue about edge angles like it was fascinating.
At one point one of the girls leaned over and stage-whispered, âHeâs weirdly boyfriend-coded.â
You choked on your drink. He went pink all the way to his ears.
Sometimes, though, it was just you and him.
Those were your favorite.
Youâd sit in the stands watching random sports you didnât understand at all.
Curling. Speed skating. Luge.
âWhy are they sweeping?â heâd whisper.
âI donât know.â
âShould we clap?â
âProbably.â
Youâd clap late and awkwardly together and start laughing.
Sometimes you were technically a plus one to his team bonding activities.Â
Heâd show up at your door like it was a given. âCâmon. The boys are having a movie night.â
âAm I invited?â
Heâd just stare at you. âOf course.â
And then youâd end up wedged between him and one of his teammates on a too-small couch while they argued about some play from practice.
Heâd casually drape an arm behind you, leaving the door open if you wanted to lean. You always leaned.
Nobody made a big deal of it. Neither did you. It was all very⊠unspoken.
You stole his hoodies constantly. He carried your gloves in his pockets without comment.
Once, you fell asleep on his shoulder during a curling match and woke up with his jacket draped over you and his chin resting lightly on your head like thatâs where it belonged.
It was disgustingly cute, the kind of cute youâd roll your eyes at if it were happening to someone else. Which was exactly the problem.
Because every time you were walking back to the building at night, every time he looked at you like he was about to say something importantâŠ
Heâd start by saying âSo⊠what happens to us after thisââ
And youâd immediately cut in.
âDid you see that wipeout earlier?â Or, âOh my god I forgot I have to email my coach.â Or, âWe should get food.â
Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.
Not because you didnât care, and maybe because you cared too much. Maybe, talking about after felt like touching a bruise. Like if you looked at it too hard, it would end faster.
It was easier to stay here.
So you just⊠didnât have the conversation.
And he, weirdly, let you. Heâd just nod. âYeah, okay,â like he understood you were buying time.
â
Then, the night before the closing ceremony, you were alone for once.
Girls were out somewhere. Buckyâs teammates were having a boys night out, and insisted he just had to be there.Â
You were in your room, half-packing, half-scrolling, lying sideways across the bed when your email notifications pinged.
Subject: Guest Credentials â Confirmation
You opened it.
You still have one unused guest pass available for X Games Aspen â SuperPipe. Please assign before travel.
The first person you thought about was⊠Bucky.Â
Oh.Â
â
The closing ceremony was much more relaxing than the opening ceremony.
Music was everywhere, fireworks already in the sky. Flags were wrapped around shoulders instead of marching in neat lines, and when everything was done, athletes were trading jackets, pins, and hats.
It was loud and messy and nothing like the lonely white room youâd cried in three weeks ago. And somehow, you couldnât walk three steps.
âWait, are you the Madripoor snowboarder?â
âCan we get a picture?â
âOh my god, please tell me you still have pins left!â
You kept laughing, a little overwhelmed, a little breathless. âYeah, yeah, of course- IâŠhold onââ
Your lanyard kept getting lighter as you handed out enamel flags. A Brazilian skater draped their countryâs scarf around your shoulders for a selfie, saying you were in this together. A group of curlers insisted on teaching you their handshake. Two skiers asked you to sign their bib like you were famous or something.
It was sweet. It was surreal. It was exactly the kind of attention youâd pretended you didnât want your whole life.
Still, every time you smiled for a photo, your eyes were already scanning over their shoulders, looking for a certain defenseman that you needed to say goodbye to.Â
Where is he?
You spotted flashes of Team USA men's national ice hockey team jackets across the stadium floor like little beacons.
Every time you thought you saw him, someone stopped you again for "just one more pic.â
You tried to be present. You really did.
But your heart was doing that dumb, impatient thing. Because if you didnât find him now⊠you wouldnât be able to say what you really wanted to say.Â
âSorry! Sorry⊠excuse meââ you muttered, slipping sideways through a group of French biathletes.
You stood on your toes to see⊠there!
You could place that broad shoulder and stupidly familiar way he stood anywhere.Â
But of course, some random skier had already grabbed him for a selfie.
You watched him smile politely, leaning down for the photo.
But his eyes kept flicking over the crowd, searching, the same way youâd been. Your heart basically melted on the spot.
You started moving at the exact same time he tried to step away, and immediately got stopped by two Canadian skaters.
You tried to wave your hand and get his attention when a pair of snowboard girls tackled you into a group hug. âWHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL NIGHT?â
âI⊠I needâ hold onââ You wiggled free, half laughing, half desperate.
You both spotted each other at the same time.
And then it got fucking stupid, because now you were both trying to walk fast without looking like you were running, Which just absolutely just looked like running.
You almost crashed into a speed skater. He apologized to a photographer and kept going. It felt like one of those slow-motion movie scenes except neither of you were cool enough to look graceful about it.
By the time you reached each other, you were both a little breathless, smiling like idiots, like you couldnât quite believe the other one was actually there.
âHiââ
âHiââ
And then neither of you said anything.
Which was ridiculous, because you had rehearsed approximately twelve speeches while fighting through the crowd.
But now he was just⊠there. Close enough that you could see the fresh tiny scar near his eyebrow. Close enough that the noise of the stadium sort of faded into mush.
He looked a little flushed, a little out of breath, like heâd jogged the last stretch.
âYouââ he started, then huffed a soft laugh. âIâve been trying to get to you for like ten minutes.â
âMe too,â you said immediately..Â
You both just stood there smiling like absolute idiots.
And then⊠panic hit. Because this was it, right?
You swallowed.
âHeyâ so⊠okay-â you started.
He immediately straightened. âYeah?â
You spoke lower at first, careful, like stepping onto ice. âIâve kind of been⊠avoiding this conversation.â
His eyes widened just a bit. âAh.â
âNot in a bad way!â you rushed. âJustâ the last few weeks have been a whirlwind and everythingâs been so⊠snow globe-y.â
âSnow globe-y?â he repeated, smiling though not quite understanding what you meant.
âYeah. Snowglobe-y. Like everythingâs been shaken up and magical and weird and not real?â you gestured wildly. âAnd I didnât want it to just⊠end without saying something.â
He went very still.
And that triggered something in your brain. Before you knew it, words were accelerating out of your mouth before you could filter through them.
âIâm leaving tonight,â you started âand youâre leaving tomorrow. AndI donât want this to just end like some random Olympic fling story I tell in four years like âhaha remember that hockey guyâ because youâre not just some hockey guy and this wasnât justâ thatâ and Iââ
âHey,â he said softly.
You kept spiraling.
âAnd we donât even know each other that long and maybe this is crazy and maybe Iâm being dramatic but snow globe! Right, remember that! I felt like we got shaken together and itâs magic and fake at the same time and I donât want to lose you when the snow settlesââ
His hands came up to your shoulders, squeezing gently.
âBreathe,â he said, smiling.
You inhaled.
âAgain.â
You did. Your brain slowed from 200 mph to maybe 60.
âThere you go,â he murmured.
God. Why was he like this?
âIâm leaving tonight,â you said, voice smaller now.
âYeah,â he nodded.
âAnd I donât want this to be it.â
His eyes widened, as if he was waiting for the conversation all along.Â
Before you could chicken out, you yanked a lanyard from your jacket pocket and shoved the laminated badge into his chest. âHere.â
He caught it on instinct and looked down to the card that said: Visitor pass.
He frowned. âWhatâs this?â
âIâve got X Games Aspen in three weeks,â you rushed. âI have one guest access left.â
He looked back up, and your throat tightened. âItâs yours. If you want it. Come see me.â
He just stared at you.
So you kept rambling, because apparently silence was illegal.
âBecause I⊠I havenât known you long, but everything I know about you so far, I love, so I justâ Iâd like a chance to actually get to know you. Like normal life know you.â Your voice wobbled. âI want to see if this could⊠go somewhere.â
For half a second, he just stared at you.
Then he laughed softly, disbelieving, like youâd just said the wildest imaginable. âYouâre unbelievable,.â
Your stomach dropped. âIn a bad wayâŠ?â
He hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you close.Â
Oh.
âI adore you,â he said, gently. âOf course Iâll go. Iâd get on a plane tomorrow if you asked.â
Your heart felt like it would burst. âYeah?â you whispered.
âYeah.â
You didnât even remember deciding to move, but you just grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him down.
He kissed you mid-laugh, right there in the middle of the stadium floor, in front of thousands of athletes and even more cameras. In front of very nosy press who lost their minds.
Someone whooped, another yelled, âGET IT!â
A snowboarder friend of yours screamed your name like youâd won gold.
You didnât care.
His hands slid warm and certain around your waist. Yours tangled in his hair as fireworks burst overhead like the sky was celebrating with you.
When you finally pulled back, both of you grinning like fools, he rested his forehead against yours.
âHookups only, huh?â he murmured.
You laughed, dizzy. âShut up.â
And then you kissed him again anyway.
â
Four years laterâŠÂ
You were both wearing your medals when you left the Olympic Village for the last time this year.
The security volunteer at the exit had said, âCongratulations,â with this dazed sort of awe, glancing from your credential to the gold resting against your chest, then to Buckyâs, and doing a visible double take.
Four years ago, youâd walked out of the Village with a snow globe feeling in your chest and a defenseman you werenât sure youâd ever see again. This time, you walked out with your fingers threaded through his, both of you laughing at nothing and everything, the mountain air clean around you.
âAre we gonna be one of those insufferable double gold couples?â you asked as you crossed the plaza toward the hotel transport.
âYes,â he said immediately. âBut we earned it.â
You closed your eyes, thinking about how you got yours four days ago.
You had imagined winning Olympic gold a thousand different ways.
In most versions, you were alone at the bottom of the halfpipe with your helmet off, tears freezing on your cheeks, Madripoor flag wrapped around your shoulders. You wouldâve been the first person from the tiny island to do so.Â
You had not imagined looking up into the stands and locking eyes with your boyfriend of four years, the team USA captain, already crying harder than you.
But here you were.
And just earlier today, you were in the stands when he captained Team USA through a brutal overtime final and played nearly thirty minutes. He blocked a shot with his ankle and refused to leave the ice.
When the klaxon sounded, you shouted and tapped the glass. Heâd won gold.Â
And to think, this all started because four years ago, he had kept his promise and gone to Aspen.
You still remembered spotting him at the bottom of the pipe, looking wildly out of place among energy drink banners. Heâd flown in on a two-day break, half-delirious from travel, just to stand there and watch you drop in. It didnât help that heâd been in the front row with a sign that said: HOOKUPS ONLY?
Youâd nearly crashed laughing.
You won silver that weekend, though he hugged you like you won gold.Â
After a couple of visits here and there, you both realized that you liked who you were when you were around each otherâ and that you loved him as a person outside that snow globe. So when you decided to close the relationship long-distance, it wasnât easy.
But it was worth it.
He got drafted by the New York Rangers two months later. You got the call when you were training in your residence in Laax, and you shouted at the phone, feeling very pleased for your boyfriend.
You watched most of his games on your laptop at 2 a.m., wrapped in one of his hoodies. He watched your World Cup stops between practices, texting you sweet little nothings, telling you he was proud.Â
You flew in a couple of times to watch him in Madison Square Garden after a podium, shouting profanities when someone on the opposite team picked a fight with Bucky and lost. He flew to one of your games once, straight from a playoff exit, still exhausted. You lost that one, but he held your hand through it anyway.
And then, two years in, the trade that changed it all happened.
âSweetheart,â he called you from the car. âDonât freak out,â heâd started.
You sighed. âWhy would you start a sentence like that?â
âI think,â he breathed out from the other line, âthat weâre moving in together.â
You furrowed your eyebrows. You had been talking about this, about what it would look like and how it would work, but you just didnât know how to make that happen⊠yet. There were too many moving pieces. âWhat?â
âIâve been traded to Colorado.â
Youâd gone very quiet.
Being traded to the Colorado Avalanche meant that he would be living in Denver, where Aspen was a short flight away at best, and maybe three hours away by car at most.Â
You were already splitting your training time between Laax and Aspen with your new coach anyway, that yes, Bucky was right. It was finally feasible for you both to be moving in together, and youâd been living together ever since.
It was great.
Mornings always started with coffee and two different training schedules stuck to the same fridge. You left for the mountain as he left for the rink. You came home smelling like snow; he came home smelling like ice and sweat and tape.
You even hosted holiday dinners together. Once, his mom even asked why there wasnât a ring on your finger yet, and your answer was always the same: you both had fallen in love with each other so quickly, you wanted the time to take things slow.Â
â
And then the rule changed.
For years, NHL players didnât go to the Olympics. Youâd accepted that your Olympic dreams and his would never fully overlap.
Then the new agreement came through.
NHL players were eligible again.
Youâd been in the kitchen when he got the call confirming he was in the roster.Â
You cried immediately.
â
Now, four years after that first chaotic Games, you were walking into your hotel as two Olympic gold medalists.
He stopped outside the room door, looking at you in a way that felt almost⊠nervous.
âYou good, honey?â You asked, only a little worried.Â
He nodded, swiping the keycard. The door clicked open. âAfter you, champ.â
As you entered, he closed the hotel room door behind him.
You were still laughing, thinking about the way the bus driver had congratulated you twice when you turned toward the bed and stopped.
There was a snow globe sitting right in the centre of the white duvet. It was perfectly placed
âBuck,â You frowned slightly, thinking that the last people who stayed here mustâve left it there. âWhatâs that?â
He didnât answer.
You stepped closer, picked it up and shook it before you could think any better of it. Inside was a tiny halfpipe facing a tiny ice hockey net, two miniature figures standing between them under suspended white glitter.
Your throat tightened before you even turned it slowly.
In gold cursive letters, the text said: Will you marry me?
The air left your lungs in a rush.
Behind you, you heard him swallow. âOkay,â he started.
Oh.
You turned around.
He was already reaching into his pocket, already dropping to one knee with a determination that screamed he had rehearsed this at least fifty times in the mirror.
He pulled out the ring, and your brain stopped working.
âIââ he began, voice immediately rougher than usual. âIâ we won gold,â he said. âWeâre supposed to say that that was the best moment of our lives.â He shook his head slightly. âBut you were the best thing in my life long before that.â
Your eyes filled instantly.
âSo⊠I donât care what it takes,â he rushed, a little breathless now, like the words were tumbling out in the wrong order. âI donât care where we live or how many flights we take or what the next four years look like, as long as itâs with you.â
Your heart beat so quickly you were sure it was gonna escape your chest.
âI donât want another gold, another Stanley Cup, another anything without knowing youâreââ
He didnât get to finish, because you tackled him full force.
He didnât even get to say that he would make a million snow globes for you, like he rehearsed. He didnât even get to say he loved you when you were long distance and exhausted and living in different time zones. He didnât even get to say that he loved you before either of you ever won anything.
He didnât need to. You knew.Â
The medals clanked as you launched yourself at him, knocking him completely off balance. He yelped, a very undignified sound for the captain, and fell backward onto the hotel carpet with you on top of him. The ring box nearly flew out of his hand.
You were laughing and crying at the same time, breathless.
âItâs not even a question!â you blurted, grabbing his face with both hands. âOf course Iâll marry you. Duh.â
He stared up at you, stunned, still half-flat on the floor.
âYeah?â he breathed.
You laughed harder, forehead dropping to his.
âObviously, you idiot! Yes!â
He let out a sound that was half laugh, half a sigh, like heâd been holding his breath for months.
âYou justââ he started, still dazed. âYou just body-checked me during your own proposal.â
âYou body check people all the time,â you shot back between giggles. âYou can take it.â
He started laughing again, as you were both still tangled on the carpet, medals digging into your ribs, his knee bent awkwardly under you, the ring box miraculously still clutched in his hand.
âOkay,â he said, trying to compose himself. âOkay. Stay still.â
He pushed himself up slightly and slid the ring onto your finger with hands that were still shaking.
It fit perfectly.
You both just stared at it for a second. Then at each other.
And then you dissolved into giggles again, collapsing back onto the floor in a mess of limbs and ridiculous happiness.
After all these years, you were certain you didnât waste his time.Â
Summary : Youâve been sleeping with Bucky for a while now. You didnât know what to expect when you invited him over for New Year's Eve, but itâs definitely not this.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : New Years Fic!!! A bit of cursing and romantic confusion, but overall happy and fluffy!!!! (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 2.8k
Note : Three hours till New Years for me! Happy New Year! Enjoy!
The city was too loud tonight.
Not in a fun way. Not in the champagne popping, music bleeding through walls, people kissing strangers way. It was loud in the way that made your thoughts echo back at you.
Your apartment smelled like cheap prosecco and the faint metallic tang of the radiator working overtime. Heat still clung to the air even with the window cracked open, cold leaking in through the gap like the city was trying to constantly remind you it existed.
Tonight, Bucky was on the fire escape again. He was half inside your life, half outside it, exactly where he always seemed to exist in your mind.
One knee bent, boot hooked lazily against the rung, metal arm resting against the railing, breath puffing white every time he exhaled. You watched him from inside, glass sweating in your hand.
Get a grip, you told yourself.
This was fine, right? You were only friends with benefits.
After all, you told Bucky he could come over for New Yearâs Eve because you were bored.
That was the lie you gave him, sent in a text you stared at for far too long before hitting send.
I donât really have plans, you had texted, You can come by if you want.
You typed it like it didnât matter. Like he was just filling space. Like you hadnât been staring at the calendar all week with a pit in your stomach, knowing New Yearâs Eve was coming and youâd be alone if you didnât do something about it.
The truth was that the idea of starting another year without him near you felt unbearable. That you wanted him on your couch, his boots by your door, him in every corner of your apartment.
But you couldnât say that.
So you said you had nothing else to do.
When he arrived, he climbed through the window like always, snow clinging to his jacket, cheeks pink from the cold. He smiled when he saw you like he was relieved to be there.
And now, an hour later, your chest was tighter now that it had been all year, an ache sitting just beneath your sternum like it had been waiting for midnight to hit and finish the job.
You were⊠spiraling.
Because New Yearâs did that. It made everything feel like it needed definition.Â
And Bucky Barnes, God, Bucky Barnes had a way of existing in your life that felt anything but indefinite.
He had a toothbrush in your bathroom. He knew which mug was yours. He slept on the side of the bed closest to the window because you liked the wall. He replaced the batteries in your smoke detector without asking.Â
But that didnât mean anything. Right?
It had to be physical. It was comfort, habit, trauma bonding, maybe. Two lonely people clinging to warmth, call it what you will.Â
If it wasnât, if this meant something to him, you wouldâve known. He wouldâve said something, right?
Right?
So this was just⊠sex. And friendship. And you were stupid for wanting more.
Your fingers tightened around your drink as jealousy crept in uninvited. Out there, people were kissing their partners at midnight. Holding hands. Making promises.Â
You wondered, bitterly, if Bucky would leave after tonight. If this was just another one of those nights to him.Â
You hated yourself for how badly you wanted him to stay.
âHey,â he called gently. âYou gonna join me, or you just burn a hole staring at the floor?â
You stood up, stepping closer, and leaned against the window frame. If you got too close, you might say something stupid. Or honest. âShut up, Barnes.â
He studied you for a moment, brows drawing together. âYou okay?â
You nodded too fast. âJust⊠New Yearâs stuff.â
He huffed a small laugh. âThatâs ominous.â
You shrugged. âI donât know. Everyone makes it such a thing. Like the clock hits midnight and suddenly youâre supposed to have your life figured out.â
Bucky tipped his head back to look up at the sky. âIâve had a hundred-some New Years. Trust me, none of âem came with instructions.â
Your chest twisted at the reminder of how much heâd lived, how much heâd lost. And how easily he still slipped into your life, like it didnât mean everything to you.
You pushed yourself out onto the fire escape, sitting beside him but leaving a careful inch of space between you.Â
This was stupid. You were being stupid.
Youâd agreed to this. Whatever this was. And if you said what you thought out loudâI want you to be mineâand he looked at you with that tragic sympathy he reserved for things he couldnât give⊠you didnât think youâd survive it.
âFireworksâll start soon,â Bucky said, nudging your knee lightly with his own, throwing a blanket over the both of you casually. âYou usually watch from here?â
You nodded. âBest seat in town. No drunk strangers, no freezing crowds. Up here, I can be all alone with my thoughts.â
âAnd me?â he teased.
You snorted. âYouâre not a stranger.â
Bucky turned to look at you fully now. His knee almost touching yours. âWhat am I, then?â
He said it as a joke, but your heart stuttered anyway.
You laughed, too loud. âA very annoying man who steals my blankets and leaves coffee cups everywhere.â
He smiled fondly, like he liked being that for you. He thought you were just teasing. âOf course.â
The city below grew louder as midnight crept closer. Someone started lighting sparklers from a balcony three floors above you, early and obnoxious.
Your thoughts spiraled.
You noticed everything. You noticed how close his hand was to yours, how warm he felt even in the cold, how easily he fit into your space like it had always been meant for him. You thought about the way he slept curled toward you, arm draped over your waist. About the way he looked at you when he thought you werenât paying attention.
That wasnât how friends with benefits looked at each other.
Unless you were imagining it.
Unless you were projecting because you wanted more.
You swallowed hard. This has to be physical. It has to be.
âHey,â he said suddenly, quieter. âYouâre in your head.â
You blinked. âAm I that obvious?â
âOnly to me.â
That made your throat tighten.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to distract yourself from the pathetic crush you have on this man. âHow much longer?âÂ
âCouple minutes,â he said, looking at the watch he kept on his metal wrist. âTheyâre gonna be starting the countdown soon.â
Soon.
Your stomach twisted.
This means nothing, you reminded yourself.
People kissed at midnight all the time. It was tradition. Ritual.Â
It didnât mean love.
You told yourself that as your mind betrayed you, imagining his hands on your thighs, the way he kissed like he was memorizing you, like he was afraid you might disappear.
âYouâre awfully quiet,â Bucky said.
You scoffed without meaning to, turning away from him. âThatâs rich, coming from you.â
âWhatâs going on?â He asked, eyebrows raised. He certainly did not expect that.Â
âDonât,â you warned with a gulp, âdonât worry about it.â
âCâmon, sweets, itâs me,â he asked worriedly. He always worried when it came to you, because he cared. âYou know you can tell me anything.â
Your throat tightened.
What were you supposed to say? Hey, I think Iâm in love with you and itâs probably one-sided and Iâm terrified this kiss is going to ruin me?
Instead, you stared at the night sky lit with stray fireworks instead of him. âI just⊠I donât like pretending that we⊠that this is nothing.â
He tilted his head, genuinely baffled. âBut itâs not nothing.â
You laughed once, bitter. âIsnât it?â
Before he could answer, a chorus of voices from the street below started counting down.
âTen.â
Your heart skipped.
âNine.â
You thought about all the nights heâd climbed through your window soaked from rain, still apologizing for tracking mud. About the way he stayed when you had nightmares even though you never asked. About how he brushed your hair out of your face after you got out of the shower.
âEight.â
You pressed your nails into your palm.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
This didnât mean anything.Â
âSeven.â
Bucky scooted a little bit closer. âHey.âÂ
You looked up at him. He was so close. He was always so close.
âSix.â
You could smell him now. Your heartbeat went wild.
âFive.â
He reached for you without hesitation, metal hand resting on your hips and human hand cradling your cheeks like they belonged there.
âFour.â
Your brain screamed donât.
Your heart screamed please.
âThree.â
Fireworks cracked early, light spilling across the sky in quick flashes.
âTwo.â
You looked up at him, searching his face for something, anything, that would tell you this wasnât going to destroy you.
âOne.â
He leaned closer.
âHappy new year!â
The city exploded into light and joy.Â
Everything seemed to have collided at once. Bucky kissed you like the world had narrowed down to this exact moment. Like there was nowhere else heâd rather be. Like he wasnât counting the seconds, but rather savoring them.
It was warm and familiar in the way that hurt the most. The kind of kiss that begged you to stay.
When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven, he smiled certain.
âHappy new year, sweetheart,â he said. âI love you.â
The world tilted.
âWhat?â you whispered.
His smile faltered. âIââ
âYou love me?â Your voice cracked in disbelief.
Bucky looked confused now. âYeah. I thought you knew.â
Your chest ached. âI thought we were just⊠sleeping together.â
He stared at you like youâd spoken another language. âWhat? No. Iâve been with you. Iâm with you.â
Tears burned behind your eyes. âThen why didnât you say anything?â
He swallowed. âI thought you didnât need me to.â
The fireworks kept going, loud and brilliant and chaotic, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat.
And suddenly⊠oh.
Suddenly everything rearranged itself.
The nights he stayed even when he had a mission early in the morning the next day. The way he brought groceries without asking. The way he introduced you by name every time. The way he remembered the date of your big presentation and waited outside after.
The way he looked at you like you were already his.
Youâd been so focused on labels youâd missed the love woven through everything else.
For a split second, you genuinely considered climbing back inside and pretending the last thirty seconds had never happened.
Oh. You were so stupid.
Your face burned. Not a cute warmth, but rather a full-on, mortifying heat that crept up your neck and settled behind your ears.Â
You wanted the city to swallow you whole. Melt into the fire escape. Phase through the metal. Become one with the brick wall.
âOh my god,â you blurted, covering your face with both hands. âOh my god.â
He didnât look angry. He wasnât hurt. He just looked⊠baffled. Like youâd told him the sky was actually green and heâd somehow missed it his whole life.
You covered your face anyway. âI thought⊠fuck, I thought we were just⊠I donât know. Comfortable.â
His smile only grew. âYeah,â he said, rather amused. âWe are.â
You peeked at him through your fingers. âThatâs not helping.â
He chuckled again, rubbing at the back of his neck. âSorry. Itâs justââ He paused, tilting his head ever so slightly. âItâs cute.â
You dropped your hands. âDonât call this cute.â
âBut you are.â
You groaned. âBucky.â
âI just⊠howââ he shifted closer, boots scraping against the metal beneath you, voice affectionate. âHow did you not figure it out?â
You laughed weakly, shaking your head. âBecause I thought you were just⊠nice.â
He stared at you for half a second.
Then he laughed again, eyes crinkling at the corners. âThatâs what weâre calling it?â
âI donât know,â you muttered. âYouâre nice to everyone.â
âNo,â he said immediately. âI am not.â
You hesitated. ââŠOkay, maybe not everyone.â
Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his hair. âSweetheart.â
That single word did not help your dignity.
âYou thought I was just nice,â he went on, sounding incredulous now, âwhen Iââ He stopped, pointed at you. âOkay. Weâre doing this.â
âOh no.â
âOh yes,â he said, nodding to himself. âBecause apparently I have been failing to communicate in very obvious ways.â
He started counting on his fingers.
âFirst of all,â he said, holding up one, âI spend more nights at your place than my own. I have a cabinet here. Not a sock pile. A cabinet with three drawers.â
You winced.
âSecond,â another finger, âI have a toothbrush here. And not a travel one, an electric one. I bought a red one because yours is blue and I didnât want to mix them up.â
You opened your mouth. When you realised you had no way to respond to that, you closed it.
âThird,â he continued, warming up now, âI know your coffee order, your bedtime, your work hours, everything. I know which mug is yours because you get annoyed when I use it. I know the brand of pasta you like and the kind of wine you hate but drink anyway because itâs cheap.â
âBuckyââ
âFourth,â he said, undeterred. âI replace things around your apartment. Batteries. Lightbulbs. That weird cabinet hinge. People donât do home maintenance for someone theyâre âcasualâ with.â
You groaned, pressing your palms to your eyes again in embarrassment. âBucky, please.â
âIâm not done,â he said gently, not stopping. âFifthâ I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas with you.â
Yeah, he did, didnât he?
You remembered it all: his arm around you on the couch as you told him to finish your mulled wine, the way heâd pressed a kiss to your temple when youâd dozed off.
âAnd not because you asked me to,â he continued, âbut I wanted to be with you. I wanted to wake up next to you. I wanted to watch you pretend you werenât excited about opening presents.â
âI was not pretending,â you muttered.
âYou were excited when I got you that plushie you asked for,â he said, grinning. âAnd when you fell asleep on the couch with your head on my shoulder, I didnât move for an hour because I didnât wanna wake you up.â
The fireworks reflected in his eyes now, bright and gleeful.
âI watched you waddle around in socks that didnât match, in my ugly Rogers: The Musical sweater. Thatâs not⊠nothing.â
Your eyes burned as you laughed weakly. âThat could still be friends.â
Bucky raised an eyebrow. âCould it?â
I guess not.Â
âI helped you decorate your tiny tree,â he continued as the city seemed to fade around you. âI donât do that unless it means something.â
You swallowed hard, shame and ache twisting together in your chest.
âI justâŠâ Your voice wavered. You stared at the fireworks instead of him, blinking fast. âI just wanted you to want me, too.â
It sounded small and terrifying once they were out in the cold air.
Buckyâs eyes changed immediately.
Any teasing he had left in him vanished. He reached for you without hesitation, pulling you into him like it was the most natural thing in this life or the next. You melted instantly.Â
âI do,â he said sweetly, without a trace of doubt. âI clearly do.â
You shook your head, overwhelmed. âI just thought⊠I didnât want to assume.â
He smiled, impossibly gentle. âYou didnât assume because you were protecting yourself.â
Your hands curled into his jacket.
âIâm so dumb,â you said again, voice muffled against the fabric on his chest
He chuckled and kissed the top of your head, lips staying there longer than it needed to be. âYouâre not. You were just scared. And thatâs okay.â
You breathed him in, letting out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh.Â
After a moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your cheek.
âJust so weâre clear,â he said, a hint of amusement returning to his eyes, âyou feel the same. Right?â
You leaned into his side, resting your head against his shoulder.
Fireworks bloomed overhead, reflected in his eyes. The city felt far away now, it felt muffled and distant.
âYeah,â you said. âI love you too.â
He kissed you again, quick and teasing this time, like he couldnât help himself. When he pulled back, there was that familiar glint in his eye, the one that always meant trouble.
âYâknow,â he said, grinning, âthis is a hell of a way to start the year.â His hand slid easily to your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles like itâd always belonged there. âGetting into a relationship I thought I was already in for, whatâ Three months?â
You laughed, heat rushing to your face, and swatted at his chest. âOh my god, donât.â
His human hand caught yours mid-swat, fingers locking around yours as he leaned in close again. âWhat?â he asked innocently, lips hovering just a little too close to yours. âIâm just impressed by my own commitment.â
âYou are unbelievable,â you said, trying, and failing, to glare at him.
âMm,â he hummed, stealing another kiss, playful and smug and entirely too pleased with himself as the fireworks finally started to die down. âYeah. But you love me.â
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summary: every sunday, you spend your day selling your homemade jams and spreads at the market. it's your favourite part of the week; but the real highlight is when customers assume you and bucky barnes, the town's baker and local grump, are together because of the perfect and accidental pairing of your trades.
pairing: baker!bucky barnes x preserver!reader
word count: 4.1k
content contains: fluff, farmers market au (includes my horrible knowledge of a market and how it works), grumpy x sunshine, opposites attract, idiots in love.
author's note: HI KRYS THIS ONE IS FOR YOU. @its-in-the-woods oh my goodness i hope you like this.......... saw farmers market au and grumpyxsunshine and ran with it..... no smut this time because i am all smutted out i apologise ;( youre so awesome sauce and you deserve all of the happiness in the world. i hope you enjoy it!!!!!!
to put it simply, you love the weekend. its the part of the week where you can turn your mind off and enjoy the things you love. saturdays smell like fresh linen and the early-morning scent of sweet jam settling into their jars, while sundays smell like honey, dirt, and something warm that you can't quite place.
the market on the edge of town is your second home and has been for the past three years. it's an escape from your busy life in the suburbs, a major investment you'd made after deciding you wanted to live your life the way you wanted to, so you knew that if you were going to do it, you'd do it right and you'd give it your allâ from the very first jam jar you picked up to the last spoonful of a sample you'd handed a customer.
by 7am, your stall is already set up; a red gingham cloth draped across a table, jars containing all sorts of fruit preserves and buttery spreads are stacked in intricate pyramids, handwritten paper labels and price tags curling at the edges, and sunlight catches the jam in their containers like jewels. its a ritual nowâ a quiet worship for the little peace you get to claim as yours.
you dust your hands off on your apron, a small sigh of content leaving your lips. you can hear the hum of customers trailing in and their voices as they speak to the vendors. the market is slowly waking, and with it, your favourite part of the week commences.
you straighten your stock one last time, straightening labels and fiddling with the jar of sample spoons, and then there's that familiar thump of a crate against a table.
bucky barnes, the town baker, has arrived. he doesnt say good morning. he rarely does. he just shoulders his way through the growing crowd, lugging one crate after the other from his truck towards his stall. the crates clatter onto the table, fresh bread leaving a trail of steam in the airâ rosemary sourdough, pumpernickel, olive loaf, sun-dried tomato focaccia, and so much more. the smell is intoxicating, warm and homey enough to make any stranger stop in their tracks; and that includes you.
every movement he makes is precise and a little intimidating. his sharp movements shake the tent, one that matches yours. you should be used to it by nowâ and you areâ but it never fails to make your chest flutter a little bit.
"morning, bucky." you chirp anyway, hands folding behind your back with a casual smile. "smells extra good today. what is that? rosemary?"
bucky pauses what he's doing. he drops the crate with a thud and leans back up with a small huff, his hands resting firmly on his hips. he gives you a quick once over, eyes glazing over you like you're the first real person he's seen all day. his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, a hand coming up to rub at the stubble on his jaw before he looks away and continues his work.
"it is." he grunts as leans down to grab a loaf or two from a crate, back turned like the conversation is finished; but knowing you, it never is.
you pretend you don't notice how his gaze lingered longer than necessary. you're used to this game with him by now; him looking, then not looking. him almost saying something, then shutting his mouth.
you lean against your table, a toothy grin settling onto your face before you can stop it. "might have to snag a loaf if you aren't sold out by the end of the day."
he glances at you over his shoulderâ just barelyâ before turning back to his odd arrangement of breads. "you say that every week, sunshine."
sunshine. that heart melting nickname that should not do to you what it does. at first it had been a teaseâ a jab at your relentlessly bright attitudeâ but over the years, it had sunk its teeth into your weekly routine, and you weren't going to jeopardise this one small, sacred pleasure by mentioning it now.
"well, maybe i mean it this time." you shrug, fiddling with a pen just to give your hands something to do, otherwise you'd probably stare holes into his back. "i mean... i told you that rosemary was my favourite herb last week, so either it's just a coincidence that you show up with three rosemary sourdough loafs this week or you actually pay attention to me."
it's an accusation disguised as a harmless joke, but the way he stiffens mid-arrangement tells you exactly how guilty he is.
"you've been inhaling too much of those fruit fumes." he mutters, his his tone is dry enough to rival a desert. he's trying hide the false amusement in his words, but you can read him like a book.
you grin, "uh-huh. sure... thatâs what it is."
"whatever." he murmurs. his eyes float somewhere over your shoulder, nodding just slightly. "you got company."
you turn, and sure enough, there's a pair of older women ogling your stall, all bright smiles and embroidered tote bags slung over their shoulders, brimming with the energy of two people who definitely plan to chat up a stormâ your type of people.
you put on your biggest smile, standing straight and tall. "good morning ladies! how can iâ"
"oh, just look at these, margaret." the taller one cuts in, eyes going wide at the table lined in copious amounts of spreads. "aren't they gorgeous?"
the otherâ margaretâ leans in close to the display, squinting to read a label. "ooo, homemade? my goodness, you must have a gift."
your chest warms. you never get sick of hearing that. "thank you! everything is made fresh every week with produce sourced from local farmers and a few of the vendors at this market. if you'd like to try a sample, i'd be happy toâ"
"let's get a marmalade set, darla. this one has lime, grapefruit, and kumquats. my, i dont think i've ever had kumquat marmalade before." margaret says, "could i sample that?"
"of course!" you quickly nod, reaching over to grab a sampling spoon. you dip it into the kumquat marmalade and hand it over to margaret.
"ooo, pepper jam? i dont think i've ever tried that before." darla marvels, handing the jar towards you with a grin. "i'll throw this one in there as well, sweetheart. ooo, and this garlic butter! i love butter and i love garlic, so this will be wonderful."
margaret licks the sample spoon. "and this kumquat marmalade is amazing. i might have to get two jars of that!"
"let's get three!"
it's pure and utter chaosâ a familiar moment full of talking and sampling and customers debating on which flavour they want to take homeâ and you don't even have to glance over to know that bucky is watching it all happen.
you can feel it in the way he goes quiet, in the pauses between the sound of bread being moved and the rustle of paper bags. he always pretends he isn't paying attention, but you've learned the rhythm of himâ the way he slows down when someone stops at your stall, the way he speeds up when the guy in the next stall over selling fresh produce is flirting with you, the way he stiffens whenever the nickname 'sweetheart' is sent your way.
so you keep smiling and chatting and handing out samples like party favours, a smile plastered on your face like you're not acutely aware of the fact that bucky's zeroing in on every single word you say and every little movement you make.
by the time margaret and darla come to a conclusion, your trash can is stuffed full of used sampling spoons and a good chunk of each sampler jar is gone.
"i think..." darla pauses with pursed lips, squinting at the jars like she's negotiating world peace. "we'll take all of these."
the ladies place a handful of items in front of you, and you instantly perk up like you'd just won the lottery.
you nod, "of course! so the marmalade set, the kumquat marmalades, the pepper jam, and the garlic butter all together will be $60. will that be cash or card?"
"card please dear."
you pause mid reach for your card reader, only to find that it's not in its usual spot on the table. you pay your apron pockets, but all you can feel is a pen, some spare change, and a candy wrapper.
"oh shoot." you blink. "i think i left my card machine in the car."
the ladies blink at you, surprised, while you try to scramble for a solution. leaving "i'm... i can run and grab it really quick, butâ"
bucky's low, dry voice cuts through your sentence.
"i'll take care of them." he says as he steps out from behind his stall, making his way to the divide that separates the two of you. "you go and get your reader."
"you sure?" you ask, hesitant.
you'd never asked him to look after your stall or your customersâ because frankly, this has never happened to you beforeâ and asking something like this of him would be bold... risky... slightly terrifying.
his eyes flick up at you, sharp and unamused. he gestures with his head for you to leave, "yes. go before the ladies' butter melts."
but of course, as usual, the baker never lets you down.
"thanks bucky. i owe you." you can't help the grin that tugs at your lips as your pull your apron off, already halfway out of your stall. "i'll be two seconds, ladies! try not to eat anymore samples!"
you turn on your heel and dash towards the parking lot where your beloved card reader sits. bucky and the women watch as you dart off, a blur of sunshine weaving through the early morning crowds.
"that one's a real keeper. its like speaking to sunshine in a human body." darla says with a light laugh as she turns back to bucky. "you must be real proud."
bucky raises his brows, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. "it's hard not to be."
"what a beautiful pair. you two are so sweet together." margaret swoons, "honestly, the way you two look at each otherâ it's something out of a movie."
the women practically vibrate with excitement, fully convinced the two of you are dating, and he shifts from one foot to the other, jaw ticking slightly. buckyâ the infuriatingly grumpy bakerâ does absolutely nothing to correct them. he just stands there, arms crossed, expression perpetually gruff.
because he loves it. he loves watching you smile so big when customers compliment you. he loves when customers gush about you to him. he loves when they assume that he's yours. every time someone treats you like you two belong together because of the perfect pairing of jam and bread, his heart swells.
and although he never actually claims that he's yours, he never ever denies it whenever someone brings it up.
darla presses a hand to her chest, "so bright and so sweet. just being around that kind of presence makes you feel... lighter."
"mhm." bucky's jaw clenches when he catches sight of you wandering your way back towards them, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. "spending a lot of time around that one'll do that to you."
margaret and darla follow his gaze, watching the way it locks onto youâ how he tracks every small move you make like looking at anything else just isn't an option for him.
"he's gone." darla whispers to margaret with utter delight.
"oh, stop it, you're making me emotional." margaret swats her hand at bucky like they're old friends, her eyes tearing up. "you two are perfect. don't you dare let that one go."
bucky barely has to think of a reply. it's one that feels natural and complete, like it's been sitting on his tongue for years just waiting for someone to tell him; "wasn't plannin' on it."
the three of them watch as you make your way back, footsteps eager against the gravel.
"got it!" you announce triumphantly as you shake the card reader around in the air like a trophy. you slide back into the stall with a breathless sigh, glancing between the women and bucky. "he didn't say anything bad about me, did he?"
darla shakes her head, "trust me, darling, that man thinks the world of you."
"is that so?" you tease, glancing towards bucky.
bucky rolls his eyes, a little too fast and a little too defensive, he grumbles something low under his breath that nobody can quite make out as he turns to tend to a customer at his own stall. the women share a knowing look and you pretend not to notice that faint pink blush that coats the tips of his ears.
ever the professional, you start up the card reader and bag their purchases. while you work, you lean in just a touch and whisper to the ladies in a conspiratorial toneâ
"if you want something to go with those spreads, he sells any type of bread you can think of. his bread is really good, but don't tell him i said that."
you dont even have to look over to know that bucky heard you, because he always hears you. and right on cue, thereâs a soft scoff behind you. he acts annoyed, but you see it in the reflection of a mason jarâ the tiniest, stupidest, most hopeless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
the day goes by before your eyes, and soon enough itâs the late afternoon. the sun is on its way out, low and golden and hazy, and you can sense the market energy draining out of both you and all of the other vendors.
your sample jars are half empty, which is usually a good sign, and about three quarters of your products have been sold. you make a mental note to visit the donation centre later. whatever doesnât sell always ends up thereâ itâs become a tradition for many of the vendors at the market.
across the small gap between your stalls, bucky stands with his back turned towards his stock. you notice how empty it isâ almost completely picked apart besides for a few loaves of the more sophisticated breads. youâve sold a lot; heâs sold more. its a good day for the both of you, and now that youâre getting hungry, you decide to start packing up.
and just as always, the noise of glass jars clinking together catches buckyâs attention. he never seems to ignore the sound that signals your inevitable departure.
âleavinâ so soon?â he asks, not looking at you. he continues wiping bread crumbs off his table, glancing up only when you reply.
you nod as you stuff your products into a box. âif i donât eat soon, i might pass out, and then youâd feel obligated to resuscitate me.â
he huffs out a laughâ a small, barely audible laughâ and shakes his head. âdonât be dramatic. if you needed something, you coulda just asked.â
you scoff, âwhat, and eat up all of your stock? youâd have nothing to sell and iâd never hear the end of it.â
bucky raises his brows like youâve just said nonsense. âyou think iâd complain about someone eatinâ bread i already made?â
âyes.â you answer almost immediately.
his mouth falls open like heâs about to say something, but then, just as quick, he snaps it shut. âwhatever.â he grumbles, picking up a crate like itâd personally offended him.
you laugh to yourself as you wipe your hands on your apron. youâre about to turn around when buckyâs voice cuts through the rough crunch of cardboard and box buffer.
âactually, i was wondering ifââ
and just as bucky had started speaking and youâd barely had enough time to face him, a customer strolls up to his stall like itâs still noon. both of you turn to face a woman with a floral dress and a wide brimmed hat. the universe has such great timing.
âexcuse me! hi, sorry.â she calls with a smile, âi hope iâm not too late. youâre still open, right?â
buckyâs mouth shuts so fast that you can hear the click of his teeth. disappointment flickers through his eyes before he kills it, a customer-ready expression replacing it. he clears his throat, the muscle working around a lump as he straightens his back and wipes his hands together.
âlucky. i was just about to close up shop.â bucky says, voice flat but forced into something vaguely polite. âwhat can i getcha?â
"well, i was speaking to a couple of ladies just before and they mentioned that you had some rosemary sourdough." the lady says, hands clasped together like she's waiting for a miracle.
bucky does the theatrical act of pretending to look around his stall for the loaf, even leaning to the left a little and lifting a box on his right like maybe an entire loaf of sourdough might appear out of thin air, but you both know that thereâs nothing left.
"seems like iâve sold out." his voice is friendly enough, but you can hear the disappointment in itâ disappointment that has nothing to do with bread. "but i've got this sourdough with caramelised onions and another with olives and sun dried tomatoes. how do those sound?"
the ladyâs eyes widen like sheâs just been offered the key to the fountain of eternal youth. "ooo, that onion one sounds great! i think i'll take a loaf of that.â
âgreat choice.â bucky grabs the last caramelised onion loaf and wraps it up, handing it to the lady with practiced ease.
even after paying, the lady stays to talk buckyâs ear off. she goes on about how her in-laws are visiting for the weekend and theyâre both bread fanatics and blah blah blah. buckyâs customer service attitude is in full effect, but every time her head is turned, you catch little glimpses of him trying to get back to you, eyes flicking your way like heâs trying to keep your attention in the midst of your packing up.
by the time the lady pays and walks away with the loaf tucked under her arm and bucky turns back to you, youâre already tugging your bag over your shoulder and hauling your leftover stock onto the table in two big boxes. youâre done, packed and ready to head back into town for another week of gruelling responsibility.
itâs only then that you realise that the moment you had briefly shared was gone. you force out a breath and give him a small smileâ gentle, polite, safe.
âiâm heading off. long drive ahead of me.â you gesture to the parking lot with a tight lipped smile. âiâll see you next week, barnes.â
you start to turnâ slow, almost hesitantâ waiting for either a hand on your shoulder or for nothing at all. after a few steps, you accept defeat. bucky isnât going to call you. youâre just friends; if you can even call yourself that.
âwait.â
bucky calls. itâs not dramatic or overwhelming. its a quiet step forwards and a slip of the tongue, the kind that someone makes when theyâd been holding something back for too long, and you stop and turn like youâd been waiting for it.
he clears his throat once and holds something out for you. "here."
in his hand sits a brown paper bag, a twine bow wrapped around it with a small tag hidden underneath the knot, ârosemary sourdoughâ scribbled in messy handwriting that that you recognise as his. he mustâve written it in a rush, maybe even before the market started, maybe even with you in mind.
you pauses for a moment, blinking like your mind needs to catch up to what heâs offering you. you take it with care, your fingers brushing hisâ entirely accidental but enough to make your pulse spike. the scent of rosemary filling your nose.
"i thought you sold out of the rosemary sourdough." you murmur as you stare down at the packaged loaf, sounding a little breathless.
bucky shrugs a shoulder, gaze dropping to the ground for a second before returning to you. "i did.â he says simply. âi saved this one for you. figured you might want it.â
the words linger as the paper crinkles in your hands. youâre sure your heart might explode at any moment, so instead of bursting out into tears like you feel like you might do, you give him a smile.
âthank you, bucky. this is really nice.â
for a split second, it looks like he doesnât know what to do with it. he looks like he didnât expect a smile or gratitude or the way youâre looking at him now. his jaw clenches once, throat bobbing like heâs fighting the urge to look awayâ but he doesnât.
âdâyou have dinner plans?â he rushes out in a single breath, like if he didnât say it fast enough he wouldnât have said it at all.
âdinner?â you blink, âi mean⊠i have leftovers that need to be eaten by tonight or theyâre getting thrown out⊠but otherwise, no, i donât. why?â
âyou said earlier that you were hungry, so i figured that we could⊠yâknowâŠâ bucky trails off, awkwardly gesturing between the two of you in the most endearing way youâve ever witnessed. âmaybe we could fix that.â
you stare at him for a moment, the gears turning in your brain. you give him a cheeky smile. âwhat are you asking me, bucky?â
he rolls his eyes, but thereâs no real bite to it. he knows that you know what heâs asking, and he knows that youâre teasing him and he canât do a damn thing about it. that familiar grumpy edge in his face melts away and he gives you a deep breathy laugh.
âyou know what iâm asking.â he says, and you canât ignore the way you hear his voice waver just slightly. "you also said you owe me, so how about i take you up on that offer and take you out tonight? my treat."
oh my god, you want to jump his bones right now.
you grin big enough to make your face hurt. "it sounds like you've been looking for an excuse to ask me out, bucky. you couldâve done it forever ago.â
âi couldveââ he says quietly. âbut the last thing i wanted to do was rush you, sunshine.â
your heart stutters embarrassingly loud in your chest. you dont hesitate, nor do you play coy. you dont have to anymore now that you know heâs just as enamoured with you as you are with him.
you nod. âiâd love to have dinner with you, bucky.â
and for a moment, he just stands thereâ like maybe his brain has to catch up to what youâve just said, like maybe he didnât hear you quite rightâ but the way youâre standing in front of him, practically beaming, settles warmly in his chest.
âokay.â he clears his throat, trying to play cool but he fails spectacularly. âgood. uh⊠thatâs good.â
and then, because playing cool isnât working;
ââm starving too, soâŠâ he adds with a nonchalant shrug.
you donât laugh, but your eager smile gives you away. god, heâs so big and gruff and hopeless and idiotic that it just makes you wanna throw yourself at him.
and bucky noticesâ because he always doesâ his eyes flickering down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he clears his throat and forces himself to look somewhere else. he grabs a crate even though itâs empty like he needs to do something with his hands before he says something he regrets.
âlet me justââ he gestures vaguely at the table still scattered with his things, âfinish up here.â
âiâll help.â youâre already reaching for a crate, placing his display items into them. âthat way we can get to dinner earlier.â
you finish packing together in a rhythm youâve never experienced before. your hand brushes his every so often and his shoulder brushed yours whenever he passes you, both of you acting like itâs an accident when you know damn well that it isnât.
as the sun sets and the two of you help each other pack your stalls into your cars, you cant help but smile. weekends have always been your favourite, and now you finally know why.
Hello and đđ»đŠđ§đ»ââïžHAPPY HALLOWEENđ§đ»ââïžđŠđ»đ!
I'm technically a few days early but tbh all of October is Halloween to me (every day of the year is Halloween in my heart if we're being real). Pleas enjoy my second Halloween fic of the year đ§Ąđ€
Warnings: discussion of Bucky's past
Word Count: 14.1k
Bucky reluctantly drifted through the doors of the tower and boarded the elevator. Being this late wasnât like him; he wasnât the type to shirk his responsibilities. But he didnât even want to attend this particular event, let alone arrive early to help set up. He wasnât big on parties, wasnât a fan of Halloween, and a combination of the two was his version of hell. Almost.
 âThat is not a costume,â Yelena huffed when he made it to the twentieth floor. She was decked out in some kind of haunted doll get up, complete with horrifying make up.Â
âWhat? Itâs-â Bucky glanced down at his clothes, âYes, it is. I bought it at a costume shop.â
Yelena was unconvinced, âThatâs not a costume- itâs a sweater.â
âBut I- itâs that movie, Friday the Thirteenth,â Bucky argued. He pulled on the tattered edge of his green and red sweater to accentuate his point. âIâm Michael Meyers.â
âI think youâre thinking of Freddy Kreuger, man,â John called from behind the bar. He was setting up the liquor and readying the ice, clad in a costume Bucky didnât recognize. âFreddy Kreuger is from Halloween.â
âHeâs actually from Nightmare on Elm Street,â Bob corrected. He wore a simple green shirt and brown pantsâ Bucky recognized him as Shaggy from Scooby Doo, as Bob had shown him a few episodesâ though no one else was dressed as the other members of the Mystery Inc gang. âMichael Meyers is from Halloween, and Jason Voorhees is from Friday the Thirteenth.â
âWhatever,â Bucky sighed. âItâs a costume.â
âIsnât Freddy Krueger supposed to be all-â Ava gestured to her face, which was painted like a zombie. âIsnât his face fucked up?â
âAnd heâs supposed to have a glove made of knives, or something,â John added.Â
âMetal hand is close enough!â Alexei shot Bucky a look of approval. âLooks cool, man.â He adjusted the cowboy hat he wore and raised a brow at Bucky, hoping to receive the same approval. Bucky granted him a polite nod, though he had no idea who Alexei was supposed to be.
âFreddy also wears a hatâŠâ Bob said, immediately followed by a âSorry.â
âAlright, well, you guys told me to wear a costume, so I went to a costume shop and- this is my costume,â Bucky ran a hand through his hair. He was already looking forward to the end of the night, and it hadnât even started yet. âI can either wear this and stay, or I can go.â
âNo, itâs fine- youâre staying,â Yelena finally conceded. âAnd people will be here soon- get to work. Help Alexei with the kegs.â
He expected to spend the whole night sitting in a corner, sipping on whiskey that wouldnât get him drunk. What he hadnât been expecting, however, was you.
âHoly shitâŠâ you muttered under your breath.
The sheer size of the crowd stopped you in your tracks as you exited the elevator. Half of the city mustâve been there, packed tightly into the large space. They formed a pulsing mass on the dance floor, moving in sync with the music. Everyone was decked out for the occasion, sporting costumes from popular horror blockbusters and obscure deep cuts alike.
With the party already in full swing, you were certain youâd find Olivia amongst the masses. And yet, not one familiar face appeared as you scanned the crowd. Part of you wasnât surprised Olivia hadnât shown yet; the surprising thing was that sheâd agreed to attend at all. It was the mature thing for her to do, you supposed. The adult thing. She was accepting an olive branch from John, allowing him back into her life slowly but surely. And doing so more graciously than you ever wouldâve.
You lingered near the elevator, hoping you didnât look like too much of a wallflower, and fired off a text to Olivia.
âIâm here!â
A gray ellipsis materialized on her side of the conversation before disappearing. It popped up again, then vanished. When it appeared a third time, a message finally followed.
âDonât be mad at meâŠâ it read.
You sighed, knowing you were going to be frustrated, at the very least.Â
âCanât do it. I just wanna hang out at home by myself. Iâm sorry!â
Your irritation evaporated.
Could you really blame her? Well, yes, you could. You could blame her for waiting until you were already in the belly of the beast to tell you that she was flaking. But you couldnât blame her for not wanting to attend. Her relationship with John was rocky these days, to say the least. And though they were attending counseling and working toward reconciling, you werenât sure theyâd make it.
With a sigh, you responded to her text.Â
âI totally get it! Donât worry.âÂ
A strong wave of disappointment crested and crashed over you. Youâd been looking forward to tonight. To drinking and dancing with Olivia. To celebrating Halloween with your closest friend and endless rounds of expensive booze. But she had to do what was best for her well-being, and you understood.Â
You opted to do the same, to pursue what was best for your well-being. And as it turned out, what was best for you was getting drunk.Â
Bucky fought his way through the throngs of people and made his way to the bar for another double whiskey. He passed by countless pairs of eyesâsome widened in shock or fear, others narrowed into slits out of hatred or distrust. It seemed that everyone he passed stared at him and subsequently turned their back on him.
It struck him as odd that people chose to shun him at his own party. He knew, of course, that they had plenty of reason to spurn him. To hate him. To fear him. But he wondered why theyâd even attend, knowing that he would be involved. Everyone knew he was part of the Thunderboltsâor the New Avengers or whatever the name was now. They knew that he was going to be here. That he was, regardless of his lack of enthusiasm, one of the hosts. If they were so horrified, so disgusted by him, why show up at all?
But as he made it to the bar and eyed the rows and rows of expensive liquor, it made sense.Â
He eyed his watch. Only an hour had passed since the start of the party, and he knew it had the potential to last until sunrise. Just the thought had him planning to ask for a triple this time. His metal fingers tinked against his glass as he waited for the bartender to look in his direction. And then he heard something.
âSo, who are you supposed to be?â A voice asked over the roar of the music.
Surely, this question wasnât directed at him- was it? He turned to his right and found you staring at him, waiting for an answer. But the question evaporated the second he laid eyes on you. He wasnât quite sure what you were dressed asâ something witchy, maybe?â but it didnât matter. He found you stunning.
âUm, sorry,â he gave you an apologetic smile. âWhat?â
âI said, who are you supposed to be?â You asked again, gesturing toward his attempt at a costume. âSexy Freddy Krueger?â
An instant blush burned his cheeks.
âI um- No, Iâm justâŠâ he stumbled over his words, âIâm just Freddy Krueger- regular Freddy Krueger.â
Slowly, you raked your gaze over his form, landing on his face. He was, indeed, wearing Freddy Kruegerâs trademarked sweater, but that was where the resemblance stopped. He had a kind smile. Kind eyes. He blushed easily and often.
He seemed out of place here. Like he wasnât one for parties. Like he wanted to retreat, to disappear. He was too quiet for a place like this. Too still amongst the chaos.Â
âAre you sure? Freddy Krueger is all-â you motioned toward your face, mimicking Avaâs gesture from a few hours earlier. âAnd youâre soâŠâ All at once, you lost your nerve, choking on the compliment you intended to give him. âI just mean, you donât look anything like him. Thatâs all.â
You feared it was too clunky. Too awkward. Feared that he might think you were criticizing his costume instead of complimenting his dazzling features. But another blaze of warmth  tinged his cheeks. Another shy smile stretched across his face. And you figured he got the gist.
âIâm Bucky,â he blurted out. He thrust his right hand in your direction and immediately regretted the too formal gesture. But the embarrassment fell away when the lilt of your magical laugh filled the air and your hand landed in his.Â
âYeah, I know who you are,â you laughed.
It sent a cloud of butterflies loose in his stomach. You knew who he was, and by extension what heâd done. But you didnât seem disturbed or put off by him. Instead, you introduced yourself andâ did you scoot closer to him? He was certain you had.Â
âSo, why are you here?â Bucky asked. He gave a shake of his head, fearing it sounded rude; he didnât mean to come off as rude. âOr, I mean, who invited you?â Still rude. He sighed, âUm, did you-â
âIâm friends with Olivia,â you told him. âJohnâs wife.â
âOh,â Bucky gave the room a cursory glance, but he was certain he hadnât seen Olivia around. He didnât even know John invited her. Didnât know they were doing so well. âI didnât know she was here.â
âSheâs not. She backed out last minute,â you sighed. âShe wanted me to come with her, since things with John have beenâŠâ you grimaced. âAnyway, she texted me last minute and told me that she wasnât coming, but I was already here. So,â you shrugged, âI figured that Iâd drink your fancy liquor for a while before I head out.â
âAnd you couldnât waste that great costume,â he said, eyeing your outfit.Â
He hoped it sounded confident and complimentary, though he had no idea who you were supposed to be. You were dressed head to toe in black, with thick black eyeliner, crimson lipstick, and an array of spooky necklaces. He stared for what he figured was probably a rude amount of time before giving up.
âAre you dressed as, umâŠâ he gave a small shrug, âA goth?â It almost sounded apologetic.
A wide, dazzling smile stretched across his face as you threw your head back in a laugh. Normally, he felt a little self-conscious about his lack of pop culture prowess. He hated not understanding references and hated asking for explanations even more. But you didnât make him feel stupid for not recognizing your costume.Â
âSort of!â your hand brushed against his arm ever so slightly.  âIâm Nancy Downs from The Craft. Have you seen it?â
He shook his head, âWhatâs it about?â
An enthusiastic glint appeared in your eyes as you gave him a summary of the movieâs plot. And from that point on, he didnât leave your side. The two of you laughed and chatted at the bar a while longer before moving to the plush couches in the corner, completely ignoring the hordes of other partygoers.Â
The party felt empty suddenly, like everyone else had filed out and left the two of you completely alone. Bucky didnât notice the noise or the writhing bodies on the dance floor. Didnât mind the thumping bass. He stopped using his glass like a crutch. Stopped staring down into his whiskey, hoping heâd disappear. He was all encompassed by you: your laugh, your smile, your sense of humor.Â
He hung on your every word, enchanted by your thoughts and opinions. You were just so charming, so engaging. So sweet and fun and easy to talk to. And your laugh? Intoxicating. Heâd asked you so many questions, he almost felt like he was giving you the third degree. But he couldnât help it. He wanted to know you. Wanted to know everything about you.Â
When you finally managed to ask him a question of your own, it almost struck him as odd.
What could you possibly want to know about him? He was the ex-assassin turned covert agent. Anyone with internet access knew his story: the draft. The war. The Winter Soldier. What else was there to know? And why would you be interested in details about his life, when you were the far more bewitching one?
But you were interestedâ really interested. Interested in the man whoâd stood alone at the bar, looking like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. The man who was quiet, yet magnetic. The man who was nothing like the stories.
Of course, youâd heard what the public said about him. Heard people call him a monster. Heard news anchors label him evil and twisted and demented. Heard politicians call for his immediate and permanent imprisonmentâor worse.
But he seemed harmless to you. Soft, even. He made you feel comfortable. Safe. And as it turned out, he was just a regular person. There was nothing monstruous or evil about him. He had a warm heart, a kind soul. And a vicious, horrifying past that he didnât deserve. But he was doing his best to move past it, slowly but surely. He had a cautious laugh, almost like he was waiting for something awful to happen. For the other shoe to drop.Â
In truth, he was waiting for you to be horrified by him. He was waiting for you to run in fear.
But you didnât. You listened to him like no one else did. Allowed him room to speak without judgement or harshness. You didnât grow impatient when his memories fell through the fine mesh of his mind. Didnât laugh when he came up empty on a modern reference. You asked follow-up questions and empathized with him when his answers pulled the curtain back on pieces of his shadowy past.Â
He was almost startled by how at home he felt with you. By all definitions, you were a stranger. But there was something about you that made him comfortable. That lowered his defenses. He hadnât felt like this in yearsâdecades.
He found himself aching to be closer to you. To leave no space between your bodies or souls. He was drawn to you, so much so that he wondered if maybe you actually were a witch. Maybe youâd put a spell on him.Â
The pull was so strong, he had to make a concerted effort to pull back some. To give you room to breathe. He broke the long gaze youâd been sharing for the last few seconds and chose to eye his drink instead.
âOh, yeah, thanks. But I didnât do much- just moved some of the heavy stuff. This is mostly Yelena, Ava, and Bob. Iâm not really a Halloween guy.â
You choked on your drink.Â
It was the first time he saw a look of judgement cross your features.Â
âYou donât like Halloween?â The horror in your expression was almost comical.
âYeah, no, not really,â he shrugged. âItâs just not for me.â
There was something in his voice that told you this wasnât just a matter of preference. Something elseâsomething darkerâlingered under his surface. But you didnât pry, didnât say a word. Instead, you gave him the space to elaborate, if he was comfortable doing so. And he was.Â
âItâs weird for me. People dress up as me- as a version of me. And itâs not, I mean, itâs not a big deal, I guess. I know Iâm not that guy anymore. But when I see people in Winter Soldier costumes, and theyâre all covered in fake blood, itâsâŠâ He shook his head a bit. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, his metal hand disappeared into his pocket. âIt reminds me that that version of me will exist forever, no matter what I do.â
You remained silent- partially out of respect, partially out of uncertainty. What could you possibly say to make him feel better? To heal his hurt?
He shrugged, growing uneasy in the quiet. âI donât know if that makes sense.â
âIt does,â you assured him. âItâsâŠâ You thought carefully over your words before speaking. âWhen people take your darkest, most traumatic days and turn them into a costume, it makes light of what you went through. It cheapens your suffering and turns it into some cheesy bit you can buy at Spirit Halloween.â
He considered this for a moment. âWell⊠I mean, yeah. I guess. But I was always thought more about how it makes light of what I did. The people I hurt. Those things canât ever be undone.âÂ
You wondered how anyone could ever paint him in a bad light. How anyone could call him a monster. How anyone could call him cold or soulless. He was neck-deep in remorse, drowning in guilt for things that werenât even his fault. Agonizing over everything heâd doneâeverything heâd been forced to do. He was in pain, and he didnât even care; he was too concerned about the pain he caused.
âThat makes sense,â you nodded. âOf course, you thought of it that way. Because youâre not selfish. Youâre a good person.â
He wasnât sure you knew who you were talking to. You called him a good person? Of all people? He wondered if maybe you were missing part of his story. If youâd only heard bits and pieces. Maybe you were confused. Maybe you didnât know just how much blood was really on his hands.
âIâmâŠâ he gave a quiet laugh, tinged with something darker. âIâm not so sure about that.â
âYou didnât choose to do those things,â you said. Your hand found its way to his forearm and gently rested on the sleeve of his Freddy Krueger sweater. The chill of his metal arm seeped through the fabric. âYou didnât choose to be that guy- that version of you was created against your will.â
A sad smile flickered across his face. He wondered how you could feel such empathy for him. How you could be so understanding. How you could see him so clearly, even through the dark, muddy waters of his past. He thought it best not to question it, for fear of jinxing the entire night.Â
The two of you shared a long look. Usually, he preferred to keep his eyes down. To go unseen. It was force of habit now that he was back, now that people sneered at him on the street every day. But your features didnât twist in disgust as you stared into his eyes. There was nothing judgmental or scornful in your expression. You saw him. Not the monster people painted him out to be. Not his ghosts. Just him. Only him.Â
He wanted to live in this moment forever. In this safe, comfortable space where no one else existed. Where he didnât have to shrink away or fade into the background. Just your eyes endlessly locked on his. He wanted it to lastâ
But all at once, it was too much. You were too close. Your gaze too deep. He felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. He supposed this is what it was like to be seen- really seen- for the first time in ninety years. It overwhelmed him.Â
He feared that you might actually be able to see his soul; what if you didnât like the way it looked?Â
âCan I um-âHe stood suddenly, needing a moment to breathe. âIâll go- Iâll get you another drink.â He snatched your empty glass from the table, turned on his heel, and vanished into the crowd.Â
You stared after him, still wearing the ghost of a smile. His departure was so abrupt, so unexpected. You werenât quite sure what had happened. Youâd scared him off, somehow, hadnât you? Ruined everything? Was it your touch make him uncomfortable? Or were your words to blame? Had you forced him to talk about things he wasnât ready to discuss? It had taken him some time to open up. Some coaxing here and there. But you hadnât forced him to return your flirtations. To bare his soul.Â
Maybe you misinterpreted the entire evening. Maybe he was simply being polite. Maybe he was just being a good host, nothing more. Maybe his interest in you was strictly platonic. Maybe he wasnât interested at all.
Regret pooled in his chest. He shouldnât have run like that. Shouldnât have shied away, especially not when you were so kind to him. He feared that maybe youâd get the wrong idea. That youâd think he wasnât interested. That youâd leave before he got back from the bar. He turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.
And to his relief, there you were, smiling at him as you locked eyes across the distance. You gave him a small wave. A shy smile tugged at his muscles. He waved back using your empty glass and headed toward the bar, confident that youâd be waiting for him upon his return.
The catastrophizing thoughts youâd had only moments ago melted away. The anxiety pulsing through your veins dissipated. You allowed yourself to lean back against the couch cushions, assured that the evening was still on the right track. That you hadnât fucked it up. That he was coming right back.
With Bucky absent for the time being, you fished your phone out of your pocket and sent a text to Olivia.Â
âHey! Just checking in, you doing alright?â
Part of you felt guilty for not ditching the party the second she backed out. Maybe you were supposed to go check on her. Maybe she wanted you to spend the evening at her place instead of at her estranged husbandâs Halloween party.Â
But Olivia was a mature adult. She wasnât the kind of person who expected those around her to read her mind. If sheâd wanted you to come over and listen to her vent, she wouldâve said so. John was the poor communicator in that relationship, not her.Â
She responded only a moment later:
âIâm fine! Watching Scary Movie and eating Twizzlers. All good!â
Her answer provided instant relief. Of course, you were thrilled that your friend was doing well. That she was enjoying her night. But you were even more thrilled that youâd get to stay at the party. That youâd get to stay with Bucky.Â
Just as you began drafting a follow-up text to Olivia, a familiar voice pulled your focus.Â
âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
You looked up to find a few of Johnâs army buddies approaching. You didnât know them well; they werenât the kind of guys youâd ever willingly spend time with. They were loud. Obnoxious. Rude. The way they spoke to Olivia- the way they spoke to you- sent red flags flying at full mast. But youâd been forced into their proximity over the course of your friendship with Olivia. Birthday parties, barbecues, and New Yearâs celebrations always included the miserable trio that made up Johnâs friend group.
And tonight, theyâd clearly over-indulged in the free alcohol and seemed to be looking for a fight. For someone to terrorize. But they werenât worth your trouble. Werenât worth getting worked up. You couldnât find it in you to conjure anything stronger than mild annoyance, especially when your night had been nearly perfect so far.Â
You sighed and dropped your eyes back to your phone. âWhat do you want, Matt?âÂ
The man was, of course, dressed as Patrick Bateman. Heâd surely never read American Psycho, nor had he picked up on the storyâs heavy-handed satire.Â
âYou shouldnât be here,â he spat.Â
âYeah, you donât even like John,â one of the other men said. You were nearly certain his name was Garrett, though you didnât really care.Â
âYouâre always a bitch to him,â Luke added. âYou shouldnât be at his party.â
Matt rolled his eyes, âYouâve been trying to sabotage John- youâve been talking shit about him to Olivia for years!â
Finally, you had to speak up.
âAlright, first of all: telling Olivia that sheâs allowed to be upset with John after what heâs done is not âtalking shitâ,â you said. âAnd second: Olivia is an adult. Sheâs her own person. If she doesnât want to come to the party, she doesnât have to.âÂ
Luke shot you a look of disgust, âI bet youâre the reason she decided not to come.âÂ
It was clear that there was no end in sight to the onslaught of their drunken rage. You stood from the couch and figured youâd set off toward the bar. That youâd go find Bucky and leave these losers in the dust.
âYou wanted to ruin Johnâs night,â Garrett took a step toward you, blocking your path. âYou wanted to sabotage him-Â again!â
He launched his beer at you, drenching you to the bone. Two more frigid waves followed as Matt and Luke copied his example. The cold left you in a momentary state of shock, but the obnoxious laughter of the three men yanked you out of your haze. And suddenly, you realized just how thoroughly soaked you were. Beer dripped down your face. Clung to your hair. It saturated your outfit, permeating every layer of clothing, all the way down to your socks.
Buckyâs voice came out of nowhere, âWhat the fuck?âÂ
You hadnât noticed him approach. Hadnât realized heâd walked up behind you mere seconds ago. He, too, had gotten caught in the storm, though he wasnât nearly as sodden as you. Only one of the sleeves of his red and green sweater was damp; his situation was salvageable. Yours, on the other hand, was not.
He placed a gentle hand on the small of your back, âAre you okay?âÂ
âYeah Iâm-â you shrugged and cast your eyes to the side, hoping to avoid his gaze, âItâs just beer. Iâm fine.â
You swiped the back of your hand across your forehead, catching a few rogue drops that trailed from your hairline. This was not how you imagined the night might go. Not how you wanted Bucky to see you. You were certain you looked a mess. Certain you mustâve lost any air of confidence you mightâve had before. The cool, self-assured woman Bucky had gotten to know vanished, leaving her soaking wet, pathetic sister behind. But you forced a smile, hoping he wouldnât see through the cracks in your façade.Â
He eyed you for another moment, thoroughly searching your expression. Sure, you had a smile on your face. Sure, you said you were fine. But he could tell that you were shaken. Uncomfortable. And he could tell that you were trying your damnedest to seem unbothered, though he wasnât sure if you were doing so for your benefit or his.
He dragged his eyes away for a second, shooting daggers at Johnâs friends, before bringing his gaze back to you.Â
âGive me one minute, alright?â He waited for you to nod, and then he was gone.
He grabbed the collars of all three men in his metal hand and dragged them toward the door. No amount of struggling or protesting freed them; he was just that strong. You watched from across the room as Yelena intercepted him and asked what he was doing. She clearly thought he was unjustifiably roughing up the party guests. But upon his explanation, she grew just as enraged. She took over for him in ejecting the three obnoxious men, and you couldâve sworn you saw a wicked smile pulling at her lips as she did so.Â
Bucky made a beeline for you, weaving through the crowd until he arrived at your side.Â
He rested a hand on your upper arm, âAre you alright? What was that about?â
âLong story,â you sighed, âTheyâre Johnâs friends. And they donât like me because I donât like him. They think Iâm sabotaging his relationship with Olivia- itâs a whole thing.â
He could tell you werenât that kind of person; you werenât conniving or manipulative. He knew that the relationship John and Olivia shared was already tenuous; it didnât need sabotage from some outside force. And he knew that John, like anyone, had his flaws.Â
âThey sound like great guys,â Bucky grimaced. âIâm really sorry about this.â
âItâs- Iâm fine,â you lied. âHonestly, itâs not a big deal.â
He gave you a once over and frowned. Beer dripped from your clothing, forming a puddle at your feet. Your eye make-up streaked down your cheeks, leaving smudges in its wake. And in his absence, youâd begun to shiver.
âI can- here, do you want to go to my room? Iâll get you a change of clothes and call you a car, okay?â
You thought it over for a long moment. The strong sting of embarrassment begged you to say no. Begged you to disappear into the crowd. To ditch the partyâto ditch Bucky. To call yourself an uber home and never look back. People were staring now. Pointing. Some were even laughing. You found yourself searching for the clearest path to the exit.
Bucky sensed your trepidation, could practically feel the humiliation radiating off of you. He caught you folding your arms over your chest, hugging them tight to your body. Noticed the way you refused to meet his eyeline. It felt all too familiar to him. He, too, adopted these same tendencies when he was embarrassed. When he was ashamed. It happened far too frequently for him to not recognize the signs.
âYou donât have anything to be embarrassed about, you know,â he said. He wished the words had come out a little softer, but he was forced to almost yell over the roar of the speakers. âYou didnât do anything wrong.â
Normally, that kind of reassurance didnât work on you. Every time your well-meaning mother told you not to worry an anxiety-inducing situation, every time your friends told you not to be embarrassed about something humiliating- it made things worse. Maybe because you could sense they didnât mean it, that they were just saying it to make you feel better.Â
But Bucky meant it. You could tell. You thought he was quite possibly the sincerest person youâd ever met.Â
âCome on, let me get you some clothes, okay?â Bucky frowned again at the intense shivers that shook you every few seconds, âYouâre freezing.â
And though you still had half a mind to run for the hills, Bucky was right. You were, indeed, freezing. Goosebumps rose along the surface of your skin and if you hadnât clenched your jaw, your teeth wouldâve chattered. And if you were being honest with yourself, nothingânot even life-threatening embarrassmentâ could drive you from his side. Youâd stay in your beer-soaked clothes until sunup if it meant getting to spend more time with him.Â
âOkay, yeah,â you gave him a weak smile, âThanks.â
With one arm curved protectively around your back, Bucky pulled you close and ushered you carefully through the crowd. He shot sharp glances at anyone who dared to snicker as you passed. And when your sodden shoes made you slip on the slick floors, he steadied you, never allowing you to fall. He protected you. Kept you safe.Â
With your body tucked into his side, the sharp chill brought on by the cold beer receded just a bit. Being so close to him warmed your skin and ignited a roaring fire in your chest. But it was instantly snuffed out when you realized that your night with him was over. That youâd have to head home with your clothes in a garbage bag, smelling like Coors Lite. That there was no salvaging the rest of the evening. That there was no possibility of anything happening between the two of you in the future.
It was kind of him to call you a car and provide a change of clothes, but it felt like a consolation prize. Like a bandaid. What you wanted was to talk to him till sunup. To kiss him as the morning light crested over the skyscrapers. To see him again. And again. And again. But you feared that this was the end of the road for the two of you. You reeked like a brewery and had been viciously humiliated in front of a few hundred peopleâ he had plenty reason to avoid you going forward. You were a liability.
Bucky checked in on you every few feet, making sure he wasnât walking to fast or holding you too tight. He only wished heâd been there to intervene, to prevent you from being harassed and subsequently drenched. But he figured that giving you clean clothes and paying for your ride home was the next best thing.Â
He couldnât stop himself from hating those men. For wishing that theyâd suffer. Heâd wanted to hurt them. To leave them bloody and broken. But he couldnât risk scaring you. Couldnât risk showing you that side of him. Youâd spent the entire night believing that he wasnât a monster; he didnât want to give you a reason to change your mind.Â
He was just so disappointed. So heartbroken. He hated seeing you so upset. Hated that you were cold and wet and uncomfortable. Hated that shame forced your eyes down. And he hated that his night with you was over. That he wouldnât get to spend the rest of the evening listening to your stories. Your laugh.Â
Regardless of the obvious connection you seemed to have, Bucky was convinced that heâd never see you again. That this was his one and only slice of heaven. That youâd slip through his fingers and vanish into the ether, never to be heard from again. Within the context of the party, this chemistry you seemed to share seemed real. Tangible. But he was certain that the spell was broken now. That youâd been shocked back to your senses by the ice-cold beer and realized your mistake. Realized that he was a mistake.
It was a hard pill to swallow. Impossible, really. Though he supposed a few hours spent getting to know you was better than never knowing you at all.
âI appreciate you doing this,â you said as the two of you reached the elevator. âIf youâd ditched me back there, I wouldâve understood. Iâm kind of the pariah of the party now.â
Bucky almost laughed. He could tell that you were dead serious, but the concept was ridiculous. Laughable. You were not the pariah. You were simply the innocent victim of a few drunken assholes. He was the one who got death stares and fearful glances. He was the one people avoided like the plague. Bucky was the pariah. The Other. The outsider.Â
But he understood your embarrassment. Your humiliation. Heâd had plenty of cold beers and hot coffees lobbed at him since his return. He knew just how small you felt.
He gave a shake of his head, âYouâre not the-â
Just then, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
âHey!â John called as he caught up to you, âI saw what happened. Sorry about those guys.â
You shrugged, âItâs fine.â
Part of you thought maybe he chose not to interfere on purpose. Maybe he, too, believed you were the reason for the downfall of his relationship. Maybe he watched with glee as his friends targeted you. Maybe he put them up to it. Maybe he was just as guilty. Or maybe he was only guilty of being friends with assholes.Â
âMajor bummer,â John nodded. âUm, but hey, tell Olivia I missed her tonight.â
Bucky rolled his eyes.
âUm, sure,â you sighed, âOr you could tell her.â
John forced an awkward smile.
A quiet chime announced the elevatorâs arrival, and Bucky gently guided you inside.Â
âYou guys have a good night!â John called as the doors closed.
Both you and Bucky let out an exasperated sigh.Â
âClassic John,â you muttered.Â
Bucky gave a soft laugh, âHeâs⊠something else.â
Heat scorched your cheeks as the stench of beer permeated the small elevator car. Never before had you wished to be snapped by Thanos. To disappear into the wind. But suddenly, it sounded like the best possible option. And though you had no desire to put any distance between your body and Buckyâs, you took a half step to the side, as though that might stop him from noticing the smell.Â
It was then that he realized he still had an arm around you. Still had you tucked protectively into his side. He clocked your subtle attempt to free yourself from his grasp and made a move of his own. He quickly took a step away and tucked his hands into his pockets. A wave of guilt doused him.Â
He shouldâve given you your space. Shouldâve known that he was making you uncomfortable. Keeping you so close was fine when the danger of getting lost in the crowd was clear and present. But in the safety of the elevator? He shouldâve known better. He supposed it was just his instincts and adrenaline working overtime, trying to protect you from any and all possible threats. But that was no excuse.
He fixed his gaze on the numbers above the elevator doors, each one lighting up as the car passed. He couldnât bring himself to look anywhere elseâ certainly not at you.Â
Instantly, you mourned the loss of his touch. Of course, you hoped against hope that the pungent odor left behind by the beer was a little less potent with him standing farther away. But you missed his warmth. Missed the sense of safety his strong frame provided. Missed himâ even though he stood only a foot away.
When the elevator arrived on Buckyâs floor, he fought the instinct to place a hand on the small of your back and lead you down the hall. He, instead, kept his hands safely in his pockets. Kept his distance. He directed you toward his bedroom and made a mental note not to close the door when you arrived; he didnât want you feeling trapped.Â
âUm, itâs just in here,â he entered first, flipping on the light so you wouldnât bump into the furniture.
His room was large, but soulless, feeling more like a hotel room than a home. He had the staples: bed, dresser, desk, television. But nothing personal. Nothing warm. There was a sadness to the space. An emptiness. It seemed lonely somehow. Unloved. Maybe, you thought, the room reflected the person. Your heart ached. You wondered how comfortable he could really be here, though you supposed it had to be better than wherever Hydra kept him all those years.Â
A stack of cardboard boxes in the corner caught your eye, and you wondered if he was moving in or out. Selfishly, you hoped he wasnât leaving the city.
âOh, sorry about those,â Bucky nodded toward the boxes. âI just got here about a week ago, and Iâm not done unpacking.â
He hadnât expected company. Hadnât expected a woman to be in his bedroom, for even the most innocent of reasons. If heâd known that you were coming, he wouldâve tried to make the place a little homier. A little cozier. He was certain that his room must look like a serial killerâs lair, or something. It was too organized. Too orderly. Bare. He couldnât stop himself from wondering what you might be thinking. Were you made uneasy by his sterile, clinical space? Did it fall in line with the stories youâd heard about him?Â
âI promise I donât keep my place thisâŠâ he gave an awkward laugh, âI have photos- and stuff. I just havenât gotten everything out yet.â
It was nice to know he had comfort items. Well-loved books. Pictures with friends. Worn blankets. He deserved softness. Warmth. Your heartache dissipated.
âYeah, I figured,â you fibbed. âItâs-â
Just then, an intense chill rocketed up your spine, shaking your entire body.Â
âShit, sorry,â Bucky reached for the panel of switches on the wall and turned off the ceiling fan.Â
He crossed to the dresser and began rummaging through the drawers, spurred by the goosebumps rising on your skin. But after appraising a few items, he halted his search.
 âMy stuffâs gonna be too big on you,â he realized, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. âI can go ask Ava or Yelena if they can lend you some-â
âItâs really okay,â you assured him. âI like my clothes a little loose anyway.â
It wasnât a lie. Technically. You did, indeed, prefer a baggy t-shirt over something skintight. But in truth, you simply wanted to wear his clothes. His t-shirt. His sweatpants. Ava and Yelena seemed great, and theyâd probably be willing to loan you something to wear if you asked. But you werenât about to give up on the chance to curl up in a soft, oversized shirt that smelled like Bucky.
âAre you sure?â he pulled a pair of sweatpants from the drawer and held them up for you to see, âThese are gonna be way too long on you, youâll trip.â
You shrugged, âI can roll them up.â
The smile you shot his way nearly knocked him out. There was this ease in your expression, this comfort. Like you were happy to be there. Like you trusted him. No one had looked at him like that in decades.Â
And, of course, he found himself staring again. For a long time. Too long. Only when his cheeks began to ache did he realize he was smiling back. Smiling wide. Too wide.Â
He quickly wiped the grin off his face and turned his attention back to the dresser.  He knew he was being too overt. Knew he should be more nonchalant. More chill. But he couldnât help himself.Â
He was enchanted by you. Charmed by you. Heâd fallen under your spell without protest and had no urge to free himself. He knew it was pathetic, how entranced he was by you. But he didnât care. He didnât care that he wasnât cool. Didnât care that he might come off as cheesy. He enjoyed your company, was that so wrong?
He dug through his clothes a while longer, searching for something that might be good enough for you. He knew anything he gave you would be fine. Knew you werenât stuck up. Knew you didnât expect Gucci sweatpants. And yet, he found himself hoping that something nicer might materialize out of thin air. When nothing of the sort happened, he selected his best offerings, his heart pounding all the while.Â
Maybe he shouldnât have been quite so excited at the prospect of you wearing his clothes. Or the prospect of his clothes smelling like you. But after decades of agony and torture and darkness, he figured he was allowed a little excitement. A little hope.
Bucky rounded the bed and made his way to you, clothes in hand. He handed over what he deemed to be his softest shirt and his most comfortable sweatpantsâ his favorite items in his dresserâ and awaited your approval.
âThese okay?âÂ
Truth be told, you wouldâve accepted anything from him. Burlap sacks. Garbage bags. Anything. But he, of course, hadnât given you just anything. No, he had taken the time to parse through his clothing. To make specific selections for you.Â
Youâd watched as he seemed to weigh the pros and cons of different items. He appraised their size, the fabric. He even held a few shirts up to the light, checking to see whether they might be too sheer for you. Heâd put careâ real careâ into something as miniscule as loaner clothes, and it nearly made your knees weak. Everything about him seemed to make your knees weak, actually.
He was sweetheart. Soft-spoken, yet funny. Intelligent. Handsome. He had a warm smile and a giving nature. A good heart. He was the total package, really. The type of person youâd been looking for. The type of person youâd been hoping to find. Every birthday candle. Every shooting star. Every dandelion. All of those wishes were for him. And here he was, in the flesh. And metal.Â
But you were getting carried away. Getting ahead of yourself. Youâd only know this man for a few hours; he was still a stranger. And yet, you were looking ahead, envisioning a future together. With a tiny shake of your head, you tried to force the thoughts away. To make them dissipate. But they persisted. And in truth, you were more than okay with that.
Even though youâd just met Bucky, even though you barely knew him, you could tell he wasnât like anyone youâd ever been with. He was different. He was better.Â
But it was flat out ridiculous to assume he felt the same way. To assume that he, too, saw you in his future. To assume that he had any interest in dating when he was still sorting through his past. Between the trauma from Hydra and the chaos with the New Avengers, you knew he had a lot on his plate. Knew his priorities probably didnât include romance. But even if that were the case, you hoped heâd agree to a friendship. Because, even though youâd known him only a short while, you couldnât imagine what life would be like without him.
Every now and then, a piece of a story about him would pop into your head. Youâd hear the buzzwords: Monster. Evil. Dangerous. But when you looked at him, you saw no such thing. The contrast between who he really was and the overblown stories on the internet was stark. Neck-breaking, actually. People painted him as the lowest of the low. The darkest of the dark. Coldest of the cold. But youâd never met anyone warmer.
âYeah, absolutely,â you took the clothes from him, doing your best not to let them brush against your sopping wet outfit. âThanks, this is really nice of you.â
âYeah, no, of course. Itâs-â he caught the disgusted look that suddenly flashed across your face. His heart sank.
He didnât know what heâd done to cause the sudden onset of your revulsion. But he knew deep down he didnât have to do anything at all to have that affect. His presence, his existence, was enough for some. For most.
He wasnât sure why he got his hopes up. Why he thought this would be any different. He kicked himself for being even the tiniest bit optimistic. Of course, you were repulsed by him. Sickened. Why wouldnât you be? Everyone else was.Â
âIs everything okay?â he asked, knowing it wasnât. Knowing that you were about to run for the hills.Â
You grimaced, âYeah, Iâm just all sticky.âÂ
âWha-â
Before he could finish his sentence, your hand was on his. And it was, indeed, sticky. And though he shouldâve been at least slightly grossed out, he couldnât find it in him. He was too thrilled that you were, technically, holding his hand.Â
âFeel that?â you asked, âIsnât it gross?â
Heâd never use the word âgrossâ to describe anything about you, though the sticky sensation was unpleasant.Â
âItâs⊠itâs definitely something,â he laughed.Â
âWould you mind- is it okay if I use your shower?â you asked. âMy entire body is sticky- which I know is disgusting and definitely not something I shouldâve said out loud,â you cringed. âIâll be quick- this whole thing is just a sensory nightmare.â
And it was. Your clothes were still sopping wet in some places. Damp in others. The fabric clung to your body, adhering to you in uncomfortable places. Your skin was somehow sticky and clammy at the same time. And the aroma of beer surrounding you was strong enough to actually get you drunk.Â
âYeah, please,â he gestured toward the ensuite bathroom. âIâll get you a clean towel.â
He didnât want to be optimistic. Didnât want to get his hopes up. But as he fetched you a towel from the linen closet, he thought maybeâ just maybeâ this was a good sign. Maybe this meant that you might stay a while longer. That you wanted to get cleaned up so you could hang around for the rest of the night. Of course, he knew you wanted to rid yourself of the sticky, unpleasant sensation. But he hoped that once you were clean and wearing dry clothes, youâd decide to stick around.
Once Bucky delivered your towelâa man with clean towels? This was new for youâyou shed your sticky, sopping clothes and rinsed them in his bathroom sink. Every inch of your body was cold and clammy and yearning for the heat of the shower. Yearning for the heat of Buckyâs body on top of yours, actually, but that would have to come later, when you didnât smell like a dive bar.Â
Methodically, you scrubbed every inch of your body, freeing yourself from the sticky residue. Part of you wondered if maybe, just maybe, Bucky would be into spending the rest of the night with you. If his interest would be renewed now that you didnât reek. If you could steer the evening back in the right direction. It was entirely possible that this whole thing would just be a tiny blip in an otherwise perfect night. That Bucky could overlook your pariah-status; he seemed understanding enough.
You quickly toweled off and slipped into the clothes Bucky loaned you, hoping to return to his side as soon as you could. You were, of course, antsy to spend more time with him. But you were just as anxious to mend the damage done by Johnâs friends. To restore the momentum you and Bucky had gained. To reignite the flame that had been doused in beer.
But first, you simply had to take a moment to revel in the sensation of his clothing against your skin. Instantly, you could tell that his thought and care in selecting each item had paid off. The sweats he gave you were cozy and warm; they chased away any chill left behind by the beer. And you wished the shirt heâd picked out lived in your dresser instead of his. Its soft, well-worn fabric held onto his warm scent, and you allowed yourself a moment to bury yourself in the material.
Bucky couldnât help but notice the lingering smell of beer he waited for you in the bedroom. He looked around his room, trying to find the source. Maybe your clothes had dripped on the floor. Maybe youâd left a trail of beer droplets in your wake. And then it hit him, just as the beer had: he was the source of the smell. The left sleeve of his sweater was the culprit, its red and green fabric having gotten caught in the spray.
He rolled his eyes and quickly tried to shed his attempt at a costume, but encountered some resistance. His nose wrinkled as he peeled the fabric from the sticky surface of his metal forearm. The vibranium was cloudy, dirtied by the dried beer. He rolled his eyes, though it wasnât a big deal; nothing that a quick trip to the kitchen couldnât fix. He made the his way down the hall, gave his arm a thorough wipe down at the sink, and returned to his room before youâd emerged from the bathroom. It was a simple fix.Â
But he couldnât stop the annoyance brewing in his chest. Things had been going so well with you. This felt like a genuine connection, his first genuine connection with a stranger in⊠he wasnât sure how long. And Johnâs friends hadâpurposefully, vindictivelyâruined your night. And his, by extension.Â
He took a deep breath. Carded a hand through his hair. He supposed that maybe, just maybe, the night could be saved. You didnât seem like the type of person who could be easily dissuaded or deterred. Didnât seem like the type to give up. If you really wanted to spend more time with him, you would, regardless of the beer incident.Â
And if he allowed himself to be optimisticâfor onceâhe did think it possible that you enjoyed his company. That you gave him your undivided attention, not out of politeness, but out of interest. Hell, youâd given him your entire night. Given him hours of uninterrupted, deep conversation. That had to be a good sign, didnât it?
He smiled at the idea. The prospect.Â
Could it really be this easy? Ever since his return, being around new people had been downright treacherous. But being around you felt safe, like he didnât have to hide or protect himself. And though he never indulged in daydreams, he allowed himself one glimpse at a possible future with you. And he liked what he saw.
He made another trip to his dresser and fished his second favorite shirt out of one of the drawers. The shower was no longer running, so he figured youâd be out soon. And he didnât want you to find him here, shirtless, waiting for you in the bedroom. Didnât want you to think he expected anything. Didnât want to make you uncomfortable.
But he was too late. The bathroom door flew open just then, and you stood in the doorway, staring. Staring at him. And he knew you were staring at it.Â
At his scar. At the twisted, gnarled ridge of tissue that fused metal to flesh. At the massive, grotesque patch of thickened skin than ran from shoulder to rib. At the jagged, angry lines that marred his chest.Â
He wanted desperately to move, to turn, to hide. To do something to obscure his shameful imperfection. But he was frozen. His eyes locked on your face, waiting for repulsion to twist your features.
He waited a long, long time.Â
As the seconds passed, his hope dwindled. Heâd thought that things could be course-corrected after the beer. But there was no saving this. There was no salvaging your interest now that youâd seen how damaged and deformed he really was.
His cheeks burned with embarrassment. With shame. Heat flushed down his neck and across his chest, scorching everything in its wake. He wanted to evaporate.
You couldnât find it in you to move. To speak. To look elsewhere. No matter your efforts, you couldnât overcome the stalemate. The staring contest. Your gaze was fixed on Bucky, and his on you, for what seemed like an eternity.Â
Staring like this felt so rude, so impolite, especially when youâd walked in on him changing. The right thing to do was avert your eyes. To give him a moment to finish getting dressed. He was a stranger, after all. And he was entitled to his privacy.Â
But he was just so beautiful. So gorgeous. It was like staring into the sun. His muscular, perfectly sculpted body matched his flawless facial features to a T, and it seemed unfair to you that someone was allowed to be this attractive. Had he somehow become more striking in the short time it took you to shower? Or had your memories of him simply not done him justice? You figured both were possible.
The shiny, pink skin caught your attention just then. The scar. The physical evidence of his fall and subsequent imprisonment. His forced servitude. His decades of agony. It bridged the gap between flesh and metal. Between whom he was then and who he was now. And though it was oldâdecades oldâyou feared that it hurt. That it was still sore. That it caused him pain even now.Â
He quickly turned all the way to his left, obscuring his marred flesh from your view.Â
Finally, you remembered how to speak.
âItâs-sorry,â you said. âI didnât mean to-â
He threw on his shirt, took a breath to steel himself, and turned to face you once again. But he couldnât find it in him to make eye contact.
âNo, itâs okay,â he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. âIâll call you an Uber. I wouldâve done it sooner, but I donât know where you live so I didnât know where to send it.â His eyes remained locked on his Uber app, âSorry.â
âOh, no, thatâs fine,â you gave a quiet laugh.Â
Only silence followed. Buckyâs gaze stayed focused on his screen.Â
Part of you wondered if this was his way of kicking you out without actually saying the words. Wondered if youâd gotten your hopes up for nothing. If your optimism had been in vain. But if that was the case, what did you have to lose? If he really was done with you, what was the risk in being honest?
You took a deep breath, âI um, would it be crazy if I said I didnât want to leave yet?â you asked.
His head shot up. His eyes finally met yours. A deep line formed between his brows, âWhat?â
âIf you want me to leave, I will. No hard feelings,â you shrugged. âBut I was having a good time with you. Before. And Iâd like to stay. If thatâs alright with you.â
The words didnât make sense. The sounds became separated from their meanings, turning into nonsense inside Buckyâs head. He fought to put the pieces back together. Fought to translate what youâd said.Â
But it was just too outlandish. Too unbelievable. You wanted to stay? You were having a good time with him? Was that possible? It was more likely that heâd had some kind of auditory hallucination. That his brain made it all up. But you were standing there, staring at him expectantly with an expression that resembled hope.Â
He figured it was best to jump at the chance. To say yes before you had the opportunity to change your mind.Â
âYeah, thatâs- itâs more than alright with me.â The bright smile he wore, the excitement in his eyesâit was almost embarrassing. But he didnât care. âI was having a good time with you, too.â
Just like that, your worries that youâd misread the situation dissolved. You hadnât misunderstood things or incorrectly interpreted his signals. And he hadnât spent his evening with you just to be polite. He really was interested in you. Really enjoyed the time he spent with you. Your heart soared.Â
âDo you want to go back to the party?â he asked. âIâm sure itâs still going strong.â
Bucky, in truth, had no desire to return to the chaos. But he wanted to make sure that you were comfortable. That you knew you had options. That you knew you didnât have to stay here. In his bedroom. With him. Just him.Â
But that was exactly what you wanted.Â
A warm smile crept across your face, âNo, Iâm good here.â
He returned your smile tenfold.Â
âWe can just watch a movie, or something,â you said as you climbed up on to his perfectly made bed. Just then, you froze. âSorry, is it okay if I sit here? I can-â
âYeah. Yeah, thatâs f- itâs okay,â he stuttered.Â
He found it difficult to form words. To put together coherent thoughts. Everything went out the window at the sight of you wearing his clothes and sitting comfortably on his bed. He stared as you got comfortable amongst his sheets and pillows. Stared as you relaxed with your back against his headboard. Stared as you turned to him, expectant.
âUm, are you gonna join me?â you asked with half a laugh.Â
Your words snapped him out of his trance. His heart leapt. His breathing hitched. And he realized that, once again, heâd been staring. He just couldnât believe you were here. In his room. In his bed. Couldnât believe you were sacrificing free top-shelf booze and a legendary party just for him. Youâd chosen him over everything else; it made him blush. Without a word, he climbed into his bed and settled in, his body just inches from yours.
The urge to scoot closerâto press your side to his, to rest your head on his shoulderâwas powerful. Too powerful. All consuming, really. His body heat, the smell of his skin, intoxicated you. But you couldnât just throw yourself at him. The last thing you wanted was to scare him off. To make him uncomfortable. And so, you kept your hands to yourself, tucking them safely into the pockets of your sweatpants.
âSo, what should we watch?â Bucky asked, flipping on the tv.
âWell, it is Halloween, so I kinda feel like it has to be a horror movie, right?â Just then, your eyes lit up, âOh! We could watch Nightmare on Elm Street! That way you can see where your costume in action.â
âOh, yeah, thatâs- good idea,â Bucky gave a half-hearted laugh. âLet me find it.â
You eyed him for a moment. There was something in his expression, like he wasnât thrilled with your pick.
âYou donât seem too enthusiastic,â you laughed. âWe can watch anything! I really donât care. My Bloody Valentine, House of Wax, The Last House on the Leftâwhatever you want.âÂ
Bucky stared at the screen for a long moment before turning to you. He seemed so serious all of a sudden, like something was severely wrong. Instantly, you feared youâd upset him somehow. Or irritated him. Or annoyed him to the point that he was going to call you that Uber.
But he didnât.Â
âIf Iâm being honest with you, I really donât like horror movies,â he sighed.Â
The way he said it, the huge sigh that followedâit all seemed so intense, like some horrible, shameful confession. Like he was admitting to a murder.Â
âIâm sorry,â he said. âI know itâs Halloween. But horror is just- itâs not my thing.â
âThatâs okay,â you shrugged, âWe can watch anything you want.â
The smile you gave him was genuine. Reassuring. He knew you were being honest. That you werenât lying just for his benefit. But he still felt the need to rationalize his feelings to you. Felt the need to explain himself. He wanted to articulate his perspective clearly and intelligently, but the words slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to perform rewrites.
âMy life is kind of a horror movie, you know?â
Silence. The words hung in the air before sinking like a lead balloon.Â
Bucky cringed. He couldnât have said it in a more embarrassing way. Couldnât have been more dramatic. The sentence played on a loop in his head, sounding more ridiculous with each refrain. He quickly tacked a hollow laugh onto the end as though it might make things less awkward. It did not.
Your silence persisted. Once again, you gave him space to elaborate, if he wanted to.Â
He grew uneasy in the quiet.Â
âWow, that was- I didnât mean to say it like that,â he rolled his eyes at himself. âThat was really dramatic. I just meanâŠâ he sighed, unsure how to salvage the moment.
âI think it makes sense, actually,â you said. And you meant it. âThe things that happened to youâthatâs real horror.âÂ
He didnât say anything.Â
You grimaced, âShit, was that rude? I didnât mean to-â
âIt wasnât rude,â Bucky laughed. âThanks for understanding.â
You nodded.Â
âAnd I donât think youâre being dramatic,â you said. âBut even if you were, I think youâd be entitled to it, you know? After everything.â
He considered this for a moment, âYeah, maybe.â
The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a long moment.Â
Bucky wondered how he could feel so at ease around someone heâd just met; it wasnât like him. Usually, he grew extra defensive around new people. He was overly cautious. Guarded. But it was so easy with you. You had this open-mindedness, this way of listening without judgement. You understood where he was coming from, even if he didnât phrase things perfectly. You had empathy for him; no one else did.
Resisting the urge to wrap him in a hug took all of your strength. His life really had been a horror movie: the trauma of war, the fall, the imprisonment, the torture, the abuse, the brainwashingâit was all straight from the page of A24âs next terrifying flick. And he hadnât deserved any of it. But even after everything, he was still a good person. A sweetheart. He was thoughtful. Protective. Not even Hydra could strip him of that.
âWe can watch anything you want,â you told him again, âPut on something you like.â
It only took a second for Bucky to scroll through a few titles and select an old movie musical.Â
âIs this okay with you?â he asked as the opening credits rolled, âItâs one of my favorites.â
âYeah, absolutely.â
He couldâve put on a documentary about paint drying, and you wouldnât have complained. If it meant you got to spend more time with him, youâd watch anything he wanted.Â
As Bucky sat next to you humming along with the opening number of a classic movie musical, you almost laughed. It seemed so ridiculous, so absurd that the public feared him. You couldnât believe that the man sitting next to youâthe man bopping his head along to a Fred Astaire songâhad been called the antichrist.Â
The two of you chatted throughout the movie. And at first, it was only about the movie. About the technicolor. About the songs. About the love story. Until eventually, it swirled and changed into real life topics. Your childhood. Buckyâs time in Wakanda. The snap. No subject was off limits. And though you never asked about anything too sensitive, he spoke freely about things heâd planned to take to his grave.Â
The conversation was just so easy. It flowed naturally. Effortlessly. Comfortable silences came and went. Stories were recounted. Laughs were shared. There was no pretense or performance. It was simple. Comfortable. It seemed like the two of you went back decades, like youâd known each other forever.Â
âOh, hey, Iâm sorry, by the way, about earlier,â Bucky said, breaking another comfortable silence, âWhen you had to see all of the-â he gestured toward the left side of his chest, â-my scar.â
âWhat? Oh, no, you donât have to apologize for that,â you reassured him, âI mean, Iâm the one who walked in on you changing. So, Iâm sorry.â
The two of you shared another laugh, and the conversation continued on, alive and well. It wasnât awkward like Bucky feared it might be. It didnât die upon his mention of the significant scar that stretched across his chest. Things were still easy. Comfortable. He had a feeling that no topic would change that.
Until a while later, when you asked:
âSo, how have things been since you got back?â
âWell,â Bucky gave you a wry smile, âThe answer to that question depends on how honest you want me to be.â
âI want you to be as honest as youâre comfortable with.â
He gave a small nod and fell quiet, thinking.Â
Something in you told you this was the wrong move. It was possibleâprobable, reallyâthat he didnât want to go into the details. Sure, heâd told you about a swath of things that heâd gone through in his life, but there were certainly things that were off limits. Things he didnât want to share with a stranger. And his return was still so recent, so fresh. You wondered if it might be too raw for him to talk about.Â
But he did, indeed, want to tell you. Youâd told him to only share what he was comfortable with, and, in truth, he was comfortable telling you anything. Everything. You were sincere. Ernest. Trustworthy. He was certain youâd listen without judgement. But he simply didnât know how to put his feelings into words. How to detail the experience of rejoining society after the destruction of his reputation.Â
He hemmed and hawed over the matter for a while, getting lost in his thoughts. Until finally, his head snapped up. He looked at you with bright eyes, like heâd come up with a brilliant idea. Like heâd realized exactly how to describe the situation.
âSo, you said earlier,â he began, âThat Iâm entitled to be a little dramatic, right?â
You nodded, âYeah.â
âOkay, so- being back has been⊠a lot.â He said, âItâs kind of hard to explain the feeling. But lately, Iâve been thinkingâI guess the season made me realize itâthat my life is Frankenstein.â
âOkayâŠâ you thought about what heâd said. About what it might mean. But you didnât understand. You kept your tone neutral, free of any judgment. âWhat do you mean?â
He took a small breath before launching into his explanation.Â
âItâs this stupid analogy but it feels⊠kind of accurate,â he shrugged. âI mean, theyâZola, Hydraâturned me into this⊠into something inhuman, made from human parts. Ripped me apart and put me back together in someone elseâs image. Like I was a science experiment. A body to bring back to life. It was like they- they reanimated me into something different. Into this grotesque thing... just because they wanted to.âÂ
A pit opened in your stomach.                                                                                                                     Â
âAnd then, after theyâd turned me into this horrifying, disgusting thing,â a dark laugh left his chest, âThey were all terrified of me.â
His eyes took on a far away, tormented look. Like the room had filled with ghosts that only he could see.Â
This wasnât what youâd expected him to say. In truth, you werenât sure what youâd expected when he brought up the classic novel. But it wasnât this.Â
He sighed, âAnd I didnât ask- I didnât want to be that. You know?â He checked in with you then. His eyes met yours with a new intensity, âI never signed up for it. I didnât allow it. It justâŠÂ happened. To me.â
You placed a gentle hand on one of his. âI know,â you assured him. âOf course.â
His gaze softened then, and a soft smile crept slowly across his face. He dropped his eyes down to where your hand rested atop his and allowed himself to drink in the feeling. The sensation of your skin. The warmth. The trust.Â
âEveryone thinks Iâm evil. People look at me like I did the things I did because I wanted to. They see me and they get their torches and pitchforks out, you know? They want to hunt me, to run me out of town,â he rolled his eyes. âThey think Iâm the monster because I was the one in the mask. I was the one killing people. Iâm the one with-â he raised his shiny left hand a bit, examining it in the light of the TV, âWith this.â
He slipped his other hand from under yours and tucked it into his pocket. Touching youâbeing touched by youâfelt amazing, but it didnât feel right. He imagined your skin growing dirty, tainted by the blood soaking his hands.Â
âBut Iâm not an empty shellâat least, not anymore. Iâm capable of feeling. Iâm capable⊠Iâm capable of love. I have that in me. People donât see it, but⊠itâs there.âÂ
The two of you locked eyes. There was something so forlorn in his glance. So full of wantâof need. You wondered how long it had been since heâd last been cared for. Since heâd last been lovedâreally loved. The answer nearly made you sick.
He grew bashful suddenly, and averted his eyes. âI mean, I know I did someâa lotâof bad things. Iâm not innocent in all of this, butâŠâ he clenched his jaw.
You didnât quite agree. Had he been the one to hurt people? Yes. But heâd done so under extreme duress. Heâd been the victim of brainwashing. Of torture. Of abuse. Heâd been a prisoner in his own mind. It never once occurred to you that he wasnât innocent. That he wasnât the victim.
âBut⊠Victor Frankenstein was a monster, too, wasnât he? Wasnât Zola a monster? He chose to do what he did. And all the people who wiped my mind and forced me to kill for them- they chose that. Arenât theymonsters, too?â
You nodded.
He gave an empty laugh, âItâs just funny to me, I guess. Cause SHIELD picked up Zola and asked him to work for them, like he was some- like he was just another scientist, you know? Even though they knew what heâd done for Hydra. They knew what kind of person he was.â
He paused a moment and took stock of your expression. There was no judgement. No mocking look. Just openness. Warmth. Understanding. Part of him wondered if he was making things too heavy, too intense. He considered stopping the story here, leaving the rest for another day. But you gave him a small nod, assuring him it was okay to continue. He nodded back.
âAnd then I get backâI get pardoned, evenâbut no one wants anything to do with me. Iâm fully myself now, but everyone is still so horrified by me. And it just feels likeâŠâ he sighed, âLike people will accept Frankenstein but not the monster he created. Like Iâm too scary for them. Iâm too strange. Everyone accepted Zola into the fold no problem, but Iâm where they draw the line?â He huffed, âI didnât ask for inhuman strength... I didnât ask to live this long.â
This was the kind of thing no history book could ever offer. No professor could provide. This was the bitter, heart-wrenching, devastating first-hand account of the real James Buchanan Barnes.Â
âI only did what I did because they forced my handâliterally. I wasnât in control. I was trapped inside my own mind with no agency. No power. But everyone thinks-â he eyed you, and smiled, âMost people think of me as the only villain in this whole thing. The only criminal.â
You didnât want to say anything and possibly interrupt his train of thoughtâand what did you possibly have to add?âbut you felt the need to speak up. He had to know that you understood what he was saying. That you were there with him. That you empathized with him.Â
 âThey fear the creation, but never even consider that they should fear the creator,â you said.
His brow furrowed just a bit, âUmâŠÂ yeah.â
There was something resembling disbelief in his tone. He stared at you for a long timeâpartly out of appreciation, partly out of surprise. He was just so shocked that you understood. It wasnât that he doubted your intellect. He simply doubted his twisting, turning analogy. His muddy metaphors. His overly complicated thought process. He knew he wasnât the best at articulating his feelings. Knew he struggled when it came to conversations like these. And he knew that his comparison to Mary Shelleyâs novel wasnât a perfect one-for-one. But clearly, you followed him with ease.Â
âAnyway, thatâs my very convoluted analogy,â he said. âIâm thinking about contacting Mary Shelleyâs estate. Maybe theyâll be interested in a sequel to her book.â
He tacked an awkward laugh onto the end of his sentence to alleviate some of the heaviness. The tension. He thought maybe if he acted casual, if he poked fun at himself, you wouldnât shrink away from his reality. Wouldnât find his dramatic ramblings cringey or embarrassing.
But you wouldnât stand for it.
âYou donât have to do that you know,â you said plainly.
He eyed you for a moment, âDo what?â
You were almost stern with him, âYou donât have to make light of your situation to make it more palatable for me.â
He smiled at your intensity. At your passion.Â
âRight,â he nodded, still smiling. âYeah. But come on, you see what I meant right? Dramatic.â
You softened then. You knew he was feeling vulnerable. Naked. Exposed. It had to be difficult, opening up about the atrocities he experiencedâand doing so with a stranger mustâve been terrifying.
Cautiously, you reached for his hand. He allowed you to take it.Â
âI donât think itâs dramatic,â you said, looking deep into his eyes. âWhat you said is true- all of it. And I think it was actually a pretty good analogy.â
He nodded, âThanks.â
âI just hate that thatâs the book you relate to,â you said. âAnd Iâm sorry, I- I feel like Iâm a little out of my depth here.â
He cocked his head to the side a bit, inquisitive.
âI really donât know how to- I donât have anything comforting or helpful to say.âÂ
The guilt was eating away at you. Bucky had just bared his soul to you. Heâd flayed himself open and showed you everything. Every dark corner. Every ugly truth. Every scar. And you had nothing to offer him.Â
âYou donât have to say anything.â He held your hand a little tighter, âYou canât fix itâno one can. I just appreciate you listening⊠being so open. I promise I didnât plan on dumping all of that on you. I just find you so...â He smiled a bit, âYouâre so easy to talk to.â
Your fingers drew lazy circles along his knuckles. You knew you couldnât change what happened to him. Couldnât fix his broken pieces. But you wanted toâdesperately. He didnât deserve to bear this burden any longer. He was too good, too kind to be buried under the weight of his past.
âNo, donât apologize. I asked,â you assured him. âIâm really sorry you went through all of that. And Iâm sorry people have treated you so poorly ever since youâve been back,â you felt yourself growing angry at the people who shunned him. âItâs fucked up, and you donât deserve it.âÂ
He couldnât help but smile. You seemed soâŠÂ protective of him. Like you wanted to shield him from anyone who dare look at him the wrong way. It was strange, having someone in his corner. But he loved the company.Â
âIâm glad youâre back,â you told him. âWeâre lucky to have you here and now.â
It was the first time anyone had said that to him since his return. This whole time, heâd felt like people were just putting up with his presence. Like they were trying to tolerate him invading a time and place that wasnât his. But you made him feel welcome. Made him feel like this was his real homecoming.
âAnd if it helps at all,â you said, your tone brighter now, âFrankenstein is one of my favorite books.â
A soft laugh pushed past his lips, âYou know what, that actually does help a little. Thank you.â
You laughed, too. âYouâre welcome.â
His smile faded, leaving in its wake a look of gratitude. Of reverence.
âThis whole night has been, great actually. I, well-â his expression soured, âNot the whole night. The beer thing was fucked up. But aside from that, itâs been great. Itâs made me feel veryâŠâ a shy smile pulled at his lips, âVery normal. Very human. So, thank you.â
The way he looked at you made your stomach fill with butterflies. Made your lungs forget how to fill. And in that moment, you realized just how grateful you were for Johnâs poor performance as a husband. For Oliviaâs last-minute cancellation. For the assholes who doused you in beer. All of it had led you here. To this room. With this person.Â
You shrugged, âI donât know, I think the beer thing was worth it.â
Bucky blushed. âYeah?â
âYeah. I mean, without it, we might have never ended up here.â
And you were right. He never wouldâve invited you to his bedroom, especially not after meeting you only once. But Johnâs friends had forced his hand. And though he still hated them for what they did, he had to admit that he never wouldâve had the guts to ask you to stay. He, instead, wouldâve walked you downstairs at the end of the night, called you a car, and maybe asked for your numberâif he was feeling particularly brave.Â
That bravery alluded him now, leaving him paralyzed. Heâd noticed the gap between your body and his growing smaller, though he hadnât moved. Noticed you staring at him with want in your eyes, waiting for him to do something. To kiss you. To meld his lips with yours. And he wanted toâdesperately. But the situation seemed so precious. So tenuous. So fragile. And he had a knack for ruining things.Â
And so, he did nothing at all.
You waited. And waited. Waited for him to close the gap. To make his move. To fulfill the wish youâd made hours ago. But he didnât move. He just sat there, staring. And eventually, youâd had enough.Â
Your lips met his in a careful kiss. A chaste kiss. By all standards, it was innocent. Careful. But it set you on fire. Warmth cloaked your body. Every nerve crackled and pulsed with electricity. Your heart pounded. Your breath grew shallow. Even with its PG rating, it was the best kiss youâd ever had.Â
But Buckyâs mouth didnât move with yours. He was too overcome with shock to move. To breathe.
You pulled away.
For the second time that night, humiliation swallowed you whole. It crushed you under its impossible weight and forced your eyes down.Â
âIâm really sorry,â you said, struggling to untangle yourself from the sheets. âI shouldnât have done that, I-â
All at once, Buckyâs shock wore off. He was forced into the present by the sight of your  attempted departure. And finally, he moved.Â
He took your face in his hands and brought his lips to yours in a kiss far less innocent that before. Your mouths slotted together like puzzle pieces, like they were made for each other. And suddenly, you forgot your embarrassment. The heat of humiliation that rose in your cheeks only moments ago was replaced by desperate, endless want. He made up for his previous hesitation tenfold as lips moved against yours. His hands pulled you closer, his arms held you tighter. His body wasâfinallyâflush with yours.Â
But you could feel his careful movements. His caution. He didnât quite let go all the way. Didnât completely give in. And you knew why. He still saw himself as the monster, the abomination. The creature with inhuman strength.Â
You pulled away slightly, âThereâs no pressure, you knowâŠâ
He blushed. Heâd hoped that his tension might fly under the radar. That his restraint might go unnoticed. But youâd found him out.
His thumb drifted over your cheek, âYou could tell, huh?âÂ
You nodded. âBut I get it. Itâs okay. Iâm not trying to rush anything,â you gazed into his beautiful, anxious eyes, âGood things take time.â
His anxiety lessened; you had that effect on him.
âWe can justâŠâ You gestured toward the tv, âWe can watch another movieâor, I guess we can talk while another movie plays in the background.â
He gave a quiet laugh and handed you the remote, allowing you to choose this time around. But he didnât want to watch a movie. He wanted to kiss you. To touch you. To give in to his hunger. He just couldnât find it in him to give up that control. To release the tight leash on which he kept himself. At least, not yet; he wouldnât risk hurting you.Â
But you didnât seem to consider the possibility that he might leave you with bruises. Or broken bones. Youâd given yourself over to him easily, eagerly. There was no fear thereâonly trust. It filled him with hope.Â
That hope blossomed as the movie played. As you curled your body into his. As you laid your head on his chest.Â
Slowly but surely, the conversation faded. Your breathing grew even, rhythmic. And Bucky knew you mustâve fallen asleep. He wound his arm around your back and held you closer, still in shock that you were this comfortable with him. That you trusted him.Â
âHeyâŠâ you whispered, half-asleep. âIf you⊠if you ever need a Bride of Frankenstein, call me.â