howdy.

“I heard that,” Pietro said.

“You were supposed to.”

Your mother laughed, one hand still resting near your wrist like she hadn’t entirely stopped needing to confirm you were there. Georges sat beside her, amused and comfortable, occasionally looking between Tony and Bucky with the expression of a man enjoying the universe being ridiculous in ways he had no intention of interrupting.

Steve was across from you, relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in months. His smile came easier tonight. Not careless, not untouched by everything, but lighter. He kept catching your eye whenever Tony said something particularly outrageous, and every time, the shared look between you felt like a quiet restoration.

Not romance.

Not grief.

Just Steve.

Your Steve.

Your friend.

Bucky sat beside you.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Close enough that his sleeve brushed yours when he reached for his glass. Far enough that you knew he was still being careful.

At first, that carefulness had made you ache.

Then, somewhere between the appetizers and Tony pretending not to interrogate Bucky about his position at Stark Industries, you realized it did not feel like distance anymore.

It felt like respect.

Bucky didn’t try to monopolize you. He didn’t lean into old habits too quickly. He didn’t make the night about him, or about the two of you, or about the wound that still existed beneath everything.

He let the celebration be yours.

That mattered.

More than you had expected.

When Tony asked him what department he worked in, Bucky answered with a strange mix of professionalism and barely contained awe.

“Advanced mechanical systems,” he said, then seemed to realize he was explaining his job to Tony Stark and went slightly pale. “Mostly prototyping support. Some failure analysis. Design implementation when something goes sideways enough that they need someone stubborn.”

Tony’s mouth twitched. “Stubborn is good. Most breakthroughs are just spite with a budget.”

Bucky blinked.

Then laughed.

A real laugh.

Your chest tightened at the sound.

Not because it hurt.

Because you had missed it.

You looked down at your plate, hiding a small smile, and missed absolutely nothing about the way Tony’s eyes flicked toward you.

He saw.

Of course he saw.

Tony had become annoyingly good at seeing you.

Dinner unfolded around you in layers.

Wanda told an exaggerated version of how you’d looked after the committee called you Doctor, complete with dramatic reenactment.

“You just stood there,” she said, pressing both hands to her heart and widening her eyes. “Like someone had handed you a sword and a kingdom.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” Pietro said. “Very tragic heroine. Very ruins-and-destiny.”

“You both are impossible.”

Steve smiled into his glass. “They’re not wrong.”

You gave him a betrayed look. “Et tu, Rogers?”

Steve lifted both hands. “I’m just saying, there was a moment.”

“There was a moment,” Wanda insisted.

Tony leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “I’m hearing there was a moment.”

“There was not a moment.”

Your mother’s eyes shone with quiet pride. “There was a little bit of a moment, sweetheart.”

You groaned while everyone laughed.

Even Bucky.

Especially Bucky, maybe, though his laugh softened when he looked at you afterward.

That was the dangerous thing.

Not the laughter.

The softness.

The way his eyes rested on you now like he was still afraid, yes, still careful, but no longer pretending the feeling wasn’t there. No longer trying to bury it under brother or habit or fear or some doomed attempt at normal.

He looked at you like he loved you.

And for the first time in a very long time, the thought didn’t send you spiraling backward into panic.

It steadied something.

It scared you too, of course. You were not naïve enough to mistake tenderness for safety just because you wanted it. Wanting had hurt you before. Wanting Bucky had hurt you in ways you still carried in your body.

But tonight, watching him exist at this table – with your mother, with Georges, with Steve, with Pietro, with Wanda, with Tony – you began to understand something you hadn’t been able to admit before.

You wanted him in your life.

Not as the boy who used to crawl into your bed after nightmares.

Not as the older brother the world had named for you because it was easier than looking too closely.

Not as the familiar shadow at the edge of your childhood.

Not only as a friend.

You wanted Bucky.

The man sitting beside you with careful hands and tired eyes. The man who had hurt you. The man who was learning, slowly and painfully, how not to make his fear your burden. The man who looked at you now as if you had become something he did not deserve but still loved too much to look away from.

You wanted him.

That truth rose inside you quietly.

No thunder.

No lightning.

Just certainty.

And with it came another truth, just as important.

Wanting him was not enough.

Love was not enough.

History was not enough.

If there was going to be anything between you, anything real, anything that could survive Athens and New York and the old fractures beneath your feet, then you had to talk.

Not around it.

Not through messages softened by distance.

Not in half-sentences and restrained looks.

Together.

Honestly.

About what you wanted. What you feared. What you could not give. What you still needed. What he had done. What you still carried. What forgiveness might mean if it came at all.

Your gaze drifted to his hand resting near his glass.

There was a small scar across one knuckle you remembered from childhood. A fall on concrete. Bucky had insisted he wasn’t hurt and then nearly fainted when your mother cleaned it.

You remembered laughing.

You remembered him glaring.

You remembered loving him before you had any language that could survive what people would have called it.

Bucky turned his head slightly, catching your gaze.

The table was loud around you. Wanda was arguing with Pietro about whether she had cried during the defense. Tony was pretending to be neutral while absolutely taking Wanda’s side. Steve was grinning. Your mother was laughing into her napkin.

But Bucky saw you.

The smile faded from his face.

Not in fear.

In attention.

You held his gaze for a second longer than you had all evening.

Then you looked away.

Only slightly.

Only enough.

But he understood.

You felt the understanding move through him.

His posture changed. A stillness settled over him, deep and quiet. Not panic. Not the sharp, old kind of tension that used to make him lash out or grasp.

Readiness.

He knew you were asking him to stay.

And he did not look away from you for the rest of the meal unless someone spoke directly to him.

After dessert, the evening began to loosen around the edges.

Your mother hugged you again outside the restaurant, coat pulled tight against the night air, even though it wasn’t that cold.

“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered. “Doctor.”

“You have to stop saying it like that.”

“Absolutely not.”

Georges kissed your cheek and told you he expected a signed copy of the thesis, which made Tony immediately insist he wanted one too.

“You have already read it,” you reminded him.

“And I want a signed copy,” Tony said. “Preferably with something emotional and flattering written inside.”

Pietro snorted. “You’re needy.”

“I have recently discovered fatherhood,” Tony replied. “I’m allowed to be dramatic for at least a year.”

“At least?” Wanda echoed.

Tony smiled. “I’m negotiating upward.”

Steve hugged you last among your friends, warm and steady.

“I’ll call you tomorrow?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Bucky, then back to you. There was no warning there. No doubt. Only care.

“Okay,” he said softly.

Pietro, predictably, did not let the moment stay too tender.

“If either of you makes me regret leaving,” he said, looking between you and Bucky, “I will become everyone’s problem.”

Bucky nodded once, serious. “Understood.”

Pietro narrowed his eyes. “Good.”

Wanda hugged you hard enough to nearly knock the air from your lungs, then whispered, “Text me when you’re home.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Eventually, everyone started to separate into taxis, subway directions, late-night plans, and tired goodbyes.

Everyone except Bucky.

And Tony.

Tony lingered near the curb, hands in the pockets of his coat, watching you with that quiet, assessing look that made it impossible to pretend he didn’t already know.

You turned toward him.

For a second, you felt strangely young.

Not ashamed.

Not small.

Just aware that this was one of those thresholds fathers were supposed to notice.

Tony’s gaze moved from you to Bucky and back again.

He did not ask.

He did not demand.

He simply understood.

“You’ve made a decision,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught.

Bucky went still beside you.

You nodded once. “I think so.”

Tony’s expression softened, but not carelessly. There was worry there. Love. A restraint you knew cost him something.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that.

Okay.

Then he stepped closer and cupped the back of your head with one hand, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

It was gentle.

Paternal.

A blessing without words.

“Good night, kid,” he murmured against your hair.

Your throat tightened. “Good night, Dad.”

His fingers flexed once, emotion flashing across his face before he managed to contain it.

Then he looked at Bucky.

The air changed slightly.

Not hostile.

But clear.

Tony did not have to threaten him.

He had already done that in every silence since they’d met.

Bucky met his gaze and held it.

“I’ll get her home safe,” he said quietly.

Tony’s eyes sharpened. “I know she can get herself home safe.”

Bucky swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Tony studied him another second.

Then, apparently satisfied by the correction, he gave a brief nod.

“Good night, Barnes.”

“Good night, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s mouth twitched. “We really have to work on that.”

Bucky looked faintly overwhelmed. “Not tonight.”

Tony huffed, almost amused. “Fair.”

Then he stepped away, lifting a hand once before heading toward the car waiting for him.

You watched him go until he disappeared inside.

Only then did you turn to Bucky.

The city moved around you.

Cars slid past in ribbons of yellow and red light. People spilled out of restaurants laughing too loudly. Somewhere nearby, a siren rose and fell, distant enough to feel like part of the weather.

Bucky stood beside you, hands loose, eyes on your face.

“Walk?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

So you began walking toward your apartment.

At first, neither of you said anything.

The silence was not empty. It was dense with all the words you were not ready to say on the sidewalk outside a restaurant, with celebration still warm in your chest and fear coiled quietly underneath it.

Bucky walked beside you the way he had not walked beside you in years.

Not ahead. Not hovering behind. Not positioning himself between you and the world like a wall you had not asked for.

Beside you.

Matching your pace.

Letting the night air do some of the talking.

You tucked your hands into your coat pockets and watched the pavement pass under your feet.

“I’m not sure how to start,” you admitted after a while.

Bucky’s answer came softly, almost immediately.

“We don’t have to start until you’re ready.”

You glanced at him.

He looked forward, jaw tight but voice steady.

“I mean it,” he added. “I know you asked me to stay. I know we’re walking to your place. But if we get there and you change your mind, that’s okay.”

The words landed somewhere tender.

“You’re very careful now,” you said.

His mouth twisted faintly. “Trying to be.”

“I noticed.”

He looked at you then.

There was something almost painful in his expression. Not because you had hurt him, but because being seen trying was its own kind of vulnerability.

“I don’t want to make the same mistakes,” he said.

“I know.”

You walked another block.

The night air was cooler now, brushing against your cheeks, slipping under the edge of your coat. Your apartment wasn’t far. The route was familiar in a way that made memory stir – the months before Miami, the life you’d left, the version of yourself who had walked out and not known if she would ever return.

That version of you felt both distant and close.

Still inside you.

But not all of you anymore.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you said.

Bucky turned his head slightly.

“I don’t want you outside my life.”

His breath caught, so quietly you might have missed it if you didn’t know him.

“But I don’t know what that looks like yet,” you continued. “And I don’t want us to pretend we can just… step over everything because we love each other.”

“No,” he said. “We can’t.”

“I need us to talk about high school.”

His face tightened.

Not defensively.

In pain.

But he nodded. “Okay.”

“And the night after Steve.”

His eyes closed briefly.

When they opened, they were wet.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“And Natasha.”

Another nod.

“And what happens when I leave for Athens.”

This time, the breath he took was shakier.

But he still nodded.

“Okay.”

You stopped walking.

Bucky stopped too, a half step later, turning toward you beneath the amber light of a streetlamp.

You looked at him fully.

“I need you to understand something before we talk,” you said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His face shifted.

“I know.”

“But I also can’t protect you from the truth anymore.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said.

You held his gaze.

There it was again.

That new thing.

Not perfect. Not healed. Not enough by itself.

But real.

He was listening.

And maybe that was the first beginning you could trust.

Your apartment building came into view at the end of the block.

The windows glowed softly. Your window was dark, waiting.

You felt your pulse pick up.

Bucky noticed.

“You okay?” he asked.

You breathed in slowly.

Then out.

“No,” you said honestly. “But I’m not scared of you right now.”

His eyes glistened.

He looked away for a second, swallowing hard, then looked back.

“Thank you for telling me.”

You nodded.

Then you started walking again.

This time, after a few steps, Bucky’s hand moved.

Not toward yours.

Not all the way.

Just enough that his fingers brushed the air near you, a question he did not speak aloud.

You looked down.

Your heart hurt.

Your whole body remembered him.

Every version of him.

The boy in your childhood bed.

The teenager who failed you.

The man who had waited.

The man walking beside you now, asking without taking.

Slowly, carefully, you slipped your hand out of your pocket.

You did not take his hand fully.

Not yet.

But you let your fingers brush his.

Once.

Then again.

Bucky went utterly still for half a second before he remembered to keep walking.

He did not close his hand around yours.

He let the contact remain what you had made it.

Small.

Tentative.

Alive.

And together, without rushing, without pretending the road ahead would be simple, you kept walking toward your apartment.

You went upstairs together.

The building felt different with Bucky beside you.

Not wrong.

Not even bad.

Just… awake.

Every stair seemed to remember him. The narrow railing where he had once dragged his hand while complaining about the climb. The second-floor landing where he had once waited for you with coffee because you had texted him that your morning was already trying to kill you. The chipped paint near your door from the time Pietro had moved a bookshelf into your apartment and sworn at it in three languages.

Your life was everywhere here.

And for the first time in months, Bucky was walking back into it with you instead of standing outside it like a wound you weren’t ready to touch.

At your door, you reached for your keys.

Bucky stood a step behind you, silent.

Not hovering. Not crowding.

Waiting.

You unlocked the door and stepped inside first.

The apartment greeted you with its quiet, familiar smell: books, old wood, the faint lemon-cleaner ghost of Steve and Bucky’s careful visits, the warmer scent of your own things slowly settling back into place since you had returned. It no longer felt abandoned. Not lived-in the way it once had, not yet, but no longer frozen in the moment you left.

Paused, maybe.

Waiting for you to decide what came next.

Bucky followed you in and stopped just inside the entryway.

You felt the exact moment he saw it.

The photograph.

It was standing upright again on the console table.

Not back on the wall.

Not in its old place.

But no longer face-down.

It was a small thing, maybe. A frame returned to visibility. A picture allowed to exist again.

You and him, years younger, caught mid-laughter in a way neither of you had noticed at the time. Bucky’s arm around your shoulders, your face turned slightly toward him, eyes bright with a happiness that had once seemed simple because you hadn’t known yet how complicated love could become.

Bucky stared at it.

He didn’t touch it.

Didn’t move closer.

But his throat worked once, and something in his face shifted so quickly that if you hadn’t been watching, you might have missed it.

Pain.

Relief.

Gratitude so sharp it looked almost like grief.

You closed the door softly behind him.

“I didn’t know where to put it yet,” you said.

Bucky’s eyes stayed on the frame for one more second before he looked at you.

“That’s okay,” he answered quietly.

You nodded.

The apartment settled around you.

You took off your coat first, hanging it on the hook by the door with movements that felt too precise. Bucky did the same, slower, as if every ordinary action needed permission. Then your shoes. His shoes. The small, intimate rituals of entering a home.

You walked into the living room.

Bucky followed.

For a second, you both stood beside the couch like you had forgotten how furniture worked.

That almost made you laugh.

Not because anything was funny, exactly.

Because the awkwardness was so human. So unlike the operatic weight that had lived between you for months.

You sat down first, tucking one leg beneath you, leaving space. Bucky sat at the other end of the couch. Not far enough to feel like punishment. Not close enough to assume.

The space between you was deliberate.

Breathable.

You looked at your hands.

Then at him.

Bucky was sitting with his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely clasped, head bowed slightly. He looked older than he had at dinner. Not because of exhaustion, though there was that too. Because this room stripped away performance. There was nowhere to be charming here. Nowhere to be impressive. Nowhere to be the man who worked for Stark Industries or the boy who used to fill a house with noise.

Here, he was just Bucky.

And you were just you.

With everything between you.

“You said we needed to talk about high school,” he said eventually.

His voice was low.

Careful.

You nodded. “Yes.”

Bucky inhaled slowly, then let it out.

“Okay.”

The single word trembled at the edges.

You looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide where to begin. There were too many doors. Too many rooms inside the same house of memory.

So you chose the one that had never stopped echoing.

“The night after Steve broke up with me,” you said.

Bucky went very still.

His eyes dropped to his hands.

“I know,” he whispered.

“No,” you said softly. Not cruelly. Just firmly. “You don’t. Not from my side.”

His face tightened, but he nodded.

“You’re right.”

The apartment hummed quietly around you. The refrigerator. The distant traffic beyond the windows. Someone laughing faintly from the sidewalk below.

You stared at the edge of the coffee table.

“I was devastated,” you said. “And I knew Steve was right. That was the worst part. I couldn’t even turn it into anger properly, because he wasn’t leaving because he stopped loving me. He was leaving because he saw something I didn’t know how to look at directly.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

You continued before he could apologize too soon.

“I was crying, and then you came in. And for a moment it felt like being little again. Like you’d heard me, and you came, and the world went quiet because you were there.”

His eyes closed briefly.

“I shouldn’t have–”

“Please don’t start there,” you said.

Bucky stopped immediately.

You swallowed.

“I need to say it without you rushing to condemn yourself. Can you let me say it first?”

He opened his eyes and looked at you.

“Yes.”

You nodded once.

“It wasn’t simple,” you said. “That’s what made it so hard afterward. It wasn’t some clean thing where I could say you hurt me that night, or I didn’t want it, or I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Your voice thinned slightly, but you stayed steady.

“I wanted comfort. I wanted you. I wanted to be held by the person I had wanted for years and never allowed myself to want out loud. And then the line moved.”

Bucky’s breathing had gone shallow.

“I remember,” he said, barely audible.

“So do I.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, wounded by the quiet honesty of it.

You let yourself hold his gaze.

“I don’t regret that I wanted you,” you said.

A tear slipped down Bucky’s cheek before he seemed to realize it was there.

You looked away for a moment, not because you couldn’t bear him, but because you needed to keep speaking.

“What destroyed me was the morning.”

His face crumpled.

This time, he didn’t interrupt.

“You left,” you said. “You woke up and you were already gone, even before you walked out. You wouldn’t look at me. You wouldn’t touch me. You didn’t ask if I was okay.”

Bucky’s hands tightened until his knuckles paled.

“And I was sixteen,” you continued, voice softer now. “I was sad, and confused, and already trained to think that needing too much made me wrong. So when you erased it, I understood it the only way I knew how.”

You breathed in.

“It meant I had done something wrong.”

Bucky made a sound low in his throat.

Not a word.

Something broken.

“I thought I had made you do something,” you said. “Not forced. I knew that wasn’t it. But I thought my sadness had… pulled something out of you that you didn’t want. That I had contaminated something safe. That I had ruined us because I reached for comfort in the wrong way.”

Bucky’s lips parted.

Nothing came out.

You could see him fighting the urge to apologize, to explain, to fill the room with his remorse.

But he stayed quiet.

That mattered.

“I told Pietro,” you said. “Eventually. Not right away. It took days before I could even say your name. And he spent weeks trying to convince me I wasn’t disgusting or monstruous.”

Bucky bowed his head.

His shoulders shook once.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words came out scraped raw. “I know you told me to let you talk, but I have to say it once. I’m sorry. I was a coward. I panicked, and I made you carry the shame alone because I couldn’t face my own.”

You looked at him.

He was crying now, quietly, without trying to hide it and without using it to ask anything from you.

“I know,” you said.

He flinched, not from cruelty, but from the simplicity of it.

“I know you were scared,” you added. “That didn’t make it hurt less. But I know.”

Bucky wiped at his face with the heel of his hand and nodded, unsteady.

“I didn’t know what to do with wanting you,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. It’s just… the truth. I had spent years telling myself you were my sister because that was the only way I could survive loving you without feeling like there was something wrong with me. And then that night happened, and suddenly I couldn’t pretend the feeling was theoretical anymore.”

His mouth twisted.

“So I did the worst possible thing. I pretended nothing happened.”

“You made me feel alone in it.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel like I had imagined the tenderness.”

He looked at you then, eyes devastated.

“You didn’t,” he whispered. “You didn’t imagine it. I remember every second. I remember holding you. I remember being scared. I remember wanting to kiss you and thinking if I did, everything would change. And then everything did change, and I wasn’t brave enough to stay with you in the aftermath.”

The words settled between you.

Painful.

Necessary.

You let them sit.

Then you asked the next question, the one you’d carried longer than you wanted to admit.

“Why Natasha?”

Bucky closed his eyes again, but this time he didn’t look away when he opened them.

“Because she was good,” he said. “Because she was real, and smart, and strong, and she wanted me in a way that didn’t come with our entire childhood attached to it.”

You swallowed.

He looked ashamed, but he didn’t stop.

“And because being with her made me feel like maybe I could be someone normal. Someone who hadn’t spent half his life loving the girl sleeping down the hall.”

Your chest tightened.

“That’s the part that hurt,” you said quietly. “Before Natasha, you were different with me again.”

He nodded immediately, as if he had been waiting for that blow.

“I was.”

“You looked at me.”

“I know.”

“Not like before. Not like when we were kids. Like you knew exactly what you were doing and still wouldn’t say it.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

“I did know,” he said. “Some of the time. Not all of it. Sometimes I’d catch myself halfway through a look and feel like I’d been caught stealing something.”

“You made me hope.”

His face went pale.

You weren’t accusing him loudly. You weren’t raising your voice.

That made it land harder.

“You made me hope,” you repeated. “And I hated myself for it. Because I thought I had gotten past it. I thought after high school, after Steve, after everything, maybe I had learned to survive wanting you. But then you started looking at me like that again. Showing up. Lingering. Being… almost there.”

Bucky covered his mouth with one hand, eyes shining.

“And then Natasha happened,” you said.

His hand dropped slowly.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“I know you didn’t.”

“I should have.”

“You weren’t responsible for my hope,” you said. “Not entirely. I gave myself that. But you fed it without naming it. And then when Natasha appeared, it felt like being stupid all over again.”

Bucky shook his head, a small, pained movement.

“You weren’t stupid.”

“I felt stupid,” you said. “I felt pathetic. Because there she was, beautiful and clever and good for you. And I was supposed to be happy. I was happy, in some way. I wanted you to have something good. But it also felt like watching a door close that I had never admitted I wanted to walk through.”

Your voice wavered for the first time.

“And then I started looking for my origins again because I needed somewhere to put all of it. Somewhere that wasn’t you.”

Bucky stared at you.

The silence stretched.

“I hate that I made your own life feel like an escape route,” he said quietly.

You breathed out slowly.

“You didn’t make all of it. That question was always there. Tony was always out there, whether I knew his name or not. But yes. The timing was because of you.”

Bucky nodded.

No defense.

No flinch away from consequence.

Just acceptance.

“That night at dinner,” he said, voice low, “when I told you I was going to propose to Natasha…”

Your stomach tightened.

Bucky saw it and stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately. “We don’t have to–”

“No,” you interrupted. “Say it.”

He swallowed.

“I wanted you to react.”

The sentence landed quietly.

You had known.

Some part of you had known since the moment it happened.

But hearing him say it was different.

Bucky looked sick with himself.

“I told myself I was being honest,” he said. “That you deserved to know. That it was some responsible adult conversation. But that’s not the whole truth. The truth is, I wanted you to show me that it mattered. I wanted proof that you still–”

He stopped.

“That I still loved you,” you finished.

His eyes burned.

“Yes.”

You looked down at your hands.

“And when I laughed.”

“You sounded like it didn’t matter,” he whispered. “Like I had imagined everything. Like I was standing there with my heart in my hands and you thought it was absurd.”

“I was terrified.”

“I know that now.”

“I was blindsided. And hurt. And trying not to fall apart in front of you.”

Bucky nodded, tears slipping again.

“I know.”

“And you punished me for not bleeding in the right language.”

The sentence cracked open something in his face.

For a moment, he looked almost young again. Not innocent. Just young in the way shame could strip a person down to the first version of themselves that had ever been afraid.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I did.”

You both sat with that.

The room felt heavier now, but also clearer. Like opening all the windows after years of stale air.

You shifted slightly on the couch.

Bucky noticed, but didn’t move.

Slowly, you reached across the space between you.

His eyes dropped to your hand.

You saw the exact second he stopped breathing.

You took his hand.

Not because the conversation was finished.

Not because all was forgiven.

Not because tenderness erased harm.

Just because you wanted to.

Because you could.

Because for years, his hand had been a thing you reached for only in emergencies, only through fear, only through circumstances too loud to let the gesture mean what it meant.

Now, in the quiet of your apartment, you took it simply because you wanted to know what it felt like to choose.

Bucky’s fingers trembled in yours.

He did not tighten his grip right away.

He let you decide the pressure.

When you laced your fingers more fully through his, his eyes closed.

A tear slid down his cheek.

You looked at your joined hands.

His palm was warm.

Familiar.

Dangerous only because of how much it mattered.

“I need to ask you something,” you said.

Bucky opened his eyes.

“Anything.”

You traced your thumb once over the side of his hand. His breath caught, but he stayed still.

“When you imagine what happens next,” you said slowly, “I don’t mean what you think you’re allowed to ask for. I don’t mean the careful answer. I don’t mean the one that respects what I want.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

You looked at him.

“I want to know what you want.”

Bucky stared at you.

You could see the reflexive resistance rise in him immediately. The instinct to say it doesn’t matter, whatever you need, I’ll do anything, I don’t want to pressure you.

All the right answers.

All the safe answers.

You squeezed his hand once.

“Not the version where you make yourself small enough to be harmless,” you said. “Just the truth. What would you want, if wanting didn’t cost anything?”

Bucky looked away.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

When he finally did, his voice was rough.

“You.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked back at you then, terrified of the word but unwilling to take it back.

“I want you,” he said again. “Not as an idea. Not as this thing I’ve been orbiting for years because I was too scared to land. I want a life with you.”

Your fingers tightened around his.

Bucky swallowed hard.

“I want to date you properly,” he said. “God, that sounds stupid after everything, but I do. I want to ask you out. I want to take you somewhere and sit across from you and not pretend I’m just your brother or your oldest friend or whatever safer word we used because we didn’t know what else to do.”

His mouth trembled.

“I want to hold your hand in public because you let me, not because I’m protecting you from someone. I want to learn what you like now. Not what you liked when we were kids. Not what I assume. Now.”

You watched him, hardly breathing.

“I want to know Athens,” he continued, quieter. “Not as something I’m scared will take you from me, but as the place you’re going because you earned it. I want to visit if you invite me. I want to see you there and have you show me some piece of stone that makes your whole face change because you’re thinking about two thousand years at once.”

A faint, helpless laugh slipped from you.

Bucky’s eyes softened at the sound, but he kept going.

“I want to be proud of you without making your success about my fear. I want to miss you without punishing you for leaving. I want to learn how to love you from a distance if that’s what your life needs.”

His voice broke slightly.

“And if someday you wanted me closer, I’d want that too.”

The room seemed to shrink around the two of you.

Bucky looked down at your hands, as if the sight steadied him and wounded him at the same time.

“I want ordinary things,” he admitted. “That’s the part that kills me. I used to think what I wanted was… impossible because it was too much. Too messy. Too wrong. But when I actually let myself imagine it, it’s not dramatic.”

His thumb moved slightly beneath yours. Not taking over. Just responding.

“I want coffee in your kitchen. I want to argue about whether I’m allowed to touch your books. I want you falling asleep on the couch with some impossible article open on your laptop. I want to complain about your apartment being freezing in winter and then fix the heater because it annoys me that it doesn’t work right.”

Your throat tightened.

“I want to be the person you call when something good happens,” he said. “And not because I need to be first. Just because you want me there.”

The words struck exactly where he meant them to.

Maybe because he had noticed.

Maybe because you had texted him about Athens.

Maybe because some part of him still understood that love was often revealed by the first person you wanted to tell.

Bucky inhaled shakily.

“I want to marry you someday,” he said.

Your whole body went still.

His eyes widened slightly, and he rushed on – not taking it back, but making room around it.

“Not now. Not soon. Not as some demand or promise you have to answer. I just… you asked what I want if I’m not making it smaller to be acceptable. That’s the truth. Someday, if we got there. If we healed enough. If you wanted it too. I’d want that.”

Your eyes burned.

Bucky’s voice dropped.

“I want a home with you that doesn’t feel like a cage. I want a version of us where you never have to wonder if asking for comfort will make me leave. I want to be someone who stays in the morning.”

The last sentence broke something open.

You looked away, blinking hard.

Bucky’s hand remained in yours, warm and shaking.

“I know wanting all that doesn’t mean I get it,” he said. “I know.”

You nodded, unable to speak yet.

He continued anyway, because maybe now that he had started telling the truth, stopping felt worse.

“And I want to be better,” he said. “Not so I can earn you like a reward. Not so you’ll forgive me faster. I want to be better because I don’t want fear to keep deciding who I become.”

You turned back to him.

His face was open now in a way you had rarely seen. No smirk. No armor. No attempt to make the confession less naked with humor.

“I want to stop using love like something I have to control before it destroys me,” he said. “I want to stop confusing being needed with being safe. I want to learn how to let you choose me without trying to make the choice for you first.”

He swallowed.

“And I want you to know that if your answer is no, or not yet, or I don’t know, I’ll still keep doing that work.”

Your chest ached with the force of it.

You looked down at your joined hands again.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then you whispered, “That was a lot.”

A startled, broken laugh escaped him.

“Yeah,” he said. “You asked.”

“I did.”

His mouth twitched faintly, but his eyes stayed wet.

You took a slow breath.

“I don’t know yet,” you said.

“I know.”

“I want some of those things too. Probably most of them actually.”

Bucky’s hand tightened once before he forced it loose again, as if he was terrified of gripping too hard.

You noticed.

And instead of pulling away, you held on.

“But I need slow,” you said. “Slower than you want. Maybe slower than I want too.”

“Okay.”

“I need us to keep talking. Even when it’s ugly.”

“Yes.”

“I need you to keep going to therapy.”

“I will.”

“I need you not to make Athens a test.”

He shook his head immediately. “I won’t.”

“If I go, I need to go freely. Not with the feeling that I’m leaving you behind to suffer.”

Bucky’s face tightened, but he nodded.

“You’re not responsible for managing how much I miss you,” he said.

The words sounded learned.

But not false.

You believed he was trying.

“That’s good,” you whispered.

He gave a small, humorless smile. “I have professional help now.”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself.

The sound softened the room.

Bucky looked at you like the laugh was something sacred.

You shook your head faintly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I did something miraculous.”

His gaze lowered to your hand in his.

“You took my hand,” he said quietly. “That feels pretty miraculous from where I’m sitting.”

The honesty undid you more than any grand confession could have.

You breathed in, unsteady.

Then you shifted closer on the couch.

Not much.

Only a few inches.

But Bucky felt it. You saw him feel it.

His whole body went still again, waiting.

You rested your shoulder lightly against his.

For a second, he didn’t move at all.

Then, very carefully, he leaned into the contact. Not enough to trap. Not enough to claim.

Just enough to answer.

The apartment was quiet around you.

The photograph stood upright in the entryway.

Not on the wall yet.

Not where it used to be.

But visible.

Present.

Waiting.

Like the two of you.

Like something not fixed, not finished, not simple. But no longer turned away.

“Stay tonight,” you finally murmured.

The words were barely louder than breath.

For a moment, Bucky went completely still beside you.

Not frozen in fear this time. Not pulling away. Just… receiving it. Letting the sentence land before he moved around it too quickly.

He didn’t ask if you were sure.

He didn’t make you defend the request.

He didn’t turn it into a trial where your certainty had to be proven before it could be trusted.

He only looked at you, eyes dark and soft and unbearably careful, and said, “Okay.”

One word.

No pressure inside it.

No hunger hidden beneath it.

Just acceptance.

You nodded once, as if confirming something to yourself more than to him, and the room settled again.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

The apartment felt suspended around you. The remnants of the evening still clung to both of you – the restaurant, the laughter, the weight of your defense finally over, Tony’s kiss on your forehead, your mother’s pride, Steve’s smile, Wanda’s tears, Pietro’s watchful relief.

And now this.

Bucky’s shoulder was still against yours. His hand still in yours. Warm. Real.

You looked down at your joined fingers, at the way his thumb remained perfectly still against your skin, as if he was afraid even the smallest movement might be interpreted as asking for more.

Something in your chest tightened.

Not painfully.

Decisively.

You shifted.

Bucky’s head turned toward you immediately, attentive without being alarmed. You didn’t say anything. You only released his hand, rose onto your knees, and moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

You climbed onto his lap.

One leg on either side of his.

Bucky stopped breathing.

His hands lifted instinctively, then froze in the air beside you, fingers slightly curled, waiting for permission his body wanted to assume and his mind refused to steal.

You looked at him.

His eyes were wide now, not with fear exactly, but with the force of holding himself back. His whole body was tense beneath you, controlled to the point of pain.

You took his wrists gently.

Placed his hands on your hips.

His fingers settled there like they had found something sacred and dangerous.

Still, he didn’t grip. Not at first.

You could feel the tremor in him.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His gaze snapped to your face.

You didn’t know what you meant to say after that. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

So instead, you leaned down and kissed him.

The first kiss was soft.

So soft it almost hurt.

A brush of your mouth against his, hesitant only because the moment was enormous and neither of you knew how to hold it yet. Bucky didn’t surge up to meet you. He let you set the shape of it. His lips moved carefully beneath yours, warm and familiar in a way that made something old inside you ache.

You pulled back half an inch.

His eyes opened slowly.

For a second, you just looked at each other.

Then you kissed him again.

This time, it lasted longer.

Your hands slid to his shoulders, then to the back of his neck, and you felt him exhale against your mouth like he had been waiting years to breathe into you. His fingers tightened slightly at your hips – not claiming, not trapping, just holding on enough that you could feel he was there.

The third kiss was different.

A little braver.

Your mouth parted against his, and Bucky made a small, broken sound low in his throat before he caught himself. His hands flexed once, then stilled again, restraint and want warring so openly beneath your palms that it almost made you dizzy.

You kissed him again.

And again.

The world narrowed to warm breath, quiet sounds, the roughness of his jaw under your fingertips, the way his body responded to every shift of yours and still waited for you to lead.

It wasn’t like the night after Steve.

That thought came suddenly, sharply.

And instead of ruining the moment, it steadied you.

Because this wasn’t grief spilling over into need. This wasn’t confusion in the dark. This wasn’t a line crossed and then erased by morning.

This was chosen.

You had brought him here.

You had taken his hand.

You had climbed into his lap.

You were awake inside every second of it.

Bucky broke the kiss first.

Not by pulling away far. Just enough to breathe. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, his hands still careful on your hips.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Your stomach clenched before you could stop it.

He felt the shift immediately. His eyes opened.

“Not stop,” he said quickly, voice rough but gentle. “Not unless you want to. I just need to say something before I lose the ability to think in full sentences.”

Despite everything, despite the nerves sparking under your skin, a tiny laugh escaped you.

Bucky’s mouth softened at the sound.

Then he grew serious again.

“Whatever you want tonight,” he said quietly, “I’ll follow it.”

You held very still.

He kept his eyes on yours, steady and open.

“If you want me on the couch, I’ll sleep on the couch. If you want me in bed next to you and nothing else, that’s what happens. If you want to kiss me for an hour and then tell me to go make tea, I will make the best damn tea anyone has ever made.”

Your lips twitched.

His did too, faintly, but his voice stayed careful.

“If you want this to stop here, it stops here. If you want more, we go slow. And if you change your mind at any point, even after asking for something, even halfway through, even one second before–” His throat worked. “You say it, and I stop.”

Your chest tightened so hard it almost stole your breath.

He swallowed.

“And I know that sounds like something I should not have to say,” he added, voice lower. “But I want to say it anyway. Because I need you to hear it from me now. I won’t disappear from you in the morning. I won’t pretend this didn’t happen. I won’t make you carry it alone.”

The words hit exactly where they were meant to.

You blinked hard, looking down between you for half a second.

Bucky’s thumbs brushed once, barely there, over the fabric at your hips.

“And,” he added, his mouth curving into something softer, almost shy, “for the record… I am strongly in favor of more kissing.”

A laugh broke out of you against his mouth before you could hold it back.

Small.

Surprised.

Real.

Bucky’s face changed as if the sound had physically touched him.

You kissed him again before he could say anything else.

He responded this time with a little less fear, though the restraint never vanished entirely. His hands moved carefully along your sides, never farther than you allowed, never faster than your body invited. Your fingers found his hair, and when you tugged lightly, he inhaled sharply against you, then laughed under his breath like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to feel joy and ache at the same time.

You stayed like that for several minutes.

Maybe longer.

Time loosened.

Kisses deepened and softened and deepened again. Sometimes you paused just to breathe against each other. Sometimes Bucky’s mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips, reverent more than hungry. Sometimes you pressed your forehead to his and simply sat there, feeling the shape of him beneath you, solid and alive and waiting.

Eventually, you pulled back.

Bucky’s eyes opened at once.

His lips were parted. His face was flushed. His hands were still on your hips, but the second you shifted, he loosened them automatically.

You climbed off his lap.

For one sharp second, his expression flickered – fear, old and fast, the fear of having wanted too much.

Then you took his hand.

The fear stopped there.

You stood in front of him, fingers wrapped around his, and pulled gently.

He rose.

Neither of you spoke as you led him down the hallway.

Your apartment felt different in the dark. Softer. More intimate. The familiar walls, the framed prints, the books stacked too high on the shelves, the narrow hall that had once felt like a place you walked through alone – all of it seemed to hold its breath as you brought him toward your bedroom.

At the doorway, you stopped.

Bucky stopped with you.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow from the window and the lamp you had left on near your desk. Your bed was made, not perfectly anymore but still neat enough that you could see Steve’s care in it somewhere. The clean sheets. The quiet proof that people had wanted you to come home to softness.

You turned to face Bucky.

His hand was still in yours.

He looked at you like he was trying not to want too loudly.

You drew in a slow breath.

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven everything,” you said.

Bucky’s expression sobered instantly.

“I know.”

“I need you to really know that.”

“I do,” he said, voice quiet. “I don’t want you to give me something tonight because you feel like it settles the debt.”

“It doesn’t.”

“No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t.”

You looked down at your joined hands, then back at him.

“I’m still hurt.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“I know.”

“And some things are still going to come back,” you said. “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later. Maybe when I don’t expect it.”

“Then we’ll deal with them when they come back,” he answered. “If you let me. And if you don’t, I’ll still deal with my part.”

Your throat tightened.

That was new.

Not perfect.

Not magically healed.

But new.

You stepped closer.

“I want to make love with you tonight,” you said, voice soft but steady. “If you want that too.”

Bucky’s face changed.

Not with triumph.

Not with relief so selfish it erased the weight of what you’d said.

His expression opened in something more fragile than want. Something stunned and grateful and almost afraid of itself.

He closed his eyes for one second, like he needed to gather enough control not to answer too quickly.

When he opened them again, they were wet.

“I want that,” he said.

The words came out rough.

Then, because he was trying – really trying – he added, “But only if we keep talking. Only if you promise me you’ll tell me if something feels wrong.”

You nodded.

“I promise.”

“And I’ll ask,” he said. “Maybe too much.”

A faint smile touched your mouth. “I think I can survive being asked.”

His breath left him in something close to a laugh.

Then he lifted your hand to his mouth.

Not your lips.

Not yet.

He kissed your knuckles first.

Slowly.

Like a vow he wasn’t saying because vows were too easy to make and harder to live.

You stepped closer and touched his face with your free hand.

The bruises were gone now, but you could picture them. Pietro’s fist. Your mother’s slap. Natasha’s anger. The marks that had followed your absence like consequences made visible.

Your thumb brushed his cheek.

Bucky leaned into the touch with a restraint that made your chest ache.

“I don’t want to be scared of you forever,” you whispered.

His eyes closed.

“I don’t want that either.”

“I’m still scared sometimes.”

“I know.”

“But not right now.”

He opened his eyes.

You looked at him, and this time you let him see the truth there.

The want.

The tenderness.

The wound.

The choice.

“Right now,” you said, “I want you.”

Bucky’s breath trembled.

Then he kissed you.

Slowly at first.

A question.

You answered by stepping into him, by sliding your arms around his neck, by letting your body rest against his without bracing for punishment. His hands came to your waist again, then your back, careful over the places he now knew had held old pain long before he ever added new ones.

When his palm settled between your shoulder blades, you stiffened for the smallest fraction of a second.

He stopped instantly.

“Here?” he whispered.

You breathed.

The old memory flickered – belts, punishment, the reflexive expectation of pain where tenderness now waited.

Then it passed.

You reached back, covered his hand with yours, and pressed it more firmly against you.

“Here,” you said.

Bucky’s eyes shone.

He nodded once.

“Okay.”

There were no perfect movements after that. You both undressed each other clumsily, as if it were the first time.

There was no cinematic smoothness.

Only care.

Only the slow unlearning of fear in real time.

You kissed him until your knees felt weak. He followed when you stepped backward toward the bed. When you sat, he knelt in front of you for a moment, hands resting on your thighs but not moving higher, looking up at you like he needed to memorize the fact that you were still here.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

Then, because you had promised truth, you added, “Nervous.”

“Me too.”

That made you smile faintly. “You?”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “In a very dignified, masculine way.”

A laugh slipped out of you.

“There it is,” he murmured.

“What?”

His face softened.

“You laughing.”

The tenderness of that nearly undid you.

You leaned down and kissed him again.

His hands slid around your back, drawing you closer as he laid the both of you on the bed.

His lips moved against your neck, breath warm and gentle. His tongue traced the delicate line of your collarbone while his fingers discovered the sensitive skin above your hips, careful and curious.

You made a soft sound without meaning to.

He froze instantly.

“No,” you whispered. “Don’t stop.”

His hesitation lasted only a beat longer, then returned to exploring with a new reverence.

“Does this feel okay?” he murmured against your skin.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Tell me. Anything that isn't good.”

You nodded again.

He learned the shape of you with hands and lips. Touch became language. Every sigh from you was answered by careful attention from him.

Soon your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him up for more kisses.

His body pressed against yours, firm and grounded.

You could feel his heart beating as wildly as your own.

“Please,” you said finally, not knowing exactly what you begged for.

Bucky seemed to understand perfectly.

His hand moved between your legs, touch hesitant but determined.

You arched into him, a gasp escaping as waves of pleasure started building within you.

“Okay?” he asked again, voice rough now.

“Yes,” you managed. “God, yes.”

He found a rhythm that made thoughts scatter.

His name became a prayer on your lips.

His breath quickened as he watched your face, pupils dark with desire but also with something deeper – adoration maybe, or the stunned miracle of being here with you like this.

The world narrowed to skin and heat and breath.

To the way he whispered your name when your release washed through you like warm rain.

To the feeling of his strong arms wrapping around you as you came back to yourself trembling.

He held you without speaking for long minutes, hands stroking your back slowly, as if steadying both of you.

When finally you raised your head to look at him, his expression held such tenderness it made your chest ache.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” you echoed.

He studied your face, like looking for cracks.

Then, “I love seeing you like this.”

He said you more than this.

He meant your relaxation after tension.

He meant your trust after fear.

You understood suddenly that what he found beautiful wasn't pleasure itself but the permission you gave each other to feel it.

This revelation broke through something in you.

The carefulness.

The caution.

With sudden boldness, you rose and pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips.

His surprise quickly melted into acceptance, then eagerness.

His hands settled on your waist, thumbs drawing circles against your skin.

“Now who’s nervous?” you asked playfully.

He grinned.

“You have no idea.”

You leaned down, hair falling like a curtain around your faces.

“Show me,” you whispered against his lips.

He did.

He flipped you gently, never breaking the kiss.

Bodies aligning like puzzle pieces finally finding their match.

Nervousness disappeared between kisses and caresses.

When he finally entered you, it was slow and deliberate, his body trembling with the effort of control.

“You okay?” he asked again, the words almost inaudible against your neck.

You nodded, hands clutching his shoulders.

Then you took a deep breath and let your legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper.

His breath hitched.

You moved together, finding rhythm through trial and hesitation until it became something instinctive, ancient.

His eyes never left yours unless to close in moments of intense feeling.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere – framing your face, clutching your hips, buried in your hair.

The sounds he made – quiet, vulnerable gasps against your skin – told you more than words could about what this meant to him.

Not just sex.

Connection.

A bridge crossed.

He rolled you both, and you straddled him, finding your own pace.

His hands guided your hips as he watched you with those beautiful blue eyes dark with pleasure and wonder.

“You’re…” He started but couldn't finish.

“Yes,” you replied anyway.

He laughed softly, the vibration of it inside you making you shudder.

“I just...” He struggled to explain.

“You what?”

His answer came without thought, raw honesty:

“I keep thinking this is the best I’ll ever feel.”

You slowed, looking down at him truly.

At the sweat gathering on his temples.

At the slight smile that didn't quite form.

At the vulnerable openness of his expression.

You understood with sudden clarity that he wasn't just talking about pleasure.

He meant belonging.

Meaning.

Being wanted not despite the broken parts but perhaps because of them – because they made him who he was, the man you were choosing.

You leaned down, foreheads touching, still joined.

“It gets better,” you promised.

His fingers laced through yours.

“Yeah?” he asked, small hope in that single word.

“Every day,” you assured. “If you stay.”

For the first time, something in your tone reminded you of his earlier bargaining – you'd made a promise without realizing it.

His gaze grew serious.

He understood.

“Okay,” he said simply.

And that was enough.

That was everything.

Your rhythm resumed, deeper now, more intentional.

You moved together with a singular purpose – to get as close as humanly possible, to merge briefly into something whole and unbroken.

His name on your lips became urgent.

When your release found you this time, it came with such intensity that you cried out, surprised by the force of it.

He held you through it, murmuring your name like a mantra, like salvation.

As the waves subsided, you became aware of his control breaking. He moved you, putting you under him, on your back again.

His rhythm faltered.

He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

You held him tight.

“Let go,” you whispered.

And he did.

With your name on his lips, he shuddered violently, his body finding release with something that sounded like relief, like release from decades of something he’d never been able to name.

When it was over, he didn't move immediately, just remained with his head on your chest, your heart beating against his ear.

Your fingers combed through his hair. Neither of you spoke. Words seemed inadequate somehow. Minutes passed before finally he shifted, settling beside you but still maintaining contact, legs intertwined. You turned onto your side to face him. His expression in the dim light was relaxed but deeply attentive, still mapping your face as if worried you might disappear. “What are you thinking?” you asked softly. He took your hand, laced fingers together. His thumb traced over your knuckles. “I didn't know it could feel like this,” he said after a moment. “Not just... this. The quiet after.” You smiled faintly. “I didn't either.” “With me?” he clarified, something vulnerable in the question. You squeezed his hand.

“With anyone.”

A wave of emotion crossed his face too complex to name.

Silence settled between you, comfortable and warm.

Outside, the world continued turning.

In this bed, you found something still and unshakeable – not in the dramatic, passionate moments, but in the quiet aftermath when two people lay tangled together, neither willing or able to let go.

Bucky shifted, bringing the blanket up over both of you.

He kissed your shoulder.

“Okay?” he asked again.

This time, the word carried layers – about the aftermath, about vulnerability, about everything unspoken between you.

You turned in his arms until you faced him completely.

“Yeah.”

His smile was genuine now, reaching his eyes.

“Good.”

And later – much later – when the room had gone still and the city hummed faintly beyond the glass, you lay beneath the sheets with your head near Bucky’s shoulder, your breathing slow, your body tired in a way that felt grounded instead of hollow.

Bucky was awake.

You could tell by the way he held himself. Still careful. Still afraid to assume sleep had granted him rights the waking world had not.

You shifted closer.

His breath caught.

Then, slowly, he wrapped an arm around you. His body curved around yours, arm draped protectively over your waist.

You let him.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

Then you murmured, half into his skin, “You’re still here.”

Bucky’s arm tightened around you.

Not too much.

Just enough.

“I’m still here,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

And this time, when morning waited somewhere beyond the dark, it did not feel like a threat.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby-21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed | @sebastians-love | @bennyyion

There are exactly three kinds of phone calls that happen after 2:17am.

The first are emergencies. The second are mistakes. The third belong to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Your ears buzz with your ringing phone from beneath the dim blue glow of your apartment television, half-curled on the couch with paperwork balanced over your knees and takeout gone cold on the coffee table. Outside your windows, rain slicks the fire escape silver beneath the streetlights. Inside, your apartment smells faintly like coffee grounds, printer ink, and the lavender candle you forgot to blow out two hours ago. It would almost be peaceful until the screen flashes her name.

Because of course it does.

You let it ring once longer than you should before answering.

“Tell me you’re alive,” Valentina says by way of greeting.

You close your eyes. “Wouldn't answer if I wasn't.”

“Cute. I need Coney Island locked down by Friday.”

Your stomach sinks immediately.

There’s the rustle of papers on her end, heels clicking somewhere distant, voices moving around her like orbiting satellites. Valentina never really exists in silence, she exists in motion, in disruption. In perfectly sharpened smiles and impossible demands delivered like casual suggestions.

You glance toward the calendar taped beside your kitchen, every visible square is already full. Press conference Tuesday. Magazine interview Wednesday. Damage control briefing Thursday. A breakfast segment Friday morning where you'll have to remind John Walker to not call a reporter a communist on live television.

Again.

And somewhere between all of that, you’re supposed to sleep.

“Locked down for what?” you ask carefully, already knowing you won’t like the answer.

“The festival.”

Your face scrunches to yourself as you click the television off.

“The what?”

“The promo event for the New Avengers initiative.” She says it like this has always existed. Like you’ve simply forgotten. “Public morale is still shaky after New York.”

Shaky, that’s one word for it. Another might be catastrophic.

The Void incident had left the city bruised in ways news reports couldn’t fully capture. Broken storefronts, candlelight vigils, protestors outside federal buildings. Viral footage looping endlessly online and every headline asking the same question in different fonts:

Who cleans up the people meant to save everyone else?

Valentina’s answer, apparently, is a carnival.

You press your fingers against your forehead. “You want me to plan a festival in four days.”

“A patriotic community outreach event,” she corrects smoothly. “Family friendly. Charming. Nostalgic Americana. Think hot dogs, ferris wheels, smiling children.”

“You’re describing propaganda.”

“I’m describing public relations. Which is your department.”

Your department. Which, in practice, means every department. You handle schedules, rewrite interviews, stop Alexei from drunkenly live-streaming classified conversations. You remind Walker not to threaten journalists. You once spent six straight hours convincing a publication not to run an article titled THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You coordinate meetings, smooth scandals, track medication schedules, answer six phones at once, and carry emergency aspirin in every handbag you own because stress headaches have become less of an inconvenience and more of a personality trait.

Sometimes you think your real superpower is surviving on four hours of sleep and shitty vending machine coffee.

“You’ll have the team there,” Valentina continues. “Photo opportunities. Meet-and-greets. Humanize them.”

Humanize them as if they aren’t human already, messy and difficult and exhausted human beings carrying too much aching violence in their bones. You think of Yelena rolling her eyes through interviews while secretly making sure catering staff eat before security does. Bob nervously apologizing every time he takes up space in a room. Ava standing closest to exits without realizing it. Bucky Barnes sitting through press briefings with the expression of a man enduring minor dental surgery.

Your chest tightens a little at the thought of him. Not because you know him well, you don’t, not really. But you know the shape of him around the edges. The quiet way he lingers after meetings to stack abandoned coffee cups when nobody’s looking. The way he always notices when you haven’t eaten lunch. The low rasp of his voice saying your name carefully, like he’s worried about handling it wrong. You know he watches you when Valentina gets especially cruel. You know he hates these events, and now you’re about to force him into another one.

“There’s one more thing,” Valentina says.

Of course there is.

“The board wants something memorable.”

You stare blankly at your dark television screen. “…Define memorable.”

Valentina's laugh is all you get before the call clicks.

By the grace of cold brew and a supercharged energy drink, your own concoction that you only resort to in times of ultimate need, three days later Coney Island looks like someone tried to shove patriotism and Valentine’s Day into a blender.

Workers haul string lights across vendor stalls while event coordinators scream into headsets. Red-and-white banners snap violently in the ocean wind. Somewhere down the boardwalk, someone is testing a carousel organ loud enough to qualify as psychological warfare. Your clipboard is tucked against your chest while three phones vibrate simultaneously in your coat pocket and you haven’t sat down in nine hours. There are very few moments in life where you can physically feel a migraine settle in the back of your mind like a sedimentary rock, but this is definitely one of them. You pinch the bridge of your nose hard enough to see stars while the vendor beside you shifts awkwardly beneath your silence.

Behind you, Bucky's waiting beside a post. You can feel the weight of his stare somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not impatient or angry, just deeply suspicious in the way stray dogs eye thunderstorms.

You turn slowly, daring your approach.

The ocean wind catches strands of his hair as you walk over, dark and unruly from the humidity. He’s dressed down today—henley beneath a leather jacket, gloves tucked into one pocket like he’d debated wearing them and decided against it. The afternoon sun cuts sharp across the tired lines of his face, then his eyes flick past you toward the booth. Toward the giant pink sign with his name on it.

His expression goes completely blank which is somehow worse.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “Before you react—”

“Kissing booth.”

“Technically it’s more of a charity—”

“Kissing booth.”

You inhale slowly through your nose.

“It's a temporary kissing-adjacent promotional… station?”

Bucky stares at you, and you fearfully stare back. Somewhere nearby, Alexei loudly shouts something in Russian followed by what sounds suspiciously like metal bending. The boardwalk rattles with activity around you. Workers finish nailing the last of the stakes while vendors wheel carts into position. Someone tests the speakers again, blasting an aggressively cheerful rendition of Love Shack across Coney Island and you swear for a whole minute the universe is laughing at you.

Bucky gestures vaguely toward the booth like he’s not entirely convinced it’s real yet. “You want me to sit in there.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. Kind of. This is just— there was a mix-up with the booth assignments.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Assignments?”

You pull the clipboard tighter against your chest.

Because, yes, assignments. The assignments you had spent the last forty-two hours fighting to organize while surviving exclusively on caffeine and stress. It had started reasonably enough, Valentina wanted a carnival and you had insisted if the Thunderbolts were going to do public outreach, they needed something interactive instead of forcing traumatized assassins on some stage for another dead-eyed press conference.

So you made booths.

Alexei immediately claimed the strength tester after nearly breaking it during setup. Yelena requested “something dangerous but whimsical,” which somehow became axe throwing and tightrope demonstrations after three separate insurance waivers. Ava chose disappearing tricks because, according to her, “I already vanish, might as well monetize it.” Walker took ring toss with the terrifying intensity of a man preparing for combat. And Bob—sweet, nervous Bob spent two entire nights teaching himself how to make balloon animals from YouTube tutorials because he wanted “kids to have a nice time.”

It should have worked perfectly and it almost had. Until Bucky never handed in his assignment slip. You had reminded him three times, once after a briefing, once outside the elevator and once while he was making coffee at two in the morning in the compound kitchen, sleeves shoved up his forearms while rain hammered the windows.

He’d looked exhausted that night. Distant. You remembered him rubbing a hand over his face and mumbling, “I’ll get it to you tomorrow.” Tomorrow had become three days later, three days later had become now, and now every booth was filled except one.

You clear your throat. “The thing is Mr. Barnes, since I didn’t get your slip back in time, you’re on the last rotation for the—”

“No.” The word comes instantly, flat and immediate.

You blink. “But Mr. Barnes—”

“No.”

The breeze snaps sharply through the velvet curtains behind you. Bucky folds his arms now, jaw tightening beneath the scruff.

“I’m not doing that.”

His voice isn’t harsh, and that’s the problem. If he sounded angry, maybe this would be easier. Instead he just sounds tired, sunken bone-deep tired. Like the very idea of sitting beneath a neon sign while strangers lined up to kiss him feels less embarrassing and more fundamentally cruel.

Guilt twists hot beneath your ribs and you lower your voice instinctively.

“We can figure something else out.”

And you mean it. You’ll rearrange the rotations. Move people around. Take over a booth yourself if you have to. You can fix this. You always fix this. But before another word leaves your mouth, heels click sharply across the boardwalk behind you and every muscle in your spine tightens immediately.

Valentina. Of course.

She appears beside you draped in cream silk and diamonds despite the salt-heavy wind, sunglasses perched elegantly atop perfectly styled hair. She takes one look at the booth, then at Bucky standing there like he’d rather be shot, and smiles.

Not kindly.

“Oh, good,” she says smoothly. “We’re discussing the crowd favorite.”

Bucky’s expression darkens instantly. “I said no.”

Valentina doesn’t even pause. “Put up or shut up, Barnes. You signed a contract.”

Silence drops hard between them, so hard that the nearby laughter buzzes faintly across the wind. The ferris wheel creaks overhead somewhere down the pier, each sound that once felt distant now nearly echoed in the silence.

Bucky stares at her with the particular stillness of someone barely holding himself together.

“You can’t seriously think this is a good idea.”

“I don’t particularly care whether it’s a good idea,” Valentina replies. “I care whether it works.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“It’s publicity.”

“It’s demeaning.”

“It’s one afternoon.”

You watch his jaw flex sharply as he looks away first out toward the ocean, toward gray water crashing endlessly against the pylons beneath the boardwalk and suddenly you remember that article again. THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You remember ripping it from a reporter’s hands before Bucky could see it, remember staying late to bury the piece before publication, remember the way people look at him sometimes—not like a person, but like something to dissect. A weapon wearing human skin.

Your chest aches unexpectedly.

“Val,” you start quietly, “I can figure something else out, maybe we should just—”

“No,” she says simply.

Then, to Bucky, “You want the public to stop fearing you and seeing you as this weapon of mass destruction? Then give them something else to look at.”

The words land harder than she probably intends, or maybe exactly as intended. Bucky goes still, he's not angry or defensive, just closed off somewhere distant behind his eyes. You hate that expression. Hate how familiar it’s become around the compound. Because every time someone talks about him instead of to him, he gets that same look on his face like he’s already halfway gone from the room.

For a long moment, nobody speaks, then Bucky lets out a quiet humorless laugh and shakes his head once.

“Unbelievable.”

“You’ll survive.”

His eyes flick toward you then and somehow that’s worse. Because he isn’t looking at Valentina trying to asses the best way to dispose of her. He’s looking at you, not accusingly, he doesn't even look upset, really. Just tired. There's the gentle crinkle at the corner of his eyes that if you didn't know any better, looked apologetic, like he knows you’re caught in the middle of this too.

You swallow hard.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Something shifts briefly in his expression at that, something small enough you almost miss it. Then he sighs through his nose and drags a hand back through his hair.

“When do I start.”

Valentina smiles immediately, victorious. "Gates open in ten.”

By eight-thirty, Coney Island is glowing.

Not metaphorically, but literally glowing. Strings of carnival lights burn gold against the dark sky while neon signs flicker to life across the boardwalk. The ferris wheel spins slow and bright beside the ocean, all color and motion reflected against black water. Music drifts through the salt-heavy air—old pop songs, laughter, barkers shouting over games, the distant metallic scream of roller coasters cutting through the evening.

And somehow, it works. You stand near the main stage clutching your three phones and a clipboard while the crowd surges around the booths in thick waves of people. Families, tourists, influencers and reporters. Children running around with cotton candy bigger than their heads. Nobody’s yelling, nobody’s protesting, nobody’s asking who died in New York. For the first time in weeks, the New Avengers aren’t being looked at like loaded weapons. They’re just people. Messy, strange people at a carnival. Alexei becomes an instant favorite with teenage boys after “accidentally” lifting the strength tester clean out of the ground during a demonstration. He spends the next hour flexing for selfies while loudly insisting he could have beaten Steve Rogers in arm wrestling.

Ava disappears mid-conversation often enough to make children shriek with delight. Yelena’s booth develops the longest line after she starts mocking participants while perfectly splitting balloons with throwing axes.

“You throw like frightened raccoon,” she tells one businessman flatly. “But good effort.”

Walker gets weirdly competitive over ring toss and starts coaching children with military precision.

“Follow through, buddy. Commitment. Wrist control.”

And Bob ends up surrounded by kids hanging onto every balloon animal he makes like he’s performing actual magic. You buy a ticket from his booth for good measure after you catch him smiling to himself at one point while a little girl hugs a balloon dinosaur to her chest like treasure.

It’s good, better than good. It’s human.

Your chest loosens slowly throughout the evening in tiny increments you barely notice. Every successful interview, every laugh, every smiling photo opportunity. Every headline you know tomorrow won’t be catastrophic. Maybe this is what relief feels like you think, or maybe it’s just exhaustion finally numbing you properly. Either way, you’ll take it. You weave through the crowd toward the last booth on the pier, heels clicking over old wood planks sticky with spilled soda and ocean mist.

You already know what you’ll find before you get there. Chaos, soft red lipped line chaos. The line for Bucky’s booth stretches nearly halfway down the boardwalk because of course it does. The pink curtains glow warmly beneath hanging fairy lights while the giant KISSING BOOTH sign sways slightly overhead. Ticket stubs litter the counter. Someone has thrown rose petals everywhere for reasons you genuinely cannot begin to understand.

And seated inside like a deeply reluctant beauty pageant winner is Bucky Barnes. Miserable, popular, radiantly handsome and absolutely doomed.

You stop just outside the booth and watch for a moment unnoticed. He’d compromised eventually, after nearly an hour of arguing how the booth was going to run. No actual kissing, that had been the line. People could approach, take pictures, kiss his cheek if they wanted, maybe the corner of his mouth if they were brave enough and respectful about it.

That was it. No lap sitting, no flirting encouraged, no weird requests. And honestly? That restraint somehow makes the whole thing worse. Or better, you’re not entirely sure. Because Bucky sitting there all broad shoulders and reluctant charm while blushing every time someone kisses near his mouth has apparently become the event of the century.

A girl in her twenties leans over the booth counter carefully. “Can I kiss your cheek?”

Bucky sighs like a man moments from death. “Yeah. Sure.”

She kisses just beside his mouth instead and his ears turn immediately pink. The entire group of friends behind her starts screaming and you have to look away before he notices you smiling.

“You enjoying yourself?”

The voice startles you slightly, Bucky’s watching you now from beneath the booth lights, one brow lifted seemingly catching your not-so-slick smile.

You recover quickly. “I’m enjoying that nobody’s been arrested.”

“Still plenty of time.”

Someone shoves another handful of raffle tickets into the jar beside him so much so that the thing is nearly overflowing now.

You eye it suspiciously.

“You realize you’re winning by a concerning margin.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” you murmur. “You just accidentally became the main attraction.”

Another woman approaches the booth already clutching her phone for a selfie. Bucky gives you one last tired look before turning back toward the crowd. And maybe it’s the lights, or exhaustion, or the strange warmth of the evening settling around all of you. But something about him looks softer tonight, less guarded. Not happy exactly, just a little lighter maybe, like he’s forgotten to brace for impact for a few hours.

You leave before he catches you staring.

By the end of the night, the carnival's glow grows hazy and golden with exhaustion. Children sleep against parents’ shoulders, the boardwalk smells like sugar and salt and fried dough as workers begin shutting down smaller game stalls while music drifts quieter now beneath crashing waves.

You stand offstage near the raffle table reviewing final attendance numbers when Valentina sweeps past in her silk and diamonds like she personally invented public approval.

“Excellent turnout,” she says smoothly.

You glance at the overflowing crowd gathered before the main stage. “Shockingly.”

“I’m rarely wrong.”

“You’re frequently evil, though.”

She smiles. “Occupational hazard.”

Before you can reply, she steps onto the stage to thunderous applause and immediately slips into performance. God, she’s good at it too. Warm smile, measured pauses, the exact cadence of someone manufacturing sincerity in real time.

“Tonight,” Valentina announces smoothly into the microphone, “was about rebuilding trust. About community. About reminding the world that heroes do not stand above the people—they stand beside them.”

You nearly choke.

Nearby, Yelena mutters, “If I roll my eyes harder they will fall out of skull.”

Applause erupts anyway and Valentina continues effortlessly.

"We thank you humbly for your contribution tonight, all funds will proceed to the Rebuilding Manhattan Foundation along with a hefty donation from yours truly. But enough about our success. It's time to celebrate you!"

Two workers brought out matching clear globes full of tickets.

“And now—our raffle booth winner.”

Oh, you had forgotten about the raffle.

The booth competition had been a last-minute addition. Whichever Avenger earned the most tickets throughout the evening became the grand prize, and whoever held the matching raffle ticket would win “an exclusive evening experience” with them.

You’d assumed Yelena would win. Or maybe Alexei. Certainly not—

“And by overwhelming demand,” Valentina says dramatically, “our winner is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.”

The crowd loses its mind, actual screaming and cheering erupts across the pier while spotlights swing wildly toward Bucky near the side stage.

His face goes completely blank.

“No,” he says immediately.

Walker laughs so hard he nearly folds in half. “Oh my God.”

Yelena is openly crying from laughter while Bob claps supportively while somehow also looking apologetic about it.

Bucky gets shoved toward the stage anyway beneath deafening applause. You watch him climb the steps with the expression of a man approaching his own execution as Valentina beams beside him.

“Now,” she says, lifting the massive raffle jar from his booth, “let’s see who our lucky winner is.”

You barely pay attention at first. You’re checking engagement numbers on your phone while she digs dramatically through the tickets, then she reads the number aloud.

And your stomach drops clean through the floor.

No. No, absolutely not.

You know that number because you bought exactly one raffle ticket all night at Bob’s booth. Because he'd looked so proud of himself and that stupid dinosaur balloon. It was just one ticket. Your hand fumbles for the ticket in your pocket, freezing when you feel the paper brush against your fingertips. Around you, silence spreads slowly. People start turning and looking as your blood goes cold and Valentina repeats the number. You stare down at the crumpled pink ticket as you pull it from inside your coat pocket like maybe reality will change itself if you wait long enough.

It doesn’t, unfortunately. Walker notices first, the grin that spreads across his face is instant and catastrophic.

“Oh, this is unbelievable.”

Yelena physically doubles over laughing. Bucky looks confused at first then he sees your expression and realization hits him all at once. His eyes widen slightly.

“Oh no.”

The crowd begins clapping impatiently while you briefly consider faking your own death. Instead, against every survival instinct in your body, you slowly raise the ticket and the screaming somehow gets louder.

“Oh my God,” Bob whispers delightedly.

You want the boardwalk to split open and swallow you whole. Disappointingly it leaves you whole as you climb the stage steps feeling heat crawl violently up your neck while hundreds of people cheer like this is the greatest romance of the century.

Bucky stares at you as you step beside him. He doesn't look upset, he seems more stunned than anything.

“You bought a ticket?” he asks quietly.

“It was for Bob.”

“How does that somehow makes this worse.”

Valentina appears beside you both practically glowing with satisfaction.

“Perfect,” she says even though absolutely nobody agrees with her.

Someone shoves a bouquet into your arms. Another worker places ridiculous little carnival crowns onto both your heads to roaring applause from the crowd below. Then comes the champagne bottle, you stare at it in horror while Bucky looks like he’s dissociating.

"Now how 'bout a kiss? In honor of the booth." Valentina grins, all teeth like a predator closing in on its prey. It may have sounded like a question but there was only one answer allowed.

You dared a look over to Bucky who's eyes have now dropped to the floor, if looks could kill the stage would evaporate beneath you. Clearly charity wasn't enough for Valentina, and what's a successful Da Fontaine affair without a little public humiliation?

Slowly, with a crack of feedback from the mic, she starts up. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

And like sheep, the crowd follows behind her, a sea of echoing voices overlapping each other in front of you until it all blended into one symphonious torture device. You think you could die right here. There had to be a way to convince your heart to give up, maybe you can feign a drop in blood sugar and faint, though you're sure Valentina would spin it off as you swooning over the—

"Goddamnit."

You don't know how you heard Bucky's voice over the cries of the crowd. You also don't know when he got so close to you. And you definitely don't know what to do with the fact that his lips are on yours. His hand ghosting the side of your forearm, fingers just barely grazing the skin leaving a strange tingle of warmth in their wake.

Just as quickly as you realized what was happening, it was over. He had stepped back to his spot, plastic crown crooked on his head and eyes back to the floor.

“Enjoy your night!” Valentina announces brightly into the microphone, shocking you back to reality.

The crowd cheers again. Pictures flash endlessly from below the stage capturing your smile that feels medically concerning. Then Valentina leans toward you subtly while applause swells around the pier. Still smiling perfectly for cameras, she murmurs from the corner of her mouth,

“Stock and popularity reports on my desk by midnight.”

You blink at her.

“You’re assigning homework during my public humiliation?”

“Adaptability is important.”

Then she steps away smoothly to wave at the crowd while you stand there beside Bucky wearing a plastic crown and holding champagne like the world’s most exhausted newlyweds. For a long moment after you step off stage neither of you speaks. Then Bucky looks over at you, looks at the flowers, the matching crowns, the absolute despair on your face. And to your horror, he laughs. Quiet and dry, the closest thing to boisterous you think he's probably capable of.

The sound hits you strangely hard beneath all the carnival lights.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

You stare at him flatly, the morbid embarrassment coursing through your body not even allowing you to register the nickname that he slipped out.

“No.”

Bucky only laughs again as he finally steps off the stage.

You stayed behind for a couple hours to make sure the cleanup of the fair went smoothly, watching the vendors roll out and the workers breakdown the booths and rides with practiced ease. There's a strange serenity to it, watching a near dozen people move so fluidly despite all doing different things. And the end result is well worth it, a glittering Coney Island all to yourself. There aren't many perks that come with this jobs as the cons often outweigh the pros but it's in the little moment like these that you find yourself lucky to do what you do.

The tower is quiet by the time you get back, not wholly silent but quiet enough. The New Avengers Tower never really reaches silence anymore—not with old pipes humming through the walls, elevators sighing faintly at odd hours, distant footsteps echoing somewhere several floors away. There’s always movement lingering inside the building like it hasn’t fully decided whether it’s headquarters or home.

But compared to Coney Island, the stillness as you walk in feels deafening. The carnival lights are gone now, no echoing music, no cheering crowds. No champagne bottles shoved into your hands while strangers screamed because apparently public humiliation counts as team bonding. Just fluorescent hallway lights and exhaustion settling heavy into your bones.

The others scattered almost immediately after returning as they usually do. Walker probably disappeared toward the gym swinging some rings around his fingers he took from his booth for "practice purposes only". Yelena likely stole three leftover funnel cakes from catering “for emotional recovery.” Alexei would loudly insist tonight proved he was “man of people" and you have no doubt that Bob carefully carried his remaining balloon supplies back to storage like they’re precious cargo.

And Bucky, you don’t know where Bucky goes. Not that you look when you get there, you head straight toward your office, even if you didn't have paperwork to do it's just second nature to you now. Your arms and legs strangely yearning for the hunch of your desk chair. The room greets you exactly as you left it: dim desk lamp glowing amber over scattered paperwork, abandoned coffee cups lining the windowsill, schedules pinned crookedly across the corkboard beside your desk.

Home sweet home.

You sigh quietly and set the ridiculous bouquet onto your desk and for a second you just stare at it. The pink roses, baby’s breath and tiny glittering ribbons curled around the stems. The thing looks aggressively romantic to the point where you almost throw it away. Yet after a long moment, you find an empty vase near the filing cabinets and fill it carefully from the office sink. The flowers settle into the water slowly, softening the harshness of the room in a way you immediately resent.

Then there’s the crown. Cheap plastic silver with fake rhinestones glued along the front. You turn it over once in your hands and a laugh nearly escapes you remembering the look on Bucky’s face wearing the matching one beneath all those flashing cameras. You should throw this away too. Instead, without entirely meaning to you place it carefully on the shelf beside your desk. Right between the “World’s Best Boss” mug Bob gave you ironically and a stack of outdated press binders. You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you sit down and go back to work, because that’s what you do.

Hours blur strangely after midnight.

The tower grows quieter floor by floor while your office remains trapped in artificial daylight from computer screens and desk lamps. You build itineraries, rewrite schedules, confirm hotels. Cross-reference security routes and everything in between for next month’s national press tour. Florida. Louisiana. Texas. Nevada. California. Washington. Every city another performance as another attempt to convince the public the world is safe in the hands of people barely holding themselves together.

Your eyes burn by one-thirty. By two, your shoulders ache, by two-forty-seven in the morning, you’re staring blankly at a spreadsheet without actually reading it.

The knock at your open office door startles you anyway.

You look up too quickly, your eyes needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in view, and when they focus they go wide in surprise. Bucky leans against the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of gray sweats, dark t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders. His hair is damp like he showered recently, slightly curled at the ends. There’s still a faint crease between his brows like he's been contemplating something for far too long.

For one disorienting second, he looks soft and domestic. Dangerously human in the warm low lighting of your office. Then you notice the plastic crown still balanced crookedly on his head.

You blink.

“…You kept it.”

He reaches up absently, touching the crown like he forgot it was there.

“Yelena tried to superglue it while I was asleep. Waiting on the solvent to set in.”

“That tracks.”

A small smile tugs briefly at his mouth before fading. Then his eyes drift over the room to the stacks of paperwork, your open laptop, the half-finished reports. You watch as his eyes slow over the vase of flowers beside your desk and the matching crown on your shelf. Something unreadable crosses his face.

“You’re still working?”

You glance back toward your screen automatically at the mention of it, your brain shifting back into work mode.

“Unfortunately.”

“It’s almost three.”

“Mhm.”

Bucky stays quiet for a moment. “So.”

“So?” You keep typing.

“Aren’t you gonna collect your reward?”

Your fingers stop over the keyboard as you look up slowly.

He’s watching you carefully now, expression unreadable beneath the soft shadows of the room. The question settles awkwardly between you. He doesn't seem like he's teasing exactly or entirely serious either.

Your stomach twists anyway.

“That’s not…” You clear your throat lightly. “It’s not like that.”

Bucky lifts a brow. “No?”

“No.”

You look back toward the spreadsheet because somehow that feels safer than looking directly at him.

“The raffle thing was just publicity. If it’d been someone else maybe they would’ve wanted the whole grand-prize experience but…” You shrug lightly. “It’s just me. You can ignore it and go about your night.”

Silence.

When you finally glance back up, Bucky is still staring at you. You can't tell if he's offended or relieved or none of the above. He's just studying you with this strange quiet intensity that makes your chest feel suddenly too tight.

“Just you,” he repeats softly.

You immediately regret the wording. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

But something about the way he says it makes it clear he’s not entirely convinced. You turn back toward your laptop quickly.

“I still have to finish these reports anyway.”

Bucky steps fully into the office then, slow and quiet against the carpet.

“You work too much, y’know?”

The words are almost too gentle.

You huff faintly. “I don’t think I work enough actually. If it was too much all this would be done by now and I’d be in bed.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is in this building.”

He leans against the edge of your desk now, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement brings him closer, too close, because now you can smell soap and clean cotton and something distinctly him beneath it all. It dizzies you but your mind insists it's the lack of sleep and combined caffeine bombs running through your bloodstream instead.

“Valentina isn’t worth you being here losing sleep,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than they should, making you stare down at the papers in front of you.

“I’m not here for Valentina.”

A beat passes.

“You’re her personal assistant.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m here for her.”

“Then what are you here for?”

The question should be easy. It isn't. Why isn't it? Your mouth opens automatically but nothing comes out and suddenly the exhaustion hits all at once. Not physically but emotionally, like a crack in the dam finally splintering beneath pressure of the water. You think about the last year, the endless damage control, the constant emergencies. The way your entire life has slowly narrowed into schedules and briefings and fixing problems before anyone notices they exist, how much of yourself you've carved out and sacrificed to the greater good of the team even when there was nothing left to give.

You think about tonight. About how happy everyone looked for a few hours, how they all seemed to just breathe and exist in peace beneath the lights, how Bucky laughed onstage beside you like he’d forgotten how tired he was. And for the first time since God knows when, you realize you genuinely don’t know why you’re still doing any of this.

The silence stretches too long.

Bucky watches you carefully now as concern beginning to soften the edges of his expression. And before you can stop yourself, the truth slips out quietly.

“…I don’t know anymore.”

The sincerity of it horrifies you instantly. You force yourself to recover after that, fast, too fast. Straightening in your chair and looking back toward your computer, rebuilding the walls before he can see through them properly. You gather the reports quickly into a neat stack.

“I’ve gotta go get these copied and fax them over to Washington,” you say lightly, voice suddenly professional again. “So feel free to let yourself out.”

You stand before he can respond.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

The formality lands colder than intended, you feel it immediately and so does he. But neither of you says anything about it, you brush past him toward the printer room with papers clutched tightly in your hands while the office door swings softly behind you.

And Bucky stays standing there beside the flowers for a very long time.

The thing about exhaustion is that eventually it stops feeling temporary. It settles into people, becomes them. Bucky's good at noticing these kinds of things. He sees it in you that night when you walked past him out of your office. That slight crease at the corner of your eyes, the gentle downturn of your lips. It's more than just tired. It's the same exact same way he used to be after missions. Not sleepy ,or overworked but worn down from within. There’s a difference.

And unfortunately for him, once he notices something, he can’t seem to stop noticing it.

It starts innocently enough, at least that’s what he tells himself. Two weeks after the carnival, he catches sight of you asleep in one of the conference rooms at six-thirty in the morning. Not properly asleep, but the kind where your cheek rests against folded arms beside an open laptop while a spreadsheet still glows across your face. Your coffee has gone cold beside you. One heel dangles half-off your foot beneath the table.

You wake the second he opens the door on instinct, sitting up as if you were trying to reject the sleep from your skin, like your body no longer trusts rest enough to stay in it.

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

You blink at him once, clearly disoriented, before straightening too fast.

“No, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“You were asleep.”

“I know.”

“You should probably do that more.”

You laugh quietly at that, not because it’s funny, because you’re too tired to respond properly. Then you grab your laptop and hurry toward another meeting before he can say anything else. And for some reason, that bothers him, more than it should.

And he starts noticing more things.

The way you’re always the first person awake in the tower. The way your office light stays on long after everyone else has gone to bed, the stack of dry-cleaning hanging behind your office door because you haven’t gone home properly in three days. How you survive almost exclusively on vending machine coffee and whatever leftovers the kitchen staff can force into your hands. How every time Valentina calls your phone, something in your shoulders visibly tightens before you answer.

And then there’s that sentence.

I don’t know anymore.

It stays lodged irritatingly somewhere in the back of his head. Because Bucky knows what it sounds like when someone loses sight of themselves. He’s spent years listening to that exact emptiness in his own voice. So one night, after watching you miss dinner again because you were reorganizing a diplomatic security route for the third time, he does something he absolutely should not do.

He starts digging.

Not maliciously, not even deeply, at first. Just enough to satisfy curiosity, that’s what he tells himself anyway. Turns out, you’re surprisingly easy to find once he starts looking. There’s an old university article buried online about graduating journalism students. Your picture sits beside it smiling brightly into the camera, younger and softer somehow, eyes alive in a way he’s never actually seen in person.

The caption beneath it reads: Aspiring investigative journalist hopes to focus on political corruption and humanitarian reporting.

Bucky stares at that sentence longer than necessary. Investigative journalist. Not PR manager, not assistant, not professional crisis cleaner. He keeps reading. There are archived campus articles under your name too. Human-interest pieces with local interviews. A profile on immigrant-owned bookstores in Brooklyn, an article about public housing funding cuts. One opinion piece angry enough to surprise a laugh out of him. Your writing was good, really good. Honest in a way most modern journalism isn’t anymore. There’s warmth in it and curiosity, the clear desperate hope of someone who thought words could still matter.

Bucky leans back slowly in his chair.

Huh.

The next part takes more effort. Internal employee records aren’t exactly public, but neither are most things he can access if he really wants to. The file paints the picture quickly. Originally: summer internship with government media relations, some resume padding. Temporary. Then came the first extension, then the job offer, then Valentina personally requested you transferred under her division after a year.

Four years later, you’re still here.

The timeline unsettles him more than expected. Because somewhere between those records, he can practically see it happening one delayed dream at a time. One promotion, one emergency, one “just until things calm down.” Until suddenly four years are gone and now you sit in fluorescent offices at three in the morning saying things like I don’t know anymore.

Bucky closes the file as agitated energy crawls beneath his skin unexpectedly. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how personal this feels when it shouldn’t. You’re not his responsibility. Hell, you work for Valentina which alone should make him keep his distance. Instead, he starts watching more carefully, not in a creepy way at least he desperately hopes not.

Just observant.

He notices your schedule before you even mention it aloud now. Knows when your meetings run long by the way you rub your temples afterward, knows you skip lunch on Thursdays because that’s when Valentina schedules back-to-back press briefings. Knows you take exactly nine minutes to drink your coffee every morning before the interruptions begin.

And eventually—because apparently he’s lost his mind—he taps into Valentina’s phone. It wasn't hard, not for him. He tells himself it’s because Valentina is secretive and manipulative and generally worth monitoring anyway. The fact that he immediately searches your name in her messages is entirely irrelevant.

Mostly, it’s work. Schedules, orders, and demands. Other texts read like dog commands. Move this meeting. Fix this interview. Get Barnes under control before he kills someone during press week. Bucky snorts quietly at that one, but underneath the logistics, another pattern emerges. Messages sent at absurd hours.

2:14 AM.

5:47 AM.

11:58 PM.

And every single time you answer. Immediately no matter the hour, no matter the request. One message in particular makes something cold settle heavily in his chest.

VALENTINA: Need revised public sympathy projections before morning.

YOU: Working on it now.

Timestamp: 3:11 AM.

Bucky checks the next message.

VALENTINA: Also your article draft for the congressional media package was overwritten. Rewrite before briefing.

Long pause.

Then finally:

YOU: Understood.

No complaint, no argument, nothing. Just understood. Bucky stares at the screen for a long time after that with his jaw tight because suddenly he understands something he hadn’t before. You aren’t staying because you love the work anymore, you’re staying because somewhere along the line, you stopped believing you were allowed to leave it.

And for reasons he absolutely cannot explain, that realization makes him angry.

The week the tour begins feels less like preparing for travel and more like trying to hold back the ocean with your hands. Every completed task reveals three more beneath it, every checked box spawns another checklist. You suppose that's the nature of public relations, nobody notices when things go right only when they go wrong.

So you sit alone in Conference Room Three at six-thirty in the morning surrounded by enough paperwork to qualify as structural support. The city beyond the windows is still waking up, sunlight creeps slowly between skyscrapers, painting the glass in soft gold, traffic hums faintly thirty floors below. Somewhere in the tower, coffee brews. The smell drifts down the hallway and for a moment, it reminds you of college. Early mornings in the journalism building, the campus newspaper office, stacks of articles spread across tables while everyone survived on caffeine and deadlines. Back then, exhaustion felt different, temporary and purposeful. You were tired because you were building something, not maintaining it.

The memory flickers briefly before another email notification drags you back to reality.

You sigh.

Florida. Louisiana. Flight manifests. Texas. Nevada. Security routes. North and South California. Washington. Hotel confirmations. Media schedules. Emergency contingency plans. It all blends together until the words feel foreign.

You move through the checklist automatically now, pen tapping softly against the table as you verify each item. Alexei's dietary accommodations. Bob's interview briefing packets. Yelena's legal waiver forms. Walker, God, Walker. You add another note reminding him not to argue with local reporters. Again.

The conference room door opens quietly but you don't look up.

"If that's another change request, I'm pretending not to speak English."

A pause.

"I don't think that'd work."

Your pen stills. Bucky. Of course.

You glance up briefly. He's dressed casually today—dark henley, jeans, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair's tied back into a low bun at the nape of his neck. He looks rested. You try not to resent him for it.

"Morning."

"Morning."

Neither of you says anything for a moment as Bucky steps further into the room.

You immediately notice he has coffee, and because the universe enjoys cruelty, he notices you noticing. Without a word, he slides the second cup onto the table beside your paperwork. You stare at it, then at him, then back at the coffee.

"...What is this?"

"Coffee."

"I know it's coffee."

"Then we're making progress."

You blink and Bucky looks suspiciously pleased with himself as a laugh almost escapes before you stop it.

"Thank you, Mr. Barnes."

"You're welcome."

You reach for the cup and take a testing sip, it's exactly how you take it. Not too sweet, not too bitter with just enough cream.

Your stomach does something strange. "You remembered."

Bucky shrugs. "You seem to live off this stuff, you always get the same thing every morning."

That shouldn't surprise you that he knows that, but somehow it does because most people only notice your mistakes, not your coffee order. You take another careful sip and warmth settles into your chest. Unfortunately, it also makes you realize how tired you are.

Bucky sits across from you, the chair creaks softly beneath his weight. You immediately know this conversation is about to become dangerous. Not dangerous in the life-threatening sense, dangerous in the personal sense.

The kind you've spent years avoiding.

"So," he says casually.

Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

"So?"

"What'd you do before this?"

There it is. You knew it was coming eventually, ever since that night in your office, ever since I don't know anymore slipped out and you accidentally gave the both you an existential crisis.

You return to your paperwork immediately. "Nothing exciting."

Bucky doesn't move.

"Everybody did something before they got here."

"Not me. I spawned fully formed from a spreadsheet."

His mouth twitches and you refuse to acknowledge it.

"You probably went to college, right? What'd you study?"

"Writing." Technically true, partially, somewhat. True enough for this conversation.

"That's it?"

"Mhm."

"Must've been some real interesting writing."

"Thrilling."

"What kinda stuff d'ya write?"

You look back down at the checklist. Florida press briefing. Check. Louisiana catering. Check. Avoiding conversations about yourself. Hopefully check.

"It's not important."

Bucky studies you for a second.

The problem with him is that he notices things, not loudly, not obviously but thoroughly. Like he's assembling a puzzle nobody else realized existed.

"Seems important."

"It's really not."

"Why not?"

Because once upon a time you wanted things. That's why. And wanting things feels embarrassing now, like showing someone an old diary. There was a time when your future felt bright and specific. You were going to write and travel, report stories that mattered. You were going to chase truth through cities and courtrooms and tiny towns nobody paid attention to.

You were going to make a difference. Instead you're color-coding transportation schedules for superheroes, which sounds cooler than it feels.

You push the thought away quickly. "We need to focus on the tour."

Bucky sighs.

The sound is deeply familiar now, you've learned there are different versions. Annoyed sighs. Amused sighs. This one falls somewhere between concerned and stubborn.

"The tour's done."

"No, it isn't."

"It starts next week."

"Which means it isn't done."

He opens his mouth.

You point your pen at him immediately. "Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"Probably."

"Exactly."

Bucky leans back in his chair and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Sunlight stretches further across the conference table, the room grows warmer. Outside the windows, Manhattan continues waking up as your checklist waits patiently.

Eventually Bucky nods toward the stack of folders beside you.

"How many pages is that?"

You glance over. "...Two hundred and twelve. Double sided though."

He stares. "You counted?"

"I printed them."

"That's horrifying."

"Thank you."

"You need help."

"I have help."

"No, you have stress."

You try not to smile. You fail a little. His expression softens immediately when he catches it and the realization makes you look back down at your paperwork far too quickly. A strange silence settles afterward as Bucky watches you work. You pretend not to notice. Every so often he asks another question, small ones, harmless ones completely unrelated to work. Favorite movie. Favorite book. Whether you ever travel anywhere for fun. Each time, you brush them aside gently, deflect, redirect and return to logistics.

Because talking about yourself feels strangely difficult now. As if those pieces of you belong to someone else. Someone far from the person you are now. Someone who still believed she'd become the person she planned to be. Eventually the others begin arriving for the briefing, voices echo down the hallway. Laughter and arguments, Alexei loudly demanding breakfast. The moment breaks and you straighten automatically. Professional again, clipboard in hand, schedules organized, walls rebuilt.

But as Bucky stands to leave, he pauses beside your chair just briefly. Long enough to say quietly,

"I still think it's important."

You glance up. "What is?"

"The stuff before this."

For a second, something in your chest tightens. Then the hallway fills with noise as the team arrives ready to get the start of this tour. And before you can think too hard about the look in his eyes, you're already moving on to the next thing that needs fixing.

The tour starts in New York beneath camera flashes and manufactured optimism.

Valentina brands it NEW AVENGERS TAKE ON AMERICA in massive red-white-and-blue lettering splashed across buses, billboards, and every social media platform imaginable. There are matching jackets, coordinated appearances, sponsorships and press packets thicker than small novels. And at the center of all of it you're running everything behind the scenes, the magic behind the curtain. You’re the first one awake every morning and the last one asleep every night. Coordinating flights and confirming hotel security. Rewriting interview questions at two in the morning because a senator decided “government-sanctioned enhanced individuals” sounded too threatening. You memorize everyone’s schedules better than your own. Alexei hates early flights. Yelena gets carsick if she reads in moving vehicles. Walker refuses sparkling water on principle. Bob forgets meals when he’s nervous. Ava disappears physically and emotionally when overwhelmed. And Bucky quietly starts watching you unravel without you even realizing.

Florida comes first.

Warm ocean air and blinding sunlight. Endless beachside photo ops where reporters practically trip over themselves trying to re-brand the Thunderbolts as approachable. You stand off-camera the entire time holding three phones and an emergency schedule binder while makeup artists swarm the team beneath umbrellas. When a reporter corners Walker with a question about civilian casualties, you intercept the conversation before it can spiral. When Alexei drunkenly wanders toward a jet ski rental booth, you redirect him with the ease of long practice. When Bob panics before a televised interview, you crouch beside him backstage speaking so softly Bucky can’t hear the words from across the room—but he sees Bob visibly steady afterward.

Nobody thanks you, not really. Because by now everyone just expects you to catch disasters before they happen.

Louisiana is worse.

The BBQ festival turns into an overnight public event after attendance doubles unexpectedly. There’s live music, politicians, influencers, too many cameras and too much noise. You spend nearly fourteen straight hours on your feet rerouting security because protestors gather outside the venue. Bucky catches you sitting alone behind the catering tents around midnight afterward eating cold cornbread straight from the tray while typing one-handed on your laptop.

“You know they got tables inside, right?” he says quietly.

You don’t even look up. “Tables inside have senators.”

Fair enough.

Texas somehow becomes the breaking point.

Because apparently somebody thought it would be patriotic to put the New Avengers on a ranch. There are horses, lasso demonstrations and an event coordinator who says “yeehaw initiative” with complete sincerity. You haven’t slept more than four hours in three days. Bucky realizes this because you stop blinking normally sometime around Dallas.

You’re standing near the arena floor fixing Walker’s tie before a press appearance when your knees nearly buckle outright. Not dramatically but just enough, a tiny dangerous sway. Bucky catches it immediately from across the room and nobody else, because nobody else is paying attention to you. Why would they.

“You alright?” he asks later when he corners you briefly beside the equipment trailers.

You’re typing an email while transcribing a call simultaneously. “Mhm.”

“That wasn’t convincing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You almost fell over.”

“I’ve done worse.” You say it casually like it’s normal, like exhaustion is just another logistical inconvenience. And something in Bucky’s chest twists unpleasantly.

Vegas comes next.

Bright lights and champagne, galas filled with rich people pretending they’ve always trusted the team. You spend the entire evening moving through the casino ballroom like a ghost in heels, fixing problems before they fully form. Someone spills wine on Ava’s dress—you replace it. A reporter leaks the wrong attendance numbers—you correct it before publication. Valentina changes an entire speech thirty minutes before showtime and hands you handwritten notes expecting a miracle, and you deliver one anyway.

At one point Bucky finds you standing alone in an empty hallway outside the ballroom just standing there with your eyes closed. Like you forgot where you were for a second.

“You should sit down.”

Your eyes open immediately. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I sit down I think I might actually stay there.”

The honesty of it lingers between you, just like that night in your office. And there's that familiar twist in Bucky's chest. Then your phone rings again and you leave before he can answer.

North and South California blur together after that.

Interviews, photoshoots, crowds and handshakes. You become smaller somehow as the trip stretches on, not physically but emotionally. Like pieces of yourself are being traded away for efficiency. Bucky notices you stop laughing entirely around San Francisco, not that you laughed much before, but now even your smiles look scheduled.

Washington is the final stop.

A massive gala followed by a national press conference closing out the tour. Everyone’s exhausted at this point. Everyone except Valentina, who somehow feeds off chaos like a cryptid sustained entirely by public relations. The gala goes perfectly because you made sure it would. Bucky watches you from across the ballroom while senators shake his hand and cameras flash endlessly around him. You stand near the back wall beside the press table, headset crooked slightly over your hair, eyes fixed on three different problems at once. You haven’t touched the champagne in your hand all night, you haven’t sat down once, Bucky's not even sure if you've taken a breath longer than a second. And suddenly Bucky realizes something that settles heavy in his chest, you’re carrying this team in ways nobody notices because if you do your job correctly, nobody ever sees the weight of it.

Including him. Especially him.

That realization follows him all the way back to New York.

Three nights later, your office light is still on at eleven forty-three. Naturally.

Rain taps softly against the tower windows while the city glows gold below Manhattan. Your office smells like paper and coffee and exhaustion again because some things just never change. You’re halfway through next quarter’s budget reports when the office door opens without warning.

You don’t look up immediately.

“If this is another scheduling conflict I’m going to fake my death.”

“I'm sure we could work something out.”

You blink and finally look up. Bucky stands in the doorway wearing a dark suit, not mission tactical gear or his usual jacket and henley. A proper suit. Dark navy, slightly loosened tie, sleeves pushed back just enough to expose metal at his wrist. Hair slicked and styled back.

He looks unfairly good.

Which is irritating because your brain is too tired to handle that information responsibly.

You stare at him blankly. “…What's all this?”

“Come with me.”

You frown slowly.

"What? Where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Kinda does.” You turn back toward your laptop with a tired sigh. “Listen, I have a lot I need to get done so whatever it is you need just write it down or have Valentina text me.”

Bucky doesn’t move from the doorway. Instead, he leans against it with casual air.

“I’m cashing in your reward.”

Your fingers pause over the keyboard. "My what?”

“Your reward from the carnival.” His mouth twitches slightly. “You won a free night out with the winning booth. That’s me. I’m cashing it in.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes quietly. “I don’t think that’s how it was supposed to work, Mr. Barnes.”

“It is now.”

You shake your head immediately. “No, absolutely not.”

“Get your stuff and meet me at the elevators.”

“But I—”

“I can also just shut off the WiFi to the building.”

You stare at him flatly. “You’re bluffing.”

Bucky lifts one shoulder casually.

“Wanna find out?”

Honestly? You’re not entirely sure he is bluffing, which is deeply concerning. You eye him suspiciously for a long moment while rain patters softly against the windows behind him. Then you look back at your screen. Thirty-two unread emails, three unfinished reports, tomorrows itinerary half-completed. Your entire body aches and somewhere beneath all that exhaustion something quieter stirs unexpectedly, something warm and curious. Because Bucky Barnes is standing in your office at midnight trying to drag you away from work like this matters to him for some incomprehensible reason. You don’t understand it and you’re not sure you want to. But after weeks of airports and crowds and fluorescent conference rooms you realize you can’t remember the last time someone asked you to leave work for something that wasn’t another obligation.

You exhale slowly through your nose. “…Fine.”

Victory flashes briefly across his face before disappearing almost immediately.

“You got ten minutes.”

“You know you’re very bossy for someone kidnapping me.”

“You’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath while shutting your laptop and reaching for your coat.

The elevator ride down is painfully quiet, not awkward exactly, just strange. You can't remember the last time you've left your office before midnight. You stand beside Bucky clutching your coat and purse while fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls—tired eyes, wrinkled work clothes, tension still living stubbornly between your shoulders.

Bucky glances over once, then again.

“You look exhausted.”

You deadpan immediately. “Gee, thanks.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

“It sounded like one.”

“It was concern.”

The word lands oddly between you as you meet his eyes. Concern, like he’s allowed to have that for you, like that's something that matters to him. You look away first.

The elevator dings softly when it reaches the underground garage. Bucky gestures toward a black town car waiting near the far wall.

Your brows pull together instantly. "Why is there a car?”

“So we can drive places.”

“You’re being weirdly mysterious.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“I literally work in intelligence-adjacent public relations. Questions are my whole thing.”

Bucky opens the back door for you anyway and inside, neatly folded across the leather seat, is a dress box.

You stop and slowly look at him. “What is that.”

“Your outfit.”

“…My what?”

“You can’t wear office clothes where we’re going.”

Suspicion floods you instantly.

“Where are we going?”

“Get in the car.”

“Mr. Barnes—”

“Bucky.”

You narrow your eyes. “Kidnappers have to earn their first-name privileges.”

Something dangerously close to a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Get in the car.”

You should say no. Probably. Normal people would definitely say no to mysterious late-night kidnappings involving unidentified dresses and annoyingly handsome super soldiers. Instead, exhaustion apparently kills survival instincts because you climb into the car anyway. The dress box sits in your lap accusingly as Bucky stands at the door, the divider rises immediately once Bucky gives him the go ahead.

Your suspicion deepens.

“You’re not gonna answer a single question, are you?”

“Nope.”

“This feels illegal.”

“You’ll survive that too.”

You glare at him while opening the box.

Then immediately forget how to breathe for a second. The dress inside is beautiful. Dark satin the color of midnight with soft draping fabric and delicate straps, elegant without being overly formal. Simple in the kind of expensive way that makes your stomach tighten immediately.

You touch the fabric carefully. “…Mr. Barnes.”

“No questions.”

“How did you even—”

“No questions.”

You look up at him slowly as realization hits all at once.

“The tour.”

His silence answers for him. And suddenly you remember all those weeks of fittings and event prep. Designers taking measurements backstage before galas while you balanced schedules against your chest. You hadn’t realized anyone else paid attention.

Your throat feels strangely tight.

“There’s a privacy screen,” he says quietly, nodding toward the divider window. “You can change if you want.”

“If I want?”

“Or I can tell the driver to head home for the night.”

The thing is, you know he means it, that’s what gets you. There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just an offer.

You look down at the dress again then at your reflection faintly mirrored in the tinted window beside you. You can’t remember the last time you dressed for something that wasn’t work. Can’t remember the last time someone planned an evening for you instead of handing you another responsibility to carry.

“…Fine,” you murmur quietly.

Bucky nods and shuts the door almost immediately after that, giving you privacy without making a show of it. Your chest aches unexpectedly.

The dress fits perfectly, of course. The satin settles smoothly against your skin, cool and soft as water. You let your hair down and try to ruffle some life into it. When you finally sit back down, carefully smoothing the fabric over your knees, you knock on the door and Bucky opens it.

And visibly stills.

The reaction is brief, barely there but you catch it anyway. His eyes flick over you once before settling carefully back on your face and something warm and unreadable flashes there.

“…Okay,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Okay what?”

“You look nice.”

The compliment lands embarrassingly hard after months of being perceived exclusively as overworked office furniture.

You glance down awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Then you notice the roses that somehow magically appeared in his hands, deep red roses tied together with black ribbon.

You stare at them. “Where did you get those?”

He stays quiet, holding the bouquet in his arms.

"Right. No questions."

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. And for the first time since you're not sure when, Bucky smiles fully, small but warm. Beautiful enough to briefly ruin your ability to think coherently. He slides into the seat next to you and the driver pulls away from the tower.

The jazz lounge sits tucked into the lower streets of Manhattan beneath soft golden lights and old brick. The moment you step inside, warmth wraps around you. Low music hums through the room beneath the soft cry of a trumpet, dim amber lamps glow against polished wood tables. The air smells faintly like whiskey and candle wax and expensive food.

It feels far away from your life somehow, like stepping briefly into somebody else’s memory. Bucky keeps one hand lightly against the small of your back guiding you through the crowded room, the touch burns straight through the thin satin of your dress. You try very hard not to think about it.

Dinner is easy in a way you don’t expect.

That’s the dangerous part. You spend so much time around Bucky professionally that you forgot he can actually be funny when he’s relaxed, that quick but witty dry humor and quiet observations muttered beneath his breath. Stories from the forties so ridiculous you genuinely can’t tell when he’s lying anymore. At one point you laugh hard enough to snort into your drink, it should've been mortifying. Bucky nearly chokes laughing himself afterward.

“You absolutely cannot judge me,” you whisper harshly across the table.

“I’m not judging,” he grins. “I’m enjoying myself.”

And somehow that feels worse.

Hours pass without you noticing, and that alone feels miraculous. After dinner he takes you walking along the boardwalk downtown, city wind curling cold around both of you while music and traffic hum softly below Manhattan lights. You end up at a tiny old photobooth tucked near an arcade.

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.

Bucky’s already pulling the curtain open.

“You survived the carnival. You can survive this.”

“That carnival psychologically damaged me.”

“C’mon.” You let him drag you inside anyway because apparently this evening has become one long series of terrible decisions.

The booth is tiny, painfully tiny. Your knees bump his immediately once the curtain slides shut, thighs pressed against his as you sit shoulder to shoulder. The flash startles you during the first photo, breaking that first wind of embarrassment as the two of you adjust to being so close. Bucky makes a joke about the booth taking compartmentalizing a step to far as the second flash clicks, the photo catching both of you laughing, a curled wide smile on your face that you haven't felt in years. By the third, the laughing has died down and you’re turned toward each other too closely, breathing the same recycled air, the city noise muffled outside the booth curtain. Bucky’s gaze flicks downward briefly and your stomach flips violently. Then there’s this horrible suspended second where your eyes drop down too and you think, maybe if you lean in just a bit more—

But then the camera flashes again and both of you pull back slightly too fast.

The tension afterward feels thick enough to touch, so naturally you get ice cream. Because apparently that’s how you handle almost kissing your coworker. You sit beside him on a bench outside a tiny twenty-four-hour shop while melting vanilla drips slowly down your hand.

“This is the nicest night I’ve had in years,” you admit quietly before thinking better of it.

Bucky looks over at you softly beneath the city lights. “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” You nod once.

Something shifts in his expression then, into something gentler, almost relieved.

The drive to your apartment passes too quickly for your liking afterward but you don’t want to acknowledge that realization. Bucky walks you all the way to your building door despite your insistence that he doesn’t need to. The city is quiet this late, streetlights painting everything gold.

You turn toward him at the steps and for a second neither of you speaks.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You smile softly. “I really did have a good time.”

“Bucky.”

You blink. “What?”

“Call me Bucky. If I've earned it, of course.”

The words settle warm somewhere beneath your ribs. You look down briefly, suddenly shy in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“Oh.” You fully ignore the blush crossing your face, because if you don't acknowledge it then it's not real, right? “Well… thank you, Bucky.”

The smile he gives you afterward feels dangerously intimate. You escape before your brain can fully process it, keys fumbling slightly as you balance them between the flowers, heart beating embarrassingly fast as you step inside your apartment and shut the door carefully behind you.

The second there's a safe enough barrier between you and him you lose it. A ridiculous giggle slips out your lips as you immediately lean against the door with burning cheeks.

Oh no. Oh, this is bad. Because you’re smiling. You touch your face like maybe you can physically stop it. You can’t smile like this. Smiling means thinking and thinking means feeling and feelings… well that just can't be. You try to stifle as much of those feelings as you possibly can, but every time your eyes catch the roses on your table it all bubbles back over the surface again.

And unbeknownst to you outside your apartment door, Bucky hasn’t left yet. He stands there quietly for another moment listening to your footsteps move softly through the apartment beyond the wall. Listening to drawers open, shoes kicked off, the muffled sound of you laughing once under your breath at seemingly nothing.

Then finally the lights click off and only then does he leave.

The ride back to the tower feels strangely quiet afterward, not uncomfortable, just full. Like something settled into place inside his chest without permission.

Bucky stares out the car window at sleeping Manhattan while your bashful smile and blushing cheeks replays endlessly in his head, and somewhere deep down beneath years of grief and exhaustion and carefully guarded distance—something reluctantly warm begins to bloom.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ bonus june note ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ── fun fact! parts of this story are inspired by this kdrama i watched called king the land, and the mmc gu won is SOO bucky coded i actually love it i was watching his grumpy traumatized ass like.... i know where ive seen this before LOL

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tag list ➜ comment/inbox to be added!

The first thing you noticed about the scholarship luncheon wasn't Bucky.

It was the security.

Three additional guards stood near the ballroom entrance.

Two more were positioned beside the private elevator.

And every time a new guest arrived, someone checked their name against a list.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

You were a journalist.

And journalists noticed things.

Especially things that didn't make sense.

But that wasn't until later.

First...

You had to get ready.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

By eleven thirty, you were standing in front of the mirror in the Parker Media dressing room.

Your dress hung from the back of the door.

Your notebook sat open on the table.

Your phone had been vibrating for the last ten minutes.

You ignored it.

Today wasn't an ordinary assignment.

Today you were supposed to walk into a room full of reporters pretending to be the girlfriend of the man you'd spent the last few days arguing with.

You stared at your reflection.

"Easy."

It wasn't.

You adjusted your earrings.

Then your hair.

Then checked your phone.

Another message from Tony.

Tony: Car in fifteen.

You sighed.

Of course.

A knock sounded.

"Come in."

Peter opened the door.

He stopped.

"You look nice."

"Thank you."

He looked at the dress.

Then at you.

Then smiled.

"Very fake-girlfriend appropriate."

You grabbed a makeup brush.

"Leave."

He laughed.

"I was complimenting you!"

"You were being annoying."

"Same thing."

He disappeared.

You shook your head.

Then looked at yourself again.

For some reason...

You suddenly felt nervous.

Not because of the cameras.

You could handle cameras.

Not because of the reporters.

You were a reporter.

It was something else.

The idea of walking beside Bucky.

Of everyone watching you.

Of having to make something fake look real.

You exhaled.

"It doesn't mean anything."

You picked up your bag.

"Because it's fake."

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby.

Bucky was already waiting.

He stood near the entrance, checking something on his phone.

Dark suit.

White shirt.

No tie.

One hand in his pocket.

You slowed slightly.

Not because you were impressed.

Obviously.

You were simply...

Taking in the situation.

He looked up.

His eyes landed on you.

And stopped.

Only for a second.

But you noticed.

His phone lowered slightly.

"You look..."

He paused.

You raised an eyebrow.

"Careful."

He smiled.

"I was going to say professional."

"Good."

"Very professional."

"Even better."

He nodded.

"Definitely."

You adjusted your bag.

"Ready?"

"Almost."

He glanced toward the doors.

"There's something we didn't practice."

"What?"

"The cameras."

You followed his gaze.

A small group of photographers was already waiting outside.

Your stomach tightened.

"Oh."

"They'll expect us to look like a couple."

You looked at him.

"Right."

Neither of you moved.

Then Bucky extended his arm.

You stared at it.

"Is this part of the contract?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because we're about to walk into thirty cameras."

You considered it.

Then slipped your hand around his arm.

His posture relaxed.

"Better?"

"Better."

He looked down at your hand for half a second.

Then back at you.

"Good."

The doors opened.

Flashbulbs exploded.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The scholarship luncheon had been transformed into something much larger than you expected.

Black cars lined the entrance.

Security stood beside the doors.

A row of reporters had gathered behind the barricades.

Inside, the hotel's ballroom had been decorated with long white tables, gold details and enormous arrangements of flowers.

Sunflowers.

You stopped for half a second.

Bucky noticed.

"You like them."

You looked at the arrangements.

"I do."

He glanced toward the flowers.

"Good choice."

You looked at him.

"Did you choose them?"

"No."

A pause.

"I would've."

You weren't sure why that sentence stayed with you.

Before you could answer, a reporter shouted his name.

You turned toward the cameras.

"James!"

"James, over here!"

"Who's your girlfriend?"

"How long have you been together?"

"Is this the woman from the gala?"

Questions came from every direction.

You instinctively tightened your grip on Bucky's arm.

He glanced down.

Then leaned slightly closer.

"Don't worry."

"I'm not."

"You look like you're about to interview them."

You almost laughed.

"Maybe I am."

"Please don't."

A photographer called your name.

You looked over.

Another flash.

Then another.

Bucky smiled for the cameras.

You did the same.

It was strange.

How quickly your body adapted.

Smile.

Pause.

Walk.

Look at him.

Look at the cameras.

Smile again.

Then one reporter shouted:

"How did you two meet?"

You and Bucky stopped.

For half a second...

Nothing.

Then Bucky looked at you.

You remembered the story you'd prepared.

The gala.

The conversation.

The imaginary first date.

He smiled.

"At the Miss Congeniality gala."

You nodded.

"I was covering the event."

"And I was being interrogated."

You turned toward him.

"I asked questions."

"Very aggressively."

The reporters laughed.

You smiled.

"And he eventually answered one."

Bucky looked at you.

"Eventually."

The cameras flashed again.

Someone shouted:

"Who asked who out?"

Bucky didn't hesitate.

"I did."

You looked at him.

He smiled.

"She made me work for it."

You laughed.

"That's not exactly how it happened."

He leaned slightly closer.

"That's our story."

You stared at him.

Then smiled.

"Right."

The cameras went wild.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Inside, things became easier.

There were fewer cameras.

More people you recognized.

Several members of the Foundation approached Bucky.

He introduced you.

"This is..."

He paused.

For just a fraction of a second.

Then:

"My girlfriend."

The words sounded strange.

Not because of the meaning.

Because of how naturally he said them.

You smiled politely.

"Nice to meet you."

The man shook your hand.

"I've heard quite a bit about you."

You glanced at Bucky.

He looked amused.

"Hopefully nothing terrible."

"Quite the opposite."

The conversation continued.

You listened.

Bucky spoke about the scholarship program.

You asked a question about the funding.

The man answered.

You asked another.

Bucky glanced at you.

Not annoyed.

Interested.

Afterward, when the man walked away, Bucky looked at you.

"You couldn't help yourself."

"What?"

"Interviewing people."

"I'm a journalist."

"I know."

"You invited me."

"I know."

"Then don't complain."

"I'm not."

You looked at him.

He wasn't.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The conversation with the Foundation board member had barely ended when someone called Bucky's name from across the ballroom.

"Bucky!"

He turned.

His expression changed immediately.

The guarded smile he'd been wearing for the cameras disappeared.

Instead, his face softened.

A young woman hurried toward him.

He smiled.

"Becca."

She reached him and immediately wrapped her arms around him.

He hugged her back without hesitation.

You watched quietly.

You'd seen Bucky smile before.

For cameras.

For reporters.

For donors.

This was different.

This one was real.

When they finally pulled apart, Becca looked at him suspiciously.

"You didn't tell me you were bringing someone."

Bucky glanced at you.

Then back at her.

"I didn't exactly have time."

Becca's eyes moved toward you.

Then back to Bucky.

A smile slowly appeared on her face.

"Oh."

Bucky sighed.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was just going to say hi."

She turned toward you.

"I'm Becca."

You smiled.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

She glanced between you and Bucky.

"So you're the journalist."

You blinked.

"You've heard about me?"

Becca laughed.

"Everyone has."

Bucky looked embarrassed.

"Becca."

"What?"

She shrugged.

"You're famous."

"Not for the right reasons."

"That depends who you ask."

You tried not to laugh.

Bucky gave her a look.

She smiled innocently.

Then her attention returned to you.

"So..."

She lowered her voice slightly.

"Are you really dating him?"

Bucky closed his eyes.

"Please don't."

You smiled.

"We're figuring things out."

Becca looked at Bucky.

Then at you.

Then smiled.

"Okay."

There was something about the way she said it that made you suspicious.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She smiled again.

"Absolutely nothing."

Bucky sighed.

"I know that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're planning something."

Becca laughed.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

She turned toward you.

"You'll get used to him."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"No."

Bucky looked at you.

"See?"

You laughed.

And for a moment...

The cameras disappeared.

The reporters disappeared.

The contract disappeared.

It was just the three of you standing in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

And you noticed something.

Bucky looked happier around her.

Less careful.

Less guarded.

More like himself.

You tucked that observation away.

Not in your notebook.

Just somewhere in the back of your mind.

Because somehow...

That felt more important.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

A few minutes later, Becca excused herself to greet another guest.

You watched her disappear into the crowd.

"She's nice."

Bucky looked at you.

"She is."

"She seems to know how to embarrass you."

"That's one of her talents."

You smiled.

"She's younger than you, right?"

"Yeah."

"How much younger?"

He gave you a suspicious look.

"Why?"

"Curiosity."

"Journalist curiosity?"

"Maybe."

He shook his head.

"You ask too many questions."

"That's literally my job."

He smiled.

"I know."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Bucky looked toward the ballroom.

"She doesn't usually come to these."

"Why did she come today?"

He shrugged.

"She wanted to support the Foundation."

You nodded.

That made sense.

But something about his answer didn't completely satisfy you.

Not because you thought he was lying.

Because there was something else.

Something everyone seemed to know except you.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

A few minutes later, you found Bucky near the side entrance.

Becca was standing beside him.

You hadn't meant to overhear their conversation.

You simply happened to be walking past.

"...You actually like her."

Bucky frowned.

"She's a journalist."

Becca smiled.

"That's not what I said."

"Becca."

"What?"

"Don't."

She laughed.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are."

"Okay."

She looked toward you.

Then back at him.

"Just don't mess it up."

Bucky's expression changed.

"It's fake."

Becca's smile faded slightly.

"Right."

She walked away.

You stopped before they could notice you.

For some reason...

That one word stayed with you.

Fake.

Of course it was.

You knew that.

He knew that.

Everyone knew that.

So why had Becca's expression made it sound like something else?

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The first thing you noticed about the scholarship luncheon wasn't Bucky.

It was the security.

Three additional guards stood near the ballroom entrance.

Two more were positioned beside the private elevator.

And every time a new guest arrived, someone checked their name against a list.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

You were a journalist.

And journalists noticed things.

Especially things that didn't make sense.

You glanced toward Bucky.

He was speaking with one of the Foundation's board members.

His expression was polite.

Relaxed.

Almost bored.

As if the extra security didn't exist.

You opened your notebook.

Not to write about the relationship.

To write about the event.

At the top of the page, beneath the notes you'd already made, you added:

Security — increased again. Why?

You underlined it once.

Then closed the notebook.

For now.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The luncheon continued.

You moved from table to table, listening to conversations and making notes.

Most of it was harmless.

Scholarships.

Donations.

Future events.

Foundation programs.

Until you heard a name.

You stopped.

"...the original donor agreement."

Your attention shifted toward two men standing several feet away.

One of them lowered his voice.

"We were told not to discuss that here."

"I know."

"Then don't."

A pause.

"The records are still missing."

Your pen stopped moving.

Missing?

You glanced toward them.

Neither man seemed to have noticed you.

Then one of them looked up.

Your eyes met.

He immediately looked away.

You frowned.

Interesting.

You wrote two words in your notebook.

Original agreement.

Then you added another line.

Find donor records.

The name he'd mentioned sounded familiar.

You searched your memory.

You'd seen it before.

Not in the Foundation's public reports.

In one of the older financial documents you'd been reviewing before the gala.

Your attention sharpened.

So this wasn't new.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Before you could add anything else, a voice appeared beside you.

"What are you writing?"

You closed the notebook.

Bucky.

You looked up.

"Notes."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I can see that."

"Then why ask?"

"Because you stopped listening to me five minutes ago."

You blinked.

"I was listening."

"You weren't."

He smiled faintly.

"You were listening to them."

Your eyes moved toward the two men.

They were gone.

You looked back at Bucky.

"Do you always pay this much attention?"

"To you?"

The question came out before he could stop it.

Silence.

His expression changed slightly.

Then he cleared his throat.

"To what's happening around me."

You narrowed your eyes.

"Right."

He glanced toward your notebook.

"You heard something."

It wasn't a question.

You didn't answer.

Bucky's expression became more serious.

"Whatever you're thinking..."

"What?"

"Be careful."

You stared at him.

"Is that a warning?"

"No."

He paused.

"Advice."

"From you?"

"Unfortunately."

You almost smiled.

Almost.

"Why?"

He looked toward the ballroom.

"Because not everything happening here is as simple as it looks."

Your smile disappeared.

"What does that mean?"

Before he could answer, someone called his name.

"Bucky."

He looked over.

One of the Foundation executives was standing near the stage.

His expression was tense.

Bucky looked back at you.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he said quietly:

"I'll explain later."

And walked away.

You watched him go.

Then slowly opened your notebook again.

Under Original agreement, you added:

Ask Bucky.

Then hesitated.

You crossed it out.

And replaced it with:

Find out myself.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Later that afternoon, while everyone gathered for photographs, you noticed something else.

A woman approached Natasha.

They spoke quietly.

Natasha's expression changed.

Only for a second.

But you saw it.

The woman handed her a small envelope.

Natasha immediately slipped it into her bag.

You frowned.

Before you could think about it any longer, Bucky appeared beside you.

"Ready?"

You looked at him.

"Where's Natasha going?"

His expression changed.

"What?"

"She just received something."

He followed your gaze.

Natasha was already walking toward the private hallway.

Bucky looked back at you.

"I don't know."

"You don't?"

"No."

You studied him.

For the first time...

He looked genuinely confused.

Which somehow made the mystery worse.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The photographer called for you.

"Bucky! Your girlfriend!"

You both looked over.

You exchanged a glance.

Then walked toward the cameras.

Whatever was happening with the Foundation could wait.

For now.

You slipped your hand around his arm.

He leaned slightly closer.

"Smile."

"I know."

"You look suspicious."

"I'm a journalist."

"Exactly."

The camera flashed.

You smiled.

But your mind was somewhere else.

Original donor agreement.

Missing records.

Increased security.

An envelope Natasha wasn't supposed to have.

And one sentence Bucky had said that you couldn't stop thinking about.

Not everything happening here is as simple as it looks.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The SUV was quieter on the way back.

Your notebook rested in your lap.

You opened it.

Bucky glanced over.

"Another list?"

You turned it toward him.

Things We Need to Work On

Underneath:

1. Don't answer at the same time.

2. Don't improvise the relationship timeline.

3. Don't let reporters ask impossible questions.

Bucky laughed.

"You forgot one."

"What?"

"Don't smile."

You looked at him.

"I wasn't smiling."

"You were."

"No."

"You are now."

You closed the notebook.

"You're imagining things."

He smiled.

"Probably."

The car continued through Manhattan.

You looked out the window.

For the first time since the contract began...

You weren't thinking about the cameras.

Or the headlines.

Or the story you were supposed to tell.

You were thinking about one sentence.

Some things are worth it.

And you wondered what he had meant.

You didn't ask.

Not yet.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

TAGS:

@jades-reads @greatenthusiasttidalwave @buckybarnesfic

He'd most definitely had an exciting night. You both did. It had taken two tactical teams of a dozen men to restrain and sedate the Winter Soldier last night—an occurrence which seemed more frequent with each passing week. It was a new problem in a long track record of excellent results from Hydra's most successful project. The asset's behavioral issues had stumped the maintenance team tasked with resetting the Winter Soldier to consistent, optimal performance. Being their head of division meant you were the scapegoat who had to tell Alexander Pierce that you had no idea what had gotten into his most prized weapon, and therefore, no idea how to fix it.

You shifted in your seat and fumbled with your folder. There was no need for it to be here—you had all its contents memorized—but there was a deep, primal need to hold onto something as Director Pierce focused his expecting gaze onto you.

"The Asset is currently medically induced. I was able to heal all wounds sustained during his previous mission—"

You barely got the words out before you were cut off with a clipped, "I'm more concerned about why the Asset has been increasingly erratic these past few weeks."

There was a pause after his question. You shifted in your seat, the cold of the room already forgotten as you prepared to rip the band-aid off. "And to that, my team and I are unsure, Mr. Pierce."

You finished and let the silence hang. In this moment, you were grateful for your veil—a black shroud that fell in waves to your midsection, sheer enough around your eyes for you to have a view of your surroundings, but covered enough that the Director couldn't see the discomfort in your face as you bit the inside of your cheek and furrowed your eyebrows.

You focused on your breathing when Pierce leaned back into his seat, eyebrows raised, a quizzical look leveled toward you. The leather of his chair squeaked with the movement, and even though he couldn't see your eyes clearly, you cast them downward. Choosing to focus on his watch instead, you could hear it ticking. It felt like a countdown.

"You must not be eating well enough," he said after a moment. Your tensed body and clenched, gloved hands must have given away a fraction of the horror you felt at the words. "You should eat more. And healthier volunteers, at that." That lazy smile returned; he'd found his person to tinker with.

"The energy levels I have are more than enough, sir." This explanation felt so meager, so you continued, "The Asset has taken on an increasing amount of missions lately. Those that have a lot to do with his past." You weren't always privy to mission details and Alpha clearance files, but working as Hydra's very own living recharge station, you heard a lot more than you should. You heard things that would get you killed if you uttered them back out loud—a lesson you'd seen other maintenance personnel learn the hard way. "I reckon the Winter Soldier could just be experiencing high levels of stress, which I will do my very best to combat."

His smile stretched, followed by a small chuckle, then a hearty laugh. You were almost grateful for the sound; it masked your pounding heart. You adjusted your gloves as Pierce turned his chair toward the bulletin board attached to the wall on his left. You'd never really looked at it before; you preferred to keep your face forward, mindful of your self-preservation around him.

He turned his head to look at you, the laughter ceased and practiced pleasantries long gone. This look belonged to the man at the head of Hydra: blistering. You intertwined your thickly gloved fingers together, as if you could find comfort in holding your own hands. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you, covered in cloth from head to toe. Gloved hands covering long-sleeved shirts tucked into a white lab coat, your ID peeking through the top pocket.

You wondered if he could see that your eyes were now closed, a part of you praying to a God that doesn't ever answer.

Another squeak of leather as he shifted meant he was about to say something damning—you'd done this more than enough times to know.

Then, the phone rang, cutting through the silence. You jumped. For a split second, you almost thought it was yours, even though all your belongings had been stripped from you courtesy of Pierce's personal security team. He was smart, calculating, and paranoid nevertheless. No gadgets, no weapons, not even pens were allowed on this floor.

The phone rang a third time. You watched his eyes now, seeing that sadistic creature under his skin settle back down beneath the surface. That smooth, elegant mask snapped back into place as he answered.

Whatever it was, it must have been important. All it took was the wave of two fingers for the doors of his office to open. You stood from your seat, as did Pierce, though he stalked toward a cabinet of expensive liquor, listening intently to whoever was on the phone. You weren't spared a second glance as the guard waited by the door to escort you away.

Maybe God did hear your prayer this time. You were troubled as to why He didn't hear the rest, but your thoughts were interrupted by the fingerprint scan in front of you—a mandatory part of coming in and going out of this floor.

You reached to remove your glove. The guard and other personnel immediately backed several feet away, hands resting on the electric batons hoisted at their waists. It was standard protocol, and you could hardly blame them. You took the glove off, skin touching anything outside your room for the first time since morning. You waited for the light on the sensor to flash green and for the sound of a beep to signal the now-open elevator.

You fumbled your gloves back on, only half aware of the guards around you. Their hands were still firmly placed on those batons—on any other floor, those would be loaded guns.

With your gloves now back in place, you were escorted to the elevator, flanked on both sides. You knew these guards well by now, having memorized their faces, though they had never seen yours.

Your rules were strict. No skin exposed. Only hands, and strictly only in authorized places under careful watch. Your bedroom was the only place you could be fully unrobed. That left approximately four other rooms on this base that consisted of your daily schedule. By the changes in direction of the guards now bending through familiar corridors, you knew which of the four rooms you were headed to.

You weren't pleased. You’d much rather return to your own quarters, but you weren't exactly pouting. Anywhere was better than sitting alone across from Pierce.

Another elevator ride down let you off into what you’d heard STRIKE team members cheekily call the Cafeteria. White plastered walls and concrete columns lined the furthest side of the room. To your right stood stacks of shipping containers, no doubt filled with new gear and weapons. To your far left were the holding cells. You took a sharp left, eager to get this part of the day over with before Pierce got off his phone call and made a personal trip down here to choose. You hated when he chose.

"Oh, Casper. I bet you're hungry."

You weren't. You had more than enough energy reserves to heal whatever damaged Asset or STRIKE soldier management threw your way, but protocol dictated that Pierce wanted you at a constant one hundred percent. You didn't turn to acknowledge him or the nickname the tactical teams had given you, marking you as a ghost. You suppose you did look like one. You ignored him and kept walking, mostly because you knew that ignoring him grated on his nerves.

Brock Rumlow was here. You hadn't seen him in a few weeks, assigned to missions that kept him away from base. You were grateful for the absence; you didn't necessarily have favorites in the rotating cast of HYDRA tactical teams, but you damn sure knew you hated Rumlow.

"Ohhh, don't worry," he quipped, never shying away from your obvious distaste for him. "We've got something fresh for you today."

You turned to face him at that. He was clad in full riot gear, a rifle held against his chest, his finger hovering over the trigger. That's for me.

You heard the heavy door of a cell slide open. You navigated past several unopened equipment cases to get a better view. It was a girl. She was new. A Widow, you presumed—they didn't pass through this facility often, and if they did, they didn't stay long.

"Down on your knees," Rumlow barked at her from behind you. She didn't comply. The rifle on his chest was now raised between you and her as another tactical guard kicked the back of her knees, forcing her to the concrete. She looked up, making eye contact—or rather, as much eye contact as she could manage with the thick veil over your head. You weren't sure what they had told her, but the rising apprehension in her face made you choke out a quiet, "Good morning."

She didn't respond. You didn't expect her to.

Instead, you removed the glove from your right hand. She stared at the exposed skin, confusion pooling in her eyes. Providing an explanation would take too long, so instead, you whispered, "I'll be quick," and gripped the bare skin of her wrist.

Your powers didn't have a buildup. There was no steady, linear climb, no off-switch, no easy retraction. It was instantaneous, greedy, and ever-present. You felt it as a violent rush—the life force of the girl flowing out of her and into whatever storage reserve your body held.

You couldn't linger. Even though the rush was intoxicatingly euphoric, if you held on too long, you would take everything. So you counted. You always did. To six.

One. You saw the shock in her eyes, the sheer confusion as your power invaded her system.

Two. You saw the panic setting in when she realized you were taking something, even if she couldn't comprehend what.

Three. You saw the fear. It was always the fear that stayed with you, because you knew that helplessness; you'd seen it on your own damn face.

Four. You saw the physical signs. Her pupils blew wide, her eyelids drooped, her mouth sagged open.

Five. The first signs of dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her cheeks hollowed out, her clothes suddenly hanging loosely off a lighter, withered frame.

Six. Her eyes shut, and you forcefully dragged your hand away. No more. Pierce would be disappointed.

You stood up, leaving her crumpled form on the floor. You paused to watch and listen; she was still breathing. That was the best-case scenario you could offer her right now.

"We've got a tight schedule," Rumlow’s voice boomed off the walls. "Bring in the next one."

You stood there, silent and waiting. The process was the same the next four times. Three were faces you recognized—no screaming or qualms from them. You’d done this to them enough for them to understand the routine, and it showed. Young skin had long since turned to sag; gray hair crept up their roots. They had missing teeth and visible, prominent collarbones. Their eyes once filled of burning hatred and utter disgust for you, now foggy and distant. You disgusted yourself, too.

The last one today was newer. From the snippets of conversation among the tactical team—who had momentarily paused their work to enjoy the spectacle—he was a captured mole. He’d been caught spilling insider intelligence, and instead of a typical execution, Rumlow had opted for a slow torture. You.

He was held down by two tactical guards, fighting them off as best he could but failing as one of them pinned the man’s arm out toward you. He clenched his fist tightly, as if it could ward you away. It felt wrong. You hated when the volunteers were wrangled down like cattle for you to feed; it reminded you that they were anything but monsters. They were HYDRA rejects, Black Widows who hadn't made the cut, failed experiments, and anyone who wasn't an ecstatic worshipper of the cause.

You reached out to grab his hand, half-surprised when the tactical guard holding him flinched away, despite being covered head-to-toe in armored gear. The guard's teammates laughed at him, but by the way their hands heavily rested on their own weapons, you knew none of them saw you as any less of a threat.

You moved quickly, stopping your count at four instead of six at the fading groans of the stranger in front of you.

But it was done now. At least you were set for a day or two at your ever-rotating personal buffet.

The man, now unconscious, was escorted away, as were you. Gloved back up, with Rumlow himself trailing at your heels. You led the way back to the elevator, up the stairs, and through the winding hallways until you were both standing outside your quarters. You didn't turn to face him when he spoke.

"You'll be here until I come to fetch you later. Watch your pager and rest up. Tonight might be a pretty busy night for you."

You knew that was the truth. With the increased frequency of their operations, the number of bloodied, broken HYDRA soldiers had more than doubled. Not only did you have to maintain the Winter Soldier, but his entire task crew had become your clientele as well.

You slipped your hand out of your glove, pressing your fingers against the biometric scanner built into the wall outside your door. Beside you, Rumlow never let his finger drift from his trigger, especially standing this close. A buzz sounded, the small light above the scanner flashed green, and you offered a curt nod of farewell before slipping into your room.

Rumlow closed the door behind you with a heavy click.

With the glove still clutched in your bare hand, you didn't put it back on. Quite the contrary—you removed the other, followed by the veil, then the white lab coat. You kept stripping away the layers until you were completely bare, your discarded clothes left in a pile by the door. They would stay there until you were paged to go down to the labs later.

For now, you flopped onto your bed, welcoming the cool, stark sheets. The clock on your nightstand read only 1:00 PM. It felt like an eternity had passed since morning. Since Pierce's cold office and even colder eyes. Since you had drained the life from miserable, tormented faces.

You felt entirely hollow, miles away from the horrors of the day.

And even further away from last night.

This wasn't how you'd imagined anything like this would happen.

There wasn't some perfectly timed confession beneath city lights or during a life-threatening mission where emotions spilled over because tomorrow wasn't guaranteed.

There was only him.

Standing a few feet away from you, shoulders just a little too tense, hands strangely unsure of where they belonged, looking more vulnerable than you'd ever seen him.

And somehow...

That made it mean so much more.

For all the years he'd spent hiding behind control, behind restraint, behind the instinct to make himself smaller than the memories that haunted him, he wasn't hiding now.

He was simply telling you the truth.

His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.

A quiet breath escaped him, almost sounding like he was laughing at himself.

His hand came up almost absentmindedly to rub the back of his neck, fingers lingering there for a moment.

"I mean..."

His shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug before falling again.

"I don't mean to sound too forward."

A faint, embarrassed smile crossed his face, brief enough that it almost disappeared before you could fully register it.

"I don't even know what I'm saying."

His eyes searched yours, not desperately, not pleading for reassurance, but as though he were trying to understand what was happening behind your silence.

"I don't have all the right words."

Another small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't confident or teasing this time. If anything, it looked almost apologetic, revealing a hesitation that hadn't been there before.

"But I know I want you in my life."

The words settled into silence.

He watched you carefully, his gaze moving over your face as if searching for some sign that you were still with him. Your eyes were wide, your lips parted, but no words came. A soft chuckle escaped him, warm and quiet, more at himself than at you. The tension in his shoulders eased, and when he looked back at you, there was nothing in his expression but fondness.

"You're going to be late for your shift." He chuckled, pointing at the direction of your station.

You blinked, still unable to process what had just happened.

"I should let you go," he said softly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He hesitated for just a second, his smile turning almost shy.

"You don't have to say anything right now."

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck again. "I just... hope you'll think about us."

Giving you one last lingering look, he turned and started towards the elevator.

You watched him leave in stunned silence, barely noticing the soft hiss of the elevator door sliding open and shut behind him.

Only after he'd disappeared from view did your voice finally return.

"...See you."

The words came out as little more than a whisper, spoken to an empty hallway.

You remained rooted to the spot, staring after him, your heart still racing as the reality of what had just happened slowly began to settle in.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur.

You remembered sitting through the departmental briefing, watching colleagues shuffle through reports while someone stood at the front of the room presenting the latest updates on the rehabilitation wing, moving from new diagnostic software to revised patient transfer protocols before opening a discussion about staffing shortages in the trauma unit and people around you dutifully took notes.

You were almost certain you had nodded along at least ten times. You couldn't remember a single word that had actually been said.

Every few minutes, despite your best efforts to focus, your thoughts slipped away from the meeting room and wandered back to the morning.

You're someone I want.

The words refused to leave your head. Neither did the look in his eyes when he'd said them.

And what had you done?

Nothing.

You had stood there completely frozen, staring at him as though someone had reached into your mind and stolen every coherent thought you possessed, leaving you incapable of doing anything except breathe and look back at him.

You hadn't told him that your heart had nearly stopped the moment the words left his mouth, or that somewhere along the way you'd started looking for him every morning before you'd even realised it had become a habit.

You hadn't told him that he was somehow the last person you thought about before you fell asleep and the first person who crossed your mind when you woke up, or that seeing his name appear on your phone had quietly become your favorite part of the day.

You hadn't told him how you caught yourself waiting for his texts without meaning to, or how the simplest moments somehow felt lighter, easier, and infinitely better whenever he happened to be part of them.

You hadn't even kissed him.

The realisation made you let out a slow groan before dropping your forehead lightly against the stack of patient files sitting on your desk.

"Oh, come on..." you muttered into the paperwork.

Across the room, one of the nurses looked up from her computer, eyebrows lifting with mild concern.

"You alright?"

You straightened so quickly it was almost suspicious. "Perfectly."

She regarded you for another second, looking thoroughly unconvinced before returning to her work.

You couldn't blame her.

Because you absolutely were not.

By lunchtime, you had officially given up pretending you were capable of concentrating on anything that wasn't James Buchanan Barnes.

Your break had barely begun before you escaped to the staff lounge, carrying a sandwich you had picked up out of habit despite knowing full well you had absolutely no intention of eating it. It sat untouched on the table in front of you while you leaned back in your chair, your mind replaying the morning over and over again.

For the first five minutes, you did nothing except turn your phone over between your hands, your thumb brushing absentmindedly along the edge of the case as every possible outcome played itself out inside your head.

What if he regretted saying it?

What if he'd spent the entire morning convincing himself he'd made a mistake?

What if he thought your silence had been rejection?

The last thought made something tighten painfully in your chest.

You couldn't let him believe that.

Before you had enough time to second-guess yourself, your thumbs were already moving across the screen.

You: Busy?

Almost instantly, you regretted how painfully vague it sounded.

A reply appeared less than a minute later.

Bucky: Training compound.

Another message followed almost immediately.

Bucky: What's up?

You stared at the screen, your fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard as a dozen different replies formed in your head before disappearing just as quickly.

Instead of typing...

You stood.

You didn't remember leaving the staff lounge.

You didn't remember weaving your way through the familiar corridors or absentmindedly greeting the people who passed by.

All you remembered was silently rehearsing what you were going to say when you finally saw him again, trying to find the courage to tell him that you felt the same, that somewhere along the way he'd become the first person you wanted to share every ordinary part of your life with, and that if he was asking whether there could be an us, then your answer had already been yes long before either of you had found the words to admit it.

The next thing you properly registered was the soft chime of the elevator arriving.

The doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and your reflection stared back at you from the polished metal.

You looked...

Slightly terrified.

"...Well."

You let out a slow breath, trying and failing to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

"...Too late to back out now."

The training compound took up a massive section of headquarters.

The space was alive with movement. The sharp thud of punches against heavy bags echoed throughout, boots squeaked across padded mats, and instructors called out corrections over the noise of sparring matches unfolding in every direction. The air carried the familiar scent of rubber, disinfectant, and sweat, and despite the constant activity, everything moved with practiced purpose rather than chaos.

You stepped inside carefully, instinctively slowing as your eyes swept across the enormous space in search of one person.

It didn't take long to find him.

Bucky stood in the center of one of the sparring circles with his sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, athletic tape wrapped securely around his flesh hand while the polished vibranium of the other caught the bright overhead lights every time he moved. A light sheen of sweat darkened the hair at his temples, but his breathing remained even, his posture relaxed in a way that somehow made him seem even more dangerous.

Across from him stood one of the younger agents, someone you vaguely recognized from passing him around headquarters over the past few weeks. He was broad-shouldered, easily six foot three, with the kind of confidence that usually belonged to someone convinced he could overpower almost anyone. Bucky, meanwhile, simply looked patient.

“Again,” he said calmly.

The younger man didn't hesitate, driving forward with a quick right jab aimed at Bucky's jaw. Bucky slipped just outside the punch with barely an inch to spare, moving so economically that it almost looked effortless. Before the agent could recover, Bucky caught his wrist and redirected the momentum with a subtle turn of his shoulders, giving the smallest pull that sent the man's balance forward. He stumbled, and Bucky's flesh hand briefly caught his shoulder to steady him.

“You're overcommitting,” he said evenly. “If you miss, you've already lost your balance.”

The younger agent nodded and reset his stance. This time, he dropped lower, attempting to wrap both arms around Bucky's waist, but Bucky stepped back half a pace, pivoted smoothly, hooked one boot behind the man's ankle, and guided him past with nothing more than his forearm. The movement wasn't violent; if anything, it looked almost impossibly gentle, but the agent still hit the mat with a surprised grunt, earning a few laughs from the people gathered around the circle.

Bucky laughed too, reaching down without missing a beat, catching the younger man's forearm and pulling him effortlessly back to his feet.

“Better,” Bucky said with an approving nod. “But stop trying to beat me.”

The younger man blinked. “...Isn't that the point?”

“No.” A faint smile crossed Bucky's face. “The point is surviving someone with more experience than you.”

From the edge of the mat, John let out a snort, one shoulder resting against the barrier as he idly twisted the cap off a bottle of water.

“You're giving them false hope.”

“They've got hope.”

“They're aiming at a guy who's been fighting longer than they've been alive.”

“They'll survive.”

“Barely.”

Bucky glanced over.

“You survived.”

John took a drink before deadpanning, “I regret it.”

The small group around them laughed, and even Bucky's quiet chuckle slipped free before he shook his head. You hadn't realised you were smiling until your cheeks started to ache. There was something quietly mesmerising about watching him teach; nothing about him was wasted, not a single movement or correction, not even the pauses between instructions. Every demonstration was deliberate, every piece of advice delivered with calm patience, and every compliment earned rather than freely handed out.

He wasn't trying to prove he was the strongest person in the room. He already knew he was. Instead, he spent every minute making everyone around him just a little better than they'd been when they stepped onto the mat.

Eventually, after what felt like only a few minutes but was probably much longer, the session began to wind down. The younger agent thanked him before jogging toward the equipment racks, a towel slung over one shoulder, while Bucky reached for the towel draped across the barrier and wiped the back of his neck, absently running a hand through his hair before finally looking your way.

His eyes found you almost immediately.

He stopped moving.

For one suspended heartbeat, he simply stared, the surprise on his face impossible to miss, as though he genuinely hadn't expected you to be standing there. The expression softened almost instantly, warmth replacing the surprise in his eyes.

John noticed first.

His gaze flicked between the two of you before the corners of his mouth curled into a knowing grin.

“Well,” John said, looking between the two of you once more, “I don't think she's here for hand-to-hand lessons.”

Alexei followed his gaze, and his entire face immediately lit up. “There she is!” His voice carried across half the gym, loud enough that several people nearby turned to look. “I knew coffee alone could not contain this romance!”

You glanced around at the people looking your way before your eyes landed on Paul. He looked over from his training circle, and the moment he spotted you, a smile spread across his face. He gave you a small wave before raising his hand in an encouraging thumbs-up, his expression making it painfully clear that he was enjoying every second of this.

Yelena, who had apparently been timing someone's obstacle run nearby, didn't even bother looking over. “Alexei.”

“What?”

“Indoor voice.”

“I am using indoor voice.”

“You absolutely are not.”

Alexei ignored her completely, his attention still fixed on you as he grinned. “You come to steal our old man?”

John unscrewed his water bottle, looking entirely too amused by the situation. “Please do.”

Alexei nodded enthusiastically. “We can finally finish training without him correcting everyone's footwork.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “I correct it because it's wrong.”

John pointed at him, then looked at you. “Take him.”

A few nearby agents laughed, and you couldn't help joining them. Bucky looked somewhere between embarrassed and resigned as he shook his head at the people around him.

“I work with children.”

“You work with idiots,” John corrected immediately.

He took another sip of his water before adding, “There's a difference.”

Before the argument could continue, Bucky turned his attention back to you. The amusement in his expression faded into something softer, his eyes immediately searching your face.

“You okay?”

You nodded, still trying to settle the smile that had taken over your face. “Can I... borrow you for a minute?”

He didn't hesitate. “Yeah.”

The answer came easily, as though there had never been any other possibility. You led him toward one of the quieter observation corridors overlooking the training floor, and neither of you spoke immediately. The sounds of the gym gradually faded behind the thick glass walls until the sharp impacts and distant voices became nothing more than muffled echoes, leaving the two of you alone beneath the soft afternoon light filtering through the windows.

You stopped near the glass, the city stretching out in the distance beneath the afternoon sun. For a long moment, you found yourself looking anywhere except at him.

Your hands suddenly felt restless, like they had forgotten what to do with themselves. One kept adjusting the sleeve of your scrubs, while the other smoothed over invisible creases in your trousers, the nervous movements becoming more obvious the longer you tried to hide them.

A quiet laugh escaped you.

"I made a speech."

Bucky tilted his head slightly, a small hint of amusement appearing on his face. "When?"

You let out a breath, almost embarrassed by the answer. "The entire way up here."

A tiny smile appeared on his face. "...How'd it go?"

You sighed dramatically before finally looking at him. “I've forgotten every single word.”

That earned a soft laugh from him. It wasn't loud, but it was warm, and somehow it eased the tightness in your chest more than you expected it to.

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. His hair was still slightly damp from training, a few loose strands falling across his forehead, and his shirt clung lightly to his shoulders from the effort of sparring. Although his breathing had mostly returned to normal, there was still a faint rise and fall of his chest that reminded you he'd only just stepped off the mat.

And despite everything, the strength, the years of experience, the reputation that followed him everywhere, he looked almost nervous. Waiting for you to say whatever you needed to say without rushing you or trying to fill the silence, giving you all the time in the world.

“I've never been so angry at myself.”

A faint crease appeared between his brows. “Why?”

“Because you stood there and told me something incredibly brave...” You smiled helplessly, shaking your head. “...and my brain completely stopped working.”

His mouth opened, probably ready to reassure you, but you gently shook your head.

“Please, hear me out first.”

He immediately closed his mouth and nodded. You took a slow breath, gathering the words that had been sitting in your chest since that morning.

“It started with curiosity. I wanted to know why you looked at me the way you did. Then I found out you weren't nearly as intimidating as everyone made you sound...” You laughed softly. “And I just wanted to know you.”

The softness in his expression made it easier to continue. “Somewhere between the coffee every morning, you waiting outside my reporting room, driving me home, and those late nights sitting beside you, you became part of my day.” You paused, smiling faintly. “My favourite part.”

His expression softened further.

“I kept telling myself I'd just gotten used to having you around.” You shook your head. “But it wasn't that. I missed you when you weren't there.”

You swallowed, meeting his eyes. “I think that's when I realised I liked you. More than I meant to. More than I ever planned to.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Bucky simply looked at you.

His eyes had become impossibly soft, filled with relief, disbelief, and a quiet happiness that almost hurt to witness because you could see how much your words meant to him. A small laugh escaped him as he shook his head.

“You have no idea how scared I was that I'd imagined all of it.”

You stepped closer, just enough to erase the uncertainty that had lingered between you.

“And I think there's one more thing we missed this morning.”

“There is?”

“I've been thinking about it all morning,” you admitted, your eyes drifting to his lips.

A small smile appeared on his face. “Have you?”

You weren't sure who closed the distance first. Maybe it had been both of you. All you knew was that the careful distance you'd maintained since the day you met was finally gone.

His eyes searched yours one last time. They weren't assuming, but simply making sure, giving you one final chance to step away. But you didn't. If anything, you moved closer, your gaze dropping briefly to his lips before returning to his eyes.

Something in his expression softened, and only then did he move.

Slowly. Carefully. As though he was afraid that moving too quickly might somehow break the moment.

“So have I.” He admitted. You felt the warmth of his breath before anything else. Then his forehead brushed lightly against yours, and he stopped there for a single heartbeat.

His eyes closed first.

“Tell me if you change your mind,” he whispered, his voice so quiet that for a second you wondered whether you'd imagined it.

Your chest tightened. Even now, even standing this close to you, he was still making sure you had a choice.

Instead of answering, you lifted your hand. Your fingers brushed lightly against the roughness of his jaw before settling there, and he leaned into your touch.

“Bucky, I’d really like you to kiss me.” you whispered.

That was all the permission he needed.

When he kissed you, it was so gentle that, for a moment, it almost didn't feel real. It was just the softest brush of his lips against yours, careful and unhurried, as though he still couldn't quite believe this was happening.

For one brief, perfect moment, everything else disappeared. The distant voices from the training floor faded away, along with the sound of sparring and the clang of weights, until there was nothing left except him.

And when you kissed him back, you felt his hesitation finally begin to fade.

His hand settled against your waist with almost painful care, resting there so lightly that it felt as though he was still asking permission.

The thought made you smile against his lips.

And somehow, he noticed.

A small, almost disbelieving smile appeared on his face too, and you could feel it in the lingering brush of his lips.

When you finally pulled away, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together again, both of you breathing a little harder than either of you would probably admit, not just because of the kiss, but because the moment itself had left you completely breathless.

Without thinking, your hand slid to the center of his chest, steadying yourself against him. The fabric of his training shirt did little to hide the heartbeat beneath it.

Strong. Steady. And much faster than you'd expected.

A soft laugh escaped you.

His eyes opened. “What?”

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling.

“Nothing.”

A faint flush crept across the tops of his ears.

“I think you're lying.”

“I definitely am.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he lowered his forehead against yours again.

“You know...” he murmured.

“Hm?”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “I don't think you know how long I've wanted to do that.”

You smiled, your heart softening as you looked at him. The smile on his face reached all the way into those impossibly blue eyes, and for a while, neither of you seemed to notice anything beyond each other. The voices from the training floor faded into the background, footsteps passed somewhere nearby, and neither of you cared that someone could walk by at any moment.

Then your eyes drifted toward the clock mounted on the far wall.

Your stomach dropped.

“...I'm supposed to be looking after patients.”

“You are.”

“I've done a terrible job of that today.”

His smile widened slightly. “You've been a little distracted.”

You looked at him. “You are the distraction.”

He didn't even try to deny it. “I know.”

You couldn't pretend to be annoyed when he looked so completely unapologetic. A helpless smile escaped you instead.

“I really do have to go,” you said, your fingers still tracing absentminded circles against his chest.

His expression softened immediately. “I know.”

Neither of you moved.

His hands were still resting lightly against your waist, keeping you close, and it seemed neither of you was particularly interested in being the first to let go.

Eventually, you stepped back just enough to look at him properly, though your hands lingered against his chest for another moment.

Then you reached for his hand. Your fingers threaded naturally through his, fitting together as though they'd done it a hundred times before, and you gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“I'll see you after my shift?”

He nodded without hesitation. “I'll be waiting.”

The words settled warmly in your chest.

Of course he would.

You took a reluctant step backward, your fingers slipping from his one by one, and for one ridiculous second, it felt strangely wrong not to be touching him anymore. He must have felt it too because his eyes dropped briefly to your now-empty hand before returning to your face.

Then he smiled and lifted his hand in a small wave.

You carried that smile with you all the way back to the medical wing, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't seem to stop smiling. By the end of the afternoon, three different nurses had asked what had happened.

You blamed the coffee.

No one believed you.

The next few days were some of the best you'd had in a long time. In many ways, nothing had changed at all. There was still coffee in the mornings, an exchange of terrible memes throughout the day, and those lingering glances that had become so familiar between the two of you. But there were changes, too. Fingers that reached for yours without hesitation. Flirtatious messages appearing on your phone at random hours. More time spent together that no longer needed an excuse.

Breakfast together became more common, and dinner soon followed. Sometimes Bucky took you somewhere he'd actually planned ahead for, and sometimes the two of you settled for takeout in your living room. It didn't seem to matter. Being together had quietly become your favorite part of the day.

The rest of his team seemed just as pleased about the two of you as you were. Ava congratulated you the first time she saw you together, Yelena was far less subtle about her excitement, and even Bob made a few comments that left you wondering whether everyone had somehow been waiting for this to happen. It wasn't only the people at the compound who noticed, either. One afternoon, while you were halfway through your shift, you caught sight of Bucky waiting outside the medical wing, and one of your patients happened to notice him too.

“Isn't that the Winter Soldier?” He asked, looking between you and the man standing outside.

You tried not to laugh. “He is.”

The patient stared at you for a moment before looking back at Bucky. “Why is he waiting here?”

You glanced toward the doorway, where Bucky was patiently waiting for you to finish. “Apparently, I have a ride home.”

Your colleagues noticed soon enough, too. They had begun catching the little things, the way Bucky's hand would find yours when he came to see you, the way he'd lean against the wall and wait while you finished up, or the way you always seemed to leave together afterward. More than once, someone would give you a knowing smile before asking what your plans were once your shift ended, and you had quickly learned that pretending you didn't know what they were implying only encouraged them.

Paul was easy about the whole thing. He had practically blessed the two of you before you'd even started dating, so you knew he wasn't going to make things difficult now. If anything, he seemed relieved that you were happy. A few times, he and Ava joined the two of you for dinner, and it was strange how quickly those evenings started to feel normal, as though you had always been part of the group.

One evening, after you'd been telling Paul about a date you'd had with Bucky, he gave you a thoughtful look.

“He does know you well.”

You paused.

There was something about the way he'd said it that struck you as slightly odd, but before you could ask what he meant, Paul had already moved on to something else. You let it go, assuming he'd simply noticed how quickly the two of you had fallen into an easy rhythm together.

Paul did make one thing very clear to Bucky, though.

He'd pulled him aside once and, with a completely straight face, warned him that if he ever broke his sister's heart, he'd have to answer to him.

Bucky had only nodded solemnly.

“I understand.”

You'd heard about the conversation later and laughed at the thought of Bucky, who had faced armies and assassins without blinking, apparently taking your brother's threat very seriously.

And then there were the flowers.

You started finding Bucky waiting for you with them often enough that it became something you quietly looked forward to. Sometimes they were simple, sometimes carefully arranged, and sometimes you had no idea what had prompted him to choose that particular bouquet. When you asked, he'd usually shrug and tell you that he'd thought you'd like them.

You always did.

It wasn't until you started looking up the different flowers that you realized there was a reason behind some of his choices. Red roses for love. Lilies for new beginnings. Sunflowers for happiness. White roses for respect. Sweet peas for gratitude. Forget-me-nots for remembrance. Freesias for friendship and trust. He'd been choosing them deliberately, each bouquet carrying a little message of its own, and the realisation made something warm settle in your chest.

Sometime over the next few days, you met Sam and Sarah.

The four of you had ended up at Sarah's lake house, a quiet place a couple of hours' drive from your home. The evening stretched comfortably into dinner and drinks while Sam and Bucky caught up on everything that had happened since they'd last seen each other. There was plenty for them to talk about, especially now that the whole New Avengers situation had become considerably more complicated than anyone had anticipated.

There were new responsibilities, new expectations, and an entirely new level of attention from the public. Sam had been fielding questions about what exactly the New Avengers were supposed to be, how the team fit into the larger superhero landscape, and whether they were actually replacing anything that had come before them.

From the way he spoke about it, you got the impression that he was still trying to figure out the answer himself.

"So basically," you said, resting your elbow against the table, "you've all been thrown together and now everyone expects you to know what you're doing."

Sarah laughed. "That's probably the most accurate description."

“I knew I liked her,” Sam said.

Bucky glanced toward you with a quiet smile. “You’ve just met her.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been talking about her for months.”

You laughed, assuming Sam was exaggerating. You and Bucky had only been dating for about two weeks, after all. There was no way he could have been talking about you for months.

Bucky, however, only took another sip of his drink, his gaze dropping briefly to the table.

The evening was easy after that.

Sarah asked about your work, and you ended up talking longer than you expected, especially when she started asking questions about the medical wing and what it was actually like working around people who could come back from a mission looking like they'd been hit by a truck and still insist they were fine.

“You know what my problem is?” Sarah said. “Every time one of them gets hurt, they all insist they’re fine.”

You glanced at Bucky. “That sounds familiar.”

Bucky looked mildly offended. “I am fine.”

Sarah immediately burst out laughing, while Sam pointed across the table. “See?”

“You’re wrong about me,” Bucky said, shaking his head.

“I’ve known you for years,” Sarah replied.

“And?”

“And you’re exactly like my brother.”

After a while, you realized you needed to use the washroom.

You set your glass down and glanced toward Sarah. “Sorry, where's your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, second door on the left,” she said, pointing toward the hallway behind you.

You thanked her and pushed your chair back. Bucky immediately started to get up with you. You smiled and shook your head. “I'll be right back.”

You leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before heading down the hallway.

Sarah's lake house was beautiful in a quiet, lived-in sort of way. Large windows stretched along the back of the house, offering a view of the dark lake outside, its surface catching faint reflections from the lights along the property. The wooden floors creaked softly beneath your feet, and framed photographs lined the walls, giving the place a warmth that made it feel more like a family home than a vacation house.

You found the bathroom easily enough.

A few minutes later, you washed your hands and stepped back into the hallway. You were almost at the living room when you heard voices. You slowed without really thinking about it.

Paul's name caught your attention. You stopped for only a moment.

“...it is all too much,” Bucky was saying.

You frowned slightly.

You couldn't quite make out what they had been talking about before that, and you assumed it was probably something to do with the Thunderbolts. Sam was involved with the team too, after all.

“So, are you ever going to bring it up?” Sarah said.

There was an urgency in her voice that made you pause. You couldn't hear Bucky's response, and before you could think much of it, you stepped into the living room. All three of them looked up, and you immediately smiled, as though you'd heard nothing. 

“Your house is really nice,” you said to Sarah.

Sarah blinked for half a second before smiling back. “Thank you.”

You walked toward the table, slipping easily back into your seat beside Bucky. His eyes remained on you for a moment longer than usual, and when you smiled at him, he returned it, but there was something almost unreadable in his expression.

You didn't think much of it. 

The rain had settled into a steady rhythm against the windows of Bucky's room sometime after dinner, soft enough to blur the lights of the city into streaks of gold and white beyond the glass. The record player continued turning quietly in the corner, playing some old jazz record you couldn't have named even if you'd tried. You couldn't remember a single song that had played over the last twenty minutes. Neither of you had really been listening.

The sofa wasn't particularly large, yet somehow the space between the two of you had disappeared completely. You had started the evening sitting at opposite ends with mugs of coffee balanced on your knees, talking about nothing in particular, but somewhere between laughing at one of Alexei's increasingly unbelievable stories from dinner and Bucky quietly insisting that vinyl always sounded better than streaming music, you had drifted closer without noticing. Now your legs were tangled together beneath the blanket he'd thrown over both of you, one of his arms resting comfortably around your waist while your fingers absentmindedly traced slow circles across the sleeve of his Henley. There was nowhere else either of you would rather have been.

The conversation had faded naturally, not because you'd run out of things to say, but simply because silence had become another language the two of you seemed to understand. You turned your head just enough to find him already looking at you.

You smiled. “What?”

He didn't answer immediately.

His thumb brushed lightly over your hip through the blanket, his expression carrying that same quiet softness it always seemed to around you.

“I'm just looking.”

“You've been doing that a lot.”

“I know.”

“You make me self-conscious.”

“You shouldn't.”

His voice was barely louder than the rain.

“I don't think I've ever seen anyone as beautiful as you.”

Heat rose instantly into your cheeks. “You say things like that far too casually.”

“I'm not trying to.” He smiled to himself. “They just... happen.”

You shook your head, laughing quietly before leaning forward to kiss him.

It was impossible now to remember who usually kissed who first. Sometimes it was him, sometimes it was you, and tonight, neither of you seemed particularly interested in keeping score. His lips met yours slowly, familiar now in a way that still somehow made your heart race every single time. He kissed you with the same careful attention he seemed to give everything that mattered to him, never hurried, never demanding, always leaving you the space to close the distance yourself.

Your hand found his shoulder, then slipped to the side of his neck, your fingertips resting there as his fingers gently threaded through your hair. When the kiss finally broke, it wasn't because either of you particularly wanted it to. It was simply because breathing eventually became necessary.

Your forehead rested lightly against his, and neither of you opened your eyes. You were both smiling, still close enough that his nose brushed yours when he let out a quiet laugh.

“I could stay like this forever.”

“So could I.”

The words escaped before you had time to think about them.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his thumb stroked gently along your cheek, his touch lingering as though he were trying to memorize the feeling of you beneath his hand.

“So beautiful...” he murmured.

The compliment came so absentmindedly that it almost sounded like a thought he'd forgotten to keep to himself.

You smiled.

He kissed you again, longer this time, the sort of kiss that made time stop meaning very much. When you finally pulled back, neither of you moved far enough away to stop touching. His forehead remained against yours, his breathing mingling with your own, while the room stayed completely quiet except for the steady rhythm of the rain against the windows.

And then—

So quietly that you almost missed it—

“I love you.”

For a heartbeat, you weren't certain you'd actually heard him.

Your eyes opened.

His were still closed.

It took another second before he realized what he'd said. You felt it happen, the tiniest stiffening of his shoulders, the sharp intake of breath, as his eyes opened immediately and blue met yours. For the first time since you'd known him, James Barnes genuinely looked flustered.

“...I...” He blinked once before letting out a soft, defeated laugh and dropping his forehead briefly against your shoulder. “Well...” His voice was muffled by your sweatshirt. “...that wasn't supposed to happen like that.”

You couldn't stop smiling. “It wasn't?”

“No.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you again, rubbing one hand awkwardly across the back of his neck. “I actually had a whole plan.”

“What was the plan?” You asked, laughing softly.

He sighed dramatically. “It was significantly better than accidentally saying it because I forgot how to keep my thoughts inside my head.”

“I don't know...” You tilted your head. “I kind of liked this version.”

“I didn't.” He laughed quietly. “I was going to take you somewhere. I was going to say something that actually made sense. I was going to tell you after dinner next week.” He shook his head at himself. “Instead...” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “...this happened.”

You reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair away from his forehead. “I don't mind.”

His expression softened again.

“I almost said it the first day.”

You frowned slightly. “The first day?”

“When I confessed.”

Realisation dawned slowly. Outside the reporting room. Coffee growing cold between your hands. The way he'd looked at you then, like there had been something more behind the words he was struggling to find.

He nodded. “I wanted to tell you then.” His eyes searched yours. “But I thought it was too much.”

“So I changed it.” He smiled sadly. “I thought... if I didn't tell you I loved you, maybe you wouldn't feel trapped by how much I already...” He stopped himself, his thumb tracing slow circles against your waist. “...felt.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“You were trying to make it easier for me.”

“I was trying not to scare you away. I just…”

Silence settled between you again. Not heavy. Just honest.

You waited. You knew there was more.

He sat up a little straighter, his hands holding yours with a quiet kind of certainty. He took a slow breath, as though he were carefully arranging the words in his mind before allowing himself to say them.

“I know what I am,” he said, holding your gaze.

There was no self-pity in his voice.

“I know what I've done, what I've lost, and how much of my life was spent being somebody I didn't choose to be. For a long time, I thought the safest thing I could do was keep people at arm's length. If you don't let anyone close, they can't get close enough to hurt you, and if something happens to them...” He paused, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “...you don't have to live with knowing you let them matter.”

Bucky glanced down. “I got pretty good at it.”

You squeezed his hand.

“But then I met you.” His voice softened.

“And suddenly, everything I'd spent years telling myself I didn't need didn't seem so impossible anymore. A life. A home. Something that actually belonged to me.”

He let out a quiet laugh.

“And that terrified me, so I did what I always do. I ran.”

“I tried to keep the walls up.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “You weren't very good at it.”

“No.” He shook his head, the corners of his lips lifting. “Turns out, you have this annoying habit of walking straight through every barrier someone puts up and acting like it isn't even there.”

“That sounds like a complaint.”

“It is.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He laughed softly before his expression settled again.

“I've watched you walk into a room completely exhausted and somehow make it feel lighter. I've seen you spend an entire day taking care of everyone else and still find the energy to make somebody laugh. And I don't think you even realise you do it.”

Your chest tightened.

“I didn't fall in love with you because I was lonely or because I needed someone to make me smile.” His fingers tightened around yours. “I've spent most of my life convincing myself I was fine on my own. I thought I'd learned how to live in the dark.”

His eyes never left yours.

“But you made me want more.”

Your breath caught.

“You made me want to step out of it.”

The room fell silent.

“Then I fell for you. I fell for your stubbornness, your terrible jokes, your ridiculous habit of worrying about everyone except yourself.”

You laughed through the tears gathering in your eyes.

“You called my jokes terrible?”

He smiled.

“I spend more time watching you than I do listening to them.”

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling.

His expression softened again, the teasing fading into something quieter, something vulnerable.

“And when I look at you, I don't feel like I'm waiting for my life to start anymore. I feel like I'm finally living it.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

He leaned closer until his forehead nearly touched yours.

“Loving you...” His voice faltered for the first time. “...has never felt like remembering.”

Your heart skipped.

“It feels like discovering something I never thought I'd have.”

His smile was impossibly gentle.

“It feels like you.”

Tears blurred your vision, and you laughed through them, shaking your head. “You've been carrying all of that around by yourself?”

“For a while.”

“You should've told me.”

His smile broke into a quiet, disbelieving laugh, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “I was terrified.”

“You didn't have to be.” You lifted your hands and cupped his face. “Because James Buchanan Barnes...” Your thumbs brushing lightly across his cheeks as you looked at the man who had somehow loved you so carefully that he'd tried to make his own confession smaller for your sake.

“...I love you too.”

For a moment, Bucky simply stared at you, as though the words needed time to settle somewhere inside him before he could believe them. Then the relief in his expression gave way to something warmer, something deeper, and he kissed you.

His hands found your waist and drew you closer, and you moved with him instinctively, your fingers slipping into his hair as the kiss lingered between you. Somewhere along the way, your hand against his chest became a gentle push, and he let himself fall back without protest, a quiet laugh escaping him as you settled over him.

His hands never left your waist.

The kiss slowed, becoming less about the words you'd exchanged and more about everything neither of you quite knew how to put into them. His hand moved gently along your back, and you could feel the steady warmth of him, the familiar strength in his arms, and the way his breathing changed whenever you kissed him again.

When you finally pulled away for air, he didn't move far. His forehead rested lightly against yours, his thumb brushing across your cheek while the two of you tried to catch your breath, neither of you seeming particularly interested in putting any distance between yourselves.

“I don't think I'll ever recover from that speech,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours, and you gave a small, breathless laugh.

“Seriously, Bucky. What am I supposed to say after all of that?”

His mouth twitched. “You don't have to say anything.”

“I know.” Your fingers brushed lightly over his cheek. “But I want to.”

You took a small breath, trying to gather your thoughts. 

“Bucky, I love the man you are when you think nobody is watching. The way you're softer than you let people believe. The way you care so deeply, even when you pretend you don't. And I love that somehow, after everything you've been through, you still found a way to be kind.”

His expression had gone completely still.

You leaned closer, your nose brushing his.

“I love all of you. The complicated parts, the stubborn parts, the quiet parts, and the parts you're still learning how to live with.”

His breath caught. You reached up and brushed your thumb lightly against his cheek, your vision beginning to blur.

“And I don't know what our future looks like. I don't need to know yet.” Your smile softened. “I just know that when I imagine mine now, you're in it.”

For several long seconds, he didn't say anything.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, impossible to hold back now. There was too much feeling, too much relief, too much love overflowing all at once. Then his hand rose to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears as carefully as if they were something precious. His eyes glistened with unshed tears and something you couldn't quite name, an emotion so raw and unguarded that all you could do was hold his gaze and feel your heart ache.

“I love you,” you whispered again, softer this time. “More than I knew I could.”

And then you kissed him again.

One of his hands cradled your face while the other rested securely at your waist, keeping you close and neither of you seemed particularly interested in remembering where one kiss ended and the next began. You laughed softly against his mouth when you shifted a little too far and nearly slipped off the edge of the sofa. He caught you before you could move an inch farther, his arm tightening around your waist as a quiet smile brushed against your lips.

“Careful,” he murmured.

“You're distracting me.”

“I noticed.”

You smiled. “You seem very pleased with yourself.”

“Maybe I am.”

You barely had time to laugh before he kissed you again, the smile still lingering between you. 

“You know,” he murmured when your lips briefly parted, “you're making it very difficult for me to think.”

“Maybe I don't want you thinking.”

“That so?”

You nodded, suddenly shy due to the warmth of his gaze. “Maybe I just want you to kiss me.”

His expression softened. “That's something I can do.”

He kissed you again, and this time there was no teasing left in either of you.

The kiss grew deeper, slower but more intent. His hands moved carefully along your back, drawing you closer, while your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Every touch seemed to carry a question, and every time you moved closer, you gave him the answer.

You stood, taking his hand and gently pulling him up with you.

“Come here,” you whispered.

He followed without question, his eyes never leaving yours as you guided him toward the bed. When the backs of his knees touched the mattress, he sat, still looking at you with an expression that somehow managed to be both completely captivated and slightly uncertain.

You stepped between his knees and kissed him again.

His hands immediately found your waist, drawing you closer until there was hardly any space left between you. Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt and hesitated for just a second before you slowly lifted the fabric.

His eyes never left yours. The smile that appeared on his face was so soft it almost took your breath away.

“Hi,” he murmured.

You couldn't help laughing under your breath. “Hi.”

The expression in his eyes changed as he looked at you, something warm and openly affectionate settling there in a way you'd never seen before.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you whispered.

“Can you blame me?”

Heat rushed into your cheeks.

He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Your heart stumbled.

“You're beautiful.”

You shook your head, laughing again, and kissed him again.

The kiss deepened, unhurried and familiar, and somewhere between one laugh and the next, he fell back against the mattress, pulling you with him until you were stretched comfortably beside him, his arms still wrapped around you.

When your hand drifted lower, his fingers closed gently around your wrist.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Are you sure?”

You met his eyes. There was no expectation in his expression, no pressure, just the quiet certainty of a man making sure you still had the chance to change your mind.

You reached up and touched his cheek.

“I'm sure.”

He searched your face for another second before his fingers loosened and his hand slipped away.

Your hands wandered again, more confident this time, but the sudden awareness of what you were doing made your nerves catch up with you. Your hands travelled throughout his body, and his followed, his palms sliding slowly over your waist before settling against your hips.

You reached for the hem of your top, only to catch the fabric awkwardly between your fingers.

A quiet laugh escaped you. “Sorry.”

The smile that spread across his face was immediate. “You're nervous.”

You looked at him pointedly. “So are you.”

“I am not.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He held your gaze for all of two seconds before a reluctant smile appeared.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe a little.”

You laughed again, and just like that, the nervousness lost some of its hold on both of you.

His hands moved carefully, helping you free the fabric before his fingertips brushed lightly over your bare skin. The cool metal of his left hand contrasted with the warmth of your back, sending a small shiver through you.

There was nothing hurried about him.

Every touch was patient, every movement deliberate, as though he was still trying to convince himself that you were really here. His fingertips traced slowly across your back, lingering just long enough to make your breath catch.

And maybe that was what made the moment feel so different.

Neither of you seemed interested in pretending to know exactly what you were doing.

There was no practiced confidence. No effortless choreography.

Just the two of you.

Two people who had spent weeks learning each other's smiles, memorizing routines, finding excuses to linger over coffee and stretch conversations a little longer, only to discover that this felt no different.

You were still learning each other. 

And maybe that was why he kept checking on you, his quiet concern woven so naturally into every moment that it never felt intrusive. His fingers traced absent patterns against your skin before his hand rose to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips lingered against your cheek.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

His forehead brushed against yours, and the softness in his expression made your chest tighten.

“Yeah?”

You smiled.

“Yeah.”

Outside, rain continued to tap against the windows in a steady rhythm. Beyond the glass, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white.

Inside, everything felt warm.

And somewhere between nervous laughter, lingering kisses, whispered reassurances, and the quiet discovery of something neither of you had experienced together before, the rest of the world gradually disappeared.

The drive to your apartment had become so routine that neither of you really thought about it anymore. Bucky would drop you home after your shift, usually stopping for something to eat if you'd had a particularly long day, and then he'd stay until he was sure you'd gotten inside safely before heading back to the compound. You'd talked about him staying over a few times, but between his unpredictable schedule, missions that could pull him away for days, and the fact that your apartment was still your home and held most of your things, neither of you had rushed into changing that. For now, this little ritual seemed to work.

You were halfway through telling him about one of your patients who had somehow managed to reopen the same cut three separate times in a single afternoon when you noticed his attention beginning to drift. Not completely; he still responded when you spoke, occasionally making the right little noises to let you know he was listening, but his eyes kept moving between the road and the mirrors.

“You're not listening,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I am.”

“You're doing that thing.”

His mouth twitched. “What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you're listening while you're actually thinking about something completely different.”

“I heard you.”

“Then what did I say?”

He glanced at you for barely a second. “You said the new recruit kept asking whether he could finish his workout while you were still trying to close the cut on his forehead.”

You stared at him before laughing. “Okay. You were listening.”

“I told you.”

You shook your head, smiling as you turned back toward the window, but you noticed that he still wasn't quite relaxed. His attention kept shifting toward the street around you, his expression becoming more focused as he drove the final few blocks to your building.

You didn't think much of it.

It was late, and the neighborhood was quieter than usual, the familiar row of parked cars lining both sides of the street beneath the yellow glow of the lamps. You noticed a dark sedan parked a little way down from your building, but there was nothing particularly strange about it. People parked there all the time. 

Bucky slowed as he pulled toward the curb, and you reached for your bag, already preparing to say goodnight.

“See you tomorrow?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

You leaned across the console and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Don't work too late.”

“I'll try.”

You smiled and climbed out, closing the door behind you. You could feel his eyes on you as you walked toward the entrance, and when you glanced back, he was still sitting there, watching until you disappeared through the glass doors.

You gave him a little wave before heading inside.

By the time you reached your apartment, you'd already forgotten about the dark sedan.

You changed out of your work clothes, pulled on an oversized sweatshirt, and started taking off your earrings while absentmindedly checking your phone. You had barely finished changing when the doorbell rang.

You frowned. You weren't expecting anyone. For a second, you wondered whether Bucky had changed his mind and decided to spend the night with you, but the thought disappeared the moment you opened the door and saw his expression.

"Hey. What's—"

He stepped inside. "Lock the door."

Your smile vanished. "What?"

"Move."

His tone made your stomach tighten. He was already reaching for the door, pushing it shut behind him. You stepped aside, your mind racing as you tried to figure out whether someone had followed him.

He turned the lock and immediately started moving through the apartment. You stood near the door, watching him cross the living room as his attention shifted from the windows to the hallway and back again. It was a space you knew so well that you could navigate it in the dark, but he was looking at it as though he were seeing it for the first time.

"Bucky? Is everything okay?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he stopped beside the window, his fingers brushing over the frame before he examined the lock, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly. Then his attention shifted to the smoke detector near the ceiling, the bookshelf against the opposite wall, and finally the hallway leading toward the bedrooms.

"Bucky?"

"I saw the same car near your building twice today."

You frowned. "What?"

"There's something wrong with the security camera outside."

He crouched beside the window again, running his thumb over the locking mechanism. "And there's damage here."

You stepped closer and followed his gaze. You hadn't noticed anything unusual before, but he was right. The lock did look damaged.

"This could be nothing."

"No." He stood and turned toward you, his expression unyielding. "I'm not taking any chances."

He pulled out his phone and started typing quickly, but his attention never stopped moving. His eyes traveled across the apartment again, from the window to the hallway and back once more. His gaze then landed on you for the briefest moment before shifting past you again.

"Pack a bag."

"What?"

"Enough for a few days," he said. "Clothes. Anything you'll need."

You stared at him, waiting for him to explain. He turned to look at you, and for a moment, you thought he finally would. But the explanation never came. Instead, something shifted in his expression. His jaw tightened, and beneath the urgency in his eyes was something else. Something that looked dangerously close to desperation.

"Please." 

Bucky wasn't someone who asked for your trust without offering an explanation in return, and the fact that he wasn't explaining now made the fear settling beneath your ribs feel increasingly real.

You nodded and hurried toward your bedroom, your hands moving automatically as you pulled clothes from drawers and hangers and dropped them into a bag while your thoughts raced ahead of you. You could hear him moving through the apartment behind you. A cabinet opening. A drawer sliding shut. Footsteps crossing the hallway.

He entered your room and moved toward the window.

"Bucky?"

No answer.

You turned and found him standing beside the window, his attention fixed on the mirror hanging above your dresser.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't respond. Instead, he reached behind the frame.

You frowned. "What—"

He pulled his hand back.

Something small and black rested in his palm.

You stared at it, trying to understand what you were looking at. His jaw tightened. Before you could ask anything, he crushed the device in his hand and immediately turned his attention back to the room.

"What was that?" you whispered.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he removed a tiny microphone hidden inside the smoke detector near the ceiling. Then he crouched beside your nightstand, ran his fingers beneath the wooden edge, and pulled out another device no larger than a coin.

Your pulse began to race.

He moved to the bookshelf next. His eyes scanned the rows of books before he reached behind them and removed another device. This one was different. Smaller. More sophisticated. A tiny lens was embedded in its surface.

A camera.

"Bucky..."

He crossed to your desk without responding, and picked up the charging adapter plugged into the wall. At first glance, it looked completely ordinary, but with a quick twist, he separated the casing and exposed another surveillance device concealed inside.

Your room suddenly didn't feel like your room anymore.Suddenly you became painfully aware of everything around you. The bed. The dresser. The room where you changed, slept, and spent every day.

Someone had been watching.

"Who is doing this?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned and disappeared into the hallway, heading straight for Paul's room. You followed close behind, your pulse beginning to race.

"Bucky?"

He was searching. He opened his closet, crouched to check beneath the bed, and moved methodically around the room. His attention shifted from the walls to the desk, then to the bookshelf and the corners of the room, his gaze deliberate and focused as though he already knew exactly what he was looking for.

“Bucky, who?”

He ignored the question. His hand disappeared behind a shelf. A second later, he pulled something free, glanced at it once, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Bucky.” This time, your voice came out sharper.

He finally looked at you. “Finish packing,” he said, already turning toward the door.

You should have listened. Instead, your attention drifted downward. A photograph was lying on the floor beside Paul's bed. It must have fallen while Bucky was searching through the closet. You frowned. That hadn't been there before.

You bent your head slightly to get a better look. Paul was standing beside a young woman you didn't recognize. That, by itself, wasn't unusual. Paul had friends you hadn't met and colleagues you'd never heard him talk about.

But something felt off.

For one thing, Paul looked much younger, at least a decade younger than he did now.

You knew your family photographs. You knew what your parents looked like, your grandparents, your relatives. Over the years, Paul had shown you old pictures often enough that you could usually place a face without much effort. But you'd never seen this woman. You'd never even heard him mention her. So why was he keeping a photograph of her hidden in his closet?

She looked younger than Paul, though not by much, and there was something strangely familiar about her face, something you couldn't quite place no matter how long you looked at it. It wasn't recognition. Not exactly. Just an unsettling feeling that you should know her somehow.

"Come on," Bucky called from your room, urgency sharpening his voice.

You ignored it for now and hurried into your room. You found him kneeling beside your bed, gathering the clothes you'd left in a pile and folding them into your bag with quick, efficient movements. The sight only made your pulse race faster.

"I've got it."

He stepped aside without arguing.

You took over, stuffing the last few items into the bag while he pulled out his phone. His attention was already elsewhere. His thumbs moved rapidly across the screen before he reached into his pocket, removed one of the small devices he'd collected from the apartment, and connected it.

You finished packing, zipped the bag shut, and looked up. "What are you doing?"

"Checking something." He didn't look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on the display, moving quickly from one side of the screen to the other.

You stepped closer. The screen didn't look like anything you recognised at first. He studied the screen for a few more seconds before finally disconnecting the device and sliding it back into his pocket. But his gaze remained on the screen. Then the image shifted, and you realised you were looking at a map overlaid with satellite imagery. He enlarged it with his fingers, zooming in until the outline of your apartment building filled most of the display.

"What are you looking for?"

"Blind spots." He mumbled as he adjusted the image again. "Entry points."

Another few seconds passed. His expression remained unreadable as he studied the screen, his fingers moving between different views and angles.

You frowned. Were there people outside right now? Waiting for you? For Paul? For Bucky?

Your thoughts spiraled. The cameras. The microphones. The damaged window lock. Your apartment suddenly felt unfamiliar. Your pulse quickened as you looked back at Bucky, searching his face for answers.

"Bucky, what the hell is happening?"

He wasn't looking at you. His attention remained fixed on the small screen in his hand, his eyes moving carefully over whatever information the device was displaying. A map, maybe. Coordinates. You couldn't tell.

The silence stretched.

"Not many yet," he said, moving closer to the window. "They're monitoring the apartment remotely."

Your blood ran cold. The words settled heavily in your chest, each one making the situation feel more real than it had only seconds before. You felt sick.

Your fingers tightened around the bag you had just finished packing, but you barely noticed it. Your thoughts were moving too quickly, spiraling from one possibility to the next before you could fully process any of them. You couldn't speak. You wanted to ask a hundred different questions, but none of them seemed capable of making it past the tightness in your throat.

And Bucky still wasn't looking at you.

His attention remained fixed outside the window, his eyes shifting between the darkness beyond the glass and the satellite images displayed on his phone. He looked completely absorbed, his expression unreadable as he analysed the information in front of him. He looked like he was calculating.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, instinctively searching for some kind of comfort while you waited. The packed bag rested awkwardly against your chest, its weight suddenly feeling much heavier than it should have. The apartment had fallen completely silent, the only sound coming from the occasional movement of Bucky's hand as he navigated through whatever information continued to appear on the screen.

Then a sharp electronic beep cut through the silence. He immediately glanced down at the watch on his wrist, and you followed the movement automatically. For only a second, your eyes caught a brief glimpse of the phone still in his other hand. A map. Several green dots. A few red ones. Lines extending outward in different directions. Route analysis. The information disappeared before you could make sense of any of it.

His expression changed almost instantly.

Decision made.

He turned toward you without another word. Taking the bag from your arms with one hand, he reached for your hand with the other.

"Let's go."

His grip was firm as he guided you out of the living room and toward the door, his movements controlled and purposeful.

He opened the apartment door and stopped immediately, his body going completely still as he listened.

You found yourself holding your breath.

The hallway beyond the doorway was silent.

His eyes moved to the left, scanning the length of the corridor before shifting in the opposite direction just as quickly. Every movement was deliberate, his attention fixed on something you couldn't see and couldn't begin to understand.

Only after several long seconds did he turn back toward you.

"Stay close to me."

You nodded, the response automatic.

His hand tightened around yours, the pressure steady and unyielding as he pulled you into the hallway. Instead of turning toward the elevator, he headed straight for the stairwell. The heavy door swung shut behind you as he guided you down the first flight of stairs, his pace controlled but relentless.

“Stay with me, okay?” His voice was low, finally breaking the silence.

Your fingers tightened around his. 

He glanced at you, his expression softening for the briefest moment. “Nothing's going to happen to you.”

“Bucky—”

“You're safe.”

The reassurance was immediate, instinctive, but it did nothing to ease the knot tightening in your chest. He kept moving, one hand firmly wrapped around yours as he led you farther down the stairwell, his eyes constantly shifting between you and the floors below.

By the time you reached the HQ, Bucky had already spoken to Paul and explained everything that had happened.

From what you had been able to piece together during the drive, there was an organisation Paul had been tracking that had apparently decided to target him through his personal life. Paul had always worried that someone might eventually try to use you against him, and suddenly his constant overprotectiveness made a little more sense.

Bucky, however, had barely spoken during the drive. You asked him twice if he was okay, and both times he seemed to catch himself just before saying something more.

"I'm fine."

He didn't sound fine. But it wasn't nervousness or panic that unsettled you. It was how deliberate he was.

His eyes kept moving between the road and the navigation data displayed on the screen mounted beside the dashboard. Every turn appeared to have been chosen long before he reached it. He changed lanes with purpose, occasionally glancing at information that you couldn't quite make out before immediately adjusting his route. There was nothing uncertain about his movements.

Every attempt at conversation ended the same way.

His attention would shift toward you for a moment, his expression softening just enough to acknowledge your question, before his focus returned to the road and whatever continued to update on the screen beside him.

It was as though part of his mind was somewhere else entirely, following a plan that had already been set in motion long before either of you had gotten into the car.

When you finally stepped out of the elevator and into the lounge, Paul was already waiting for you. The moment his eyes landed on you, he crossed the room and pulled you into a tight hug, holding you for a second longer than usual before stepping back to look you over as though checking for himself that you were really okay.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

His eyes moved briefly toward Bucky. Something passed between them. You couldn't quite identify what it was. Bucky's expression tightened almost imperceptibly, while Paul's gaze lingered on him for a moment before returning to you.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Paul.”

He nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

“Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.” Ava appeared beside him and immediately slipped an arm through yours.

“Ava—”

“Nope. You're not escaping.”

You shot Paul a helpless look. He actually had the audacity to look relieved.

She began pulling you toward the lounge, already talking about something that had happened earlier that day, and you laughed despite yourself as you glanced back. You had a feeling she was trying to distract you, or at least keep you from worrying, but your mind was still there. 

Paul was standing beside Bucky, and neither of them was speaking; they were simply looking at each other with an understanding you couldn't quite follow. Then Paul said something too quietly for you to hear, and Bucky's eyes flicked toward you. For a brief second, the look on his face was almost painful.

You frowned. “Ava, wait.”

She tugged you along. “Absolutely not. You can interrogate the two paranoid men later.”

You let her pull you away, though you glanced back once more. Paul was still watching Bucky, and Bucky was still watching you.

There seemed to be only Ava and John on the floor for now.

The rest of the evening passed far more normally than you had expected. Once Ava successfully dragged you into the lounge, the tension that had followed you from the apartment gradually faded beneath the familiar chaos of everyone talking over one another, plates being passed around the table, and John arguing with Ava about something that had apparently begun as an entirely ordinary conversation before somehow turning into a competition.

You ate with everyone, and eventually relaxed enough to almost forget everything that had happened earlier.

Almost.

At one point, John casually mentioned the organization Paul had been tracking and asked whether there had been any movement on that front. Paul redirected the conversation almost immediately, offering a vague response before smoothly steering everyone's attention toward an entirely different topic.

It was subtle. But not subtle enough.

You caught the brief glance he exchanged with Bucky, and the slight shift in Bucky's expression told you everything you needed to know.

They were hiding something from you.

Later, when you caught Paul alone, you folded your arms across your chest and gave him your most intimidating look. “You're going to tell me what is actually going on.”

Paul sighed. “You're not intimidating.”

“I can be.”

“No, you can't.”

“Paul.”

His expression softened, the teasing disappearing from his face. “The organisation shouldn't have come after you.” He paused, looking genuinely troubled. “I'm sorry. I should've seen the possibility sooner. I should've made sure you were protected.”

You stared at him for a moment. “So there is more.”

“There always is.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face before looking back at you. “Just trust me when I say we're handling it.”

You didn't like the answer, but you knew your brother well enough to understand when pushing him further wouldn't get you anywhere. You made him promise that he'd tell you if anything changed, and eventually let him go.

About half an hour later, the lounge gradually began to empty as everyone started retreating toward their respective workspaces or rooms. You watched Paul head toward the elevator, waiting until the doors closed behind him before turning back toward Bucky. He was already watching you, and the look he gave you told you he had somewhere he needed to be too.

“You're going too?” you asked.

“Yeah. I've got something to take care of.”

You walked over to him and wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him close for a moment. He immediately relaxed into the hug, his arms coming around you as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Get some sleep,” he murmured.

You pulled back slightly, but before you could let go, you looked at him more carefully. There was something about the way he'd been acting all evening that hadn't quite left you.

“What are you not telling me, Bucky?”

His expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough that you noticed.

“There are things I haven't told you yet.”

Your brows drew together. “Why?”

He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wasn't going to answer. Then his gaze softened. "Because I wasn't sure how much I could say."

You stared at him, trying to figure out what that meant. “That's not very reassuring.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek. “But you're safe here. That's what matters right now. Nobody's getting into this building, and you're not going anywhere alone until we know what's happening.”

You wanted to ask more. You wanted to demand that he tell you exactly what he knew, especially after everything that had happened that night, but something in his expression stopped you. He looked tired, worried, and strangely vulnerable all at once.

So you nodded. “Okay.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting you go. “I'll see you in a little while.”

You watched him disappear before finally making your way to his room, which had become familiar enough that walking into it no longer felt like you were entering someone else's space. You changed, climbed into his bed, and pulled the blankets around yourself, staring at the ceiling for a while. The sheets still carried the faint familiar scent of him, and normally that would have been enough to settle you almost immediately. Tonight, however, your mind refused to cooperate.

You started thinking about what they could be hiding from you.

Paul had been evasive. Bucky had admitted it himself. Even the others had seemed to know more than they were saying, carefully steering conversations away whenever they got too close to the subject.

But there were explanations that didn't involve some terrible secret about you.

Paul had been tracking an organisation for a long time. If they had finally decided to retaliate against him, perhaps there were operational details he couldn't share. Perhaps Bucky knew more because he was involved now. Perhaps everyone was simply being careful because you had become the obvious weak point in something they were already dealing with.

And Paul had always been protective of you. Maybe this was simply the worst version of the thing he'd been warning you about for years.

You pulled the blanket higher and stared into the darkness, reminding yourself that you trusted them. You didn't like being kept in the dark, but you trusted Bucky more than you trusted your own unease. Whatever they were dealing with, they would tell you when they could. For tonight, you decided that was enough.

Sometime during the night, you felt the mattress dip behind you. A moment later, familiar arms slipped around your waist, drawing you back against Bucky's warmth. Still half-asleep, you instinctively moved closer, settling into his embrace.

With him there, the unease that had been lingering at the edges of your thoughts finally faded, and you slipped into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.

It was three days later when you felt that familiar sense of unease again.

Usually, there was something strangely comforting about the night shift. Most people assumed it was more difficult than working during the day, and in many ways, they were right. There were fewer nurses, fewer doctors immediately available, and every emergency demanded that everyone move twice as efficiently to compensate for the reduced staff.

But there was also a quietness to the hospital after sunset that you'd grown to appreciate.

The corridors never truly fell silent, but they softened. Conversations faded into murmurs, footsteps became less hurried, and the relentless pace that defined the daytime gradually gave way to something calmer.

The medical wing inside the Avengers facility was one of the safest places you could imagine. Paul told you he had convinced Valentina for additional security measures, and lately, you'd noticed more guards stationed throughout the floor than usual. Their presence had quickly become part of the nightly routine, another reminder that you were surrounded by people whose job was to keep everyone inside those walls safe.

Tonight, though, that familiar sense of calm felt different.

You couldn't explain why. Nothing seemed obviously wrong. If anything, the differences were so minor that you probably wouldn't have noticed them on any other night.

A visitor lingered near the nurses' station longer than necessary. An unfamiliar face stopped to ask for directions, only to return and ask again a few minutes later. One of the patients looked up and followed you with their eyes as you walked past before turning their attention back to the television.

Individually, none of it meant anything.

Hospitals were filled with unfamiliar faces. Visitors got lost. Patients couldn't sleep.

You told yourself you were probably overthinking it, especially after everything that had happened at your apartment and after Bucky's repeated warnings to be careful.

Still, as you moved through the ward, you found yourself paying closer attention than usual. You couldn't shake the feeling that something about the night wasn't quite right.

By the time the clock at the nurses' station neared eleven, you had finished your last set of notes and were putting away the final chart when your phone lit up beside your clipboard. You glanced down, and the familiar name on the screen immediately brought a smile to your face.

Bucky: Don't forget to eat something during your break.

You smiled. God, he was unbearably sweet when he worried about you.

Another message appeared, but before you read it, an alarm suddenly tore through the ward. You flinched, your attention snapping toward the corridor as the sound echoed through the floor. Hospitals had alarms all the time, security alerts, drills, system checks, but then the tone changed, becoming sharper and far more urgent.

The lights above the corridor flashed red, and conversations around you stopped almost instantly. A voice echoed through the speakers. 

“Emergency alert. Fire detected in Block C. All personnel initiate evacuation protocol. Repeat. Fire detected in Block C.” 

The entire floor changed in a heartbeat. Whatever quiet had settled over the ward disappeared, replaced by the practiced urgency of a hospital responding to an emergency. Everyone moved at once.

A nurse from the opposite station looked at you, her expression tightening. “Block C?”

You nodded. “Patient lounge and recovery rooms.”

That section housed patients who couldn't simply walk out on their own, injured agents recovering from missions, family members receiving medical care through SHIELD's healthcare program, and even children. The thought made you move faster. 

“Get the nearest rooms first,” you heard the senior nurse call, already heading toward the corridor. “Wheelchairs for anyone who can't walk. They get priority.” The other nurses immediately followed, and although the night staff was smaller than the daytime team, nobody hesitated; everyone knew their role and what needed to be done.

You pushed through the emergency doors leading toward Block C, and the smell of smoke hit you almost immediately. It wasn't thick enough to choke yet, but it caught in your throat, and the lights flickered overhead as something cracked loudly somewhere deeper in the building. A few patients had already started to panic.

“Everyone, stay calm,” you called, moving toward the lounge. “We're moving you to another section. This is precautionary.” You repeated the reassurance as you went because people needed to hear it. A young woman clutched her injured son's hand, her face pale with fear. “Is it safe?”

You crouched beside them. “We're moving you away from the fire. You're okay.”

The boy looked up at you, wide-eyed. “Is Captain America coming?”

Despite everything, you smiled. “Someone from the team is probably already here.”

You weren't wrong. A few seconds later, heavy footsteps echoed from the emergency stairwell. You turned, and your heart stopped for half a second.

Bucky.

He came through the fire-exit doors with several agents behind him, already dressed in tactical gear. His eyes found you immediately, not the fire, not the patients. You. The relief that crossed his face lasted barely a second before he forced himself back into focus.

“Talk to me. What's happening?”

“Block C recovery wing. We're getting everyone out.”

His jaw tightened. “I'm helping.”

You wanted to tell him to be careful, but you knew him. He was the kind of man who ran toward the fire while everyone else was trying to escape it, who would never stand back and watch someone else risk their life when he could be the one stepping forward. So instead, you swallowed the words, held his gaze for one quiet moment, and simply nodded.

And then he was gone.

The next ten minutes blurred together. Smoke filled the corridors, turning familiar hallways into something almost unrecognisable as emergency alarms rang overhead, mixing with the crackle of flames and the steady stream of announcements echoing through the building. People shouted directions over one another while agents moved through the chaos, guiding patients toward the exits, carrying those who couldn't walk, and coordinating with the emergency teams flooding into the wing.

Fire crews pushed deeper into the affected sections, working to contain the flames as rescue teams swept through each room to make sure no one had been left behind. You helped move an elderly former agent into a wheelchair while another agent followed close behind, carrying emergency equipment and calling out updates to the team.

Ava and Bob appeared with more medical staff, helping guide people toward the safe zone, while John directed evacuation routes and argued with security over why the fire suppression system hadn't activated sooner. Alexei somehow managed to carry two bags, a medical kit, and a frightened child while loudly declaring himself “the strongest emergency nurse.”

You moved deeper into the corridor, where the smoke had begun settling closer to the floor. Emergency lights flashed overhead, washing everything in brief pulses of red as alarms screamed, announcements crackled through the speakers, and agents hurried past carrying injured people toward safety. You forced yourself to keep moving. There were still people who needed help, and that was the only thing you allowed yourself to focus on.

You pushed open the door to one of the side rooms and immediately spotted a man sitting on the floor near the wall, one leg stretched awkwardly in front of him. At first glance, he looked like another injured agent caught in the chaos. His clothes were damaged, soot covered his face, and his breathing was slightly uneven.

But something felt wrong.

You couldn't explain why. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Most injured people had fear in their eyes, confusion, pain, panic. His expression held none of it.

His expression was controlled, almost blank, his eyes following every movement you made with an awareness that didn't fit someone who had just been caught in a fire. A small voice in the back of your mind told you to be careful. Something wasn't right.

But you pushed the feeling aside. You were running on adrenaline, with the entire block seemingly coming apart around you. People were trapped, injured, and frightened, and you didn't have time to question every person who needed help.

You had one job.

Get people out.

“Hey,” you said, lowering yourself slightly. “Can you stand?”

His eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I think so.”

His voice was steady. Too steady. Still, you pushed the uneasiness aside. He looked like an agent, and agents were trained to stay calm under pressure, trained not to show fear when everything around them was falling apart.

You reached out your hand. “Okay,” you whispered. “Slowly.”

He took your arm, and at first his grip seemed normal, someone injured using you for support. You shifted closer, allowing him to put more of his weight on you as he pushed himself upright. One hand remained tucked inside his pocket.

You noticed.

But not enough.

Not until it was too late.

The moment he was fully upright, something changed. The weakness disappeared, the hesitation vanished, and his entire body moved with a precision that didn't belong to someone who had been struggling to stand. Before you could react, his arm snapped around you, his forearm locking across your throat as he pulled you sharply back against him.

Your breath caught.

For a second, you couldn't understand what was happening. The injured man you'd been helping was suddenly holding you, his grip firm and controlled as you instinctively grabbed at his arm, trying to create enough space to breathe. It didn't work. He was stronger than he looked, and there was nothing uncertain about the way he restrained you.

Not just strong.

Trained.

Of course he was. He was an agent, or at least, that's what you'd assumed, and agents were taught exactly how to restrain someone without hesitation.

“What—”

The sound barely left your throat before his grip tightened, breaking your voice into a strangled gasp as your lungs fought for air. Then his other hand moved, the one that had been hidden inside his pocket. You saw the needle for only a second, a flash of metal and a terrifying realisation.

No.

You twisted instinctively, but you were already too late. The needle pressed against the side of your neck, and pain shot through you, a sharp sting followed by burning beneath your skin. You cried out, but the sound was swallowed by his arm around your throat.

Then, almost casually, he spoke into his comm.

“Asset acquired. Room C-207. Injected with VX-17.”

Your blood ran cold.

Asset.

The word barely registered before panic overwhelmed everything else. Your vision blurred, the alarms became distant, and suddenly every instinct in your body was screaming at you to get away. But you couldn't let yourself go. Not yet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus through the dizziness, and Paul's voice came back to you: If someone gets the advantage, don't fight their strength. Use their movement. Don't panic. The first few seconds decide everything.

You tried to think through the fog as the drug spread through your system, mixing with the adrenaline flooding your body. You were still awake. Still aware. And he had made one mistake: he had underestimated you. You stopped pulling against his arm and went completely still, and when the man behind you adjusted his grip, expecting you to keep struggling, you drove your heel down hard. His hold loosened.

You didn't waste a second. You twisted sharply, dropping your weight instead of pulling against him. His balance shifted, and suddenly he wasn't in control anymore. Your elbow drove backward into his ribs once, then twice, until his grip finally broke.

You stumbled forward and turned despite the dizziness clouding your vision. He moved toward you, but you barely registered it; your instincts took over. Your hand found the closest thing within reach—the metal emergency kit mounted on the wall—and you swung it hard. The edge connected with the side of his head with a heavy impact, making him stagger.

For a moment, you both froze. His expression changed, not to fear, but surprise, as though he couldn't believe you'd managed to get away. You didn't give him time to recover. You struck again, and this time his knees gave out beneath him. You stood there, frozen, the emergency kit still clutched in your trembling hands.

The dizziness worsened by the second, and you caught yourself against the wall, fighting to stay upright. Something was moving through your bloodstream, something your enhanced cells were already struggling to fight. You knew what healing felt like, but this wasn't an injury your body could simply repair. It was a chemical attacking your nervous system, and for once, your healing couldn't keep up.

Your vision blurred again. Your knees weakened, threatening to give out beneath you, but your gaze remained fixed on the man lying unconscious on the floor. You forced yourself to look away and tried to make it toward the door, one hand sliding along the wall for support while the other still clutched the metal emergency kit. You made it barely a few steps before you saw three more agents rush in.

Your stomach dropped.

They were armed, stunners in their hands, guns secured at their sides and there was no chance you could take down three trained men when you could barely keep yourself standing. You stumbled backwards, tightening your grip around the metal kit as your mind desperately searched for an escape.

The man in the middle touched his earpiece.

“She's here.”

Your heart lurched.

One of the men glanced down at the unconscious agent. “Seven's down.”

“She was dosed,” the other muttered, staring at you with something close to disbelief. “She's still standing.”

The man in the middle's expression tightened. You weren't sure how you were supposed to fight three armed men, and you weren't even sure you could stay conscious long enough to try, but the alternative was standing there and letting them take you. 

You tightened your fingers around the emergency kit as the man in the middle approached with a stunner already raised, waiting until he was close enough before swinging. 

The metal kit caught him across the side with enough force to send him stumbling into the wall, and for one brief, glorious second, you thought you'd created an opening. You hadn't. The other two were on you immediately, one grabbing your arm while the other caught you from behind. You twisted violently, trying to wrench yourself free, but your body was too slow now; your balance was gone, your muscles heavy and uncoordinated. The stunner touched your side, and electricity tore through you, every muscle locking at once as a broken sound escaped your throat. 

The emergency kit slipped from your fingers and crashed to the floor.

Then everything became disjointed. The room tilted, your legs gave out, and you hit the floor hard, catching yourself with your hands before your head could strike the tiles. You tried to crawl, away from them, away from the men, away from whatever they were planning to do to you, but your arms barely listened. You dragged yourself forward anyway, your fingers scraping uselessly against the floor as darkness crept into the edges of your vision.

Someone caught your wrist. “Easy.”

“No.” The word barely left your throat. You tried to pull away, but there was nothing left in your muscles. Another hand caught your other arm, and together they forced your wrists behind your back. Something tightened around them, the restraints digging into your skin as they secured them.

You fought weakly, twisting against their grip, but the drug had turned your body heavy and uncooperative. You could hear them speaking, their voices becoming increasingly distant as your consciousness flickered.

In.

Out.

In—

Then came the gunshots. Two sharp cracks tore through the room, and the hands holding you disappeared as the men beside you dropped almost simultaneously, their bodies hitting the floor with heavy thuds. For a moment, you couldn't process what had happened. Your ears rang, your vision swam, and the room seemed to tilt around you.

Then someone grabbed you. You flinched as the remaining man hauled you upright, locking an arm around you and using your body as a shield while you struggled to stay on your feet. “Need backup immediately,” he shouted into his earpiece.

And then you saw him.

Bucky stood several feet away, his gun lowered but still in his hand, his entire body unnaturally still. You knew that stillness. You'd seen it before, but never like this. His eyes were fixed on you, moving quickly over your face, your unfocused eyes, the mark on your neck, and the restraints around your wrists. Something flickered across his expression, fear, raw and immediate, before it disappeared beneath something colder.

His jaw tightened.

“Let her go.”

The man didn't answer. Instead, his grip tightened around you, and then you saw the gun move, not toward you, but toward Bucky. Your stomach dropped.

“Bucky—”

The gunshot came before you could finish.

Bucky moved instantly, dropping sideways as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been. The sound exploded through the room, making your already ringing ears scream, and before the man could fire again, Bucky was on him.

You barely followed the movement. One second, Bucky was several feet away; the next, his metal hand had closed around the man's wrist. He twisted hard, sending the gun clattering across the floor, then drove his fist into the man's stomach with enough force to fold him forward.

The man staggered, but Bucky didn't give him time to recover. He seized the front of his clothing and drove him into the wall hard enough to make the impact echo through the room. When the man tried to swing at him, Bucky caught his wrist effortlessly, twisted his arm behind his back, and forced him down until his knees hit the floor before shoving him aside. The man collapsed, and Bucky didn't spare him another glance; he was already moving toward you.

“Hey.”

His voice changed the moment he reached you, all of the coldness disappearing as his hands came to your shoulders, steadying you when your knees threatened to give out. “Look at me.”

You tried. You really did, but your vision refused to cooperate.

“Bucky…”

“I’m here.”

His eyes searched your face before dropping to your neck, and his expression tightened at the sight of the fresh injection mark. He didn't hesitate. His metal hand moved carefully toward your wrists while his other arm kept you steady, his fingers working at the restraints with precise, controlled movements despite the urgency in his breathing.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I've got you.”

The restraints finally gave, and your hands dropped uselessly. Bucky caught them before they could fall, rubbing gently at your wrists as though checking that you could still feel them before looking back at your face.

And that was when you saw it.

The fear he'd been trying desperately to hide.

Not panic, but something quieter and somehow worse, the kind that came from imagining what he might have found when he walked into that room. His eyes flicked briefly toward the unconscious men scattered across the floor before returning to you, his jaw tightening.

“You're okay,” he said, though it sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “You're okay.”

You wanted to tell him you were. You wanted to tell him that you'd fought, that you were still here, that he didn't need to look at you like that.

But the room tilted again.

Your knees buckled, and Bucky caught you instantly.

“Hey. Hey.”

The room began to fade around you, the noises gradually becoming distant beneath the steady ringing in your ears. Even the sound of alarms somewhere beyond the room seemed to blur into the background until there was almost nothing left but the warmth of Bucky's arms around you.

And then, beneath all of it, something else surfaced.

A memory.

Not a complete one, not even enough to understand, but a fragment that appeared with startling clarity, a voice you didn't recognise, calm and clinical, speaking from somewhere in the darkness.

Asset 07 is viable.

Your breath caught.

For one fleeting second, you thought you saw something beyond the darkness, something hovering just beyond your reach.

Then it was gone.

A moment later, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder as they moved toward your room.

Bucky had come against many villains and oppositions in his long lifetime, Nazis, The Redskull, Hydra, Nazis again, and even a power hungry alien titan from outer space, but nobody quite angered him like the young, shiny, blonde haired, blue eyed boy wonder that was Johnny Storm.

Why did Johnny Storm infuriate him so much? 

It was the way in which he conducted himself whenever he was around you.

Bucky was your boyfriend, and a pretty solid one at that he likes to think. He loves you more than anything, and he’s pretty confident that you love him just as much, which is why it infuriates him so much that you seem so oblivious to the cocky blonde’s flirtations. Bucky’s blue eyes darken as he watched the scene in front of him unfold.

There you are, in the science lab, your happy place, pouring over some long and impossibly confusing equation that Bucky could never hope to begin to understand, and there, right next to you is the younger Storm sibling. He’s wearing a tight dark blue t-shirt that stretches across his chest as he regales you with some obviously hilarious story. Johnny watches you with a gaze that can only be described as lustful. 

“...and then I told Reed, you can’t talk to me like that when I’m the one with their face on a cereal box.”

And you just laughed, throwing your head back at what you think is his charming and friendly joke.

Johnny’s eyes were everywhere, from your beautiful smile, to the way you bared your neck as you tipped your head back in a laugh, the gentle swish of your hair, and Bucky certainly didn’t miss the way that Johnny’s tongue swept across his lower lip as his gaze slowly raked up and down the frame of your body. He was eyefucking you, no doubt about it. 

And that’s what made Bucky’s blood boil. He didn’t trust that jumped up excuse for a firework as far as he could throw him, but there was that undeniable, yet subtle sparkle in your eye that glinted whenever Johnny would talk. It was a glint that Bucky had seen before, only that time he’d been on the receiving end of it. In the early days of when he was flirting with you because you were all he could think about. and now here you were giving Flame Boy, those very same eyes.

Bucky was riled up, a heated feeling of possessiveness over you bubbling inside him, but there was something else that he was feeling. An underlying feeling that he couldn’t quite make sense of no matter how hard he tried.

Bucky made his way over to you, sweeping into your lab with that showstopping smile he reserved just for you.

“Bucky!! I was just about to come down to see you.” you bounce, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a hug. “Johnny, this is Bucky, have you guys had the chance to meet yet…”

“No. No we haven’t, actually.” Bucky says, keeping his voice stern and firm as he extends his metal hand out for Johnny to shake, making sure to squeeze just a little bit tighter to assert a level of dominance over the blonde. “Bucky Barnes. I’m her boyfriend.” 

“Johnny Storm, pleasure to meet you.” Johnny returns with an equal amount of assertiveness, raising a brow, fully aware that his plan to get under the Winter Soldier’s skin was working. “Quite the grip you’ve got there, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Well, it’s been real swell chatting, buddy, but me and my gal have had this date planned for weeks, so if you don’t mind me stealing her away.”

“Oh is that the time already?” you say, looking down at your watch. “God, time flies doesn’t it! I’ll just go grab my bag and I’ll be ready to go.” 

Bucky waited for you to disappear out of earshot before he leaned in close, almost getting into Johnny’s face.

“Don’t think I don’t know what your game is, Pal, but if I were you I’d be real fuckin’ careful about checking out my girl like that again, next time I might not be as kind.” Bucky growls out, his intimidating Winter Soldier voice coming through.

Before sauntering away out of sight Johnny clapped a hard on Bucky’s shoulder and fixed him with a challenging smirk

“She’s only your girl now, because I haven’t had a chance to put my charm on her yet. You better be on your best game old man, I’d hate to see you get burned.”

That night as you rolled around in the sheets with Bucky you found him to be just that little bit rougher than he typically was.

Instead of hovering over you, caging you safely underneath his strong arms, his lips whispering syrup sweet words as he tucked away kisses into your neck. He had you bared up on your forams and knees, your ass rounding out before him as his hips slammed into yours, sinking into you in deep, pounding thrusts.

The frame of the bed rocking against the wall, thump-thump-thumping as he sheathed himself inside you.

Then it clicked. The wall next door was shared by none other than Johnny Storm. Bucky was jealous and he was trying to prove a point.

“You’re fuckin’ mine aint’cha, doll? It’s only me that makes you feel like this, isn’t that right.”

He’s relentless in his quest to get under the younger Storm sibling’s skin, and you weren’t about to question it, not when he was making you feel this good.

The next day, Bucky finds himself sharing his early morning gym session with the one man he hoped he wouldn’t run into.

There Johnny was, finishing up a run on the treadmill when he clocked the icy blue stare of the former Winter Soldier in the gym mirror.

Johnny hits the button on the treadmill and it reels to a stop as he jumps off, lifting his shirt up revealing to wipe the sweat from his face.

“Barnes.”

“Storm.”

“Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day.” Johnny says, a small smile quirking his lips up at the corner.

“You could say that again.” Bucky huffs out in his usual gruff tone.

“Now, hear me out for a minute, I think you know what the source of this tension is between us, and it looks a lot like your girl.”

“That’s exactly what she is. My girl, not yours.” Bucky affirms, keeping his tone cool, calm and collected in the presence of this hot-head.

“Hey now, here’s where the ‘hear me out’ part of this conversation comes into play.” Johnny starts, raising a challenging eyebrow. “I want something you’ve got. She obviously loves you dude, but she can’t help but be enchanted by the possibility of what if, right? She got a taste of my charm and I know she wants more, I can see it in her eyes.”

Bucky bristled a little at Johnny’s words, but he couldn’t lie, the thought of sharing you with another guy excited him more than he realised.  

The pair of you had once glossed over the idea of bringing another guy into your relationship for a night between the sheets, but you had been a little  too drunk to remember even bringing it up the next morning. Bucky hadn’t forgotten it. It had been lingering around, festering away at the base of his brain until the right moment came.

Apparently, the right moment had been when Johnny Storm went and opened his big mouth.

For once, the youngest Storm sibling was talking a whole lot of sense.

That night, the plan had been set and everything had been agreed upon, much to your excitement as Bucky led you into your shared bedroom space in the compound.

As he pushed open the door for you, Johnny was already there and waiting on your bed with a desiring hunger burning in his blue eyes as he watched you walk towards him.

“It’s okay Doll,” Bucky hushed, brushing his hands up and down your arms as his deep voice rumbled in your ears. “I know you want to have fun, I don’t mind, as long as I get to watch.” 

You make yourself comfortable on the bed next to Johnny and at first you’re hesitant, with Bucky’s steel grey eyes watching your every move, but as Johnny’s hand moves to brush your hair away from your face and lean in to kiss you softly you find yourself sinking against his plush lips.

The one hand that was brushing your hair back from your face went to cup your cheek as he kissed you, whilst the other skated down your body to rest on your waist, his warming fingertips sinking into your soft curves over your shirt.

Johnny’s kisses are different to Bucky’s, he sucks on your lower lip, his tongue lightly sweeping across it before slipping into your mouth when you let out a soft little moan. 

Bucky’s intense glare had been watching you from across the room, watching as your sweet lips tangled with Johnny’s but he couldn’t help but feel like he was missing out so he wasted no time in joining the pair of you on the bed. Bucky’s lips joined in on the exploration of your body, as he kissed your neck and shoulders, smirking to himself as he felt you melt under his affections. Bucky was keen to get you out of your clothes, as was made evident by how much his fingertips were curling around the hemline of your shirt.

“Arms up dollface, this whole thing works better if you’re not wearing anything.”

Bucky pulls your oversized shirt from your body, leaving you in just a lace bra and a pair of tiny little shorts.

“God, you’re a lucky man Barnes” Johnny swooned, as he pulled away from your lips, his blue eyes raking in every inch of your newly bared skin set before his eyes. “She’s a real stunner.”

“Don’t I know it.” Bucky answers back with that same charming smirk you love so much.

“Uhh, fellas, can we pick up the pace a little, it’s not that I’m not loving this attention, but I’m going to need a little more from both of you.”

“You heard your girl, Barnes, let’s not keep her waiting anymore.” Johnny says as he takes his clothes off.

Bucky shucks off his clothes too before helping you to remove the little of what’s left remaining on your body and his hands, both warm human and cool metal alike immediately reach for your tits. His fingers pinch a nipple each and roll them until they both pebble into firm rosy buds.

Bucky sinks back against the pillows propped up on the bed, and pulls your body down against his sturdy muscled chest, his nimble fingers still tugging on your nipples.

“Spread your legs, Doll, show Johnny boy here what he’s been missing out on.” Bucky instructs.

You do as he says and let your legs butterfly open, revealing your awaiting cunt to Johnny’s clear blue gaze.

“Don’t just stand there Storm, you wanted a taste of my girl, now’s your chance.” Bucky taunts from over your shoulder.

Johnny is between your legs in an instant, wrapping his arms around your thighs to anchor himself in position before diving in tongue first into your cunt. He flattens his tongue in broad sweeps upwards, tracing over the sensitive curves and contours of your pussy. It’s different to how Bucky eats you out, not bad but different, Bucky would have hoisted you up with all his strength and sat you down on his face and told you to ride it, but Johnny is more leisurely, taking his time to learn how every little curl of his tongue makes your thighs twitch in his hold.

“This pretty pussy tastes so fucking sweet, no wonder Barnes wants to keep you all to himself” Johnny slurs and his nose nudges against your clit before his tongue sweeps up to circle around it and suck on your needy bud bewteen his pursed lips. The noises he’s making are absolutely obscene as he eats you out like he couldn’t dream about being anywhere else. He gently suckles on your clit, easily slipping two of fingers into your needy cunt, drawing them in and out of you in shallow little movements, curving them just right to have your hips bucking against his face. He flicks his tongue over your clit whilst stuffing you full of his fingers and sure enough it’s that combination that has you tipping over the edge, shuddering out your orgasmic high as Johnny licks you through the aftershocks.

You can feel the hard press of Bucky’s thick cock pressing at the small of your back, a very prominent indicator that he’s enjoying watching every moment of Johnny working to give you the knee-trembling orgasm that you deserve. 

Bucky peers from over your shoulder to give the younger Storm sibling a point of direction

“Give it up Johnny boy, you’ve had your fun with her, now It’s my turn.” Bucky says, as he hoists you up, his cool metal hand and warm human one wrapping around your waist and man-handling you into what he deems to be the perfect position for what he wants to do to you. With you flipped over on to your stomach, legs sprawled out wide on the bed, Bucky pulls Johnny away from your thighs with your essence still slick on his lips, barking out a gruff command to the blonde. “If you think I’m going to let you fuck my girl, Storm, you got another thing coming, you can take her mouth, but this pussy belongs to me, and me alone.”

“God, Barnes, anyone ever tell you you’re a little possessive?” Johnny chuckles easily, as his tongue sweeps across his lower lip to taste the last little bit of your sweet pussy on his lips.

The way that the guys talk about you like they can barely go another moment without touching you is making your mind swirl in a dizzy mess of hormones. To be wanted so badly by these two men is something that you never thought in your wildest dreams would ever come to fruition.

It takes a little moment of re-shuffling, but soon enough you find yourself propped up with your ass in the air, with Bucky in position behind you and a firm hold of your plush hips, and Johnny positioned in front of you, his hard cock curved right towards you, his red blushed tip glistening wet with pre cum.

Bucky takes a sleek metal finger and runs it up through your slit, gathering up your silky wetness before sucking his finger clean, all the while moaning obscenely. It leaves the smallest smallest whimper to escape from your lips.

“Sorry doll, I know you wanna feel me, but I gotta have just a little taste of you first.” 

“Your girl’s pussy tastess so fucking sweet, Barnes, I don’t know how your face isn’t constantly buried between her thighs.” Johnny quips, a salacious smirk gracing his lips as he brings his hand up to his lips and to spit in his palm before using his spit slick hand to coast up and down his hard cock a few times, his sapphire gaze captivating you as you watch his hand work over himself.

“Trust me, it’s a struggle.” Bucky smirks, before taking his thick cock in his hand and lining it up with your entrance, swiping the head through your folds a few times to coat himself in your arousal, and then slowly inching himself inside your wet heat. Bucky’s big, he knows this, and you’re most certainly more than aware of this, so he always makes sure to go slow, slow enough to stretch you and make you feel every thick inch of him.

Bucky’s thrusts start slow enough, him drawing his hips back in shallow little movements before pushing forward and filling you again and again and again until you acclimatize to a more swift pace.

One one end, Bucky is giving you the most amount of pleasure, fucking into you with his commanding, pounding thrusts, his metal hand and human sinking into the soft flesh of your hips as he sets his punishing pace. Then on the other end, there’s Johnny, his blonde hair mussed as he tilts your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to look at him. His touch is warm on your skin, not blazing hot like you might have expected from someone with abilities such as his, but there is that gentle warmth that blooms all the same.

“Be a good girl and open up for me.” he says, his voice dropping a husky lower octave. “Tongue out too.”

You comply with his request, opening up your mouth, your tongue lolling out over your plump bottom lip.

Johnny takes two of his fingers and slides them into your mouth. 

“Suck.” Johnny orders.

And you do. You wrap your lips around his fingers and suck them, showing him just how good you can be for him.

“There’s a good girl, fuck, I can’t wait to feel your lips around my cock.”

“What are you waiting for, Storm? Her mouth feels like heavenly sin, and you’re there with your dick in your hand doing nothing about it.” Bucky gruffs out as he keeps pounding his thrusts into your slick cunt.

“I’m just taking my time, Barnes, if you think I’m going to waste this opportunity you’re nuts”

Johnny draws his fingers back out of your mouth, a webbed string of saliva connecting you breaks apart as he does.

“I think you’re ready for a little more, don’t you princess?” Johnny taunts

You don’t trust your words, too dumb from the steady, constant, pleasure that Bucky is giving you to even think about forming any kind of coherent sentence, that all you can do is nod your head, your eyes glazing over just a little bit.

 Your mouth opens up for Johnny and inch by inch he guides his cock slowly into your mouth, your lips stretching around his girth to accommodate him. He’s not as thick as Bucky, but his curved length and flushed rounded head more than make up for it as he bumps the back of your throat. You relax your throat, the way you’ve done time and time again with Bucky, and allow Johnny to take control of the pace, letting him glide his cock between your lips and into the warm, wet hollow of your mouth. 

It’s truly transcendental the way you feel right now, floaty, dizzy, and a little bit spaced out, the only thing anchoring you in reality is the push and pull of the two commanding men using you, not only for their pleasure, but each one caring about your pleasure too. 

You can feel the burning spark of your orgasm raging inside you, not far from falling over the edge and giving yourself over to the euphoric high you’ve been searching for.

“Fucking Christ Doll, you’re gripping me like a goddamn vice..I know you’re close, I can feel it..You just need me to give you what you want..”

You hum and nod as best as you can with your mouth stuffed full

And Bucky, knowing you as well as he does, slips a hand down to your clit, pulsing tight little circles around your sensitive nub as he keeps fucking his cock into you and hitting that spot deep inside you that has you feeling more and more desperate.

“That’s it Doll, don’t gotta hold it back anymore, just wanna feel this needy little cunt cum for me”

It’s the combination of Bucky’s filthy words and skilled handiwork that has you tipping over the edge, cumming with a stifled cry as he helps you ride out your release before quickly following in your footsteps, thrusting forward and stilling his hips until he’s pumping you full of his seed.

Johnny isn't far behind either, the look of restrained willpower on his red, flushed face slowly crumbling away with every thrust into your slick mouth getting sloppier and sloppier until he’s spilling rope after rope, glazing your awaiting tongue with his cum.

There’s a silent beat whilst all of you are catching your breath, and the dust settles around the three of you in the mess of tangled sheets and tangled limbs on the bed.

“So, Doll,” Bucky says, breaking the blissfully quiet silence. “Was that everything you wanted?”

“I don’t know, I think I might need a little more from both of you..” you say cheekily despite your hoarse voice.

“Did you hear that Johnny boy, my girl’s up for round two. Do you think you’re ready for more than you bargained for?” Bucky taunts the blonde

“Am I ready? Are you kidding? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about taking that pretty ass for myself since I watched you bend her over tonight. Don’t worry Barnes, I am more than ready for anything, the question is, are you?”

And there, laying cosily, and sexually satiated between the fit bodies of your boyfriend, Bucky Barnes, and your late night playmate, Johnny Storm, you feel the fizzle of anticipation of what was to come settle in your body.

And you couldn’t wait to find out.

You’d been tinkering with Tony’s suit for the past couple hours, a malfunction in the hardware had caused his blasters to stop working. You hadn’t noticed the door to the lab open, or the super soldier leaning against the table. “What are you doing?” Bucky breaks the silence, you shot up, dropping the tools in your hands around you, as you turned to him. “Bucky! You scared me!” your exclamation makes Bucky chuckle, as he raises his arms in surrender. “Before you gave me a heart attack, I was trying to fix Tony’s suit, something’s off with it, but I can’t place it” Bucky would never tell anyone, but he can’t help but love the way your eyes light up when you get that determined look on your face. 

You looked back at Bucky, expecting him to say something, but he just stood there looking at you. You grinned shyly and waved your hand in front of his face, “Earth to Bucky” he snapped out of it with a light blush across his cheeks. “So, did you just come here to scare me, or did you need something?” you lean against the table, turned toward him, while your hand held your wrist, soothing it slightly.

“I was wondering if you could help me take out my stitches?” Bucky’s eyes find the floor, and you furrow your brows at him. You know very well that he is able to take out stitches, hell he could easily stitch himself up without even flinching. You bite your tongue, “Sure, sit down”, you motion for him to sit on your chair as you go and grab the equipment. 

When you turn back around his shirt is off, you stumble just a bit, and try to regain the balance of the tray you’re holding. The blush is set on your face, and you try your best to act as if it doesn’t exist. “How old is it?” you ask, as you inspect the wound, it’s about 4 inches long and sits on the left side of his chest. Bucky replies as you start working on taking out the stitches. Your fingers graze his skin, despite the deliberate calmness to your touch, it makes Bucky’s skin heat up. 

“There you go” you finished up and threw out the used tissue, “you’re as good as new”. Bucky felt the warm, nervous feeling in his stomach as he looked at your smile. “Thank you, doll” his nicknames always managed to fluster you. “I think Tony ordered some food for dinner, d’you wanna join?” Bucky motioned his head toward the door, and his invitation made you smile, but you couldn’t let go of the feeling of dread that crept in. 

Just as you were about to answer, your phone started ringing. The lockscreen showed a photo of your boyfriend, and you answered immediately, knowing better than to let him hang. “Hi Brett” you gave Bucky an apologetic smile, as Brett questioned if you were on your way home, “I’ll be home in twenty minutes, things ran a bit late here”. Tyler muttered something under his breath, you sensed he wasn’t going to be in a good mood when you got home. You ended the phone call and turned back to Bucky, he tried to look interested in something on the table, clearly not wanting to listen in on your conversation. 

“Sorry Bucky, I have to get home, maybe I can join you guys another time” he nodded, and watched as you packed up your things. “Let me walk you to the door” he offered, you wanted to refuse, scared of how Brett would react if he found out, but Bucky wasn’t offering as much as he was telling. You two walked out to the main doors, talking quietly and giggling here and there. “Thanks for walking me to the door” you smiled up at him, at your thanks it looked like he grew about six inches and stuck out his chest a little. “Of course, doll, get home safe” Bucky offered you a soft smile as he opened the door for you. “I will, and remember to be careful with the scar, and put on the ointment I gave you” he chuckled at your lecture, but agreed and watched as you walked out in the streets and blended in with the crowds of people.

The next day you entered the lab with your head toward the floor. Trying your best to blend in with the sterile interior, and taking the long way up in order to avoid as many avengers as possible. Apparently, you weren't the only one trying to avoid people. In your busy job, looking down, you bumped into a firm body, who caught you by the arm before you fell. “Sorry doll, I didn't think anyone would be going this way” Bucky's voice hitched, as does your heart at the nickname. Bucky shuffles awkwardly, and a blush appears on his cheeks. “Don't worry, I-...I should've looked where I was going” you dismiss his apology with your own, only now meeting his eyes. You could see the shift.

Bucky took you in, the dark circles and sunken in eyes morphed your face in a way he hasn't seen before. He noticed how you tug at the hem of your sleeves, it's almost unconsciously, but his analysing gaze proves him wrong. You looked away, too intimidated by his staring eyes. “I have to get to the lab” you squeaked and hurried around Bucky. Before you're fully out of the mostly empty hallways, you turn around, only to see Bucky already standing there, with a small smile on his face and body turned to you. With a tight smile you continue down the hallway, away from this super human, who apparently just studied your mind without you saying anything.

While you're nose deep in Tony's latest project, Bucky just wrapped up training with Sam. Bucky hadn't been able to quit thinking about that look on your face, and he was sure Sam had noticed by now. “You're usually quiet, but man it's starting to get weird now” Sam's smirk widening as he nudged the super soldier, earning a low grunt from him. Bucky turned to leave the training area, but halted and turned towards Sam. Sam's grin lessened at Bucky's grim expression. 

“Do you think Y/n's doing alright? I mean like lately?” Bucky could tell Sam already had a joke, or five, lined up, so he shot him a warning glare. With a hum Sam composed himself, giving himself time to think. “I don't know man, I think Tony just got a lot of different projects for her, maybe she needs a break?” Sam's thoughts didn't calm Bucky, clearly what he'd seen wasn't nothing. Though the way your eyes had shifted to something unrecognizable, it didn't seem like just time off would fix it. 

“Yeah maybe” Bucky muttered as they both walked out the door and went to grab a water. “Have you tried talking with her about it?” Sam's question made Bucky blush slightly, but also turn his head away as an answer. “You gotta talk to her first! Or else you'll never know what's going on in her brain” Sam held his shoulder in a firm grip and laughed to himself, he took his water and left Bucky to ponder on his own. 

Later in the afternoon, Bucky have already worn down a permanent trail of worry in his room, he decides to go talk to you. Hoping that his worries will be made to shame. At first he knocks quietly on the lab door, but it doesn’t seem to catch your attention, neither does the louder, and firmer, knocks he tries with. Losing patience, Bucky opens the door and at first thinks the lab is empty. That is until he sees your hunched over form, scribbling away on a piece of paper and headphones in.

His heart tightens and warms at the sight, your eyebrow scrunch of focus, your hair splaying around your head, cascading in front of your face. You hum along to whatever song is playing in your ears, and Bucky is about to squash his worries at what looks like apparent content. 

His breath hitches in his throat when he spots dark purple splotchings at your upper wrist, almost hidden by your shirt. The bruising looks angry and pulsing, so, new. Bucky’s mind short circuits, and at a certain point he is worried he reverted back to the soldier. His eyes narrowed in at the bruising. 

Just as Bucky steps forward, you absentmindedly look up from your work and flinch at the appearance of another person in the lab. “Bucky?” your voice is quiet, testing the waters, the look in his eyes make you nervous. “What are you doi-” your sentence trails off when you see where his eyes are pointed. Not your eyes, not your work. It’s your wrist, that is even more visible after your surprise flinch. 

Panic sets in, and in one quick motion the sleeve is pulled down to your fingers, and in an even quicker motion, Bucky moves to stand directly besides you. You stay silent, not daring to look Bucky in the eyes, as you already feel them start to burn. It takes a couple of minutes before Bucky speaks up, his voice sounds far away, but brings you back to reality. “Was it Brett?” your shoulders tense at the mentioning of his name, and Bucky’s direct question. 

The silence is enough for Bucky. He steps back and exhales a deep sigh, dragging his hand over his face. Bucky use every force inside his body to calm his reaction, not wanting to put you through more. Your head is slumped, hair hiding your face, as the tears start rolling. A small sniffle makes Bucky turn around. 

At once, Bucky kneels by your chair, turning you to face him, as he brushes some of your hair away. Bucky has experienced brainwashing, torture and punishment, but nothing is as bad as seeing your broken form in front of him. “I’m sorry-” you manage to whisper, and you instantly feel Bucky’s warm hand on your cheek, wiping away your tears. “Doll, you have nothing to apologize for, it is never your fault” Bucky mutters reassurance for a while, until you calm down enough to finally look him in the eyes. 

“Doll, I need you to tell me if there’s more bruising, are you hurt other places?” Bucky scans your face as it twists in anguish, and nod after a little while. “My ribs, I think they’re just bruised…” you gesture to your left side. Bucky wants to rip apart the man who dared touch you in this way. He nods, trying to come up with the best plan. “I will get Tony to set up the spare room for you, you’re not going home” at this you stare wildly in his eyes, fear erasing your irises. “No, I can’t, he will know, he will come for me” while you rambled in fear you didn’t noticed you gripped Bucky’s arm, squeezing more for each worried thought that entered your brain.

Bucky’s hand smoothed over yours, soothing some of the anxious tension. “Doll, we’re a whole tower full of avengers, who all will fight for you, we’ll keep you safe” his eyes softened, “I will keep you safe”. You choke a cry and lean forward, resting your head on Bucky’s shoulder, and finally letting him hold you.

The sun has slowly begun setting and you step into the room Tony had made up for you, it was cozy, not too big and most importantly safe. Two small knocks sound against the door as it creeks open, Bucky peaks inside and smiles at you. “Is it alright?” he asks, and you nod enthusiastically. “It’s great Buck, thank you for everything” you step forward and embrace him in a hug. “D’you want to go to the kitchen, I think Sam is trying to make something edible for dinner” you laugh at Bucky’s dig at Sam and agree. 

You feel safe at the tower, but you still walk close to Bucky. Somehow just his presence reassures your feeling of safety, and Bucky doesn’t seem to mind it. As the two of you join Sam in the kitchen, the bickering between the two men starts almost instantly. You sit on a bar stool and observe them, the scene feels homely and comfortable. 

That is until a loud commotion is heard from down the entry hallway. Sam and Bucky instantly switch to avengers mode, and Bucky hurries over to you. “Stay behind me at all time” his tone is serious and non-negotiable. You move a few feet behind the two of them, as they stealthily get closer to the sound. 

“Y/N!! WHERE ARE YOU?!” you stop dead in your tracks, face stiffen as well as the rest of your body. A second after his voice rings out, he walks into your view. Brett's face is twisted with rage and possession, and disregarding the two avengers in between you two, he towers forward in an attempt to get to you.

“Back down man!” Sam barks out, hand hovering, ready to attack if need be. “Get out of my way, this doesn’t concern you” Brett snarls and continues, only being stopped by Bucky’s vibranium hand, keeping him in his place. “It’s Y/n…It concerns me a lot” Bucky growls, eyes dark and ready to kill. 

Brett backs up with raised hands, until he is far enough back to get cocky again. “So it’s you? You got my slut wrapped around your finger or somethin’?” Brett smirk as he looks between you and Bucky. “You better leave now, before things get messy” Sam offers a diplomatic way out, he knows Bucky is beyond reason and even speech. 

Brett turns with a scoff, ready to walk away, “Whatever, you enjoy my sloppy seconds, she’ll let you all fuck her if you just say please, slut”. Brett barely got to mutter the last word before a fist hit him in the back of his head. Bucky spins him around and headbutts him, while landing a crushing kick to his groin. In under 15 seconds, Brett is whining and writhing on the ground, while Bucky towers over him. 

“Get lost” Bucky warns and delivers a final kick to his stomach. Bucky turn around and walk to you, while Sam stays and makes sure that Brett will never dare show his face at the Avengers Tower again. 

You stand, frozen to your spot, as Bucky steps in between your view of Brett. “Are you okay?” Bucky slowly reaches out and holds your hand, grounding you back in the moment. “I think” you nod as you meet his eyes, and the ice seems to be replaced by warmth spreading from your stomach. 

Bucky leads you back to your new room, while you sit on your bed, he props up pillows and blankets for you. You grab his hand, stopping him in the whirlwind of caretaking. “Can you just hold me…please?” your timid voice makes Bucky fold instantly, he is quick to crawl onto the bed and hold you tight. 

You let out a content sigh, as if all of the worries of the day washes off of you, while you rest in Bucky’s arms. “I got you, doll” Bucky whispers into your hair, as he caresses your back. His sweet words make you sink deeper into the embrace, it makes it more difficult to keep your eyes open. 

“Well, it's bulls and blood/ It's the dust and mud/ It's the roar of a Sunday crowd/ It's the white in his knuckles/ The gold in his buckle/ He'll win the next go 'round/ It's boots and chaps/ It's cowboy hats/ It's spurs and latigo/ It's the ropes and the reins/ And the joy and the pain/ And they call the thing a rodeo”

By eight weeks, pregnancy had become a strange mixture of wonder and misery.

Some mornings, you woke up feeling almost normal. Others—you barely made it out of bed before your stomach decided it had other plans.

This morning you were sitting on the bathroom floor in Bucky's your oversized T-shirt, forehead resting against the cool edge of the bathtub, waiting for the nausea to pass. There was no hope for breakfast. 

From the bedroom came the sound of footsteps, then your sweet husband appeared in the doorway holding your water bottle, a ginger ale, your prenatal vitamins, and pregnancy-safe nausea meds. 

He set your stuff on the sink and crouched beside you, rubbing a warm hand slowly up and down your back.

“You okay, baby?”

You nodded. “Yeah.” 

But Bucky knew you weren't and he hated seeing you sick but he also knew your ass was too stubborn to admit otherwise- even though he watched you dry heave into the toilet for the last five minutes.

He pressed a kiss to your temple before helping you carefully to your feet.

“Come on. Let's get you back in the bed.”

“I have things to do, Buck.” You protested, though you made no effort to argue as he guided you to the bedroom.

“So?” he said. “You're growing a whole person, hon.”

“I know.”

“You're allowed to do absolutely nothing today.” Bucky said as you Sank into the pillows. 

You sighed. “You're getting bossy.”

“Been bossy.” He smirked as he fussed over you, adjusting the blankets before grabbing another pillow and carefully slid it behind your back. 

“True.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning down to gently kiss your forehead. 

You smiled. “You know you don't have to hover over me.”

“I know.” He said, handing you your meds, then sat on the edge of the bed. 

“But you are.” You teased

“Yep.” Bucky looked down at you for a moment, his expression losing some of its teasing edge. His eyes drifted to your stomach, still mostly unchanged despite the 8-ish weeks you'd carried your little one.

His hand settled gently over it. 

“Just can't help it,” he admitted.

You covered his hand with yours.

“I’m okay, Buck.”

“I know you are. My tough girl.”

Bucky's eyes lingered on your face, and a slow smile spread across his features—soft, unguarded, completely full of love.

He reached up, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your forehead, his thumb lingering gently against your cheek.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You smiled. “What?”

“Nothin’.” His eyes flicked over your face again, like he was trying to memorize every little detail. “Just love you.”

The simplicity of it made your chest ache.

“I love you too, Buck”

His thumb moved slowly across your shirt. “We’ve spent a long time wanting this.”

Your smile softened. “Yeah” 

He leaned down again, this time pressing a kiss to your stomach through the fabric of your shirt. 

“Morning, little one,” he murmured. “You need’t stop making your mama so sick, okay?”

You couldn't help but laugh.

“Bucky, I don't think the baby can hear you yet.”

“Doesn't matter.” He looked back up at you, that crooked smile returning.

“Your momma needs her rest. So we're gonna stay right here.” He spoke again to your belly 

“We?” You questioned. 

“Yep.”

He climbed onto the bed beside you and pulled the blankets over both of you.

“If you’re stuck in bed, then I am too. At least for a bit. 

You snuggled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

His arm tightened around you. “I've got two of my favorite people right here.”

Your heart melted.  “Two?”

“You and the little peanut.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “That’s what we’re calling the baby? Peanut?”

Bucky shrugged, looking almost sheepish.

“I dunno. If you want, I guess. Just somethin’ I thought up.”

“It’s cute,” you said, settling back against his chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like it.”

A small, pleased smile pulled at the corner of his mouth., “Then peanut it is.”

He kissed the top of your head, pulling you a little closer. Because one thing about your husband is that he loves forehead kisses. 

Then, for once, you didn't argue with him about staying in bed.

-

The funny thing was, despite how shitty you felt some mornings, Bucky seemed convinced you were already showing.

He “noticed” it constantly.

At breakfast,- well…more his breakfast, sometimes you'd have a piece of toast- he'd glance at your stomach.

In the evenings, his hand somehow always ended up resting there.

Sometimes he'd stand behind you in front of the mirror, both of you staring at your reflection.

“See it?” he'd ask.

You'd squint. “No, not really.”