howdy.

“On a scale from one to ten, how fucked do you think we are?” 

“Girl.” Eileen shot you a look that could freeze the East river. “You cannot be so pessimistic when we are canvassing in shin-high snow. I need you to be your normal, cheerful self.”

“My normal, cheerful self doesn’t go outside in thirteen-degree weather spreading the Good Word about the least popular Avenger.”

“You really should stop calling him that.” Eileen walked up a porch and knocked on the door, to no avail. Shaking her head softly, she walked back down the steps slowly, trying not to slip on the icy steps. 

Once she was back on the snow, you nudged her with your elbow. “Why shouldn’t I say he’s the least popular? It’s funny, and true.” 

“You don’t even believe that yourself.”

“Not everyone sees the blood on a weapons manufacturer's hands for what it is,” you shrugged. 

“And Iron Man has a PR team to clean up his image.” Eileen’s cheerful affect put you on edge. “So, we’re Bucky’s PR team. We’re curating his image.”

“I genuinely admire your optimism for thinking that with a few well-placed photoshoots and public appearances we can change his image from ‘assassin’ to ‘public servant’.” 

“Say we had no budget. What would you do?”

You laughed, which almost caused you to lose your footing on a patch of the footpath that had frozen over the snow. “Public speaking lessons. More coffee chats and small group meetings before building up to a town hall. Then public appearances based on what the concerns people raise are. Volunteering at an animal shelter, meeting with veterans, meeting veterans in his old-timey uniform, hanging out with EMTs and first responders. As we get closer to the E-Day, podcast and radio appearances. I’d put him in a suit or business casual the entire time. No black. No grimacing in public.”

Eileen wasn’t really listening to you as she took in your surroundings. You were in a nicer neighborhood, one with standalone houses and nice cars parked in the driveway, albeit covered in snow. You cleared your throat, prompting her to speak. “Some of those are doable.” 

“That was my doable list. My list of impossible things includes: “time machine so he is married or has kids, time machine so the Winter Soldier was treated as legally distinct by the justice system, time machine so none of the bad stuff happened—” 

“Your turn.” The two of you had stopped in front of a large brick house with an icy porch. “Good luck,” Eileen said, nudging you with her arm.

After summiting the porch, you waited for a few moments before the door opened to a young mother who barely cracked the door open. “Can I help you?”

“Hi,” you said, introducing yourself and Eileen, who was a few steps behind you. “We’re with the King’s County Democrats canvassing for Bucky Barnes. Do you know about the upcoming election this spring?”

“Carisa Rossi,” the woman nodded at you in lieu of shaking your hand. “Sorry, did you say you were campaigning for Bucky Barnes? The assassin?”

“Obviously, you’re entitled to your own opinions about the situation, but Bucky Barnes was pardoned for everything that happened while he was imprisoned by HYDRA.” You hoped it sounded better than it did in your head.

“Oh, sorry, that came out wrong. I know he was an Avenger and helped save the world and stuff. But like, is it even safe for him to be in Congress if all that mind control stuff is in his brain?”

“He’s been cleared by the best doctors in the world,” you said, not sure if that was technically true. “And he’s looking to give back to his community that’s been here for him as he adjusted to normal life.” You handed Carisa a pamphlet, which she took. 

“Well, if you’re out here in this weather on his behalf, I'll look into it. Thank you.” Carisa closed the door before you had finished your goodbyes.

“Good job, sport,” Eileen said after you made it back to the snowy sidewalk. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

“Literally what am I supposed to even say to that? Correcting her to ‘Bucky Barnes, the Avenger’ feels wrong.”

“I think you did alright,” Eileen said. “Acknowledge the difference of opinion, acknowledge that the situation is nuanced.”

“Voters hate nuance.”

“They do.”

“It genuinely might be easier to convince people if he was here too. Should we text him? How long can the VA take?” you pulled out your phone, drafting a text to Bucky before deciding that it was too whiny to tell him to hurry up negotiating with the VA on his benefits, part of which paid your salary.

You had come upon a new neighborhood, where someone clearly had hired folks to handle the snow. The entire block on both sides had clear paths on the sidewalks and the driveways had been dug out as well. 

“Charming,” you said, testing the path for ice and instead feeling salt under your boots. “I wish our neighborhood was this nice.” 

“Brick houses, tasteful lights, salted sidewalks, nice, but not obnoxious cars,” Eileen was looking around for something. “I haven’t seen a husky yet but I’m sure there’s one nearby.”

“A corgi, perhaps? Even a Dalmatian? Rich people dogs. Maybe Bucky should get one,” you suggested. “People love animals.” 

“After the campaign, you could always get a job as a social media famous dog’s manager. Way less politically fraught."

People were much more receptive on this block—maybe there was something about not having to dig out your car later that put people into a good mood—before long you were on your last few pamphlets and finishing the block. You had a good feeling as you approached the next lot, which two houses shared. The one on the left had a rainbow sign saying “In this house we believe” and a Mets pennant, so you knew your people would be found within. 

A jolly-looking old man answered the door. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so, sir,” you said with an easy smile. “We’re volunteers with the Brooklyn Democrats. Did you know there’s going to be a special election this spring?”

“I heard about that. So sad. Hamer had been my representative since my kids were little.”

“We actually worked for her, last election cycle,” Eileen said, her voice perfectly both solemn and empathetic. “And we’re hoping to preserve her legacy by making sure a candidate who shares her values is elected to replace her. Can I ask, are you registered to vote?”

“I am.”

“Great! I’m going to give you this pamphlet, it has some information about our candidate Bucky Barnes, the upcoming election, and ways to get involved, if that’s your thing.”

“I’ll check it out, especially once it gets warmer. Speaking of, can I get you girls anything warm to drink? It’s too cold outside.”

“Thank you so much,” you said, pushing your balled-up hands into your coat pocket. “But we’re okay. We’ve got to keep moving—that’ll keep us warm.”

“Suit yourself. But hey! Speaking of, my neighbor would be a great guy to talk to,” he gestured his head to the next door. “Jim’s into politics.” Before you could say anything, Mr. Guzmán had crossed the porch and was knocking on the door next to Eileen. “He’s a great guy. Every time it snows, he shovels not just our porch and sidewalk, but the sidewalk for the whole block.”

“Wow,” Eileen said, raising her eyebrows. “And here I thought we won the lottery with neighbors who give us discounted ham for Christmas.” 

You went to the house next door, but much to Mr. Guzmán’s disappointment, no one answered. You gave Mr. Guzmán an extra pamphlet and some pins while he promised to be in touch once spring rolled around. 

As you trudged along, you glanced back at the darkened windows of Mr. Guzmán’s neighbor. ”It's a tragedy. That guy shovels entire blocks for free. We could've run him on a platform of ‘Clear Sidewalks, Full Hears, Can’t Lose’ and won in a landslide. Instead, we're out here selling…” You looked down at the pamphlets in your hand, Bucky’s unblinking blue eyes looking back at you.

You both stopped in your tracks as a woman emerged from a house across the street leading a massive, blue-eyed husky onto the salted path. The dog stopped dead, gave you both a look of pure, aristocratic disdain, and sneezed. It took only a moment of a shared look with Eileen for the two of you to burst into laughter, forgetting all about the cold and the crisis at hand. 

“Think he’s looking for a manager?”

Your message lights up his screen ten minutes before his next meeting, and he slumps back in the LA hotel suite chair, a sharp breath catching in his throat when he reads it.

"Wish I was right there in your lap right now. Wearing nothing but that silk set you bought me… the one that’s barely there. Fingering myself thinking about your hands, your mouth, how deep you get… wish it was you instead of my fingers."

His reply comes fast, voice note rough and wrecked already:

"Baby… don’t start this. Not when I’m thousands of miles away, sitting in a boardroom full of people who’d know exactly what you sound like if you were here. You have no idea what you do to me."

You send a photo next—soft light through the bedroom curtains, your hand sliding down over your stomach, lower still, the silk pushed aside. "I’m so wet for you James. Dripping. Remember how you said this pussy belongs only to you? It’s throbbing waiting for you to claim it again."

He groans out loud, pacing the floor of his suite, his tie already loosened, knuckles white around his phone.

"God dammit… look at you. Perfect. Soaked just for me. You think I don’t know exactly how you feel? I’m so hard right now it hurts, pressing against my trousers like a teenage boy. Imagining pushing those pretty hands aside, shoving my face between your legs until you can’t remember your own name."

You type slow, teasing: "Maybe I’ll just finish myself off then… take what I need… and save nothing for you when you get back."

A second later his name flashes on your screen, his voice low and dark and desperate, like he’s right there whispering in your ear:

"Don’t you dare. Don’t you you dare touch yourself like that and leave me out. Every single drop of that belongs to me. I’m going to make you pay for teasing me—when I walk through that door I’m going to rip every piece of clothing off you, bend you over the first surface I find, and fuck you slow and deep until you’re begging me to let you come. Until you’re screaming my name so loud the whole building knows who you belong to. I’m going to make you come so hard you forget everything but how good we fit together. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else all over again. Wait for me. Keep it all for me. Please baby… keep it all for me."

You press the phone tight against your ear, your voice dropping low and honey-sweet, slow and lazy like you’ve got all the time in the world.

"Mmm… you sound so tense, baby. All stuck in stuffy meetings while I’m lying naked on your side of the bed." You drag one finger slow down your inner thigh, sigh soft and breathy right into the receiver. "Wish you could see me now. Legs spread wide, touching myself exactly how you like… imagining it’s your thick fingers filling me up, stretching me. I’m so wet James… running down my thighs, just waiting for you."

He lets out a ragged groan on the other end, you hear him shift hard against the hotel bed. "You little slut… stop it.”

"Or what?" You tease, biting your lip, arching your back. "You gonna tell me to stop? You gonna say you don’t love knowing I’m dripping just for you? That you don’t wish you could be right home, throw me down, and fuck me until I can’t walk? Bet your cock’s so hard right now it’s aching, isn’t it? Bet you’re palming it through your trousers thinking about how tight I feel around you."

"God… yes." His voice is rough, wrecked, barely controlled. "So fucking hard I can barely think. All I can see is you—eyes half-lidded, mouth open, begging for more. I’m counting the minutes till I’m home. And when I get there…" He pauses, swallows hard, his tone turning dark and hungry. "I’m going to make you regret every single second of teasing me. I’m going to eat you out until you’re crying, then I’m going to push into you so deep you’ll feel me in your bones. You’re not coming once. Not twice. You’re coming until you’re exhausted, until you can’t say anything but my name. You understand me?"

You whimper softly, shivering all over. "Yes… James."

"Good girl. Keep touching yourself for me. Don’t you dare finish until I walk through that door. I’m coming for what’s mine."

He steps through the penthouse door earlier than planned—finished his final meeting hours ahead of schedule and got on the first plane back to New York desperate to get back to you, he already leaning in to kiss you hello before he’s even fully inside. But you stay right where you are, no rush to meet him, and hold out a neatly wrapped box instead.

He sets his bag down fast, takes it from you, and peels back the paper. When he lifts the lid, he sees exactly what you picked out: sleek, polished metal ball stretchers, and a smooth, secure penis cage, laid out neat and intentional.

His breath catches sharp, a dark, hungry glint lighting up his eyes as he looks from the things in the box straight to you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough and warm. "Came home early just to find you’ve got all this waiting for me. Planned exactly how you want to keep me, didn’t you?"

He leans in closer, stopping just before he touches you, smiling slow and wicked. "Lock me up, stretch me out, keep me aching until you say I’m allowed to have you. I don’t mind. Every part of me is yours to use, yours to control—whenever, however you want."

You guide him through slipping the cool metal cage into place, adjusting the weighted stretchers slow until they sit firm and right, checking the lock twice with a little satisfied nod. Then you just step back, smooth your dress, and carry on like nothing at all happened—pour yourself a glass of wine, flop onto the sofa to watch a show, humming softly like he’s not standing right there burning up.

He shifts restlessly, every movement pulling at the stretchers, sending sharp, thrumming need straight through him. He’s hard and throbbing behind the bars, aching so bad he can barely think, and every time he leans in to try to kiss you, you just turn your cheek or slip past him—deliberate, calm, cruel in the sweetest way.

By the time you’re getting ready for bed, he’s breathless, eyes dark and desperate, voice rough and strained.

AN: If you would like additional context for this chapter, please read this deleted scene taking place in January 2027, wherein Eileen and the main character complain about how stupid their job is.

In the span of a month, Bucky Barnes had learned more about elections than he ever cared to. It was nothing like his high school civics class of neat diagrams of checks and balances, but a wilder, messier thing that involved adjudicating every single sentence he spoke and re-learning how to smile for photos. He had borrowed a book from you that had outlined the process of what a typical campaign was like, but even that hadn’t been able to totally acclimate him to the realities of being a candidate. 

Truthfully, if he had known ahead of time, he might have had a different answer when asked to run for office. 

It’s not that Bucky didn’t believe in the campaign. He vehemently disagreed with Wilson Fisk’s policies and the culture of fear he was cultivating in New York politics. He liked his team too, and having goals to work for filled up the quieter parts of his life with a sense of purpose. But Bucky had gotten used to anonymity—his neighbors knew him as ‘James,’ his friends at the food bank were mostly retirees who hadn’t kept up with the news in years, and if he wore a jacket and gloves, he could go outside without stares. 

When he first agreed to run, he’d told himself it was a kind of penance. The Winter Soldier had broken things. Maybe Bucky Barnes could help mend them. And for a while, it almost seemed possible—local race, low stakes, just a chance to serve. Besides, local house races rarely got media coverage, especially not in safe districts. 

This was until Donato threw her hat into the ring. Since last week, journalists had started reaching out for interviews, producers for media appearances, and pundits had begun discussing his past like it was new again. Headlines bloomed overnight and Bucky’s quiet was gone.

The addition of Donato to the race also meant that his staff had become incredibly anxious. Previously, it seemed like Eileen and you were convinced that they could get Bucky elected with him making only a handful of appearances in the media. But now, they were drilling him everyday on platform issues and had made him full-out rehearse the town hall format three times already, in between his canvassing and other chores. You had said that if a town hall went poorly, it was a failure to prepare. Bucky didn’t know if he felt prepared per se, but it wasn’t for lack of his team trying. 

Today, the focus of the public speaking exercises were “how to respond to questions that aren’t questions.” He was not doing well. No one would outright say it, of course, his managers would never be openly critical of him in front of the interns, but Bucky could tell their patience was wearing thin. He could hear Eileen twirling a pen between her fingers as he kept making mistakes, and if Bucky paused for a moment too long you would jump in with suggestions on how to respond to the audience member. 

“Every politician says they’ll fix things, but all I see are higher taxes and more handouts for people who don’t work,” Vijay “asked” from his seat in the front row of the makeshift audience.

“I get where you’re coming from,” Bucky started slowly, acknowledging and hoping to sound sincere, like had been drilled into his head over and over again. “People are tired of hearing promises and not seeing results. I’m tired of it too. But I think most folks don’t want a handout; they want a fair shot to get back on their feet. Now, I’m not here to raise taxes just to make a headline. I’m here to make sure the money we do spend actually helps working people—not the folks at the top who already have everything they need. If that means holding people in power accountable, I’ll do it.” 

At one point towards the beginning of his response, Bucky could have sworn he saw a soft smile on your face, but it was gone by the time he finished. He tried to think about what he could have done better. He was too general when talking about the handouts, maybe he should’ve used a concrete example? 

“Did anyone catch Bucky’s biggest mistake here?” Eileen asked from her spot in the back row.

“I was too vague,” he offered first, trying to get ahead of it. 

“He used Vijay’s framing device to answer the question,” Georgia tried. 

“Great observations, and something to keep in mind,” Eileen said, pacing behind the couches. “And it was a solid answer otherwise. But the biggest issue here was that you said you were going to raise taxes. Which is political suicide.”

“Right.” Bucky nodded, rubbing at his jaw. “I meant, well, I didn’t mean to—”

“We know what you meant,” Eileen said, voice softer. “You just can’t say it that way. The word ‘taxes’ shuts people’s brains off. ‘Raise taxes’ is their language, not yours. You have to make it about fairness—about what people get back when they pay in.”

“Why don’t you try again,” you said from your seat in the corner. “Focus on the ‘relate, reframe, redirect.’ You got it.” 

Bucky wanted to believe you believed in him, but people who worked in politics were famously liars. 

So that was how Bucky’s second-to-last town hall practice session with the entire team ended: poorly. Bucky knew he was disappointing his staff, painfully aware of his own inadequacy, He found himself wishing he had more time, more opportunities to practice with someone. It’s not like he knew anyone in his personal life who could help with this. That was how Bucky found himself in Eileen’s office, asking for help. 

“I love the energy,” Eileen said, twisting slightly back and forth in her office chair. “But we’re swamped this week. We have the committee meeting as soon as we get off tomorrow, then Wednesday we have to go shmooze with those ad execs. I mean, I guess we could try and squeeze in a little practice before the campaign committee meeting. And today isn’t good because I have a thing after work, and so does—”

You appeared in the doorway, wearing a coat with a thick pink scarf wrapped around your neck. “What am I too busy for?” 

“Additional town hall prep before the last full-out rehearsal.”

“Well, hold on. Let me check the calendar. If you want to work on the town hall more, I should be able to make time for it.” You hummed slightly as you scrolled through your phone. “Are you free tonight?”

“Don’t you have your, uh, thing tonight?” Eileen asked, with a skeptical look. 

“Yeah, after. Are you free sometime after eight?” Bucky nodded. 

“Cool. I’m headed out right now, but I’ll text you a restaurant or somewhere we can meet up.”

Later that evening, Bucky found himself wandering around Coney Island Avenue. He had arrived to the restaurant you had sent him early so he decided to walk around to settle his nerves. The night was sharp with wind, but it didn’t deter him—it’s not like Bucky wasn’t used to the cold. As he walked, he tried to take in the details a bike shop that was playing reggaeton, a Walgreens with Christmas decorations still up, an electronics repair store with flickering neon lights.The community center had a big open window into the front room and a group of parents were standing outside, peering in. 

Bucky lingered for a moment. Inside, a dozen children were dancing. He could hear the faint piano music of a song he thought he knew and the children laughing as they twirled across the floor. He smiled despite himself and turned to continue his walk before something caught his eye: you were in the corner of the room, crouched beside a little girl, your hand steadying hers as she spun, both of you laughing. He lingered a moment longer, then turned away, feeling strangely self-conscious. He didn’t think you’d seen him, which was for the best. He didn’t want to add ‘creep’ to the long list of things people probably called him behind his back.

Still, the image stayed with him as he walked toward the restaurant. Sam had told him that New Yorkers and people who worked in politics both tended to be all hustle and ambition. Not that you were anything other than unyieldingly polite, but Bucky had noticed that some of the interns were intimidated by you. Hell, he was too. He’d spent the past few hours hunched over his issue packet, running practice answers through his head, trying to sound like someone who knew what he was doing. Bucky didn’t want to waste your time. You were a busy person, someone who went to meetings after work (Or maybe dates? He thought he had overheard Eileen say something about that). The fact that this revelation was so jarring to his mental image of you made him realize how little he actually knew about you, beyond your encyclopedic knowledge of election law and the way you could poke holes in his arguments in five seconds flat. He wanted to ask you about why you were there, wondered if he’d get the opportunity to bring it up naturally.

By the time Bucky reached the restaurant, he was humming the piano song he had heard at the community center.

The community center and Tandir Rokat were only a block apart, but you still rushed there. Old habits die hard—you were two minutes early and still felt late. Warm air and the smell of lamb hit you all at once as you entered the restaurant. It was empty except for Bucky sitting at a table in the back corner.

“Hi,” breath catching as you dropped your dance bag and unwound your scarf. “Did you find this place okay?”

“Yeah. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, uh, not yet. I was going to order something to eat in between questions. Do you want anything?”

“What’s good here?”

You ended up ordering a plate of manti to share and a samsa for both of you. Before you were able to get your phone out to pay, Bucky had already handed over his card. Normally you would protest, but hunger overruled pride so you thanked him and went to get some napkins for the table. The food came out steaming and aromatic and it took real restraint to not bite into the samsa immediately and burn your tongue.

“Alright,” you said once your hunger had dulled. “Are you ready?”

“Hit me.”

“I’m concerned about the escalating tensions in the Indo-Pacific. In Congress, what will you do to stop another arms race?”

“No warm-up questions?”

“Did you need a warm-up question?” You asked, looking at him over your cup as you took a sip of water. 

“No, no. Let’s get into it.” Bucky paused and looked at the table, as if he was looking for notes that weren’t there. You pulled out your phone and started a timer. 

“I think you’re right to be concerned. Even though I disagree with the president on many issues, I think President Ross’s treaty to split mining rights is a good start to preventing conflict over Celestial Island. But it’s only a start. I’ve seen what happens when weapons get made faster than people can ask if they should exist.” You blinked. Damn, that was a good line. Were you feeling… proud? 

“As your congressman, I’ll push for oversight on who gets these rare materials, what they’re used for, and who profits. We don’t want an arms race, we want accountability.”

You stopped the clock and looked up at Bucky, eyebrows raised and a look of admiration on your face. “You practiced.”

“I did.” 

In between bites of manti (which Bucky liked, much to your satisfaction), you ask him more questions about the economy, social security, and universal childcare. He did okay. Which, compared to a month ago, was practically stellar. You had to remind him a few times to not stray too far off topic and off message, but overall? Not bad at all, especially for an event that’ll likely be attended by fifteen senior citizens and some campaign volunteers. 

“Can I ask you something slightly off topic?” The words came out too casually and you were suddenly aware of the pinging noise made by the bright fluorescent lights overhead. Bucky’s intense stare didn’t help. When you had met Sam Wilson last December, he had joked Bucky’s staring was something to get used to. You didn’t know if that was possible. 

“What’s up?”

“At the townhall, there’s a non-zero chance people are going to ask you about your past.”

“I thought we had a response for that,” he pulled out the packet and flipped to a heavily annotated page. “I am no longer the Winter Soldier…”

“Not that. As long as you’re happy with that response, I am too. I meant the more recent stuff.”

“Thanos? You think some of the ‘Thanos Was Right’ crowd’ll show up?”

“God, can you imagine?” You laughed, but it came out thin. “No, I meant what if someone gets up to the mic and says, “I was displaced by the Blip. I saw the refugee camps, the poverty. The harm done by the GRC. At any time, did you support the Patch Act?”

Bucky seemed confused for a moment. Then his gaze softened, just a bit. 

For the first time, you noticed how blue his eyes were before banishing the thought immediately. 

“Well, if someone asked me that,” he said slowly, “I’d listen. If they were willing to tell their story.”

“Life was really hard. For a lot of people. And for a while, the Flag Smashers were the only ones willing to do anything about the suffering. Instead of dealing with the conditions that created the Flag Smashers, the GRC just wanted to deport everyone.”

He leaned back, eyes distant for a second. “Then I’d say… a lot of mistakes were made after the Blip. By people who thought they were fixing things. I’m proud I got to stand with Sam and help stop the Patch Act before it made things worse.”

He paused for a moment, and you furrowed your brow. “That’s it?”

“I thought this was hypothetical!”

“You hypothetically should have said something about your future as a congressman,” you said, tearing off a piece of your samsa Something like… I know what it’s like to lose everything. To feel like you don’t have any options. But how we treat people at their lowest, how we decide to rebuild, that’s something we always have a choice in. As your congressman, I will fight for the dignity of all peoples.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah?” You ate the bite of samsa you had been waving around as you spoke. 

“Yeah, that was good. Maybe you should run for Congress instead.”

You let out a small laugh. “No thank you, I enjoy my private life.” Bucky’s smile faded. “But the insurance would be nice,” you added quickly, and he smiled, but it didn’t totally reach his eyes. “Speaking of insurance…”

Bucky did less well for this question, he bungled the statistics and had trouble maintaining eye contact. At one point, he reached across the table and stopped your phone timer. 

“Do you think people are really going to care about this town hall?”

“Honestly? It’s hard to say. Before Donato entered the race, I would have told you to view it as practice. There might be some journalists there Thursday, but that’s not what you should focus on. You should think of this as an opportunity to hear from you, to hear your story in your own words.” 

He nods, and gestures for you to restart the timer, but his eyes still seem far away. 

“How do you plan to gain the public’s trust?”

“I know that trust isn’t something I can ask for—it’s something I have to earn. I know what it’s like to look at someone and only see the worst thing they’ve done. But I also know what it’s like to be given another chance. So I don’t take that lightly. I plan to earn trust the only way I can — by showing people that the man I am now is someone who keeps his word.”

“Do you think maybe we should tweak the ‘I know what it’s like to look at someone and only see the worst thing they’ve done’ bit?”

Bucky and you fell into a routine of asking questions, listening to the answers, fixing the phrasing, and trying again. By the time you checked your watch it was somehow already 10:00pm. The north-bound bus would be coming soon, and you needed to catch it to make your way to DUMBO. Maya and her partner had broken up earlier that day and she had asked you to come over to spend the night. As an older sibling, you were so thrilled that Maya wanted you to be there for her. You didn’t even let yourself feel inconvenienced by the idea of the hour-long commute from DUMBO to Gravesend the next morning. 

You stacked your trash into a neat pile and grabbed your dance bag. “I think this is a good stopping point, unless you have any other questions?” you asked. Bucky shook his head. “Great. You really have improved.”

Bucky looked away, but you caught the faintest flicker of pride on his face. Outside the restaurant, you lingered for a moment. 

“You walking home?” Bucky asked. 

“No, I’m headed up to DUMBO. The D68’ll be here in a minute.”

“DUMBO? I thought you lived in Gravesend.” 

“I do. I’m staying with my sister tonight. Her relationship just ended, so we are going to make margaritas and watch 10 Things I Hate About You tonight.”

“Serious stuff,” Bucky nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know, I could give you a ride.”

“Thanks, but I can’t ask you to do that. Besides, the bus’ll be here in… four minutes,” you said, checking your phone. 

“You're not asking, I’m offering. I live less than 15 minutes away, so we can walk to my place and I can get you to the movie before 11:00.” You watched Bucky as he spoke, looking for a trace of irony and finding none. 

“Okay,” you shrugged, shouldering your dance bag. “Thanks in advance.” 

As you walked, the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. At one point, Bucky looked down at your bag and then back at you. “You dance?”

You followed his gaze to see your ballet shoes peeking out of the open duffle bag. So much for keeping that private. “Oh, yeah. I volunteer at the community center teaching a kid’s dance class on Mondays, I have since I moved to the city. That’s why I leave early on Mondays.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Do you know how silly it feels to say ‘Sorry I have to leave early, I need to go dance with kindergartners’ to your boss? It doesn’t exactly command authority or respect in the workplace. I would always just say I had a personal commitment”

“I guess I can understand why you’d keep that to yourself.”

“Not that I’m embarrassed about it,” you said quickly. “I think it’s important to do things that keep you grounded and connected to other people. To give back and all that. It just feels small compared to being an EMT or helping out legal clients pro-bono.”

“I wouldn’t call it small,” Bucky’s tone was light but firm, broaching no argument. 

“Speaking of volunteering, are you still working at the food bank?”

“How—You know about the food bank?”

“I just work early mornings now. Delivering packages to seniors and shut ins.”

“That’s so noble. You gotta let us photograph you doing that sometime.” Bucky gave you a look, so you grinned back at him. “What, it is!”

“No.”

“If I was running for Congress, there'd be a bunch of pictures of me at dance class at the community or at the Brooklyn Bodega Books drives plastered over the campaign socials,” you said with a mischievous smile. “It’s just good marketing.”

Bucky shook his head gently and you thought you saw him smile, but it was too dark to tell. You were in a nicer area now, with brownstone walkups and trees lining the street. The area looked sort of familiar, but you weren’t able to quite place it. 

“This is me,” Bucky said, nodding to his right towards one of the nice brownstones. You hoped the shock you felt stayed firmly off of your face. While you knew someone had to live in these houses, it had always been more of an abstract concept, like a billion dollars or a rational voter. 

You followed him around to his truck. His truck was old—the kind that still needed a key to unlock. He opened your door first, and you remembered just in time to lean over and pop the lock on his side, like in an old movie.

As he pulled out of his driveway, you glanced out the window and caught sight of a Mets pennant and a faded ‘In This House We Believe' sign in a neighbor’s planter. You have been here before. January. It had just snowed, and most of the canvassing route was super icy, except for this neighborhood. You remembered Mr. Guzmán on the porch, telling you and Eileen about his good-hearted neighbor ‘Jim’ who had shoveled all the snow.

Oh, God. 

Of course Bucky was the kind of neighbor who got up early to shovel snow. Which was unfortunate, really—it was much easier to resent a brusque, uncooperative candidate with a staring problem than a kind one who was trying his best. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky broke the silence, glancing over at you at a stoplight. 

“Sure.”

“When you were asking about the Patch Act, was that actually a hypothetical, or were you asking?”

You took a deep breath, suddenly very worried about talking politics with the politician. “A bit of both, I guess. You should be prepared just in case someone asks you about it. But I was also curious.”

“How much of your story was true?”

“Technically? All of it. I simplified things.”

Bucky hazarded a glance at you, his expression almost sad. “I didn’t have a good answer.” 

“Not everyone feels as strongly as I do. Did.” You corrected yourself quickly. “It’s smart to strike a balance.”

“When we were in Latvia, Sam and I went to a funeral of a woman who died of Tuberculosis. Tuberculosis. In 2024, when its cure is readily available. It made me think of Steve, and his mom, Sarah.” He shook his head, both hands tightening on the wheel. “When we found out the GRC was hoarding supplies, the whole thing made sense. No wonder the Flag Smashers were fighting like they were at war.”

“Violence begets violence.” 

“The GRC couldn’t see it like that—how their actions were the violence creating the Flag Smashers. I’m glad Sam could make them see.”

“Me too.” 

You spent the rest of the drive teasing stories out of him about growing up in Brooklyn. As you drove past Red Hook, he told you that he used to work at the docks before the war. You asked him what it was like, listened as he told you about the noise, his friends on the crew, and trying to save enough money to provide for his family and take girls out on dates. Knowing it wasn’t the same thing at all, you told him you were briefly a fishmonger after the Blip in between embarrassed laughs. You both laughed at the way the smell of the ocean could cling to your hair and clothes. 

By the time you had navigated Bucky to your sister’s apartment, you realized you had misjudged him. What you had misread earlier as laziness or aloofness was really just a reluctance to make a mistake. Perhaps he was woefully unqualified for the endeavor he was undertaking, but he listened to you and Eileen, was considerate, and good with technology. (Really, it was unfair. When Eileen had shown him the online donation system he figured it out in less than twenty minutes, when it had taken you and Eileen almost two hours.) Maybe your time in politics had made you too cynical, too quick to assume the worst. Maybe Bucky Barnes really was just a good man doing his best to move forward. 

You could respect that. Work with that, even. 

“Thank you so much for the ride,” you said as you gathered your things into your lap and opened the truck door.

“It's nothing.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Get home safe, and see you tomorrow.” 

He nodded. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then the moment passed, and you opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

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It had been two weeks on base, two weeks since I’d seen Tommy again, and two weeks with Bucky. He’d come and find me, whenever he had the spare time to look. Sometimes it was in med bay, other times it was walking from one place to another. He’d fall in beside me, stay there until he had to leave again but it was good company. He’d talk and I would listen, laughing at his attempts to flirt with me. It was a breezy afternoon, the base was lulled into its usual rhythm. Soldiers trained across different areas, running laps through the nearby woods, marching in sync along the well worn paths. I was changing the sheets of stations, we hadn’t had any major injuries as of lately so Nurse Coleman was just finding ways to keep everyone on their feet. I watched her peek out at a small group of soldiers, maybe ten or fifteen, were running up and down in lines, a drill sergeant was yelling over top of them, shouting for them to move faster. She sighed and turned to me, “Nurse Russo. Go on over to the supply kitchen and get those boys a case of water for me?”

I nodded gently, handing over the sheet I had been prepping before walking out of the tent and heading towards the kitchen. When I walked in, I found Lottie helping with lunch prep. She smiled and waved me over “Hey Kit.”

I grinned and offered her a hug, “Lottie.” When I pulled back I looked around “I just need a case of water.”

She nodded, “They’re in the back with storage.”

I turned and went into the back room, grabbing up one of the cases before offering a thanks to Lottie and heading back towards the soldiers. That day was hotter than most, it was rare for the clouds to part but today they had. If I had to guess it was around the mid-eighties and it wasn’t even noon yet. I made my way over, standing next to drill sergeant Henry. He turned to look at me and I raised the case. “Boy’s need water. Nurse Coleman.”

He paused before shouting, “Alright you soldiers! Get over here and take some of this water! Move!” Then he turned to me, “thank you young lady.”

I nodded, offering a smile. Then I turned my head to see Bucky running over with a few other soldiers along his side. “Kit! Hey!” He grinned at me as he reached down in front of me to grab a bottle of water. He was breathing heavily and the white tanktop he had on was stuck to his skin. I glanced over him, watching him as he tossed his head back to chug the water down. My eyes scanned over the length of his arms, his muscles were tense from running. I felt my cheeks get hot, so I moved my gaze back to his face just as he looked back at me. “Thanks Kit.” He smiled and I thought I’d fall over. Of course I thought Bucky was handsome, how could you not? His hair was always just a little messy, barely nice enough to pass uniform standards, he had that handsome smile and a jawline I could probably cut my fingers on. He was tall, muscular, and- “Kit?”

I snapped my head back up to look at him, I hadn’t even realised my eyes were drifting. “Huh? Oh! You’re welcome, Bucky.”

He smiled at me like he could read my mind. I felt my face burn out of embarrassment. He looked like maybe he wanted to say something, he started to lean a little closer when Sergeant Henry cleared his throat “Soldiers! Let’s get back to it! Thank Nurse Russo and then get pushing!” He shouted, snapping Bucky out of it.

The boys shouted thanks and Bucky shot me than grin, “Thanks Kit-kat.” He started off with the rest of the boys and I giggled.

“You’re welcome!” I shouted back.

Bucky turned and laughed “You actually heard me that time!”

I smiled, my cheeks starting to hurt. Then I caught Sergeant Henry's eye, he had that look older people get when they think they know something.

That afternoon at lunch, it was announced that after 5 we would all be free to go out into town for a while. Curfew was set at ten, if you got back late you’d face punishment. Everyone was excited, most planned on going out to bars or dancing. Dottie, Lot, Nancy and I were all at a table together. We were all discussing what we’d like to do.

“Dancing! Let’s go dancing!” Nancy cheered.

“Yes!Yes, I’ve been dying to go since I got here.” Dottie agreed.

“I’ve never gone.” Lottie admitted. I wasn’t really a dancer myself but Nancy and Dot seemed mortified at the idea.

“What!?” Nancy and Dot yelled out in synchronization. It made me laugh. Dottie gasped, “You’ve never gone dancing?”

A voice behind me made me jump “Who’s never been dancing?” I felt hands on my shoulders and turned my head to see Bucky. I smiled before I could really think about it.

“Hey Buck.” Nancy grinned, her and the other girls sharing a look. “We were just talking about going dancing tonight, and we found out Charlotte has never gone.”

“Dancing huh?” Bucky smiled, looking down at me. “Well it’d be hard for you ladies to go dancing without some gentlemen. Mind if me and some buddies tag along?”

I looked at the girls and Dottie grinned “Bring that blonde friend of yours, Lucas?”

Bucky nodded, “Sure Dot.” Then he looked back down at me, “I’ll be expecting a dance from you, Kit-kat.”

I smiled, “I wouldn't dream of anything otherwise.”

Bucky squeezed my shoulders gently, “good.” We both paused for a moment, just holding eye contact. I reached my hand up on top of his. “Well then ladies..” He raised his head, slowly, almost reluctantly. “..I’ll see you ladies this afternoon.” He nodded, patting my shoulder before exiting the mess hall with his friends.

Once he was gone, Nancy laughed “Oh you’re completely head over heels!”

“What?” I shook my head. “No I am not! Bucky’s my friend, that’s all.”

“Right, sure.” Lottie snickered and I gently kicked her leg under the table.

By the time 4:30 came around, myself and the rest of the girls in our cabin were bustling around getting ready for whatever they had planned for the evening. I opened my trunk, ruffling through my clothes to pick something out. I decided on a navy dress with short, puffy sleeves, laced around the chest with black frills and a small black bow in the center. Then I grabbed my tights and black heels. Going into the small bathroom to quickly change and apply some of my favorite red lipstick. When I stepped out, I heard Dottie gasp “Oh! My! Dear! Kit you look like an absolute bombshell!”

Nancy laughed and gestured for me to come sit down so she could do my hair. I sat down on the edge of her bed and she began by gently brushing it. My hair was too long for anything like victory rolls so instead she styled my hair into gentle waves, then she added a small clip to the right side to make it look more put together.

I stood up and spun my dress, “well? What do you think?”

Nancy smiled. “Bucky will like it.”

I rolled my eyes, “that’s not what I asked.”

Dottie pulled Nancy up from her sitting position “let’s just go! We’ll be late to meet with the boys.”

We had agreed to meet Bucky and his friends near the wooden stage at the center of the base, from there we would ride in one of the transport trucks to get into town. As we approached I felt a soft pressure in my chest. I’d never been nervous over a boy so why now? I shook it off as we got closer. Bucky looked handsome, that was true. His hair was combed back neatly, which I wasn’t sure I liked better than his usual mess. He had on brown dress pants and a simple button down flannel with short sleeves. His flannel was navy. We matched without even planning it.

I tapped him on the shoulder, spinning in my dress once he turned around “Well?”

He stared at me for a moment, swallowing before grinning wide, “You look real pretty Kit-kat.” Bucky extended his arm, offering it to me.

I hooked my hands around his arm, “Thanks Buck.”

We climbed out of the truck, or more so Bucky lifted me out, and headed straight for the pub on the corner. Lucas, Dottie's date, opened the door for everyone else to walk inside. The pub was lively but not too crowded, everyone still had their own space. I smiled at Bucky next to me, suddenly anxious as other members of our regiment turned to spot us.

“How about a drink to start the night huh?” Bucky shouted to his boys over the music. They all cheered and he turned his head to me, lowering his voice so only I could hear him and yet he still leaned closer to my face that he needed to “now you go on and dance with your girls, I’ll be out there in a minute alright?” I nodded before taking Dottie's hand and pulling her up to the floor. A song I recognized started to play, “Tuxedo Junction” by Glenn Miller. I smiled as the girls and I began to dance around, swaying and swishing our dresses. Dottie and I joined hands, swinging back and forth while we moved in a circle. I passed a glance in Bucky's direction and he smiled at me.

After a few songs, I paused when a slower one came on, turning to look for Bucky. He smiled from his seat and I crossed my arms, silently urging him to get up and come dance with me. The song was one of my favorites, “I Had the Craziest Dream”. I watched him turn and say something to one of his friends, an older gentleman. The man glanced in my direction before seeming to wave Bucky off with a smile. Bucky got up and came towards me. “Took you long enough.” I smiled as he took one of my hands in his own, my other arm moved up around his shoulder and his came around my waist, tugging me just a little bit closer.

“Didn’t know you’d be so eager to dance with me.” He paused, shooting me a look that made my ears feel hot. “Somethin’ you wanna tell me Kit-kat?”

I simply rolled my eyes, brushing off his attempts to flirt. “If I didn’t know any better Bucky I’d say you take this song literally.”

He sucked his teeth, “Ouch, never thought to save a man's ego?”

I shook my head. “My brother taught me better.” Bucky used his hand, raising it up along with my arm and spun me around. I laughed, shuffling my feet so I wouldn’t fall over. When I came back around, his hand landed on my waist and tugged me close enough that there wasn’t even an inch of space left between us. I stiffened for only a second before relaxing, even closing my eyes. I felt myself smile despite scolding myself in my head. After a few more dances, including one where Bucky practically threw me up into the air, we all sat down at a table to take a break for a minute. Dot was next to me, Nancy and a boy she’d met were across from us, and Bucky was leaning on the wall in between the wall and my chair. We were all talking and relaxing, Bucky tapped my shoulder “be right back Kit-kat.” I simply nodded before returning to my conversation with Dottie about how Lucas had taken off with some red-head girl. I had half the mind to tell Bucky about it with how upset Dottie was.

“I just can’t believe it!” Dot tossed her hands up dramatically as Lottie rubbed her shoulder. “I mean, he’s the one who asked me to be his date tonight and then off he goes with some girl”

Just as I started to speak, Bucky's hand came back onto my shoulder. I turned my head around and spoke quietly as I stood up “let’s go walk.” Bucky smiled and nodded, following behind me as he grabbed my hand. We stepped out of the bar and onto the quiet streets of the small town. It was dark now and the streets were mostly empty. “Bucky, I don't like your friend.” I stated it plainly, his arm around my shoulders as we walked.

He turned his head to me, “My friend?”

“Lucas.” I stopped walking, turning to look at him.

“Oh. uh, well why not?” He slipped his hands into his pockets and tilted his head in a curious manner.

“Well,” I started, folding my arms. “He seems like a skirt chaser. I mean, he invited Dottie out here and then ran out with another girl for malts.”

Bucky seemed like he was thinking, I noticed the way his lips seemed to jut out in a sort of pout and how his eyebrows knitted together slightly. “Uh, alright well..” He glazed around, less like he was looking for something and more like he was thinking “Were they going steady?”

“No, I mean, I don’t think so-?”

He interrupted me “Then what’s she upset about?”

I stopped, my jaw almost dropped straight to the floor “What?” The tone in my voice clearly made Bucky realize his mistake but it was too late now.

“No- Kit, hold on a second.” As I turned he tried to reach over and grab my hand as I turned away from him.

I pulled my arm back “No way.”

“Kit come on I was just saying, I mean if they weren’t-”

I turned around and crossed my arms at him “If they aren’t going steady then it's perfectly appropriate to skip out on her in the middle of a night out to tail some other girl?” Bucky seemed to stutter, trying to work out a way to make it sound like he hadn’t meant what he said. I shook my head, recalling what Dot and Nancy had told me about how Bucky had been in high school “I think I’ve had enough dancing tonight.” I watched his shoulders sag, his hand which was grabbing my arm pulled back when I shrugged it off.

“Kit-”

I straightened myself out “I’m going to take my friend for shakes, maybe I can do something to make her feel better about some immature playboy who can't take the hint on a girl who really likes him.” I put a bite into my words, my brows knitting together before turning and heading back into the bar. I was glad he didn’t follow me.

“Dottie” I spoke to her softly, grabbing her shoulders “let’s go get shakes” I smiled at her, brushing a piece of hair back behind her ear. She nodded and stood up, brushing out the wrinkles of her skirt. As we made our way back out of the bar, we passed Bucky, he leaned up against the brick of the building talking to a couple of boys from our base. He was smoking a cigarette. I turned my head away from him and walked Dottie across the street.

When it was time for us to head back to the base, Dottie and I climbed into the back of one of the company trucks with a couple of the other nurses instead of the boys we had come with.

“Where’s Buck?” Dottie asked.

I felt myself tense, my hand subtly clenching my skirt. I sighed softly, “I think I should’ve listened to you guys on the train.”

She frowned “Did he..?”

“No.” I shook my head quickly. “But, he didn’t see the issue with what Lucas did.”

We arrived back on base and climbed out of the back of the vehicle “let’s go find Nancy.” I nodded and we headed towards the other trucks to look around. We spotted her climbing out of the truck with the group we had come in with, Lottie wasn’t far behind. We approached them and Lottie started raving about how she’d danced with a boy practically all night.

“He was so sweet! And we-”

“Hey Kit.” Bucky. I turned to face him, my arms crossed over my chest.

“James.” He seemed surprised, but didn’t say anything.

Bucky cleared his throat and raised his hand up “you forgot this.” I looked down and saw him holding my purse.

“Oh. Well, thank you.” I took it from him, holding it down by my side. He smiled. Always that subtle smirk like he knew he wasn’t really in the dog house unbeknownts to him, he was. “I said thank you.” I subtly urged him to walk away.

His smile dropped and he straightened out “Right. Well, goodnight.”

I nodded “mhm.” He stared at me for a moment, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he nodded and turned to walk away.

“Uh,” Nancy leaned forward and mumbled to me “what happened? I thought..”

Morning arrives slowly in the Avengers Compound.

It slips through the curtains in thin, pale lines and spills across the bed, across the sheets twisted around your legs, across the broad stretch of Bucky’s chest where your head is resting. The world outside is still quiet, the kind of quiet that exists only before everyone else wakes up, before missions and briefings and the constant hum of saving things that are always on the verge of breaking.

You lie there listening to him breathe.

Slow. Deep. Steady.

His arm is wrapped around you, heavy and warm, metal fingers curved loosely against the small of your back. Even in sleep he holds you like that, like something instinctive inside him refuses to let you drift too far away. The vibranium is cool against your skin, but the rest of him is warm, impossibly warm, and you fit against him the way you always have, like the space was made for you long before either of you knew it existed.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to look up at him.

His face is softer in sleep. The sharp edges of his expression disappear when he’s like this, the lines between his brows smoothing out, his mouth relaxed instead of guarded. His hair falls messily over his forehead, brushing your temple every time he exhales.

Sometimes you watch him like this and it still surprises you.

The quiet of it.

The peace.

Because there was a time when loving him never felt this still.

Your fingers drift absently across the fabric of his shirt, tracing the faint wrinkles in the cotton, and your mind moves somewhere else without asking permission. It slips backward the way memories do when you’re not holding them in place.

You remember red.

Not the gentle red of sunrise creeping across the bedroom floor, but the darker kind, the kind that spreads quickly and stains.

It had been a party at the tower. Loud music, too many people, Tony insisting everyone needed to “relax for once” like that was something the Avengers knew how to do. You’d ended up in the kitchen with Bucky, tucked away from most of the noise, leaning against the counter while he told you some quiet story about Brooklyn that he only half remembered.

Someone bumped your shoulder then. A glass tipped. And suddenly the deep red wine in your hand was everywhere.

It splashed across his chest in a dark burst, soaking into the white of his shirt, blooming outward in a slow spreading stain.

Burgundy, you remember thinking. So dark it was almost brown at the edges.

You had stared at it in horror for exactly one second before your brain caught up with the situation and you lunged forward with a handful of napkins, apologizing so quickly the words tangled together.

“Buck—shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Your hands had barely reached the fabric when his fingers closed around your wrist.

Not tight. Just enough to stop you.

“Hey.”

You’d looked up then. And the way he was looking at you had done something strange to your chest.

The wine was still spreading across his shirt, the stain darkening the cotton, but he didn’t seem to care about it at all. His eyes were on you, steady, blue, quiet in a way that made the rest of the room feel distant.

Your cheeks had gone hot. Not just warm. Not just embarrassed. Hot in that sudden, rushing way that climbs up your throat and settles beneath your skin until you can feel it pulsing there.

Scarlet.

You remember thinking, absurdly, that if anyone looked closely enough they’d probably see the color of it written all over your face.

“It’s just a shirt,” he had said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

But he hadn’t let go of your wrist yet.

His thumb had brushed lightly against the inside of it, a small absent motion that probably didn’t mean anything to him and somehow meant everything to you.

And you remember laughing then, breathless and nervous and a little too loud, because suddenly it felt like the air between you had changed.

Like something had tilted.

That night was the first time you realized loving Bucky Barnes was going to be dangerous.

Not because he was the Winter Soldier. Not because of Hydra or the ghosts or the war carved into his bones. But because the way he looked at you felt like standing in the middle of something powerful enough to ruin you both.

Back then everything was bright.

Messy and loud and alive in the way early love tends to be. You would end up in the kitchen at two in the morning dancing barefoot to music playing faintly from someone’s phone, Bucky’s hands warm on your waist while he pretended not to know how to dance. You’d steal his shirts because they smelled like him and he’d grumble about it while secretly pulling you closer every time you wore them.

The world was still sharp around the edges, still full of missions and bruises and exhaustion, but when he looked at you it felt like something steady existed in the middle of all that chaos.

Like a place you could land. But love doesn’t stay bright forever. Sometimes it deepens. Sometimes it darkens. Sometimes it bruises.

You don’t remember exactly when things started to change, only that one day the air between you felt a little heavier than it used to.

Bucky would come back from missions quieter than before, something shuttered behind his eyes that he wouldn’t explain no matter how gently you asked. You had your own shadows too, the kind that creep up behind you when you’re already tired, whispering things that make you doubt the good parts of your life.

At first it was small things. Missed calls. Half-finished conversations. Long pauses where words used to live.

You’d stare at your phone some nights wondering if you should call him again or just wait, wondering if the silence meant something or nothing at all.

Rust creeping slowly along the wire between two people who used to talk about everything.

It never meant the love disappeared. If anything, it felt heavier because it was still there. Still pressing against both of you. Still demanding to be held.

But neither of you had ever learned how to carry something that fragile without dropping pieces of it along the way.

The worst night came quietly. No explosions. No dramatic breaking point.

Just a hallway outside your room in the compound and the feeling that the ground beneath everything you’d built together was suddenly very thin.

Bucky stood at the end of the corridor when you opened your door.

He looked exhausted in that hollow way that comes from fighting too many battles in your own head. His shoulders were tense, his hair damp from the rain outside, his eyes fixed on the floor like he wasn’t sure how to start whatever conversation had dragged him here.

You had been fighting for days already. Small arguments that kept circling the same painful center.

Why won’t you talk to me.

Why won’t you understand.

Why does loving you feel like trying to hold onto smoke.

Your chest already hurt by the time you stepped into the hallway.

“How did we lose sight of us again?” you asked, your voice breaking in the middle of the sentence.

Bucky flinched like the words had landed somewhere physical.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I stopped trying.”

The frustration sitting inside your ribs cracked open.

“I’m not saying you stopped trying,” you said, the words shaking on their way out. “I’m saying we’re falling apart.”

That was when you noticed the flowers in his hand.

Red carnations.

Their petals were crumpled slightly from where his fingers had been gripping the stems too tightly.

You stared at them for a long moment, a strange hollow feeling opening in your chest.

For a second you wondered if he thought they were roses.

If somewhere in his mind he believed something that simple could fix what had already started breaking.

“That’s us,” you said quietly.

His brow furrowed.

“What?”

You swallowed.

“Carnations you thought were roses.”

The words didn’t make perfect sense even as you said them, but the feeling behind them did.

Something almost right. Something beautiful in a way that still hurt.

Bucky’s shoulders sagged.

He dragged a hand down his face before sinking onto the bench against the wall, elbows on his knees, head dropping into his hands like the weight of everything had finally caught up with him.

“You think I don’t know I’m screwing this up?” he said hoarsely.

You didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was you knew he did know. That was the worst part.

The silence stretched between you until it started shaking.

You remember crying then. Not quiet tears. The kind that tear out of your chest like something breaking open.

Bucky didn’t look up.

Just sat there with his face buried in his hands while the sound of it filled the hallway.

And in that moment it felt like the ending of something you weren’t ready to lose. You slept alone that night. The bed felt enormous. Cold in a way that made your bones ache.

You kept expecting to feel him there beside you, his arm heavy across your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder, but the space stayed empty.

You stared at the ceiling until the sky outside your window started to lighten and wondered how two people could love each other so much and still come so close to letting it die.

A shift beneath you pulls you back to the present.

Bucky’s chest rises under your cheek as he takes a deeper breath, his fingers moving slowly along your back like he’s tracing something invisible into your skin.

You realize your eyes have filled with tears.

One slips down your temple before you can stop it.

“Hey.”

His voice is still thick with sleep.

You lift your head and find him looking at you now, blue eyes soft but immediately alert.

His hand comes up to cup your face.

“Why’re you crying?”

You shake your head, wiping quickly at your cheek.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You hesitate.

Then you whisper, “Us.”

Something flickers across his expression.

Concern. Memory. You can see him walking the same path through the past that you just did.

“We almost didn’t make it,” you say quietly.

The words sit between you for a moment.

Then Bucky pulls you closer, his arms tightening around you until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

The word is rough.

“But we did.”

His forehead presses gently against yours.

And the way he’s looking at you now, God, it’s the same look from that kitchen years ago. The same quiet intensity. The same careful wonder, like he still can’t believe you chose him.

“I love you,” he says.

Not casually. Not like something he’s said a thousand times before. More like a promise he’s still trying to keep.

Your chest aches with the weight of it.

“I know.”

His thumb brushes your cheek slowly.

“You scared the hell outta me back then,” he admits.

“You scared me too.”

A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He studies your face for a long moment.

Then he pulls you fully against him again, tucking your head beneath his chin like he’s protecting something fragile.

The world outside the bedroom is starting to wake up now, distant footsteps, the faint clatter of someone in the kitchen, but inside the room everything still feels suspended in that quiet early light.

Your love isn’t bright the way it used to be. It isn’t careless or easy or untouched by the things that almost broke it. It’s deeper than that now.

Darker.

The color of something that bled and healed and stayed.

Maroon.