howdy.

The circle was small, just ten people. Twelve if you counted the man asleep near the radiator and an elderly woman named Marie, who was knitting. The coffee was bad and the biscuits were stale. The walls were decorated with cheerful little posters about honesty and surrender and hope, which made you want to peel your skin off because honesty was hard, surrender sounded humiliating, and hope felt like a last resort people offered you when they had run out of practical advice.

Then the chair beside you scraped.

You looked over.

The man at the door had now approached you. 

Up close, he looked simultaneously worse and prettier, too, which was annoying. He looked tired, probably not attributed to a single bad night but to years stacked inside him. He had clear blue eyes and dark stubble. His left hand stayed in his pocket. His right hand still held the coffee like a prop.

“Seat taken?” he asked.

You blinked at the twenty empty chairs around the circle. “No,” you said.

He managed a smile before you sighed and moved your bag.

He sat down.

Neither of you really spoke for the rest of the sharing. A man named Dennis talked about hiding vodka in a mouthwash bottle. Marie talked about walking past the same liquor store six times and going home crying but sober. Someone laughed and another cried. The last person said they were ninety days clean and the room clapped.

You clapped too, but it was a second late.

The man beside you didn’t clap. He looked at his hand instead, like he had forgotten what applause was for.

When the meeting leader asked if anyone new wanted to introduce themselves, the room went quiet in that gentle, expectant way that made you want to crawl into the carpet.

You stared at your shoes.

The man beside you exhaled.

“I’m James,” he said.

Every head turned.

His voice was rough around the edges. He sounded like he was confessing a crime instead of a name.

“Hi, James,” the room said.

His jaw flexed. He hated that. You could tell immediately. 

He looked down at his coffee. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to be here.”

Nobody interrupted. Nobody corrected him.

His thumb rubbed once over the rim of the paper cup. “I can’t get drunk.”

Your eyes flicked to him.

He said it like a punchline without the mercy of being funny.

“I used to be able to, a long time ago.” His mouth tightened into a flat line. “Then things changed, and my body changed. And now alcohol doesn’t do anything,” he looked down, almost disappointed in how much he was disappointed by his own inability to get buzzed. “I can drink the bar dry and still feel every second of my life perfectly.”

You stopped breathing a little.

“It made me angry,” he admitted, quieter. “I was angry I couldn’t have that. I never cared about fun or the parties.” He gave a humourless laugh. “I wanted the off switch, and when it didn’t work, I hated myself. I hated that that has been taken from me.”

Something in your chest folded. Which one was he? Was your first shameful thought. In a world of superheroes and gods and aliens and people disappearing for five years and then coming back, you really didn’t have the time to memorise names of every Avenger by heart. 

His eyes stayed down.

“So, no. I don’t know if I count. I don’t know if this is taking up space from people who need it more. But I know I keep thinking about it, keep trying to find something that’ll do what it used to do. And I know that probably means I shouldn’t be alone with the thought.”

Then Marie, still knitting, said, “You count.”

James looked up.

The meeting leader nodded. “You’re welcome here.”

You felt a little sting behind your eyes.

Fuck, it shouldn’t have been that moving. It should not have mattered that much. He was a stranger in a church basement with untouched coffee and a voice like a bruise. But there was something so painfully familiar about wanting oblivion and being ashamed of wanting it, about standing at the edge of yourself and wishing there was a button, a bottle, a burn, anything that made being alive more bearable.

The meeting moved on, and you decided not to speak.

You were proud of not crying until the end, when everyone stood and started stacking chairs. People exchanged numbers while stirring powdered creamer into coffee. The world did not change. Nobody looked at you and said, we know what you are, or pointed at your throat and said, liar.

You grabbed your coat and made it halfway to the stairs before his voice found you.

“Hey.” James stood a few feet behind you, hands still in his pockets.

You considered pretending you hadn’t heard him. Maybe you could be rude. You considered leaving and buying the smallest bottle you could find and telling yourself it didn’t count because it was only small

Instead, you said, “What?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

You winced. “Sorry. That came out mean.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve heard meaner.”

For some reason, that made you almost smile.

He stepped closer, careful like you were a wounded animal that might bolt. “First meeting?”

You looked at the stairs. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” he said.

You huffed. “Great.”

“I’m new too.”

“I know,” you chuckled dryly, “you spoke.”

“Yeah.”

“I would rather be shot.”

He looked at you for one long second. Very dryly, he said, “It’s overrated.”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and his gaze brightened so subtly you almost missed it.

You leaned against the stair rail, suddenly too tired to keep standing like a real person. “I’m not like you.”

James tilted his head.

Your fingers tightened around your coat. “It works on me.”

His face changed, eyes more attentive than just pity.  

You swallowed. “It works too well on me.”

You didn’t know why you said that, but you hated how small your voice got. You hated how much the truth could make you feel naked, and saying it out loud made your whole body ache for a drink with such vicious clarity that you had to grip the rail harder.

James didn’t look away.

You laughed once, but it broke wrong. “You wanted the off switch, I get that. But mine works fast. It works so well that I start thinking maybe I’m only good when I’m drinking. I think maybe the best version of me is the one that can’t feel anything. Or remember anything. Or ruin anything because I’m not really there.”

His teeth clenched, but he stayed quiet.

“And then I get sober,” you said, unable to stop baring your soul to this stranger. “And everything is worse.”

Your eyes burned. You looked down immediately, furious at yourself.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I told you first,” he said.

Your throat tightened more.

He shifted his weight, and for the first time, you noticed the way he held his left side still, like he was always aware of the space his body took up. He looked like he had spent a long time making himself smaller for other people’s comfort and had never quite learned how to stop.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

You blinked. “I thought you said James.”

“I did.”

“So you lied at AA?”

His mouth twitched again. “James is my name.”

“So Bucky is what?” You managed a chuckle, “A nickname?”

“To some people.”

“Do you like those people?”

He paused, before looking down, “I’m trying to.”

You looked at him properly, at the tired eyes, the gloved hand, the too-perfect posture. You could see grief sitting on him like a cloud. You didn't know him or his life, but you knew enough about wanting to be someone else. 

You gave him your name.

He repeated it once, like he was trying to get it right.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Behind him, the meeting leader laughed with Marie near the coffee table as someone dragged a bin bag out of the kitchen. The basement smelled like burnt coffee, wet coats, old wood, and the possibility that maybe you could come back here. 

Maybe this terrible room could exist again next week. Maybe you could still exist next week

Bucky nodded toward the door. “You got somewhere to be?”

You almost lied, but you shook your head.

“Me neither,” he said. “There’s a diner around the corner. Coffee’s bad, but it’s not this bad.”

“You asking me out?” You tilted your head.

He just shrugged, as if duh. Why wouldn’t I want to ask out the pretty girl who’s also struggling with life, like me? “Yeah. I mostly like the pie.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind?”

“I don’t know. Pie kind.”

You managed a smile. “That is such a man answer.”

He looked vaguely offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And there it was again, your accidental laugh. You could feel him noticing it, not in a smug way, but like he was relieved there was a sound in you that was not pain.

You should have said no and gone home.

You should have taken the bus and white-knuckled your way through the evening and called it a victory if you made it to bed without stopping at the shop on the corner.

But Bucky stood in front of you like a man who understood the shape of a craving, even if his body refused to let him drown in it. 

You were opposite tragedies meeting in the basement.

And you didn’t want to be alone.

Same terrible coffee.

So you pulled your coat on properly and said, “Fine. But if the pie is bad, I’m leaving you there.”

Bucky smiled and climbed up the stairs next to you, opening the door like a true gentleman, because apparently your standards were that low.

Cold evening air rushed in, and he said, “Fair.”

You stepped outside together.

For the first time all day, feeling sober didn’t feel like a punishment.

Bucky fell into step beside you, close enough to be there, far enough away to be respectful, and when your hands shook in your coat pockets, he pretended not to notice.

You loved him a little for that.

Not love-love. Just the strangest beginning of it.

—

A year later, you were sitting in the same basement where you met him.

The church still smelled faintly of old wood, overbrewed coffee, rain-damp coats, and whatever industrial cleaner someone used on the floor every Tuesday evening. The chairs were arranged in the same uneven circle as always, but there were more rows now. Nobody here had ever managed to make a circle properly, and maybe that was appropriate. Recovery was not exactly known for pretty geometry.

You sat three chairs away from the radiator now.

Now your coat was folded over your lap. Your coffee was cooling between your palms. Your breathing was almost steady.

The dog tags around your neck shifted when you leaned forward.

You saw them slip out from beneath your sweater, the familiar feeling of them falling against your chest, warm from your skin. They caught the basement light for a second, dull silver flashing against the knit you were wearing, and the man beside you noticed.

He was new, you could tell.

New people had a look to them. Sometimes it was fear or anger. This man was sitting with his shoulders held too high and his hands wrapped too tightly around his cup, staring at everything except the people in the room.

His eyes flicked to the tags.

“You serve?” he asked.

You looked down.

For one stupid second, your fingers closed over the metal before you could stop yourself. “No,” you said. “My boyfriend did.”

The man nodded, still looking at the chain. “Oh.”

“They’re his,” you added, tucking them back beneath your collar as if you had been caught showing a memory too intimate. “He gives them to me while he’s away at work.”

“At work?”

“Yeah.”

You managed to say it with a straight face, which was honestly heroic of you, considering Bucky’s “work” very rarely involved conferences or meeting rooms. His work included Captain America showing up at your apartment three days ago with that charming, apologetic smile that always meant, I’m very sorry, but I’m about to borrow your boyfriend for a classified and incredibly stupid mission.

You had rolled your eyes, and Sam did have the decency to bring him back in one piece

You looked down and added, “it’s for safekeeping.”

After all, that was what Bucky called it too.

He had stood in your kitchen two mornings ago with his duffel bag by the door and his boots not quite tied, looking too handsome for a man who was leaving you for a couple of days. His hair had still been damp from the shower, tucked behind one ear, darkening the collar of his shirt. He smelled like soap and coffee and the lavender shampoo you bought for yourself, which he continued to deny using even though you told him he could. He had been quiet all morning.

He washed his mug even though you told him to leave it. He checked the lock on the window he had already fixed months ago. Eventually, he found you by the counter when you were pretending to look for something in a drawer you had already opened twice. His hands came to your waist from behind, and he folded himself around you without a word. His chest pressed to your back, chin resting against your shoulder. For a minute, he simply held you there in the kitchen, reluctant to leave.

You covered his hands with yours.

“You’re doing the clingy thing,” you murmured, not at all complaining.

His mouth pressed to the side of your throat, not a kiss at first. Then he did kiss you, his stubble rubbing against your skin.

“Maybe I just like holding my girl before work,” he said.

“Work,” you repeated, dryly, “As if you’re dealing with team building exercises and doing trust falls with Captain America.”

“I would rather be shot.”

“Bucky.”

“What? I’ve been shot before.”

“You’re banned from making those jokes before nine in the morning.”

He hummed, amused, and turned you in his arms so your back was against the counter and he could look at you properly.

His thumbs slipped under the hem of your sweater, just enough to touch skin. The intimacy of it made your chest ache. You had lived with him, slept beside him, showered with him, kissed him breathless against this exact counter, and still there were moments where his hands on you felt new.

He bent his head and kissed you.

It was meant to be a goodbye kiss. It became sweeter, heavier. His body pressed yours into the counter, careful of his strength even when the kiss deepened and your hands found his hair. He made a sound when you tugged, more breath than voice.

“You’re going to be late,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Probably.”

“Very professional.”

“Never claimed to be.”

His metal hand stayed at your waist. His right hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if he could smooth the worry out of your face. He kissed you once more, lingering, then pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’ll call when I can,” he said.

“I know.”

“Marie has your number?”

“Yes.”

“Food in the fridge?”

“Yes.”

His eyes searched yours. “You’ll eat?”

“Bucky.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly at his worry. 

You wanted to tease him more, because that was easier than saying please don’t go. So your fingers tightened in the front of his shirt.

Bucky took the dog tags from beneath his own shirt and lifted the chain over his head. Your throat tightened before he even touched you. “Buck.”

His eyes softened at the name.

It still did that to him, even after a year.

Buck.

You had been saying it for a while now. At first by accident, then on purpose, then so often it became part of your life. You said Buck when you needed him to pass you a mug from the high shelf, a whiny Buck when he stole your side of the bed and pretended he hadn’t. You had gasped Buck when you woke up from a dream with your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest. 

The name had started in the diner, if you were honest.

That first night after AA, when he took you for pie because neither of you were ready to go home alone. Bucky had sat across from you with the menu in both hands, frowning at the pie section as though it was a tactical document.

You had not known yet whether you were allowed to joke with him. Whether he would flinch or he would shut down. 

“I remember it being less confusing than this,” he said. “There’s too many options now.”

It would take him three months to admit the last time he had pie there was 1944.

You lifted your eyebrows. “You’re panicking.”

“I’m assessing my options.”

“You’ve been looking at the word ‘cherry’ for almost a full minute.”

He had looked back down, gravely. “Maybe I like cherry.”

You squinted, then decided. “You don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

You managed a smile.“I know everything.”

That was the first time he smiled at you properly, and it changed his whole face.

You remembered staring at him across that sticky table and thinking, oh, that is pretty.

Later, he walked you home in the rain.

He didn’t ask if he could or assume he should. He just stood beside you outside the diner, hands in his jacket pockets, and said, “I’m going this way.” and it just happened to be the same as where you were going.

So you let him walk you home.

A week later, he saved you a seat. A month later, he was going out for coffee with you every other day. Two months later, he fixed your broken window latch and stayed for dinner.

Four months later, he kissed you in a supermarket car park because you had called him crying from the frozen food aisle after the shop rearranged itself and put the wine where the pizzas used to be. He had come so quickly you were sure he must have run part of the way. He found you with your basket on the floor and your hands shaking, and he stood between you and the aisle like his body could block out the whole world.

You cried because you wanted a drink. Then you cried because he came. Then you cried because he looked at you like none of it made you difficult to love.

He kissed you after he got you outside, so gently, his hands hovering until you grabbed his jacket and pulled him closer, like he had been waiting months to be allowed to want you like this. 

After that, Bucky became yours all at once.

Your meetings became his meetings, and his nightmares became your 3 a.m. tea in the kitchen. Your cravings became walks around the block with his metal hand at the back of your neck. Your bad days became less lonely. 

There were mornings where you woke up with his face buried against your stomach, one arm heavy across your hips, his hair a disaster against your bare skin. There were evenings where he cooked badly and you ate it anyway because he looked so proud and because he kissed the back of your shoulder while you washed the dishes. There were nights where the two of you ended up tangled on the sofa with a film neither of you watched, his mouth moving slowly along your neck while your fingers slid under his shirt, both of you laughing between kisses.

It wasn’talways easy, but it was worth it.

So when he gave you the tags, standing in your kitchen with the mission waiting downstairs, it seemed like a little too much.

He slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled against your chest, cool for half a second before your skin warmed them.

“For safekeeping,” he said.

You tried to smile. “They’re metal, Buck. I think they’ll survive your l work trip.”

His thumb touched the chain. “It’s not about them surviving.”

You looked up at him.

His voice dropped. “It’s about me coming back for them.”

Oh.

Bucky kissed your forehead, then your mouth, then the corner of your mouth when you tried not to cry. He was so careful with you when he left, like one wrong touch would make both of you admit how much you hated this. He’d been gone for daytrips before, but four days seemed unbearable now.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured.

Then he kissed you again, and for a few seconds you forgot the whole world beyond his mouth. His hands were firm at your waist, yours around his neck, the tags caught between you. He kissed you until you were breathless and clinging, until Sam honked downstairs and Bucky muttered something unflattering about him under his breath against your lips.

You laughed. He kissed the laugh out of your mouth.

Then he left.

At first, you were fine.

You made breakfast, answered messages, and washed the mug Bucky had already washed, only because it gave your hands something to do. You wore the tags beneath your sweater and touched them whenever you passed the mirror. You went to work and came home. Then ate leftovers standing in the kitchen.

The first night without him was always strange. Then the hours stretched.

The refrigerator hummed too loudly. The upstairs neighbour moved around too much. Your phone stayed blank for too long, and every time it lit up and it wasn't him, disappointment scraped through and you felt childish.

You watched half a film and absorbed none of it.

You opened the fridge, then closed it. Opened the cupboard, then closed it.

Checked your phone, no message.

The next day was the same.

By nine, you were bored. By nine-thirty, you were restless. By ten, your mind had started to tilt.

It was jarring how quickly it happened. No one warned you about it properly, or maybe they did and you had not believed them, but the craving arrived out of nowhere because you were bored. 

You were putting away a clean plate when you thought about the shop on the corner. Then you were gripping the counter so hard your fingers hurt.

You are alone. You are bored.

Nobody would know.

The tags felt too heavy. You pulled them out from beneath your sweater and held them in your hand, the chain slipping between your fingers. Bucky’s name was pressed into your palm, and you stared at it until the letters blurred.

“I’m fine,” you said out loud.

Your voice sounded odd in the empty kitchen.

You put the tags back under your sweater and changed into pyjamas. You brushed your teeth and got into bed. Five minutes later, you got out of bed. You checked your phone. You opened your messages with Bucky and looked at the last thing he sent before takeoff: Be good to yourself for me.

You threw the phone onto the bed.

Then, somehow, you were putting on shoes.

When you thought about it later, that felt frightening, how blank you were. It wasn’t exactly a blackout, because you remembered every moment, but there was a strange sequence to it, as if your body had become a machine built for one purpose: Shoes, coat, keys, stairs, and corner shop.

The bell above the door rang. You told yourself you were buying milk.

You did buy milk. In fact, you carried it to the counter with both hands like evidence of innocence, and then your eyes moved to the tiny bottles behind the register. 

You could leave. You should leave.

You heard yourself ask for one.

The man behind the counter reached back.

You almost said, nevermind. You didn’t.

The bottle was cold when he passed it to you, but it was small enough for your brain to start building arguments before you even reached the door.

It’s little. It’s one. It’s not like before. I have been good for a year. I can stop after this. I just want to know I can.

The walk home felt unreal as the milk knocked against your leg. 

At your door, your hands shook so badly you dropped your keys. you put the milk in the fridge and took the bottle out.

You placed it on the kitchen counter.

You stared at it.

Then you walked away. Then you came back. Then you picked it up. Then you put it down again.

Your whole body was hot and cold at once. Your thoughts were moving too quickly to hold. Bucky’s dog tags rested against your chest beneath your sweater, and you kept touching them, pressing them hard into your skin as if it could bring willpower.

“I won’t drink it,” you whispered.

Then you opened it.

Then you drank.

And alcohol worked on you with humiliating ease. It hit your empty stomach like warmth pretending to be mercy. For a few minutes, missing Bucky became manageable. You stood in your kitchen with the bottle empty in your hand and hated how much relief you felt

Then the relief curdled into horror. Your stomach dropped and skin prickled. The empty bottle looked terrifying in your hand, stupid and catastrophic. You sank to the kitchen floor.

The tiles were cold beneath your thighs. The dog tags swung forward when you bent over, clinking once against the empty bottle still in your fist.

You cried with your whole body, in ugly, breathless sobs that hurt your ribs and scraped your throat. 

You almost called him. You saw your hand reach for the phone.

Then you saw him in your mind, answering because he would always answer if he could. You imagined his face changing when he heard your voice, hearing the guilt he would somehow make his own, because Bucky had never met your pain he didn’t try to carry.

You couldn’t do it.

You rinsed the bottle instead. You stood at the sink with the water running and realised what you were doing and hated yourself so violently you had to grip the counter again.

Evidence.

You were rinsing evidence. You were going to get rid of it, as if this was something to hide from a parent or a teacher or a boyfriend.

You threw the bottle in the bin. Then you took it out. Then you put it back in. Then you sat on the floor until the kitchen light started to feel too bright.

You didn't sleep. Or if you did, it was full of waking.

By morning, your mouth tasted sour and your eyes were swollen.

By night, you were in the basement, a year later.

Marie was talking about her daughter’s wedding. She had her knitting in her lap, a pale yellow scarf growing slowly between her hands, and she was describing the open bar with a detail that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Usually, Marie made you feel safe. Tonight, she talked about champagne flutes, toasts, ginger ale, and smiling for the photos. 

The dog tags were hot against your chest.

You shifted in your chair.

The new man beside you was staring at his coffee again. The meeting leader nodded gently as Marie finished.

“Thank you, Marie.”

Everyone said thanks, and the leader looked around the circle.

“Anyone else?”

You stared at the floor. No.

Your heart began to pound so hard you felt it in your throat.

No, no, no.

Still, apparently your body was on autopilot now, because you opened your mouth before you were ready. “I’m—”

Your voice broke so bad that several heads turned at once.

You stopped as heat rushed into your face. You said your name.

The room answered, like it always did.

You could not look at anyone. You looked at your coffee instead, at the small tremors moving across the surface.

“My boyfriend and I met here,” you said, and the words came out thin.

You swallowed hard and tried again.

“My boyfriend and I met here. In this room.” Your thumb moved over the raised letters stamped into the tags beneath your sweater. 

Your breath hitched.

“He doesn’t know I drank last night because he’s away.”

The basement seemed to go still around you.

You let out a broken little laugh that was barely laughter at all. “I was just bored and spiralling and I…” You shook your head, tears spilling hot down your cheeks now, impossible to stop. “I got a little bottle.”

Your fingers curled around the tags.

“It was only a little.”

You knew better than anyone that it never was a little.

—

After the meeting, you cried into Marie’s shoulder in the church hallway until your throat hurt.

You wished you had done it in a dignified way when other people were trying to help you. You cried with your whole face pressed into her cardigan, both hands in the wool while she held the back of your head and kept murmuring, “Oh, sweetheart,” like you hadn’t done something unforgivable, as if you were not disgusting. As if you were just a person who had fallen and was still, somehow, worth helping back up.

She didn’t tell you it was fine.

She only walked you around the block twice in the cold, one arm linked through yours, talking gently about calling Bucky, about honesty, about how a slip didn’t get to eat the whole year unless you fed it the rest yourself.

By the time you got home, you were almost an hour late.

Your eyes were swollen and your face felt tight from drying tears. Bucky’s dog tags were still tucked under your sweater, pressing against your chest.

You opened the door, expecting darkness.

Instead, the kitchen light was on.

Bucky turned from the counter.

He was still in grey sweats, hair damp from a shower he had clearly taken too quickly. There was a smear of frosting on his thumb, and on the counter beside him sat a small, lopsided cake from the grocery store, with too much white icing and little piped flowers around the edge.

Across the top, in blue gel writing, slightly uneven and very obviously done by him, were the words:

ONE YEAR!

Your body went cold.

Was it supposed to be the one year anniversary today? You… hadn’t been counting. Your boyfriend, had, apparently

Bucky’s whole face lit up when he saw you.

“Mission got called short,” he said, so proud and so happy it hurt to look at him. “Happy one year sober, sweetheart.”

You stared at the cake.

The keys were still in your hand. Your coat was still on. You didn’t move, didn’t blink properly, didn’t breathe right.

Bucky kept smiling for a few seconds, but then his smile faltered. “Baby?”

You couldn’t answer as  blue icing blurred in front of you.

Three full minutes passed, maybe less, maybe more, you didn’t know. You only knew that you spent every second of them staring at that little cake like it had been made for someone who had died last night.

You didn’t even realise Bucky had been walking towards you. 

One moment, he was standing behind the little cake, his smile slowly disappearing as he watched you fail to answer him. The next, his hands were on you.

You flinched so hard the keys slipped from your fingers and hit the floor, but Bucky didn’t let go. His flesh hand closed gently around your upper arm while his metal one came to your face.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Hey, look at me.”

You couldn’t. You stared somewhere around his shoulder instead, hardly aware of his thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear you hadn’t felt fall.

His eyes moved across your face with alarm. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head.

“Did something happen today?”

You shook your head again

“Did someone touch you?”

“No,” you managed, but the word was barely there.

Bucky’s shoulders loosened by a bit, but the worry certainly didn't leave his face. His eyes dropped quickly over you anyway, ever so aware of blood, bruises, torn fabric, any danger. There was none.

Bucky looked over his shoulder at it, then back at you.

“Oh,” he said quietly. You didn’t know what he understood. Maybe he thought the anniversary had overwhelmed you, or maybe he thought you were crying because he had remembered, maybe he thought you were happy.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. He drew you closer, slow enough that you could have resisted, but you didn't understand what he was doing until your forehead struck his chest and his arms folded around you.

Bucky cradled you against him, metal hand across the back of your coat. His other arm wrapped around your head, his palm cupping your skull as he tucked your face beneath his chin.

You stood stiffly inside his embrace, hearing his heartbeat as your hands remained hanging uselessly at your sides.

Bucky rubbed his palm over your back. “It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t, and he had no idea.

You couldn’t seem to pull enough air into your lungs. Every breath caught halfway, and your body refused to complete it. Bucky must have felt the change because his grip tightened, holding you together while your knees began to feel like cooked spaghetti.

“Easy,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Your fingers finally curled into the front of his shirt. You clutched him with both hands as if the floor had opened beneath you and he was the only thing left at the edge.

Bucky bent with you when you folded.

He lowered you both to the kitchen floor without ever taking his arms away, one knee touching the tile before he settled against the cabinets and pulled you fully into his lap.

A sound finally came out of you. “I-I’m sorry.”

Bucky startled, but only for a second.

You buried your face against his throat, the apology coming again before you could breathe. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Shh.”

“I’m sorry, Buck, I’m sorry—”

“Shh, sweetheart.”

He held the back of your head while you began to sob. There was no dignity left in it now. You cried so violently that your body jerked against his, words breaking apart between gasps while Bucky gathered you closer. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I ruined it.”

Bucky’s hand paused against your hair.

You felt the second he understood that this wasn’t an overwhelmed anniversary reaction. “What happened?” he asked.

You shook your head against him.

His lips pressed to your temple. “Tell me.”

“I can’t,” you hiccupped, “You’ll hate me.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand remained behind your neck, supporting your head when you tried to turn away. The excitement was gone, but fear remained.

“I won’t,” he said.

“You don’t know.”

“I know I won’t hate you.”

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

You talked before you could think. “You were gone, and I—”

Your voice collapsed. Bucky waited, one arm around your waist, his thumb moving through the damp hair at your neck, while you tried to force the words past the pressure closing your throat.

“I drank.”

It came out abruptly. 

Bucky went still beneath you.

“Last night,” you gasped. “I bought one of the little bottles and I drank it. I drank the whole thing.” The confession tore itself out of you all at once. “I rinsed the bottle. I was going to hide it from you.”

Bucky’s face changed, but instead of disgust, it was recognition.

He knew how a craving could take over your body. He knew what it was to want an off switch badly enough to hate yourself for reaching for it.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

You recoiled inside his arms. “No, it’s really not.”

“It’s okay.” His hand tightened against the back of your head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“I ruined the whole year—”

“No.”

He didn't need the details explained to him. He understood every humiliating little ritual because addiction had taught him the same language, even if his body no longer let alcohol answer him.

“I wore your tags,” you choked out. “While I did it.”

Your hand flew to your chest, gripping the metal through your sweater hard enough for its edges to bite into your palm.

Bucky caught your wrist. “Don’t.”

“I shouldn’t have them.”

He gently pulled your hand away from your chest, but he didn’t take the tags. He only folded your fingers around them more carefully, covering your fist with his own.

“I didn’t keep anything safe,” you managed.

Bucky dragged you back against him before you could see more, tucking your face beneath his chin. His palm spread across your back as you broke open in his lap.

“It’s okay,” he repeated into your hair. “It’s okay.”

You shook your head violently, and he kissed your temple.

It’s not that what happened did not matter. It did. You both knew it did.

But he knew what you were convinced of: the certainty that one mistake had poisoned everything that came before it, insisting that because you had fallen once, you might as well stay on the floor.

Bucky knew better than to let that voice speak alone.

“You should be angry.”

His arms tightened, pressing his face against your hair and breathing through it.

“I should’ve called you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You should’ve.”

You flinched.

Bucky immediately drew back enough to cradle your face between his hands. “But I know why you didn’t.”

His thumbs moved beneath your eyes, wiping away tears that were replaced almost immediately.

He knew what shame did, and how it convinced you isolation felt like mercy.

“I thought you’d hate me.”

He shook his head. “Never.”

It was the only reassurance he gave you because it was the only one you could believe.

Bucky pulled you against him again and let you cry until there was nothing graceful left in your chest. He held you through every shaking breath, his mouth pressed to your hair, murmuring the same words whenever your apologies started again.

It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.

Eventually, the strength went out of your body. You sagged against him, exhausted, your fingers still trapped around the dog tags between your palm and his.

Bucky stayed on the kitchen floor with you until your breathing slowed.

Then he carefully shifted you from his lap and stood, bringing you with him. Your knees nearly folded, but his hands were already at your waist, holding you upright before you could fall.

“Go shower,” he said.

You frowned. “What?”

“Go take a shower,” he repeated kindly. “Put on something comfortable. I’ll make tea.”

You stared at him when his hand slid around the back of your neck, drawing you forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“I’m gonna be here when you come back,” he said.

“You promise?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not going to leave?”

“No.”

“You’re not going to throw the cake away?”

His eyes flicked toward it.

“No,” he said after a moment. You nodded, though you didn’t entirely believe him.

Bucky kissed your forehead and let you go.

—

The shower took longer than it should have. You stood beneath the water until it ran lukewarm, scrubbing the dried tears from your face, replaying the conversation again and again until it turned into comfort.

When you eventually returned to the kitchen, wearing Bucky’s shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms, two mugs of tea sat on the table.

Bucky was standing over the cake with a butter knife in his hand and an expression of intense concentration usually reserved for dismantling weapons.

You stopped in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

He glanced at you, then back at the cake.

The blue icing was a mess.

Bucky had scraped away most of the word YEAR. There were deep trenches in the white frosting where he had smushed the letters together, dragging the gel across the surface with very little artistic skill.

ONE YEAR! had become:

ONE DAY!

The exclamation point was still there, slightly crooked.

You stared at it.

Bucky put down the knife.

“I figured we celebrate this instead,” he said.

Your throat closed. “One day?”

He shrugged, suddenly looking uncertain. “That’s what they say, right?”

One day at a time.

But there were so many fucking days.

But there was only this one now.

You managed to walk yourself to the kitchen and threw yourself into his arms.

Bucky caught you, his arms closing around your body. You buried your face against his chest while he kissed the top of your head.

“I’m still proud of you,” he whispered.

You shook your head.

His hand moved down your back. “That’s okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got enough for both of us.”

Later, he cut two uneven slices.

The cake was too sweet, the tea had gone cold, and the blue icing stained your tongues. Bucky sat beside you, his thigh pressed against yours and his metal hand resting open on the table.

When midnight passed, his fingers closed gently around yours.

One day.

You had made it through one day.

—end. 

General Bucky taglist pt 1:

You worked at Hydra Enterprises and you were the CEO's personal assistant. You're recovering from a recent cyber attack on the company, but you weren't given too many specifics on why you were targeted, or what the result was. Your boss has kept quiet to most employees, even you. 

All you knew what that someone targeted Hydra Enterprises, large sums of money were lost, account information was leaked, clients and investors bailed, and it was bad. 

"I just finished re-confirming all of Mr. Rumlow's appointments for next week." 

"Sounds fun."

 "You know it. I'll catch you next week. Have a good weekend," you waved and grabbed a handful of files to bring down to accounting.

Mr. Rumlow had left a few hours ago for a meeting with his lawyer, and his parting instructions to you were to help accounting with re-entering information into the new system since they were short on staff from the mass firings he did since the attack. 

You thought he was being a little paranoid but understood seeing as how you lost a huge chunk of money and business. He assured you he was on top of it and had wanted you to schedule as many meetings as possible so he could assure the investors all was well and secure as ever. 

The job was easy enough and he paid you a metric ton of overtime in cash to do it, so you didn't mind. You huffed out a breath as you watched everyone else leave for the night, going home to their families and lives while you made your way to the drab accounting floor. 

Whatever. You didn't mind working late since you were kind of a loner with the few friends you had. Growing up in the foster system was hard enough, being shuffled from family to family took its toll, but you somehow survived.

You got to your temporary desk and started inputting data and figures, making sure to set your alarm so you were done at 9pm. You're pretty sure you were the only one in the building seeing as how what remained of the accounting team left an hour ago, but you didn't mind. 

You somehow always got more work done in a quiet place rather than a bustling office. You often worked late and alone regardless of this issue, and you knew the building was safe because of all the security passes and codes you were made to memorize, enter, and swipe since your boss was paranoid well before the attack. 

You thought it was overkill, but Mr. Rumlow insisted. Finger ID, facial recognition, hand scanners, and regular old key fobs were the norm you just dealt with but almost understood seeing as how there were a lot of files he had on his investors, he needed to keep secure, until they weren't. 

You're certain Mr. Rumlow outed the cyber company in charge of your company files and data and had them go bankrupt from their lack of privacy, so you're now working with a new one.

Your alarm broke your concentration and snapped you out of your work. You took your phone and tapped the screen to stop the noise, stretching and yawning from the day's work. "Alright, alright, I'm going home," you muttered. You took your files and filed them into the completed cabinets and went to grab your purse but grumbled to yourself. 

"Of course I forgot it," you sighed. 

Your mind was like a sieve sometimes. You left your purse in your desk outside of Mr. Rumlow's office. 

"Ugh," you turned off the computer and headed back up to your regular floor.

The elevator doors opened revealing your floor, so you stepped off and made your way down the hall. The office was eerily dark, with a few blinking lights from the computer equipment as the blinds were all closed. It was unusual for all the blinds to be closed, but the cleaning crew was supposed to come through, so you figured they were the ones to close them. You walked towards your desk, bent down and opened the drawer, and got your purse when you heard a loud crash and some muffled shuffling. 

"What the?" 

You took a few steps towards your boss' office and opened the door since you saw there was a light coming from the room. 

"Hello? Mr. Rumlow?" 

You walked into the office, and your hands flew to your mouth in shock at what you saw, so you let out a scream.

---

"I'm only asking you one last time, where are the containers?" 

Steve Rogers held Brock Rumlow by the collar. He was bent over his desk and struggling, flailing his arms. 

"Fuck you and fuck the Barnes mafia," Rumlow spat in Steve's face. 

Steve rolled his eyes and managed to wipe his face letting go of Brock's shirt, violently shoving him aside. Sam Wilson stepped in and landed a punch to Brock's jaw making his head jerk back with force. 

Brock Rumlow's right hand man Jasper Sitwell lay on the floor next to his desk bleeding out. Steve made sure to get to him first since he's well known as a slippery rat.

James Barnes has had enough of Brock Rumlow creeping in on his territory. The odd arms deal or drug deal he could tolerate, but with the news of him trafficking women on his turf, James had enough and sent his men to dispose of Rumlow once and for all. 

Rumlow's mob wasn't nearly as powerful as the Barnes mafia, but he had done some shady dealings and when word got out, he was trafficking women, some underage, that made James see red. He had to put a stop to it and fast plus by taking over Brock's fledgling mob, it will help James grow his connections to the piers. Something Rumlow controlled.

The cyber attack James ordered to take out Rumlow's company only stalled him, so James decided enough was enough, so his main men were paying one final visit to him once and for all.

Rumlow struggled to get his balance righted since Steve took out one of his kneecaps already. 

"This is your last chance. Tell us where the containers are." Sam glared at Brock. 

Brock was bent over and leaning against his desk, struggling to breathe. He looked around his office and snorted. He knew he was done for; he just wanted to prolong the inevitable. Steve rolled his eyes and took out his gun from his holster, cocking it as he raised it up to aim at him, waiting for a reply. 

Just as Brock was going to speak, Sitwell stirred making both Steve and Sam look towards him. 

"Warehouse, by the docks. Pier 57," then he slumped over, and his eyes rolled in the back of his head. 

"Fuckin' rat," Brock muttered. 

Their info matched what Sitwell said. Sam smiled at Steve who turned and in one quick motion, fired a bullet in-between Brock's eyes making him immediately slump down at his desk.

Then they heard a scream.

---

You saw the dark-skinned man's eyes shoot towards the one who fired the gun, and they both looked at each other. 

"I thought you said the office was clear!" The shooter growled. 

"I did. No one was here when we scanned it earlier." The shooter put his gun away then they both looked at you standing in the doorway to the office. 

You were holding your mouth in shock, legs trembling at the bloody scene in front of you. The two large heavily tatted men seemed to stare at you while also panicking.

You saw Jasper Sitwell, Brock's lawyer lying in a pool of what was probably his own blood, then you looked towards your boss' desk and saw him slumped over it with a bullet hole in his forehead, eyes glazed over and blank. Your heart was racing. 

"Oh my god! I have-I-I have to call someone," but you were frozen on the spot. 

Your brain was racing a mile a minute with what to do. 

"Woah woah, now," the dark-skinned man took a few steps towards you. 

You managed to unfreeze yourself from the doorway. 

"Back away..." Your voice trembled. 

You looked around you and all there was to grab was your desk phone, so you yanked it from the outlet and held it up. Both men smirked at you. 

"What are you gonna do with that sweetheart?" The shooter calmly asked. 

"I-I..." 

He was right. What the hell were you going to do with an office phone? Chuck it at him? He's got a gun and probably a bunch of other weapons you idiot.

"Put it down," he calmly held out his hands. 

You were going to drop it and run, but you heard footsteps behind you. You were trapped. The dark-skinned man took out his phone and was calling someone. You shook where you stood, breathing heavily. 

"Come on now, nice and easy. We aren't going to hurt ya," The shooter took a step towards you. 

You heard the dark skin man talking to someone on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, we need a clean up crew. Rumlow's office." Then he hung up. "What are we going to do with her?" he asked the shooter. 

The shooter looked around and he sighed. 

"Let's bring her with us. The boss will want to see for himself. Probably has questions and she may be of use to him." 

You shook while listening to them.

"Wh-where am I going?" 

Both men looked at you and smiled.

 "To see the boss." 

You trembled. "Who's that?" 

The shooter smirked. "You'll see. I'm Steve and that's Sam." 

Sam gave you a slight nod as he stepped towards you. 

"You gonna take that phone with you as a parting gift sweets?" 

You looked down at the grey office phone you still held, then dropped it. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you." You stood tall. 

No way were these guys taking you anywhere. 

"Oh, but you are. You're coming with us." 

"You think it's a good idea?" Sam asked. 

"Don't care. She wasn't on our list tonight and we can't let her leave with what she saw, she'll go to the cops. Buck will probably want to question her." 

"Then what?"

 Steve shrugged. 

"Not our concern what he does with her after he gets his information." 

Sam huffed at his cryptic reply, and the two men proceeded to leave Brock's office. Sam grabbed your arm tight and walked you to the elevator. You were ushered into a large blacked out SUV; Sam and Steve sat on either side of you while you weaved through the darkened city streets.

"So, what are you?" 

Sam looked over at Steve, seeming unsure of what to tell you. 

"All you need to know right now is, your boss wasn't a good man, and his company is being taken over." Sam shrugged his shoulder making you snort. 

"Like you two are any better..." You grumbled. These two men were some shady people, especially the shooter. 

"We did what we were ordered to do. We took out a problem, plain and simple," Steve added. 

"So, someone told you to do...all that?" 

You couldn't say the word murder; you were still processing everything you saw. 

"Something like that," Steve smirked. 

The SUV finally turned off the main road and was in front of a gate that surrounded what looked like a large compound with armed guards patrolling the perimeter. The security team waved you in as the heavy ornate iron gates closed behind you. 

The drive was impressive with its tree-lined path, bright lighting, and large working fountain that sat in the middle of the driveway.

You came to a stop outside a large sprawling two-storey mansion, and you had to close your mouth in awe. You've seen places like this, but only on TV, or in those fancy overpriced home and architecture magazines at the grocery store. 

"Woah," you breathed out. 

"Come along then." 

Sam got out of the car and ushered you inside, with Steve following. 

"Word of advice don't piss off the big guy in charge," Sam whispered. 

Just as you blurted out the word "Who?", you heard determined footsteps walk down a marble tiled hallway before you could ask anything else. 

The foyer of the mansion was impressive as you looked around. 

"Who the hell is this?" Came the deep voice that belonged to the man now standing in front of you.

Your mouth popped open in shock as the man pulled out a black handgun from his side holster and pointed it at you. 

The metal of the gun matched his intricate dark hand and knuckle tattoos. 

"What the hell?" 

You shook in terror, rooted in place that there was a gun being pointed at you. You were beginning to feel like everyone had a gun they were all too happy to show off. Steve stepped in front of you and held his arms up in surrender. 

"Easy Buck. She's Rumlow's assistant."

"I don't give a shit if she's his fuck toy, what the hell is she doing here inside my home?" 

You were taken aback by his brash comment. No way in hell did you ever harbour any sort of romantic feelings for Brock. Sure, he was nice to look at, but you were his assistant, nothing more. Every interaction between you two had always been professional and respectful considering what you had recently learned of your former boss. Never once had your thoughts strayed to being romantic. 

"Ugh, rude," you blurted out. 

You saw Sam slap his forehead and wince at your comment. 

"What was that?" The trigger-happy man cocked his gun at you. 

"Easy Buck. She may have information and company access seeing as she worked directly with Rumlow everyday. She can help with the transition, computer logins, contracts, and files." Steve tried calming down the man and it may have worked. 

The man stood glaring at you, but he eventually put his gun down and held it at his side.

The man known as 'Buck' stood tall in his perfectly tailored all black suit with the top button of his crisp white shirt unbuttoned. His dark hair was slicked back, and his blue eyes were laser focused on you. 

He scanned you from head to toe then he turned to Sam, placing his gun back in his side holster. 

"You had cleared the floor before you got there, right?" 

You saw Sam take a gulp and nod. 

This 'Buck' nodded and thought about it.

 "No one was there when we entered." Sam whispered. 

Steve shuffled a little but still stood almost blocking you, seeming to know what was about to come. 

 "So, explain her then," he pointed back at you and Sam looked at Steve for help. 

Steve stood still like a statue and watched. Clearly, he wasn't getting involved. 

"Well, we..." Just as Sam went to speak, 'Buck' leaned in and punched his jaw making Sam take a few steps back. 

"What the hell Bucky?" Steve groaned. 

Bucky turned back to Steve and glared at him. 

"You assholes had one job tonight. Take out Sitwell and Rumlow." 

"We did." Sam winced and rubbed his jaw. Bucky snorted. 

"Then why did you pick up a fucking stray?" Bucky pointed at you. 

Sam and Steve looked at each other. 

"She witnessed everything. We didn't know what to do with her since she wasn't on our list," they admitted. 

"How about kill her too?" Bucky spat at them. 

They looked at you, then back at 'Buck'. 

You still shook and trembled at what your fate was. Were you going to die in this mafia guy's foyer? Probably...but what a beautiful foyer it was. It was late and even though you were exhausted, you were on high alert. 

These men killed two people you knew and worked with everyday. Two people who were into some shady shit where the fucking mafia was involved but still. Your whole world was a lie, and you were confused and scared.

Bucky rubbed his eyes with his fingers but stopped and looked at you. You shuffled nervously under his intense gaze. 

His eyes looked you over from top to bottom like he was memorizing a fine piece of art. It should have felt uncomfortable, but for some reason, it turned you on and you wanted to punch yourself for having those thoughts on what you had just been through. 

"Take her to the guest wing. Have Clint watch her tonight. I'll deal with this shit tomorrow." he grumbled then added, "I'm going to the club." 

He looked between Sam and Steve then to you, then he left the foyer and got into a waiting SUV outside to take him to the 'club'.

"Well, that went well." Steve clapped his hands together making Sam snort. 

You looked around, still in a daze. The hell was all that?

"Come along then." 

Steve walked you up a large set of stairs towards one of the many rooms that lined the hallway. 

"Wh-what's going to happen to me?" you asked. 

Steve didn't reply. He showed you to a bedroom and gestured you inside. There was a large bed, chair, window with a built-in bench seat, closet, and what looked to be an ensuite. 

"Clint will keep guard of your room. You're not to leave until you're told to. Bulletproof windows are locked, and security surrounds us 24/7 so you can't escape even if you tried as they're trained to shoot without asking questions. The only one to override the perimeter guards is Bucky, and he's not here. I'll see about getting some food sent up to you when you're settled." Steve gave you a small smile then he left. You heard the door close then the audible 'click' locking you inside.

"Great." You muttered. 

You explored the room and tried looking for ways to escape, but there was no use. You looked out the window and saw the armed guards that patrolled the grounds, the bulletproof glass showed a wonky reflection around the edges, and a man named Clint was supposedly stationed outside your room like a hawk watching its prey. It was no use, you were trapped. 

You looked down at your clothes and sighed. Your dusty black pants and rumpled blue blouse would have to do. 

"Guess I'm living in this for the foreseeable future." 

You sat at the end of the bed and waited. That Steve guy said he was going to drop off some food, but who knows how quick he'll be and what you'll even get. When he did, you were going to ask him for a change of clothes because why not?

You sat and thought about Brock, to see if you missed any warning signs of his alternative life and for the life of you, you couldn't come up with anything. Jasper Sitwell came in and had his weekly meetings but a lawyer meeting with a CEO wasn't unusual. Brock was always respectful towards you considering you just found out he was trafficking women in his spare time. Ew. Guess you didn't meet his 'requirements' you shuddered to yourself. 

Looking back on it now, the extra security codes and passes you had to memorize kind of made sense. 

You scheduled his meetings, transportation, dinners, events, and anything else he needed whenever he asked. You couldn't figure out how he had an entire (and highly illegal) secret life he kept hidden from you, but he did. 

What else was he hiding? 

You thought about the company and it's divisions and couldn't think of anything off the top of your head. You started worrying if you would be held accountable for their deaths or questioned by law enforcement. Would they believe you were innocent? You had scheduled his meetings all over the place and dealt with his personal finances, would they know you had no knowledge of this part of his life? 

There was no way you were going to jail for being a part of something you had no idea existed, especially for a piece of garbage scum like Brock.

A knock sounded on the door snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts and Steve walked in carrying a tray. 

"Here's some food." 

He placed it on the end of the bed. You looked at the sandwich, bag of chips, apple, and bottled water. He walked towards the door, but you stopped him. 

"Wait, are there any clothes I can have? I only have what I'm wearing..." you asked. 

Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. 

"I'll see what I can come up with." He gave you a lame smile and left. 

An hour later, Steve came by with a bag of clothes for you. There were sweatpants, a few shirts, a random pair of flip flops, and shorts all too big for you, but you didn't care. You had no idea where he got any of it from, but you were grateful for a change. 

"Thanks." He took the empty tray from you and left, leaving you alone for the rest of the night, or should you say morning since it was already well past midnight.

🔫👨🏻

You didn't sleep much so the following morning you were awake and ready for whatever greeted you. After a quick shower, you chose a pair of black sweatpants and an oversize grey t-shirt from the bag Steve gave you. 

Your old clothes from the day before were folded and placed on a chair. You made the bed and tidied up the room for something to do when you heard the lock on your door click, then it opened, and a man you probably thought was Clint, stood there watching you. 

He motioned with his head to follow him, so you did and followed him down the long hallway, nerves on high alert. He brought you to a large, darkened office. 

"Sit." Clint gestured to a leather tufted chair that sat in front of an ornate desk. 

You passed a large cream coloured sectional sofa that faced a cozy looking fireplace with bookcases surrounding it. You looked around and noticed there was someone who was sitting in front of you in the shadows of the room. 

It was Bucky. He was glaring at Clint, and you. He wore his usual all black suit and scowl. He seemed completely put together, not a hair out of place or shirt creased or rumpled and was fresh like he got a solid 10 hours of sleep. Damn him. 

You cringed thinking you must look like a gremlin compared to him.

Someone brought a tray of food and plunked it on the desk. 

"Eat." Clint pointed to the tray and walked to the door to leave. 

You watched him leave when Sam and Steve walked in after him. They both were holding what looked to be breakfast wraps. 

"What are my clothes doing on her?" Bucky asked out loud. 

You looked down and your face turned red. You were wearing Bucky's clothes! Your head snapped up to Steve since he was the one who brought you the bag of clothes and he shrugged like it was no big deal you were wearing the mafia leaders' clothes. 

You wanted to melt away since flinging yourself out of the bullet proof windows wasn't an option. 

Sam looked at Steve with amusement in his eyes. 

"Needed something else to change into." Steve replied with a mouthful of wrap. 

"This isn't a fucking shopping mall. She should be dead yet you two are playing fucking dress up with her." Bucky glared at you making your insides shrivel. 

Steve flopped down on the chair that was next to you while Sam stretched out on the sofa. 

"Well, she's not, she's here and you should use her however you need to." Steve shrugged. 

Your face paled and you looked over at Bucky in pure fear who sighed and rubbed his fingers on his brow. 

"Not like that...we don't do that here." He whispered. 

Oh. Thank God. A mafia leader with a conscious. Lovely. 

You pushed your sarcastic thoughts aside and nibbled at your food.

Bucky typed on a laptop then he turned the screen towards you that had your company login page set up. 

"Login," was all he said.

 "How did...?" You blurted out but he only smirked back. 

"Ok..." You took the laptop and remotely logged into the company with your information. 

"Wh-what are you looking for?" 

Bucky rolled his eyes and took the laptop from you and started scrolling on it. Your login was linked to Mr. Rumlow's since you needed unlimited access to his information. Meetings, contacts, real estate, clients, it was all there as Bucky perused it. 

"Financials?" 

You hesitated to respond to Bucky. 

"There's another login for that. I don't think you can find..."

 Bucky typed again, and the banking system magically appeared. 

Again, you had access to it since you used the company cards a lot for Brock when he went out and needed to reconcile them. 

"I don't know what else I can give you" you said after logging into the site. 

You watched as Bucky took the laptop and started looking at it. 

"Wait, the cyber attack. That was you?" 

No one said anything but the looks that passed between the men said everything you needed to know.

Bucky scrolled his way around, but he stopped, frowning at the screen. 

"Who is this?" 

Bucky turned the monitor and pointed to a meeting scheduled for that night in the calendar. All it said was 'Pierce' and a time of 7pm. 

"Oh, just one of Mr. Rumlow's newest advisors. I've never met him though."

 You saw the look that passed between the men. According to some employee's gossip, Pierce had moved away to try to start a sister company somewhere in Europe, but was unsuccessful, so he returned. That was the story you were given but who knows what's real after what has transpired in the past 12 hours. Brock was also interested in partnering with him outside of his work, but you weren't sure what he did or how that partnership would look but you now had a better idea of what that would be. 

"Why?" 

Bucky was still scrolling, and Steve cleared his throat. 

"He's part of the trafficking too but we don't know how."

Bucky stopped and glared at Steve. "What? She knows..." 

"Too much." Bucky interrupted and looked at you, then went back to his computer.

"Are you going to that meeting with Pierce?" Sam asked from the couch. 

"More than likely." Bucky replied. 

You looked between the men. 

"She coming too?" Sam asked. 

Bucky didn't say anything, but he looked at Steve who you saw give him a slight nod. 

"We'll see. Take her back, I don't need her anymore." 

Bucky kept his eyes focused on the screen. You scowled at him and wanted to say something sassy, but you held your tongue. 

"Let's go." Sam got up from the couch and nodded towards the door with you following. 

You didn't notice Bucky's eyes move from the laptop to follow you when you left the room.

🔫👨🏻

"She's proving to be a valuable asset." Steve took out his knife and studied the blade in the dim light. 

Bucky grumbled something but kept scrolling. 

"With her access, we can take the rest of this shit down and take over the piers like we had planned." 

"She doesn't know anything about this life..." Bucky growled.

 "True, but she knows Rumlow's contacts, meetings, what his coming and goings were and company information. We may be closer to figuring out who his buyers are by using her. She doesn't have to know ALL the details, only what she knows now, and we can piece it altogether ourselves. I can tell you already found something with her logins." 

Steve played with his knife while Bucky shrugged and looked at his screen. 

Of course he found information. Contacts and addresses of the scum involved. He had Parker remote into his laptop and was working on it as they sat there. 

He paid Peter Parker a fuck ton of money to have the very best surveillance, and access to cameras, microphones, and any tech gear he needed. If something wasn't out they needed, Parker could make it himself. Bucky will more than likely have his men branch off and eliminate the buyers within 24-hours with confirmation from his tech team.

Sam walked back into the office and sat in the seat you were just in. 

"Buck here still wants to off his pretty house guest after he gets the info he needs from her." 

Bucky glared at his second in command. 

"Cool, cool, so when do you want to do that?" Sam asked. 

"We can take her out back at the gun range and shoot her execution style. Drown her in the pool? Slip some poison in her food? I'm sure Loki can come up with something more creative if you want..." Sam shrugged. 

"For fuck sakes Sam!" Bucky yelled. 

"Having second thoughts?" 

"Shut up!" 

Bucky scrolled through his computer. 

"Can we focus here? I'm having Parker trace some of these accounts and holding companies. In the meantime, I need to get her to come with me to the meeting with this Pierce person. No one knows Sitwell and Rumlow are dead or that I'm taking over." 

"Pierce know who you are?" 

"Who cares but he will soon." 

"You gotta get her some clothes Buck. She can't go to that dinner wearing your clothes." 

Bucky glared at Steve. He knows that. He didn't want to admit seeing you in his clothes stirred some things in him. 

"Get her whatever." Bucky waved to Steve. 

Steve looked at Sam who smirked. 

"Now, get the fuck out of here I'm done lookin' at you." Bucky sighed and typed away on his laptop.

🔫👨🏻

"What is all this?" You asked as Sam and Steve dropped off garment bags and boxes of clothes and shoes along with a full bag from Sephora. 

"Bossman says you're staying here until we no longer need you. Thought it be best to give you some clothes of your own." They both looked at you.

  No longer needed me. You gulped. 

"Did you go shopping for me?" 

You could have sworn both men blushed but all they did was shrug and leave, locking you in with your guard hawk on the other side.

"Fuckers." You mumbled and went to look at the clothes.

"Woah." You unzipped the garment bags and dug through them. Designer dresses, shirts, pants, shoes, and fancy accessories were strewn across your bed while you went through the pieces and held them up to examine. 

"How did they know my size?" You shuddered to think how. 

You carefully hung the clothes and put them away in the closet. The way you looked at it, if you were given clothes and the longer you helped them, they couldn't kill you. You had no idea how you could help them, but you were going to try since that meant staying alive. No way you going to die because of your deceased sketchy as hell boss. 

You shuddered thinking you were part of all this in someway but then you started to panic to your thoughts from the previous night. What if the authorities arrest you for aiding Brock? Your mind started whirling on the possibilities when a knock sounded at the door. 

It opened and you peeked your head out of the closet to see who it was.

"Be ready for 6pm. Dinner with Pierce. You're my new executive assistant. Congratulations on the promotion." Bucky stood in the doorframe of the bedroom. 

Was that a joke?

You were confused and shocked he was there and didn't send one of his goons to tell you this information and wondered why. He glanced at the pile of clothes on the bed and rolled his eyes. 

"Clean up that mess while you're at it. This isn't a pig sty." Then he turned to leave, with Clint locking the door after it shut.

🔫👨🏻

Bucky wandered the estate and came to the kitchen where he found Steve and Sam. 

"What the hell did you both do?" 

"What?" Sam looked over at him. 

"I said a few clothes, not the entire god damn store." 

Steve chuckled at his boss. 

"Who knows how long you plan on keeping her Buck. She's a chick and chicks need things." Steve shrugged. 

"How did you get her sizes?" 

"Had Loki break into her apartment and go through her things after Parker ran the background check on her. He said she's kind of a hermit; only ever had one overdue library book with a late fee she paid immediately. Minimal friends, no family, solid executive assistant too. Loki noticed some things and told us. He probably took some of her stuff for himself, you know how tricky Loki is." Steve shrugged and handed Bucky the file on you. 

Bucky snatched it, glaring at Sam and Steve before leaving to head to his office to learn all about his new assistant.

🔫👨🏻

"ClEaN uP tHaT MeSs." You mocked while hanging the rest of your new things. "Pompous asshole. Joke's on him, I wasn't even done." You muttered. 

The bed was now clear, and your new clothes were put away, not because he told you to, but because you wanted to. You still had Bucky's clothes, and you made sure to keep those separate, preferring to sleep and lounge in them since there wasn't anything comfortable in your new wardrobe. 

Do men still think women prance around in lingerie when they're at home alone? 

Ugh, men.

Bucky wouldn't mind though...not that he would find out what you sleep in... 

He would probably want that in a partner; someone to wear slinky lingerie for him and sit on his lap whenever he demanded it. Did he have a partner? Wife? A situationship? He seems single as do the other guys then you scolded yourself for thinking about their personal lives. You didn't want to befriend them if you were only a temporary situation.

You were grateful you had new clothes but were a little weirded out they had your exact measurements. While you were thinking about it, you were a lot weirded out since you were wondering who went shopping for your bras and underwear? 

Weird. 

The few times you've been out of your room, all you've seen are dudes, not a woman in sight. 

You had no idea how you could help seeing as how Pierce was new to Brock, but you will try your best if it means surviving.

🔫👨🏻

"We haven't got all night. Where is she?" Bucky grumbled. 

He stood waiting in the foyer with Sam and Steve on either side of him. Just as Sam was going to come and get you, you appeared on the staircase in front of Clint and walked down to meet them. Steve nudged Sam and they both looked up at you. 

Bucky looked to see what his men were watching at and he turned, looking at the stairs seeing you descend them. Bucky forced himself to look away and not watch your legs in those heels descend the staircase. 

He glanced at Sam and Steve who were gawking and he cleared his throat, glaring at his men who quicky averted their eyes from their unexpected house guest.

🔫👨🏻

Don't trip, don't trip, don't trip you thought while you descended the stairs. You wore heels and a black cocktail dress for this dinner meeting. Knowing where it was, you had to class yourself up for it, grateful you had a bag of goodies from Sephora. Your stomach was in knots with this dinner. You had no idea why you were going but you figured it was because of what you knew about Brock, but you were glad to get out of the mansion. 

"About time." Bucky mumbled. 

You glared at him and shrugged. Bucky's jaw ticked before he turned and took off out the door to the waiting SUV.

🔫👨🏻

You sat in the blacked-out SUV and fiddled with your fingers while you were driven to the restaurant. 

"Stop fidgeting." Came the deep voice of Bucky. He was on his phone and didn't look up from it. 

"I'm not." You boldly snarked back. You made a show of spreading your hands out on your thighs so he could see them. 

Damn, it was hard not to fiddle with your fingers, another habit you did when you were nervous.

He needed you for this meeting more than you needed him so you felt you could give him sass right back.

He looked over from his phone and grunted, then returned to it. 

Lovely. 

The SUV made its way into the city. 

"So, what are you having to eat?" You broke the awkward silence. 

Bucky didn't answer your question. You tended to ramble if you were nervous. 

"I'm torn between the steak or chicken myself, but I saw they had a cod dish people online have raved about." 

James sighed and whispered 'Jesus Christ' to himself before he shoved his phone in his suit jacket pocket, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. 

"What? You don't peruse restaurant menus online before visiting?" You gave him a side eye. 

"I don't have to." Came his reply. "Wait, where did you look at the menu? You don't have a phone." 

"I KNOW. Steve lent me his phone so I could plan my meal. i like to be prepared." 

"Of course he did." James sighed, leaning back against the head rest. 

"Well then Mr. Scary Fancypants. You're going to look like a dork when you can't figure out what you're going to have and we're all waiting for you to decide."

 "I think I can manage just fine." James snapped at you. 

You went to reply, but he held his hand up and said, "We're almost there so I need quiet to concentrate if you please." 

"Fine then." You huffed. 

You fiddled with your dress, not noticing the way James' eyes scanned your exposed legs and thighs.

James' jaw ticked at seeing the fabric rise, exposing your upper bare thighs when you moved. A part of his brain urged him to place his hand on your thigh and feel how warm and soft it was, but he held himself back. 

You were his hostage and when he was done with the information you could give him, well, he would have you eliminated. There was no room in his life for a fling with the informant, regardless of how pretty he thinks you are or how convenient it would be with your room down the hall from his own. 

He made a mental note to visit his club after this dinner. 

He was about to tell you to stop fidgeting when the SUV came to a stop outside the restaurant.

🔫👨🏻

Bucky placed his large hand on your lower back, guiding you to the table and a part of you wanted to curl into his warmth and the other part of you wanted to turn around and slap him. 

You made it to a table where an older man sat sipping an amber liquid in a short crystal glass. He looked up and his eyebrows rose, but he quickly composed himself. 

"Yes?" 

Bucky stood towering over the man. 

"Pierce." 

"Am I supposed to know you? Where's Brock?" He looked around for your deceased boss. 

Bucky pulled out your chair and helped you sit. 

"I'm James Barnes. Brock is no longer CEO. I've taken over." Bucky said. 

Pierce's eyes widened and he went to stand, but Bucky flashed his loaded holster in his jacket before he sat, making Pierce swallow and still. 

"Please, stay. I've heard the cod is good here." Bucky picked up the menu and looked it over. 

You had to hide a snort and did the same thing to keep yourself busy.

A waiter came by and Bucky ordered wine for you and water for himself. 

"And, who's this? Your woman?" Pierce pointed to you. 

You made a snort sound and saw Bucky's eyes flash at you before he calmly answered.

"She's here to take notes. You may remember seeing her copied in on emails from Brock since she was his assistant. She's mine now." 

Something about that statement made you fumble when you went to reach your wine glass and were thankful either men didn't notice.

Bucky placed the menu down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. You were handed a small tablet in the SUV, so you took it out and placed it on the table, looking like you were ready to record the meeting. 

"Now, what business do you have with Hydra Enterprises?" Bucky asked. 

Pierce shifted in his chair slightly. 

"I don't have to tell you anything. I answer to Brock..." 

"He's no longer here. I am. As the new CEO, it's my right to meet with all our associates and contractors. I'm sure Brock would agree." 

Pierce looked Bucky up and down but didn't say anything. He must have clued in to what Bucky had said.

The waiter came back to take your orders, so you ordered the chicken while Bucky ordered the cod and Pierce didn't order anything. 

You could tell he wanted to leave as soon as possible. 

"From my understanding, you were recently in Europe? Hydra doesn't have any offices there nor are they going to in the future. What were you really doing over there?" 

Pierce cleared his throat and shrugged at the question. 

The two men seeming to be in a standoff. You sat around and stared at each other. 

This was a pointless waste of time. 

"Um, from what I heard, Mr. Pierce, you were assisting Mr. Rumlow with expanding Hydra Enterprises by forming new divisions. Mr. Rumlow had told me a few weeks ago that your efforts were focused elsewhere and you should focus them here, at the Pier for the new shipping division of Hydra Enterprises." 

God, you felt like an idiot knowing NOW what that new 'shipping division' really is but you managed to stay composed. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow at you while Pierce scowled at you from across the table. 

"You know nothing, silly girl." 

"Watch it Pierce." Bucky growled. 

"From my understanding from being copied in on your last email correspondence, you had wanted to demolish the warehouses only to build new ones in their place. Mr. Rumlow reminded you those warehouses were perfectly fine in his last email. Why would you do that knowing it would cost the company millions and add construction time creating more delays?" You asked. 

The waiter came back and placed your plates down. Bucky slowly turned his head and watched you. 

"And for that matter, why would you insist on the sale be sped up at the site of the new pier, costing more in lawyer fees, building permits, and land transactions when Mr. Rumlow didn't approve of them in the first place? He had given you the money and approved the new build for a separate warehouse, but from what I saw in the last financial statement, no ground has been broken or permits filed, so where are those funds Brock gave you to manage?" 

Pierce was uncomfortable when he said, "This dinner is over. Congratulations on your promotion Barnes. I'm sure we'll see each other again." 

Pierce rose and buttoned his suit jacket. He turned and looked at you and said, "Give my regards to Brock." He smirked, then turned and left. 

Your heart was hammering wildly in your chest. 

The hell? 

Bucky picked up his cutlery and started eating.

 "The cod is good." He said, reaching for his water. 

This was the weirdest dinner you have ever been at. 

"So, that's it?" 

Bucky took a bite of the white fish and placed his cutlery down, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin. 

He looked over at you and said, "Yes." 

Then he proceeded to finish his dinner like nothing happened. 

Ok...

🔫👨🏻

"So, did you find anything new out?" Steve asked Bucky in his office. 

After you finished eating, you headed back to the mansion. You were escorted to your room and locked in with Clint guarding your door. 

Bucky, Sam, and Steve sat in the office. 

"Not really. Pierce seems like he was in on Brock's warehouse storage for the trafficking, but he's not connected directly to it, just for the land sale and new build at the pier. We've found out, he's just an associate. I've got guys trailing him and will inform me if he does anything. He'll be instantly eliminated if he steps out of line. I don't need to be associated to him."

 "How was Y/n?" Sam asked. 

Bucky's eyes darted to Sam. 

"She's fine." 

He didn't want to elaborate any further. He was surprised at your knowledge and the directness of your questions to a man like Pierce. He was pleased you didn't cower and clam up. 

Perhaps you would be useful to him throughout this process.

Steve watched his boss, then he looked over at Sam who was smirking from his chair, but they didn't dare say anything. 

"Cool. Good to know." Sam nodded, pleased with himself for following his gut feeling about you. 

"Well, I'm headed out." Sam rose and Steve followed.

 "I've got eyes on the pier. You may want to check-in with Parker tomorrow and get the blueprints and security logs. According to the documents, a shipment is scheduled in a few days. I'll need you both down there observing." 

"You don't want us to go in and dismantle the operation? I can have a team ready in half an hour." 

"Not yet. I need to learn a little about the people involved first. From the financials Parker found with Y/n's login, there are a lot of investigations to do but Parker and his team is on it. When word gets out soon that Brock and Sitwell have been eliminated, then it's go-time for us." 

"Fair enough." Steve shrugged before they left the office.

Bucky rocked back in his chair and sighed, running a hand over his neck. 

He was in for a long night forgoing his earlier plan to visit his club. He wanted to work on formulating a plan and learn everything he can about his new personal assistant. 

Something tells him, you're going to be his biggest asset, but he's not yet sure how.

He was relentless, the super-soldier stamina turning every movement into a perfect, devastating glide. His cock filled you completely, thick and hard, stretching you in that way that made your toes curl and your vision blur at the edges.

Sweat slicked his forehead, dark hair falling into those storm-blue eyes as he watched you, intense and unblinking.

"That's it, doll," he growled, voice low and rough like gravel. "Take me. Just like that."

His hips snapped forward harder, the wet sound of your bodies meeting obscene in the quiet room.

You clenched around him, thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter in your core.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.

You were close and he knew it.

Bucky always knew, reading your body like a mission briefing.

One hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit with practiced precision.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let go for me."

The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you with white-hot intensity. Your back arched, walls pulsing around him as you cried out his name. Bucky groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

"Fuck—I'm—" He thrust once, twice more, then buried himself to the hilt.

You felt the hot spill of him inside you, pulse after pulse as he came hard, filling you completely.

His body shuddered against yours, metal fingers curling into the sheets beside your head with a soft metallic creak.

For a long moment, he stayed there, cock twitching with the aftershocks, buried deep where he belonged.

Bucky didn't pull out.

Instead, he let out a shaky breath, lips brushing your collarbone as he savored the heat of you around him.

The feeling was addictive—the slick warmth, the way your body still fluttered faintly from your climax, milking every last drop.

He shifted slightly, just enough to make you both gasp at the sensitivity, but he stayed nestled inside, unwilling to break the connection.

"Goddamn," he murmured against your skin, voice husky with satisfaction and something darker, hungrier. "Feels too good to leave. So warm... so perfect."

His hips gave a lazy roll, testing, and you felt him—still half-hard, but already thickening again, the length of him growing firmer with each subtle movement.

Bucky's breath hitched, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as realization dawned. He lifted his head, blue eyes meeting yours with a wicked, boyish grin that made your stomach flip.

"Looks like I'm not done with you yet," he said, nipping at your lower lip. "Guess we're going for round two already, baby"

You laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a moan as he rocked forward again, slower this time, deliberate.

The oversensitivity made everything sharper, every inch of him dragging along your walls in a way that bordered on too much and not enough. His hand slid down your side, cool palm cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbled under his touch.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice laced with awe and lust.

"Already getting hard again just from being inside you. Can't help it. You're ruining me, doll."

Bucky kissed you deeply, tongue exploring as his hips began to build a new rhythm.

This time it was unhurried, savoring—long, deep strokes that had you wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The wet slide of him, slick with both your releases, made each thrust smoother, filthier.

You could feel the evidence of his first orgasm leaking out around him, but he didn't seem to care. If anything, it spurred him on, a possessive growl escaping as he fucked his cum deeper into you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. "Bucky... yes—"

He shifted angles, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

The metal arm hooked under your knee, spreading you wider for him, opening you up completely.

"Mine," he breathed, the word a vow against your throat. "All mine."

His pace quickened gradually, the bed creaking under the force of his powerful body. Flesh and metal hands worshipped you—gripping, caressing, pinning you down in the most delicious way.

Pleasure built again, slower but no less intense, coiling in your belly like a live wire. Bucky's forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling as he drove into you.

"Wanna feel you come around me again. Wanna stay right here... fuck, just like this."

You shattered for the second time, clenching hard around his now fully hard cock. Bucky cursed, hips snapping forward with renewed urgency, chasing that edge once more. But this round, he didn't hold back—he fucked you through it, drawing out every cry and whimper until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

Only when you were both gasping, bodies slick and spent, did he finally slow. But even then, he lingered inside you, softening gradually while pressing lazy kisses along your jaw.

"Round three?" you teased weakly, fingers tracing the scars where metal met flesh on his shoulder.

And the privilege of waking up the sweetest little person he'd ever known.

His daughter.

Sweet little Rebecca—or becca as bucky liked to call her—still wonderfully round in all the places toddlers were meant to be. Chunky wrists with little bracelet-like dimples. Soft thighs that made every pair of leggings look stuffed. Permanently rosy cheeks that begged to be kissed.

And every single morning, Bucky insisted on waking her himself. It had quietly become his favorite part of the day.

You would already be downstairs most mornings, making breakfast when you hear Bucky's footsteps heading toward the nursery instead of the kitchen.

Without fail.

Every day.

"You know," you’d called one morning while whisking pancake batter, "you could let her wake up on her own."

"I could."

"But you won't?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

His answer came immediately. "Cause I like seeing the moment she remembers she's my kid."

It made no sense, but to him, it meant everything.

He padded silently down the hallway, careful to avoid the one floorboard that always creaked, and slowly pushed open the nursery door.

The room was washed in soft golden light. Nursery curtains glowing with morning sunlight. The room smelled faintly of baby lotion and lavender and detergent.

And fast asleep in the middle of her little crib, somehow having rotated herself almost completely sideways during the night, one tiny foot was sticking out from under the blanket, was her.

Ten months old Rebecca barnes whose palm was the same size of bucky's heart because ever since the day she had arrived, the little fingers had iron grip on his heart.

Her favorite stuffed bunny was upside down beside her. Her little mouth hung open ever so slightly. Tiny body sprawled dramatically across the bed. Blanket kicked halfway off. One sock missing.

And her hair...Her hair deserved its own zip code. It stuck up in every possible direction. A few curls falling into her eyes resting beside the lashes of her close eyelids.

Bucky leaned against the doorway and just...Looked.

His heart never seemed prepared for this sight. Every morning he thought ‘How did we make something this precious?’

He padded over quietly. Tiptoeing so the floorboards won’t creak beneath him.

She slept with one little fist tucked under her cheek.

Smushy.

Squishy.

Perfect.

He crouched beside the bed. Metal fingers stayed carefully tucked against his palm while his flesh hand reached out.

His fingertips slid gently through the wild nest of curls. "Look at that bed hair..." his voice was barely louder than a whisper. "My goodness."

Another tiny stroke over her head. "What happened to you?" He paused as the little girl frowned in her sleep. "I think birds moved in."

She stayed asleep through bucky’s rambling. Probably already accustomed to having a dad who loved talking to her.

He smiled, a metal finger skimming over her perfectly round, squishy cheek. "You got squirrels living up here, sweetheart?"

Her nose scrunched. Just a little, barest of the movement.

Bucky grinned immediately. "There she is." His fingers rubbed slow circles over her scalp as he continued talking.

"So pretty..."

Another stroke.

"My sleepy little bear."

Another caress.

"My chunky monkey."

He poked one of her cheeks. "Oh no! What happened to these?" He gently squished both cheeks together. "They got all smushy."

He couldn’t resist pressing soft kisses on her cheeks "Mama's gonna need to fluff these back up."

A tiny sleepy grumble sounded from her and bucky’s smile widened "There is my grumpy girl"

One eyelid slowlyy cracked open, just enough to reveal one sleepy blue eye. It stared at him blankly before closing again.

"No, no." He chuckled. "You can't trick Daddy."

HIs lips pressed onto her forehead in another kiss "I saw your eye."

She made the tiniest protesting noise. "Nuh..."

"Oh yes."

"Nuh."

"Oh yes."

He stroked the little curls away from her face as he saw a pout forming on the tiny mouth of his sleepy baby. "Can Daddy see those beautiful eyes?"

Silence.

"I think they're hiding."

"Did they disappear?"

He gasped dramatically. "I'll have to tell Mama." The kid paid no heed to his words, still pretemding to sleep. "My baby's eyes are gone!"

That earned him another sleepy protest. "Dada..."

"There they are!" He beamed as she opened her eyes to frown at him, which looked eerily similar to the disappointed glare you’d give him when he talked about adopting yet another kitten. "I knew they were in there."

She finally blinked both eyes open, slowly. Like opening them required tremendous effort and simply stared. Processing the surrounding in the sleepy haze, until she noticed her favourite person leaning over the crib, smiling at her.

The smallest smile spread across her face despite her offense at being waked from her sleep. "Dada..."

His heart melted into absolute mush. "There she is." He kissed her forehead. “Morning, sunshine."

Tiny arms reached toward him automatically. Like she'd done it every morning of her life. She didn't even think about it anymore. She simply expected Daddy to be there.

Sometimes when she woke up on her own and bucky wasn't around immediately or you—the spare human—found her in the morning before he did, the sleepy little glare your grumpy girl gave you was enough to summon a tiny thunderstorm.

But it wasn't like she didn't love you. She would run to you to show her stick drawings and babble away telling you every silly story she came up with while you brush her hair. She loved you with all her tiny heart, you were her mom after all. But mornings belonged to Daddy. No matter what, he was the person she expected to see when she opened her eyes everyday.

Bucky gathered her carefully into his arms. "Oh..." He groaned dramatically. "What is this?" He bounced her once. "Someone got heavier."

You always teased him that he said this every single day.

He did.

Because every single day she somehow felt bigger than yesterday. "My goodness." He settled onto the rocking chair. "I think somebody ate rocks."

She rested her head against his shoulder. Already melting back into sleep.

"No?" He rubbed her back slowly. "You just got extra cuddly?"

She answered in a tiny nod against his shirt, still fighting sleep. "I thought so."

The rocking chair creaked gently as bucky swayed back and forth, wrapping both arms around her. She fit perfectly against his chest.

Always had.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head sighing contentedly. "I missed my morning cuddle."

She mumbled something unintelligible.

"I know." bucky kissed the top of her head "I missed you too."

By the time you abandoned making breakfast to join them in the nursery because of overwhelming FOMO, she was drifting again.

Bucky knew all the signs. The heavy breathing. The completely limp body. The tiny fingers relaxing around his shirt.

And you had walked in to the sight you have the pleasure to see almost every morning.

Bucky rocking your little girl in the chair while she stayed tucked against his chest like it was the most comfy spot in the whole house.

You simply looked at him for a moment. His chin resting on the messy hair of your half-asleep toddler curled against his chest. He looked happier like this than you had ever seen.

"Bucky" you whispered from the doorway.

He looked over, eyes brightening at the sight of you "Hey."

You smiled knowingly. "She's falling asleep again."

"I know."

"So why are you still rocking her?"

He looked genuinely confused. "Cause she's comfy."

"You know she'll sleep another hour if you keep this up."

"I know."

You folded your arms. "So..."

"So..?"

"...you're still going to keep cuddling her?"

He looked down at the tiny girl. One chunky little arm was wrapped around his neck. The other had somehow found his hair. She was lightly snoring against his chest.

He looked back at you. "I've waited almost a hundred years to have someone who wants morning cuddles." His voice was quiet, gentle. "I'm gonna hold her as long as she'll let me."

Your eyes softened instantly. There wasn't a single teasing remark left. Because you knew. You knew exactly where that sentence came from.

THe stolen decades of his life, the denied comfort of feeling human, every emotion weaponised against him.

But now...

Now his mornings were filled with sleepy giggles, tangled curls, and warm little hugs. And he wasn't taking a second of it for granted.

You crossed the room before leaning down and kissing the top of his head then the toddler’s.

"You know she's going to stop wanting to be carried someday."

"I know."

"And one day she'll wake up before you demanding pancakes."

"I know."

"And eventually she'll probably tell you she's too old for morning cuddles."

He swallowed. "I know."

You smiled softly. "So enjoy every minute."

He looked down at the tiny girl sleeping peacefully against him. "I plan to."

He gently kissed one smushy cheek. Then another. "My sleepy little bug."

A tiny smile appeared on the toddler's face even in her sleep. As if somewhere in her dreams she knew, daddy was holding her.

And as long as he was holding her, mornings were warm, safe, and full of whispered compliments about messy bed hair, squishy cheeks, and the chunkiest little arms in the whole wide world.

Dividers by @diviniyae

Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514, @globetrotter28, @buckysdecaflove, @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @v33mustdie, @star-yawnznn, @buckybsdoll

The apartment door swings open just after eight in the morning, and before Bucky can even get both boots inside, Duke is barreling across the hardwood floors. Your golden retriever practically launches himself into Bucky's chest with enough force to knock over most people, but your husband barely rocks back on his heels. He laughs, catching the oversized dog with one arm while struggling to shut the door behind him.

"Easy there, buddy," he chuckles, scratching behind Duke's ears. "Miss me?"

The dog answers with an excited whine and a frantic wag of his tail.

"Yeah," Bucky grins. "Missed you too."

You watch the reunion from the kitchen, coffee warming your hands as you lean against the island. It's unfair how good he looks after a twenty-four-hour shift. His navy station shirt clings to his broad chest, the department logo stretched slightly over muscles earned through years of carrying hoses, ladders, and people to safety. His turnout pants still hang low on his hips with the suspenders pushed down, soot smudges streak one cheek, and flattened curls peek out from where his helmet had been sitting all night.

He looks exhausted.

He also looks ridiculously handsome.

The second his blue eyes find yours, every bit of fatigue softens into something warmer.

"Hi, sweetheart."

Your smile comes without thinking.

"Hi, firefighter."

The sleepy grin that spreads across his face could melt glaciers.

"Come here."

You abandon your coffee immediately, crossing the room until he opens an arm for you. You fit yourself against his chest as naturally as breathing, wrapping your arms around his waist while he buries his face against the top of your head. His embrace is heavy, warm, and familiar, the kind that always makes the rest of the world disappear.

"You smell," you mumble into his shirt.

"I know."

"You smell really bad."

"I know."

You wrinkle your nose dramatically before smiling against his chest. "...I kinda like it."

His laugh rumbles beneath your cheek, shaking both of you.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

His metal hand drifts slowly up and down your back while his flesh one cradles the back of your head, holding you close as though he hasn't seen you in weeks instead of one shift. These moments have become sacred over the years. No matter how exhausting the calls were or how little sleep he managed to steal between alarms, he always comes home and finds you first.

Bucky loves being a firefighter. He loves the chaos that somehow feels organized inside the station, loves cooking meals with his crew between calls, loves teaching fire safety to elementary school kids who stare at him like he's stepped straight out of a comic book. Helping people gives him a purpose he'd spent decades believing he'd never deserve.

You love that he found that purpose.

You just hate everything that comes with it.

Every news alert about a structure fire makes your stomach twist before you can stop it. Every siren echoing through Brooklyn has you glancing instinctively toward your phone. You never tell him how often you check the department's incident reports or how your heart pounds whenever his shift runs longer than expected. He already carries enough weight on those impossibly broad shoulders. He doesn't need yours too.

A week later, you're halfway through making dinner when your phone buzzes across the counter.

The screen lights up with one word.

James.

Your stomach immediately sinks.

He never calls during a shift.

"Bucky?" you answer, already abandoning the cutting board.

"Hey, doll."

His voice is calm.

Too calm.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Liar."

He sighs softly, and you hear voices in the background before he speaks again.

"We had a warehouse fire."

Every muscle in your body locks.

"I'm okay," he says quickly. "Before you ask, I'm okay."

"You got hurt."

"A little."

"Bucky."

"It's smoke inhalation."

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you as you grip the counter.

"Bucky..."

"They're just making me get checked out."

"You sound awful."

"I probably do."

Your voice softens into something dangerously quiet.

"Which hospital?"

Silence.

"...James."

Another sigh.

"Brooklyn Methodist."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You really don't have to—"

The call ends before he can finish the sentence.

You find him sitting on the edge of an emergency room bed looking deeply irritated by the entire situation. A pulse oximeter clips onto one finger, oxygen rests beneath his nose, and someone has convinced him to trade his smoke-soaked shirt for a hospital gown that's hanging open across his broad shoulders. Despite all of it, he still looks more embarrassed than injured.

The second he sees you, his expression softens.

"Oh, honey."

"I told you I'm fine."

"You have oxygen in your nose."

"It's precautionary."

You don't bother arguing. Instead, you walk straight over, cup his soot-streaked face between your hands, and search every inch of him for something worse than he's admitting. His skin is warm beneath your palms. His breathing is steady. His eyes are bright.

He's here.

The tears hit before you can stop them.

"I'm mad at you," you whisper.

"I know."

"You scared me."

"I know."

"You always tell me to answer your texts because you worry, and then you call me from the emergency room like that's somehow less terrifying?"

His mouth twitches despite himself.

"I didn't think that one through."

"No."

"You gonna keep yelling at me?"

"I might."

"I think you'd look pretty cute doing it."

A watery laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

"You're impossible."

He reaches for your hand, weaving your fingers together carefully.

"I'm okay," he says again, quieter this time. "I promise."

The doctor tells you exactly the same thing a few minutes later. Minor smoke inhalation. A few hours of oxygen. Plenty of water, plenty of rest, and no lasting damage.

You believe the doctor.

But hearing Bucky promise he'll be okay somehow settles your heart in a way nothing else can.

Three days later, he's on mandatory leave.

Which sounds relaxing in theory.

In reality, it's driving you insane.

By lunchtime, he's reorganized the spice cabinet, fixed the squeaky bathroom door, vacuumed twice, folded every towel in the apartment, alphabetized your tea collection, and somehow decided the pantry shelves were inefficient.

"Bucky."

"Hm?"

"Sit down."

"I am sitting down."

"You're reorganizing paprika."

"It was next to the cinnamon."

"So?"

He looks at you as though you've committed an actual crime.

"So?"

You blink.

"...They're spices."

"They're completely different spices."

You dissolve into laughter.

"You spend your days running into burning buildings and somehow this is what bothers you?"

"Organization is important."

"You climbed onto the roof yesterday."

"The gutters needed cleaning."

"We live on the third floor."

"I borrowed a ladder."

"You borrowed a ladder because you couldn't sit still for one afternoon."

He can't even argue with that.

Instead, he simply smiles sheepishly as you walk over until you're standing between his knees. His hands settle instinctively on your hips, thumbs rubbing absent circles through your shirt.

"You spend every day taking care of everyone else," you murmur. "You save people. You carry seventy pounds of gear into burning buildings. You deserve to rest."

For the first time all week, he doesn't immediately come up with another project.

Instead, he lowers his forehead against yours and quietly admits, "I don't really know how."

Your heart aches.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you smile softly before brushing your nose against his.

"Then let me teach you."

His blue eyes lift to meet yours.

"How?"

"By reminding you that you don't always have to be everyone's hero."

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"What if I only wanna be yours?"

You kiss him before he can see the tears gathering in your eyes, slow and lingering, pouring every unspoken feeling into the gentle press of your lips. When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his once more and smile.

"You already are."

The apartment was quiet in the way only late evenings could be.

Rain tapped softly against the windows while a lamp in the corner painted everything gold. The television had been forgotten somewhere behind the gentle hum of the room. A mug of tea cooled between your hands as you sat curled against Bucky on the couch, his arm draped over your shoulders, his thumb lazily tracing circles over your sleeve.

It was one of those rare nights where neither of you felt the need to fill every silence.

You tipped your head back to look at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

He looked down with that familiar softness that seemed reserved only for you.

“You usually do.”

You smiled.

“How old do you think you are?”

His brows pinched together.

“I know,” you laughed quietly. “You’re technically… what? A hundred and ten? A hundred and something?”

He groaned.

“Please don’t remind me.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You nudged him with your shoulder.

“No, I mean… how old do you feel?”

That made him pause.

His eyes drifted toward the rain streaking across the window.

For a long while, he didn’t answer.

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

He sighed through his nose.

“I think…”

Another silence.

“Maybe thirty two.”

You blinked.

“Thirty two?”

He nodded slowly.

“Somewhere around there.”

“Why?”

His fingers stopped moving against your arm.

“Because that’s where everything stopped making sense.”

You looked at him without saying anything.

“When I think about who I was…” he murmured, “…he wasn’t twenty five anymore. He’d already seen enough to lose whatever made him feel young. He was tired. He was responsible. He thought he knew what the rest of his life looked like.”

A sad smile tugged at his lips.

“I guess I never got any farther than that.”

The words settled between you.

You reached for his hand.

His metal fingers instinctively folded around yours.

“I missed the part where everyone else figured life out.”

“You didn’t miss it.”

“I did.”

He looked down at your intertwined hands.

“People my age back then… they got married. Had kids. Grew old. Their backs started hurting because they slept wrong.”

A small laugh escaped him.

“They argued over lawn care.”

You laughed too.

“They definitely argued over lawn care.”

“I would’ve argued over lawn care.”

“I believe that.”

“I would’ve been unbearable.”

“You would’ve been adorable.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I would’ve insisted the grass needed another inch.”

“And I would’ve ignored you.”

“You would’ve regretted that.”

“I would’ve simply reminded you that we don’t even own a lawn.”

A smile finally reached his eyes.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“You making fun of me.”

“It’s one of my favorite hobbies.”

“I noticed.”

The laughter faded as naturally as it had come.

His gaze settled somewhere beyond the room again.

“I don’t feel old,” he admitted quietly.

“I feel… interrupted.”

Your heart tightened.

“Like someone hit pause.”

His voice had become almost distant.

“Everyone else kept moving. Families got bigger. Cities changed. Music changed. Languages changed.”

He swallowed.

“I woke up over and over in different decades, but I never actually got to live in any of them.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“I still don’t know who I would’ve been.”

He said it so softly you almost missed it.

“I think about him sometimes.”

“The version of you who got to stay?”

He nodded.

“I wonder if he would’ve had gray hair.”

“I think he would’ve complained about it.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“He would’ve sworn every gray hair came from Steve.”

Bucky chuckled.

“That part’s probably true.”

“And Sam would’ve agreed.”

“He definitely would’ve agreed.”

Another quiet settled over the room.

Not heavy.

Just thoughtful.

After a while, you spoke again.

“I don’t think you’re thirty two.”

He looked over.

“No?”

“I think you’re every age you’ve survived.”

His expression softened.

“You’ve been twenty five.”

You squeezed his hand.

“You’ve been thirty two.”

You brushed your thumb over his knuckles.

“You’ve been eighty years of stolen time.”

His eyes never left yours.

“And you’ve been the man sitting beside me on this couch.”

A faint shine gathered in his blue eyes.

“I don’t know if those are all the same person.”

“I do.”

He looked unconvinced.

“I’ve met every version.”

“You’ve met one.”

“No.”

You smiled.

“I’ve met the shy one who still gets embarrassed when I compliment him.”

His cheeks pinked just enough to prove your point.

“I’ve met the grumpy one who pretends he doesn’t like cheesy movies until he cries at the ending.”

“I do not cry.”

“You absolutely do.”

“My eyes water.”

“Right.”

“They’re different.”

“Very.”

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth again.

“I’ve met the little boy who still gets excited when it snows.”

“I don’t…”

“You made three snow angels last winter.”

“…They were strategically placed.”

“For what purpose?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

You laughed, and this time he laughed with you.

Bright.

Warm.

Real.

When it faded, you reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind his ear.

“I’ve met the soldier.”

You traced the line of his jaw.

“I’ve met the man who still wakes up from nightmares.”

Your fingers settled gently against his cheek.

“I’ve met the one who’s learning how to laugh without feeling guilty.”

His eyes closed for a brief second, leaning into your touch.

“And every single one of them has loved me.”

When he opened his eyes again, they were impossibly soft.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“No.”

His face fell for half a heartbeat before you smiled.

“You deserve someone.”

You rested your forehead against his.

“And I’m very lucky it gets to be me.”

He let out the smallest, shakiest laugh.

“You always know what to say.”

“I usually don’t.”

“You do.”

“I mostly just make it up.”

“It works.”

His hand rose to cradle your face.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The rain continued its quiet rhythm outside.

“I still wish I could’ve grown old the normal way,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I wanted wrinkles that I earned.”

“You’ll earn them.”

“I wanted birthdays that felt ordinary.”

“You’ll have those too.”

“I wanted decades that belonged to me.”

You smiled through the sting behind your eyes.

“They still can.”

He searched your face.

“How?”

You kissed his forehead.

“One Tuesday at a time.”

A tiny smile appeared.

Then another.

Until the sadness loosened its grip just enough.

“You know,” you murmured, “thirty two isn’t a bad age.”

“No?”

“No.”

You tucked yourself a little closer against him.

“You’ve still got plenty of time to become the old man who argues about lawn care.”

He laughed quietly, wrapping both arms around you until you disappeared against his chest.

“I can’t wait.”

“I know.”

“And when I’m eighty five…”

“You’ll still be arguing about the grass.”

“You’ll still ignore me.”

“Probably.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“I think I’d like that life.”

You smiled into his sweater.

“So would I.”

Outside, the rain kept falling.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

Chapter 7 - Healing Under His Watch

The condo was silent except for the low, steady hum of the city far below.

Bucky stepped through the private elevator doors just before dawn, the metallic scent of blood still clinging to his skin despite the scalding shower he’d taken at the mansion and the fresh clothes he’d changed into. His dark gray dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbows, black trousers tailored sharp. No trace of Billy remained on him—externally. Internally, the satisfaction of the kill still simmered, a dark warmth in his veins.

He moved through the penthouse like a shadow, boots silent on the hardwood. The hallway to the master bedroom was lit only by the soft blue glow of the night-lights he’d had installed years ago for security cameras, not comfort. He paused outside the door, hand on the knob, listening.

Nothing. Just the faint, even rhythm of your breathing.

He pushed the door open slowly.

Moonlight spilled across the bed from the half-open drapes, painting silver stripes over the charcoal sheets. You were curled on your side, facing away from him, knees drawn up, one hand tucked under your cheek. His black pajama shirt swallowed you; the collar had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the delicate line of your collarbone and the faint purple bloom of a bruise that hadn’t been there when he left.

Bucky crossed the room without sound and lowered himself to the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped slightly under his weight. You didn’t stir.

He reached out—slow, reverent—and brushed a strand of hair from your temple. His fingertips lingered, tracing the soft curve of your cheek, careful not to graze the swollen edge of your black eye. Your skin was warm. Alive. Safe.

His thumb stroked once, twice, along your hairline.

You sighed in your sleep—a small, trusting sound—and nestled deeper into the pillow.

Something tight in his chest loosened.

He’d done it. The man who’d hurt you no longer breathed. The world was cleaner for it. And you—his beautiful, broken angel—were here, in his bed, wearing his clothes, sleeping under his roof where no one could reach you.

He sat there for nearly an hour, stroking your hair in slow, rhythmic passes, watching the gentle rise and fall of your ribs, memorizing the way your lashes fluttered against bruised cheeks. The possessiveness that had been a slow burn for weeks now felt like a furnace. You were his to protect. His to heal. His to keep.

Eventually the sky outside began to lighten from black to bruised purple. He leaned down, pressed the lightest kiss to your temple—barely a brush of lips—and whispered against your skin,

“Sleep, baby girl. I’ve got you.”

Then he slipped out as quietly as he’d come.

Hours later you woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows.

For a blissful second, your mind was blank—soft sheets, warm light, the faint scent of clean cotton and cedar. Then reality crashed in: the dull throb in your cheek, the ache in your ribs when you breathed too deeply, the swollen tightness around your left eye. You sat up slowly, muscles protesting, and caught your reflection in the full-length mirror across the room.

Your face was a map of violence.

The left eye was nearly swollen shut, ringed in deep violet that bled into sickly green at the edges. Your lip was still split, crusted at the corner. Bruises bloomed across your jaw and throat—finger-shaped on your upper arms, mottled handprints on your ribs visible beneath the loose neck of Bucky’s shirt. You looked small. Broken.

Tears pricked your eyes. You blinked them back hard, swallowed the lump in your throat, and forced yourself to stand. Every movement hurt, but you refused to cry. Not here. Not in his home.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, following the scent of coffee and something buttery.

Bucky was in the living room, seated on the charcoal sectional with an open book in his lap—something old, leather-bound. He wore a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled, top two buttons undone, dark trousers. No suit jacket. No blood. He looked up the second you appeared in the doorway, book forgotten.

He was across the room in three strides.

“Morning Baby girl,” he said, voice thick with concern. “How are you feeling?”

You managed a small, shaky smile. “Sore. But… I’m okay.”

His eyes scanned you—face, arms, the way you held yourself like every breath cost something. “Pain level?”

“Manageable,” you lied.

He didn’t buy it. “Come here.”

He guided you to the couch with a hand ghost-light on your lower back. You sank down carefully. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of prescription painkillers and a glass of water.

“Two,” he said, shaking them into your palm. “They’re the good ones—non-drowsy.”

Your hands shook when you reached for the glass. Bucky noticed immediately. He wrapped his larger hands around yours, steadying the glass so you could drink without spilling.

You swallowed the pills, then met his eyes. “I’m so sorry this happened,” he said quietly. “For all of it.”

You shook your head. “Thank you. For… for everything. For letting me stay. For being kind. You don’t have to do any of this, Mr. Barnes.”

His brow furrowed. “Don’t call me that. Not here. Not with me.”

You bit your lip—winced at the sting. “Sorry. Bucky. I just… I don’t want to be a bother. Or inconvenience you.”

He leaned closer, eyes fierce but gentle. “You are never a bother to me. Ever. And you will never inconvenience me. Understand?”

You nodded slowly.

He studied your face for a long moment. “Can I look at you? Check the bruising?”

You gave a small nod.

He cupped your face with both hands—careful, thumbs resting just under your jaw—and tilted your head gently into the light. His touch was warm, steady. You felt the calluses on his palms, the faint ridges of old scars.

His gaze darkened when he saw the full extent of the black eye, the way the purple had deepened overnight.

Then your eyes dropped to his hands.

His knuckles were raw—split, scabbed over in places, fresh bruises blooming across the tattoos. You reached out without thinking, catching his wrists and turning his hands palm-up in yours.

Your thumbs brushed lightly over the torn skin.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly. “Did you… get these treated?”

Bucky froze.

You—bruised, battered, barely able to stand—were asking about his hands.

A slow, almost disbelieving smile curved his mouth.

“They’re nothing,” he murmured. “Just scrapes.”

You didn’t let go. Your thumbs kept moving in gentle circles.

He lifted your joined hands slowly, pressed his lips to your knuckles—soft, lingering.

You gave him the smallest, shyest smile.

Something triumphant flickered in his chest.

He stood, keeping your hand in his. “Come on. Breakfast is coming. Dr. Cho will be here in an hour to check on you.”

The food arrived minutes later—fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, fresh fruit, warm croissants, tea exactly the way you liked it (with extra sugar). Bucky made sure you ate, nudging plates closer, refilling your tea, watching with quiet satisfaction every time you took a bite.

You kept thanking him—soft, sincere. He brushed each one off with a gentle “Eat, baby girl.”

Dr. Helen Cho arrived precisely on time, medical bag in hand, smile calm and professional.

Bucky stood against the wall like a sentinel—arms crossed, eyes never leaving you—while she examined you on the couch. She checked your pupils, your ribs, gently palpated the bruises. You winced once when she pressed lightly on your side.

Bucky flinched visibly. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked.

“Severe contusions,” Helen said quietly. “No fractures, but you’ll be sore for at least a week. Ice twenty minutes on, twenty off. Arnica cream twice a day. I’ll leave more pain meds.”

She handed you a small tube of bruise cream and a list of instructions.

When she left, Bucky followed her to the door, exchanged a few low words, then returned.

You were sitting on the edge of the couch, staring at the cream.

He knelt in front of you.

“Turn around,” he said gently. “Let me put this on the ones you can’t reach.”

You hesitated—then nodded.

He helped you slip the shirt off your shoulders, keeping the front draped modestly over your chest. His hands were careful as he squeezed cream onto his fingers and smoothed it over the hand-shaped bruises on your upper back, the mottled purple on your shoulder blades, the deep fingerprints along your ribs.

Every touch was slow. Reverent.

“You don’t have to hide them from me,” he murmured. “Not anymore.”

You shivered—not from cold.

His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary on the curve of your spine.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “And I’m going to take care of you until every mark fades.”

Over the next few days, the condo became your world.

Bucky canceled every meeting—ruthlessly. No calls. No visitors except Helen, who came daily. He had new clothes delivered—soft pajamas in silk and cotton, loungewear, underwear, everything in your exact size. When you protested, cheeks burning, he simply said, “You need clothes, baby girl. Let me do this.”

You slept a lot—your body demanding rest. When you woke, he was there: bringing tea, reading beside you, playing your favorite soft jazz on the sound system because he remembered you loved it.

His men guarded the building discreetly—unseen, but you felt their presence like a shield.

One night you fell asleep early, curled under the covers in his bed. Bucky sat in the living room with his laptop, the only light coming from the screen.

He opened the encrypted files Sam had sent earlier—deeper background, the kind even his first dossier hadn’t touched.

The truth unfolded in cold black and white.

Your father—once a decent man—had spiraled after your mother’s death. Alcohol. Gambling. Debts piled high with the kind of people who didn’t forgive. He’d taken his anger out on you when the liquor spoke loudest—shoves, slaps, nights you locked yourself in your room. He drank himself to liver failure five years ago. The debts didn’t die with him. They passed to you—quietly, legally, relentlessly. You’d been paying them off ever since, dollar by dollar, gig by gig, performance by performance.

The pieces clicked.

Why you’d stayed at the Velvet Room despite Billy’s hands.

Why you never had savings.

Why you’d flinched at loud voices.

Why you’d given away most of the tips he’d pressed into your palm.

Bucky stared at the screen until the words blurred.

His jaw worked. His fists clenched on the edge of the laptop.

Then he closed it slowly.

He looked toward the hallway—toward the bedroom where you slept, safe, healing, wearing his clothes.

The debts were still out there.

Someone still owned a piece of you.

And Bucky Barnes did not share.

He leaned back, eyes narrowing in the dark.

Soon, he thought.

Very soon.

Those debts would disappear.

And so would anyone who ever tried to collect.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.

You notice every single one of them.

You always do.

Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.

God.

You swallow.

“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.

His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”

You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”

His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod too fast. “Mhm.”

Another pause.

His thumb keeps moving.

“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”

Your face burns.

“I—no, I haven’t.”

Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.

“Doll.”

And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.

“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”

His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.

“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”

“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You might actually pass away.

You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.

“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”

Silence.

Oh God.

You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—

“Oh.”

It’s soft. Almost breathless.

You risk a glance up.

Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.

His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”

“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”

“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.

That does something to him.

You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.

Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.

His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.

You go easily, curling into his side.

And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.

“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.

Safe.

Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.

“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”

“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”

Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.

“I always want you close,” you admit.

That completely ruins him.

You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.

“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”

You nod against his chest.

“Okay.”

His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.

You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.

Bucky was going to have words with Sam. 

He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”

“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”

You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position. 

“Hey, feet down.”

You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”

Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”

Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”

Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything. 

“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him. 

"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that." 

Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add. 

The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments. 

“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you. 

Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”

“I’m a good driver!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”

Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS. 

“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”

Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.

“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio. 

It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders. 

The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement. 

You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night. 

The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”

You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.

“Sounds good.”

—-

“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.

The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”

Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time. 

The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.” 

You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly. 

Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else. 

“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more. 

“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud airconditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”

Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”

“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air-conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”

Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”

Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”

Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting. 

His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”

Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.

He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him. 

What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.

The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying. 

“Good shower?” He asks tentatively. 

You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like. 

“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”

Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”

“Go for it.” 

Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.

A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”

Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”

In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”

“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”

“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all. 

“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”

“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”

“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark. 

“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you pick up?”

 There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.” It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared. 

“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”

Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap. 

This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like your something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark. 

Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.

“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”

"Yeah, I know," you rolled your eyes. "Bucky? Truth or dare?"

"Dare," he decided.

You looked around the room quickly. "Pick up... that!" you instructed as you pointed at the heavy-looking sofa chair in the corner.

"That's all you want me to do? Redecorate?" he rolled his eyes.

"Bet you can't hold it over your head with one hand," you challenged with a smile.

He took a sip of his drink, meaning he was refusing to take the dare, and Sam groaned in disappointment. "He totally could, he's just too lazy to get up!" Sam accused.

"Fine, fine," Bucky relented, setting his drink down. Standing up and approaching it, he turned back to look at you first. "Vibranium arm or--?"

"Surprise me," you shrugged playfully, though you were honestly surprised already that he could apparently do it with either. He did choose the metal one, though, and only struggled to balance the massive thing properly as he lifted it rather than the actual weight.

You and Sam cheered and clapped proudly and he took a little joking bow as he set it down and returned to his seat.

"My turn," he announced, looking over at Sam intently. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," he replied.

Bucky leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees and narrowing his eyes as he stared at Sam; you straightened slightly where you were sitting on the couch, worried what he was so serious about asking. "Did you take a fifty out of my wallet that time I left it in your car?"

"Dude, that was like, two years ago!" Sam whined.

"So you did!" Bucky accused with a pointed finger.

"I'm not saying that, I just can't believe you're bringing it up--" Sam began.

"Just admit it, man, I know you did it!" Bucky talked over him.

"You're a hundred, nobody would blame you for forgetting where you spent it," Sam continued.

"Guys, guys!" you interrupted until they both looked at you. "Sam, are you officially answering the question? Yes or no?"

Pausing for a second, he quickly took a shot out of his glass. "You sneaky little shit," Bucky frowned.

"Whatever, truth or dare," Sam turned to you quickly to change the subject.

"Truth," you offered this time, and Sam paused for a second before a devious smile filled his face. You leaned back as if creating some distance would protect you from whatever idea he'd just had.

"Alright," he began, "if you had to pick... which one of us would you, you know..."

You figured you knew what he meant, but you still made a confused face. Bucky coughed nervously into his fist.

To illustrate his point, Sam moved his fist back and forth and made an ee-ee sound to, apparently, imitate a squeaking mattress. "I get it, I get it, Christ," you grimaced, instantly reaching for your glass.

"Come onnnn," Sam whined.

"Nope, too weird," you decided, shaking your head as you tossed back the last of your drink.

The drinks didn't hit you too hard, but you still had to turn in for the night eventually. A knock on your door startled you when you were laying down and procrastinating sleep on your phone; a wave of dizziness surprised you when you stood up too quickly-- apparently you were still a little more tipsy than you realized.

You opened the door to find Bucky on the other side, looking at you with a sort of sparkle in his eye, and you let him in without a word. "You could've said Sam," he said to you suddenly.

"Huh?" you mumbled in confusion.

"You know, when he asked you earlier, in the game," Bucky clarified, "about which one of us--"

"Oh, right," you nodded, not sure why he was randomly bringing this up now.

"You could've said you'd rather hook up with him," he offered again.

You raised an eyebrow.

"To throw him off the trail, I mean," he added, stepping closer to you and resting a hand on your waist. "And give him a little ego boost."

"Don't think he needs much more ego," you smirked, putting a hand on Bucky's shoulder in return, "or a red herring to throw him off the trail. I really don't think he suspects anything."

"Well, then maybe we should give him something to be suspicious of," Bucky offered in a lower voice, leaning in to kiss your neck.

"Buuuck," you whined in playful annoyance, pushing him back slightly. "He's just down the hall..."

"Then try to be quiet," he offered, before he smiled against your skin in a way you could already tell was triggered by a mischievous idea. "How about I dare you to be quiet?"

Your breath caught a bit, equally due to his kisses on your pulse and the titillating idea of being forced to keep quiet while he--

"No seriously, I dare you," he decided before dropping to his knees and starting to pull down your pajama bottoms. "Don't be too loud or he'll hear you..."

The guilt crept in slowly, insidiously, like humidity seeping through walls you thought were solid. You tried to ignore it at first, told yourself you’d done enough for one day, that you’d already reached out – to Tony, to Maria, to Pietro. That it was okay to protect yourself.

But the image wouldn’t leave you.

Your mother, checking her phone every day. Your mother, calling and calling and getting nothing back. Your mother, carrying her worry quietly, the way she always had.

Your chest tightened.

You glanced at the other phone – the one you’d kept off, face-down in the drawer since arriving in Miami. The old phone. The one heavy with missed calls and unanswered messages and everything you hadn’t been ready to face.

You told yourself you would just turn it on. Just check. Nothing more.

The screen lit up immediately, vibrating softly in your hand as notifications flooded in. You didn’t look at them. You didn’t need to. You already knew whose names would be there.

Before your courage could evaporate, before your mind could start building defenses and excuses, you tapped your mother’s contact and pressed call.

It rang once.

She answered immediately.

“Hello?”

The sound of her voice hit you harder than anything else had that day.

Your vision blurred instantly.

“Mom,” you whispered, and your throat closed around the word.

“Oh sweetheart,” she breathed, and there was relief there – raw, barely contained. “Oh, thank God.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears spilling over despite your effort to hold them back. “I’m sorry,” you said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you, I just– I couldn’t–”

“Hey,” she interrupted gently, the way she always had when you spiraled. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain everything. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You nodded even though she couldn’t see you, one hand pressed flat against your chest as if you could physically steady your heart.

“I can’t stay long,” you said softly. “It’s still… it’s still hard.”

“I understand,” she replied without hesitation. “I’m just glad to hear your voice.”

You swallowed, gathering yourself. “I found him,” you said then, the words trembling but real. “My biological father.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

“And?” your mother asked carefully.

“He didn’t know,” you said. “He didn’t know I existed. It wasn’t because he didn’t want me. He would have–” Your voice broke. “It wasn’t that.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then you heard her start to cry.

Not quiet tears. Not restrained ones. Real, shaking sobs filled with years of fear and guilt and unspoken worry.

“Oh, my love,” she said through the tears. “I’m so happy for you. So happy. You deserved to know that. You deserved all of it.”

Your own tears came faster then, relief and grief tangled together in a way that left you breathless.

“I love you,” you said.

“I love you too,” she replied, voice thick but steadying. “Always.”

You didn’t prolong it. You couldn’t. You said goodbye gently, promised you would talk again soon – soon enough – and ended the call before the emotion could pull you under completely.

You set the phone down and pressed your palms to your eyes, breathing slowly until the shaking subsided.

You didn’t know it then – but you weren’t the only one whose world shifted in that moment.

Bucky was sitting in the living room of his parents’ house when your mother’s phone rang.

He hadn’t planned on staying long. He rarely did these days. But she’d insisted – food, conversation, something that almost resembled normalcy. He’d agreed because saying no felt like another way of running.

When she glanced at the screen, her entire posture changed.

She stood abruptly, hand tightening around the phone. “I need to take this,” she said, already moving toward the hallway.

Bucky noticed the name flash on the screen before she turned away.

Your name.

His stomach dropped.

He didn’t follow. He didn’t dare. He sat frozen on the couch, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles ached, listening to the muffled cadence of her voice through the walls. He couldn’t hear the words, but he heard the tone – relief, emotion, something breaking open.

Time stretched unbearably.

When she finally came back into the room, her eyes were red. Her face was tight with something Bucky couldn’t immediately place.

She didn’t sit down.

She walked straight toward him.

Before he could speak – before he could stand – her hand came out of nowhere.

The sound of the slap cracked through the room, sharp and unmistakable.

Bucky’s head snapped to the side. The sting bloomed across his cheek, hot and immediate, but it barely registered compared to the shock.

She had never hit either of you.

Not once. Not ever.

The room was dead silent.

“You made her feel unwanted,” she said, voice shaking with restrained fury. “You made her think she was disposable. That there was something wrong with her.”

Bucky stared at her, stunned, shame flooding his chest so violently it made him dizzy.

“You made her belittle herself,” she continued, tears streaming freely now. “After everything she’s already been through.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Because there was nothing – nothing – that could undo what he’d said.

And for the first time, the consequences weren’t abstract.

They were written across her face.

Across his own.

Bucky’s cheek still burned where the slap had landed, but the sting barely mattered compared to what it had done to the room.

It had torn the air open.

It had taken everything that had been hovering – weeks of silence, guilt, fear, anger – and made it impossible to keep pretending it was manageable.

He sat there for a second, head turned slightly, breathing too fast. The living room felt too small. The walls too close. The old family photographs on the shelves – birthdays, holidays, awkward smiles – looked like they belonged to a different life. A safer one.

He slowly lifted his head.

Your mother stood in front of him, trembling with a kind of contained emotion that had nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with the effort of not falling apart. Her eyes were red, her jaw tight.

Bucky’s throat worked. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice cracked immediately.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said.

The word Mom landed with a weight it didn’t always carry. Because she was yours, too. In every way that mattered. The woman who had taken you in, who had loved you long before anyone else had earned the right to call you family.

“I’m so–” Bucky’s breath hitched. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Tears had gathered in his eyes before he could stop them. He hated that about himself – hated how quickly he came apart when he was already ashamed. But he couldn’t hold it back this time. Not after hearing you’d called. Not after knowing your voice had been on the other end of that hallway, safe enough to speak again.

Your mother’s face crumpled.

And then she did the last thing Bucky expected.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t polite. It was immediate and fierce, like she was trying to pull him back from the edge of something.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” she whispered against his hair, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have. I just–” her breath hitched, “I couldn’t stand the thought of her believing that.”

Bucky closed his eyes, his hands hovering for a second – awkward, uncertain – before he held her back. His shoulders shook once, hard.

“I deserved it,” he whispered.

“No,” she said, pulling back enough to look at him. “You deserved to be told the truth. But not struck.” Her thumb brushed over the reddened mark on his cheek with a gentleness that made his chest hurt. “I love you. But I’m furious.”

Bucky nodded, tears sliding down his face. He didn’t try to wipe them away. There was no point pretending he wasn’t ruined.

His father stood off to the side, silent, arms crossed. The lines around his mouth looked deeper than usual, his expression complicated – concern and discomfort and something like resignation. A man watching the consequences of a family he’d helped shape.

Bucky drew a shaky breath.

And then the confession came out like a dam finally breaking.

“I love her,” he said.

His voice was raw – no humor, no deflection, no attempt to soften it into something acceptable.

“I love her,” he repeated, because saying it once didn’t feel real enough. “I’ve–” He swallowed hard, throat burning. “I’ve loved her for a long time.”

Your mother didn’t flinch.

She just listened, eyes wide and wet, hands still on his shoulders like she was anchoring him in place.

Bucky’s laugh came out ugly and broken. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

“It’s not pathetic,” she said quietly.

He shook his head hard. “It is. Because I had it. I had her in my life, every day, right there–” His voice fractured. “And I still acted like a coward.”

He stared down at his hands like if he looked up he’d drown in his own shame.

“I was ashamed,” he admitted. “Ashamed of wanting her. Ashamed of how much I wanted her. Ashamed of the fact that I couldn’t stop.” His breath caught. “And then I tried to build something else. Something… normal. Something I could point to and say, see? I’m not– I’m not sick, I’m not wrong, I’m not–”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His jaw clenched, tears falling faster.

“And when she laughed,” he whispered, voice shaking, “I felt… humiliated. Like she was rejecting me. Like she was telling me I didn’t get to have a life that makes sense.”

He lifted his eyes then, and they were full of something helpless.

“So I hurt her,” he said, the words simple and horrifying. “Because hurting her felt easier than admitting I’d been hurting myself for years.”

Silence settled heavy.

Your mother’s hand moved to her mouth, not to hide tears but to hold back a sound – pain, grief, anger. She turned her face slightly, breathing through it.

His father shifted once, the movement stiff. He looked toward the floor, then away, as if searching for somewhere to put himself that didn’t feel like intrusion.

Finally, your mother spoke again, voice lower now, steadier.

“Do you know what she feels?” she asked.

The question was gentle, but it landed hard. Not because it was accusatory – because it implied something terrifying.

That maybe you didn’t love him back.

That maybe Bucky had destroyed everything for nothing.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He nodded once, firmly, even through the tears. “Yes.”

Your mother searched his face.

“I’ve never doubted it,” Bucky whispered. “Not for a second.”

He looked like the truth of that was both his comfort and his curse.

His father exhaled slowly, a long breath that sounded like a man making peace with something he’d been avoiding for a long time.

“Well,” he said finally, voice rough, “technically…”

Everyone turned toward him.

He rubbed a hand over his face, as if the words were annoying even to him.

“Technically, you’re not related by blood,” he said. “I didn’t adopt her. And she didn’t adopt you.” He gestured vaguely between Bucky and the hallway, as if he could point toward you from memory. “So you’re not – officially – brother and sister.”

Bucky’s expression flickered – shock, then discomfort, then something like a bitter, breathless laugh that died in his throat.

Your mother didn’t look relieved.

If anything, she looked tired. Like legality had never been the point.

“That doesn’t make this simple,” she murmured.

“No,” Bucky agreed quietly. “It doesn’t.”

And then – softly, as if she was offering him a thread he didn’t deserve but might still cling to – your mother spoke again.

“She found her father,” she said.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

Your mother’s expression softened despite everything. “Her biological father. She found him.”

Bucky went still, as if his body had forgotten how to move.

“And?” he asked, voice thin.

Your mother’s eyes filled again, but this time the tears weren’t only grief.

“He opened his arms to her,” she whispered. “Immediately. No questions. No doubt. He–” She swallowed hard. “He didn’t know. He never chose to leave her. He just didn’t know she existed.”

Bucky stared at her for a long moment.

Then something in his face collapsed – not in despair, but in relief so sharp it looked like pain.

A sound left him that might have been a sob or a laugh.

And through the tears, he smiled.

Small. Wrecked. Genuine.

Because he had been wrong.

He had put that poison in your head – no one wanted you – and you had walked out there and found proof that it wasn’t true.

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’m glad,” he managed, voice broken. “God, I’m… I’m glad.”

He swallowed, breathing hard.

“Because I was wrong,” he whispered. “And… and I’m happy I was wrong.”

Later that evening, Bucky went to Steve’s.

He didn’t text first. He didn’t call. He just showed up the way he used to when they were younger – when the world was too loud and he needed to be in a space that felt steady. Steve’s place had always been that for him. A place where the air didn’t shift unpredictably, where silence didn’t feel like punishment.

Steve opened the door on the first knock, like he’d been expecting it.

His eyes swept over Bucky in a quick, practiced assessment – habit more than judgment – then stalled on the faint swelling along Bucky’s cheekbone. The skin there was still flushed, a handprint-red bloom against tired, pale skin.

“You’ve got a red cheek,” Steve remarked.

Bucky nodded once, almost sheepish. “My mom.”

Steve made a quiet sound in the back of his throat – something between understanding and yeah, that tracks – and stepped aside to let him in.

Bucky came in slowly, shrugging off his jacket. The apartment smelled faintly of dish soap and coffee. Normal. It made something in his chest loosen by a fraction.

Steve closed the door and turned, eyeing him again.

“Try not to make a habit of getting hit,” Steve said, dry. “It’s not really… in your character.”

Bucky blinked.

Then – unexpectedly – the air in his lungs finally found its way out as laughter.

Not a sharp, brittle thing. Not the humorless sound he’d been making for weeks to cover panic. This was real. It startled him so much he had to lean a shoulder against the wall, head tipping down as the laugh escaped in a warm burst.

It was the first time in a month and a half.

A month and a half of grinding his teeth through guilt, obsessing over silence, living with the echo of your door clicking shut behind you.

Steve watched him like he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried.

Bucky wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, still smiling faintly, like the muscles weren’t used to it.

“Okay,” he exhaled, voice rough from disuse. “Okay, so–” He swallowed. His fingers flexed, restless. “Can I ask you something?”

Steve’s brows lifted. “Sure.”

Bucky hesitated for half a second, then forced the words out before he could overthink them.

“Would you–” He cleared his throat. “Would you come to her place with me tomorrow?”

Steve’s expression shifted. His brows furrowed immediately.

“What for?” he asked, cautious.

Bucky shook his head quickly, as if he’d expected this. “Not to… not to look for her. Not to go through her things. Not to do anything weird.” His jaw tightened, shame flickering across his face at the fact he even had to say that out loud. “I just–”

He looked away toward Steve’s kitchen, then back, swallowing hard.

“I want to clean,” he said.

Steve blinked.

Bucky’s voice grew steadier as he explained, as if focusing on something tangible made the rest less unbearable.

“Just… dust, vacuum, take out the trash if there’s any, wipe down the counters. Nothing invasive. Nothing personal.” He exhaled. “She deserves to come back to a clean apartment when she returns. It’s the least I can do.”

Steve’s gaze held on him, sharp and measuring, and Bucky knew exactly what he was noticing.

The phrasing.

When she returns.

Not if.

Steve didn’t comment on it immediately, but something in his eyes softened a fraction – an acknowledgement, maybe, of the fact that Bucky’s certainty wasn’t arrogance this time. It was hope. Fragile. Stubborn. Necessary.

Bucky noticed it too.

He noticed Steve noticing.

And it made his chest ache in a different way.

Because Bucky did believe you were coming back.

You had called your mom. You had broken the silence – not completely, not for everyone, but enough.

It was a sign.

It meant you were still tethered.

It meant you were still alive inside yourself.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He moved toward the kitchen, more for something to do than for any real need, and poured himself a glass of water. The silence stretched between them, not hostile – just full.

Bucky stood near the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if he was bracing for refusal.

Steve took a sip, then set the glass down carefully.

“Okay,” Steve said finally. “I’ll come.”

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His head tipped forward once – gratitude without the words.

They stood there for a moment longer, the quiet settling around them.

Ten minutes passed where neither of them said much. Steve asked if Bucky wanted coffee. Bucky shook his head. Steve asked if he’d eaten. Bucky lied and said yes. Steve didn’t call him on it, but the look he gave him said he knew.

Then Bucky’s voice broke the quiet again, softer this time.

“I told them,” he admitted.

Steve looked up. “Told who?”

Bucky swallowed. His eyes dropped to the floor like the wood grain might offer him something to hold onto.

“Our parents,” he said. “The truth.”

Steve’s posture shifted immediately – surprise flickering across his face. “You told them about–”

Bucky nodded once, jaw tight. “About how I feel about her.”

Steve stared at him for a long moment, processing. He looked like he was trying to reconcile this with the Bucky he’d known for years – the one who swallowed emotions like they were poison, the one who only ever admitted anything once it had already turned into a disaster.

“Jesus,” Steve murmured.

Bucky let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt so much. “Yeah.”

Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking. His gaze lifted back to Bucky, serious now.

“There’s something else you need to do,” Steve said.

Bucky’s brows knit. “What?”

Steve held his gaze, not unkind but firm.

“You need to put things straight with Natasha,” Steve said. “For real.”

Bucky froze.

Steve didn’t let him dodge.

“You’re still with her,” Steve added, voice lower. “Officially. Whether you’ve been sleeping in the same bed or not, whether you’ve been avoiding her calls– whatever. You’re still with her.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. Shame flashed through him again, hot and immediate.

“I know,” he whispered.

Steve’s expression didn’t soften, but it wasn’t cruel. It was the expression of someone who refused to let him make another mess out of cowardice.

“You don’t get to leave her in limbo while you spiral over someone else,” Steve said quietly. “She didn’t deserve that.”

Bucky swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

“No,” he agreed. “She didn’t.”

Steve nodded once, satisfied – not because it fixed anything, but because acknowledgment was the first step toward doing better.

Bucky stared at the floor for a moment, then lifted his gaze again, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m trying,” he said.

Steve’s jaw tightened, but his tone gentled slightly.

“Then do it,” Steve replied. “Do it right. For her. For you. For… when she comes back.”

Bucky’s breath hitched at the last words.

Steve hadn’t said if either.

When Pietro’s plane finally landed, you were already there.

You had arrived at the airport far too early, of course. Old habits died hard. You told yourself it was to make sure you wouldn’t miss him, but the truth was simpler: sitting still in the hotel room had become impossible once you knew he was in the air, somewhere between New York and Miami, closing the distance you’d been carrying alone for weeks.

You stood in the arrivals hall with your keys clenched in one hand, your phone in the other. Around you, the airport hummed with movement – wheels of suitcases rattling over tile, overlapping announcements in calm, indifferent voices, laughter, impatience, reunions unfolding everywhere you looked.

Normally, places like this made you feel invisible.

Right now, they just made your chest tight.

You watched the stream of passengers pour out through the sliding doors, one after another. Families first. Couples. Business travelers already checking emails. You searched faces without really thinking about it, your gaze snapping instinctively to every familiar silhouette, every flash of dark hair.

You didn’t realize how tense you were until your shoulders started to ache.

Then – suddenly – you knew.

You felt it before you saw him, the way you always did with Pietro. Like some internal compass had swung sharply north. You lifted your head just as he stepped fully into the hall, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, eyes already scanning the crowd.

And then his gaze locked onto you.

Instantly.

Like the rest of the room ceased to exist.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t slow down. He adjusted his grip on the bag and walked straight toward you, long strides eating up the distance between you as if nothing in the world mattered except reaching you.

Up close, you saw it in his eyes first.

Relief.

Not cautious. Not tentative. Pure and overwhelming.

He took you in in a single, thorough glance. You could practically hear the mental inventory happening behind his eyes. You had lost some weight – your jeans hung a little looser, your face a little sharper. There were shadows under your eyes that makeup hadn’t fully hidden. You looked tired in the deep, bone-level way that came from months of carrying too much without resting.

But you were standing.

You were breathing.

You were here.

And most importantly – you were alive, and you didn’t look broken beyond repair.

Pietro dropped his bag without caring where it landed and closed the last step between you.

You didn’t say his name.

You didn’t need to.

He wrapped his arms around you, tight and unrestrained, pulling you against him with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs – and you clung to him just as fiercely, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You pressed your face into his shoulder, breathing him in – laundry detergent, travel, something unmistakably him. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, tension melting in a way that almost hurt, like muscles finally relaxing after being clenched for far too long.

Pietro’s arms tightened.

“You’re here,” he murmured into your hair, voice thick. Not a question. A statement. A grounding truth.

“So are you,” you replied, and your voice wobbled despite yourself.

He let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob, and hugged you harder, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head protectively.

They passed you like that – people wheeling suitcases around your still forms, glancing briefly at the intensity of the embrace before moving on. An airport reunion, but heavier than most. No one said anything. No one interrupted.

You refused to let go.

You hadn’t realized how alone you’d been until the moment you weren’t anymore.

Eventually, Pietro pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still firm on your upper arms, thumbs brushing small, grounding circles like he needed to reassure himself that you were solid and real.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said softly, eyes shining.

You gave a weak, apologetic smile. “I know.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line, but there was no anger there. Only relief, and something fierce and protective that made your throat tighten again.

“But you called,” he added. “You asked me to come.” A pause. “That matters.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice for a second.

Then he pulled you back into him once more, forehead resting briefly against yours before he tucked your head under his chin again, like he’d done a hundred times before when words were too much.

You stood there together for another long moment, holding on.

For the first time in weeks, you weren’t bracing for the ground to disappear under your feet.

You had your person back.

And for now, that was enough.

The drive back to the hotel wasn’t silent.

Not constantly, anyway.

At first, there was the low hum of the engine, the rush of warm air through the vents, the unfamiliar city sliding past the windows in streaks of neon and palm-lined streets. Miami at night felt nothing like New York – looser, louder in some ways, softer in others. You kept both hands on the steering wheel, posture attentive but not tense, like your body was still recalibrating to the idea that someone else was here with you now.

Pietro sat in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward you, elbow resting against the door, eyes never quite leaving your profile. He hadn’t stopped checking that you were real yet. That you hadn’t vanished the moment he looked away.

“So…” he said eventually, drawing the word out just enough to signal he was about to step onto delicate ground. “Tony Stark?”

“Yep,” you answered simply, eyes still on the road.

There was a beat.

Then, “Wow.”

You huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Yeah. That was… also my reaction.”

Pietro shook his head slowly, lips quirking despite himself. “I mean. Wow.” He paused, clearly restraining about five different comments at once. He didn’t say that Bucky would lose his mind knowing you’d met his hero. He didn’t say the name at all. He was careful like that – attentive to the way your shoulders still stiffened at certain sounds, certain memories.

Instead, he added, casually but not lightly, “I punched him, by the way. About a month ago.”

You glanced at him briefly, then back to the road. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Just once.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t ask if Bucky had hit back. You didn’t ask how hard. You didn’t ask whether it had helped.

You simply took the information and tucked it away somewhere quiet in your mind, alongside a hundred other facts you weren’t ready to unpack yet.

Pietro watched you for a second, searching your face for signs of distress. Finding none – at least none that were new – he relaxed slightly.

“You don’t have to talk about him,” he said, softer now. “About any of it.”

“I know,” you replied. And you meant it.

The car rolled on, streetlights flickering rhythmically across the dashboard. For a few minutes, the conversation drifted to safer ground – his flight, the terrible airport coffee, the fact that Miami humidity felt like being hugged by a damp towel.

Then, cautiously, “So,” Pietro said, voice lighter but not flippant, “your dad.”

You swallowed, but there was no spike of panic this time. Just a steady, strange warmth.

“He’s… exactly like you’d expect,” you said after a moment. “Annoyingly perceptive. Talks too fast. Thinks with his hands.”

Pietro smiled. “Sounds about right.”

“And Maria,” you added, your voice softening. “She hugged me like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened briefly, emotion flashing across his face before he masked it. “Good,” he said. “She should have.”

You pulled into the hotel parking lot a few minutes later, cutting the engine. For a second, neither of you moved.

The silence this time wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

You glanced at him, catching the way he was already unbuckling, already prepared to follow you inside, to stay, to be present.

“Thank you for coming,” you said quietly.

He looked at you like the idea that he wouldn’t have was absurd. “There was nowhere else I was supposed to be.”

And as you stepped out of the car together, warm night air wrapping around you both, you realized that for the first time in a long while, you weren’t bracing yourself for what came next.

You weren’t alone in it anymore.

Pietro didn’t say anything for a minute after you parked.

He just sat there, angled toward you, gaze flicking over your face like he was still getting used to the fact that you were right here – breathing, present, not disappearing the second he blinked. The hotel sign glowed through the windshield, throwing pale blue light across the dashboard.

Then his eyes dropped to your wrist.

To the bracelet.

The multicolored beads looked almost ridiculous against your skin – bright little dots of pink and turquoise and yellow, like a child had spilled a bag of candy and decided your arm needed some of it.

Pietro pointed at it, brows raised. “What’s that?”

You glanced down, and the beads clicked softly as you moved. For a second, the memory hit you so clearly you could almost smell recycled airplane air again, could almost hear the low rumble of the engines beneath your bones.

“A little girl on the plane made it,” you said.

Pietro’s expression softened immediately, interest sharpening. “A little girl?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “She couldn’t have been more than five. She was sitting next to me. Her brother was there too– older, maybe eight. He was watching her like he’d been appointed her guardian for the rest of his life.”

Your throat tightened a little as you spoke, not from grief this time, but from that strange ache of tenderness and loss all tangled together.

“She kept staring at me,” you went on, a faint smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself. “And then she just… announced that I looked sad.”

Pietro let out a soft huff of amusement. “Kids.”

“She pulled out this little bead kit,” you continued, fingers brushing the bracelet absentmindedly, “and she made it right there on the tray table. Told me – very seriously – that when people were sad, they needed colors.”

Pietro’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed warm, attentive.

You swallowed. “I thanked her and put it on. Mostly because… how do you say no to something like that?”

Pietro leaned back slightly, still looking at your wrist. His voice turned lightly teasing, the way he did when he was trying to keep things from tipping too heavy.

“You hate colors like that usually,” he said. “You’re allergic to anything brighter than navy.”

You snorted quietly. “That’s not true.”

“It’s absolutely true,” he insisted, amused. “Your entire wardrobe is fifty shades of ‘I don’t want to be perceived’.”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile that surfaced.

Then you looked down at the bracelet again, and the smile faded into something gentler. Something real.

“I think…” You paused, choosing the words carefully, because this wasn’t a joke. “I think that bracelet gave me the courage I was missing.”

Pietro’s expression changed in the space of a heartbeat.

The teasing drained out of him, replaced by something quiet and fierce. Like he understood exactly what you meant without needing you to spell it out. Like he could picture you on that plane, trapped in that uneasy in-between space, staring out the window and trying not to fall apart while a child offered you something bright and uncomplicated.

He didn’t respond with words.

Instead, he reached across the console and covered your hand – still resting on the gear shift – with his own.

His palm was warm. Solid. Familiar.

He squeezed gently at first, then tighter, like he was anchoring you to the present, to him, to this moment where you were not alone.

You looked at your joined hands, the bracelet pressed between your skin and his thumb, the beads catching the light.

And you let yourself breathe.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to feel the simple truth of it settle in your chest: you hadn’t done this alone. Not completely. And you didn’t have to anymore.

You got to your floor, the hallway quiet in that hotel way – carpet muffling footsteps, air-conditioning humming behind every door, the faint smell of detergent and something citrusy that was trying too hard to be “clean.” Your keycard clicked, the lock flashed green, and you pushed the door open.

The room was exactly how you’d left it: small, bright, functional. Laptop on the desk, a stack of printed notes beside it, your suitcase half-open at the foot of the bed like you still didn’t fully trust the concept of settling anywhere. The queen-size bed took up most of the space, crisp white sheets pulled tight, pillows stacked like they’d never been slept on.

Pietro walked in behind you and paused, taking everything in with one slow sweep of his eyes – your work spread out, the careful order, the faint signs of someone living out of a suitcase while trying to pretend it was temporary.

You hovered near the door, suddenly aware of how intimate it was to bring someone into this small, improvised bubble you’d built for yourself.

“You want me to get you your own room?” you asked, voice light on purpose, like the question didn’t matter even though it did. “I can. It’s not– it’s not a problem.”

Pietro turned toward you immediately, eyebrows raised like you’d suggested he sleep in the parking lot.

“No,” he said, simple and firm.

You blinked. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, already unzipping his duffel and tossing it onto the chair by the desk. “I didn’t fly three hours to be in a different room.”

The words were casual, but the meaning underneath them wasn’t.

I’m here. I’m staying. I’m not leaving you alone with your own head again.

Something warm and fragile bloomed in your chest, surprising you with its intensity. You looked away quickly, pretending to fuss with your bag so he wouldn’t see how much it hit.

“Okay,” you murmured, swallowing.

For a minute you both moved around each other in that slightly awkward way people did when they were trying not to make a thing feel like a thing. You put your phone on the nightstand. He took off his shoes, kicked them neatly under the desk, and stretched his shoulders like the flight had been too cramped.

Then you both ended up standing at the foot of the bed, facing it like it was a problem to solve.

Pietro looked at the queen-size mattress, then back at you. His expression was soft, careful – he was joking, but he was also genuinely asking permission.

“You want me to sleep on the floor?” he said.

You shook your head immediately. “No.”

He waited, letting you lead.

You drew in a breath. Your fingers twisted together once at your waist, a small tell of nerves you didn’t even realize you had.

“Would you… would you sleep with me?” you asked, and the sentence came out quiet, almost shy. Not sexual. Not charged. Just… honest.

Pietro’s eyes warmed.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in something faintly teasing – because Pietro couldn’t help himself, because humor was how he made heavy things breathable.

“I’m just reminding you,” he said, “I snore.”

You blinked, then let out a soft huff that was half laugh, half relief. “I think I’ll survive.”

He nodded slowly as if he was considering it very seriously. “You say that now.”

“I’m serious,” you insisted, stepping closer to the bed. Your voice softened. “I… I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Something passed across Pietro’s face – something protective, something tender, something that looked a lot like he’d been waiting for you to say it.

“You won’t be,” he said simply.

He moved then, not rushing you, just closing the last bit of distance between you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He reached out and squeezed your shoulder once – grounding, gentle – before turning toward the bed.

“Alright,” he said, all business now, as if turning this into a practical matter made it easier for you to accept. “You get the side farthest from the bathroom door. That way, if I snore you can smother me with a pillow without anyone witnessing a crime.”

You rolled your eyes, but your throat tightened again, emotion pressing behind the sarcasm.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured.

“And you love me,” he shot back, and it was said lightly – but it landed like truth.

You climbed into bed together a few minutes later, the sheets cool at first, then warming quickly. Pietro stayed just close enough that you could feel the heat of him without being crowded, like he understood instinctively how much space you needed and how much you couldn’t bear.

When the lights were off and the room fell into quiet, you lay there staring at the ceiling for a moment.

Then your hand found his under the covers, fingers curling around his.

Pietro squeezed back.

No words.

Just a steady, living reassurance in the dark.

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

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed

"It'll be fun," you'd insisted while pulling on your sneakers. "We need groceries, I want to stop by the bookstore, and I promised my mom I'd pick up those candles."

Bucky had looked at you over the rim of his coffee mug, unconvinced.

"You sure, doll?"

You'd nodded eagerly. "I'm good."

He'd smiled, unable to deny you anything. "Okay. But we're taking it slow."

Now, three stores later, you were beginning to regret every ounce of confidence you'd possessed that morning.

The grocery cart rattled quietly over the polished floor as Bucky pushed it beside you, humming absentmindedly while comparing two jars of pasta sauce. You'd wandered a few feet away to grab cereal when it hit you suddenly.

One second you were debating between cheerios and cinnomon toast crunch.

The next, your stomach rolled so violently your mouth filled with saliva.

"Oh."

Your hand immediately flew to your lips.

Bucky looked up before you'd even said his name.

"What is it?"

"I..." You swallowed hard. "I don't feel very good."

The pasta sauce was forgotten instantly and his entire attention shifted to you.

"Nauseous?"

You nodded once.

His expression softened with immediate concern.

"Come here."

He abandoned the cart right where it sat and gently guided you toward the edge of the aisle, away from the bright lights and the stream of people passing by. One large hand settled against your lower back while the other brushed loose strands of hair away from your face.

"Need to throw up?"

"I don't know."

Your voice came out embarrassingly shaky.

"I think maybe."

"Okay."

Bucky didn't panic or look frustrated. His calm eased you in the moment.

"The bathroom's up front. Can you walk?"

You nodded again.

He slipped one arm securely around your shoulders, keeping you tucked against his side as he slowly led you through the store.

"You don't have to apologize," he murmured when you started opening your mouth.

"I wasn't—"

"You were about to."

"...maybe."

His lips twitched.

"I know you."

Your eyes stung unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry we came."

Bucky suddenly stopped walking before he turned you toward him, both hands cradling your face.

"Hey."

You looked up reluctantly.

"Don't apologize for being pregnant with our baby."

A watery laugh escaped you.

"I know, but—"

"No buts."

He kissed your forehead.

"Your body's working overtime growing our little one. If it decides grocery shopping is offensive today, then grocery shopping can take it personally."

Despite the nausea clawing at your stomach, you laughed.

"There she is," he whispered warmly. "That's my girl."

The bathroom was thankfully empty.

Bucky waited just outside the door while you leaned over the sink, breathing through another wave that never quite became sickness.

When you emerged a few minutes later looking pale and exhausted, he was exactly where you'd left him.

Holding a bottle of water.

Crackers.

Peppermint gum.

And one of those tiny ginger chews you'd become mildly obsessed with during the first trimester.

You blinked.

"When did you—"

"I multitasked."

"You were gone for, like, thirty seconds."

He shrugged.

"Super soldier."

You couldn't help smiling.

He unscrewed the water bottle before handing it to you.

"Small sips."

You obediently took one.

"Better?"

"A little."

"Good."

He unwrapped one cracker and held it out.

You gave him an amused look.

"I can feed myself."

"I know."

"So..."

"So let me take care of my wife."

Your heart melted before you opened your mouth, letting him feed you the cracker.

"There," he said proudly after you'd managed half of it. "Progress."

"You look way too happy about me eating a saltine."

"I am."

With more nibbles of the saltine and a few sips of water, the color slowly returned to your cheeks.

"You wanna head home?" he asked quietly.

You sighed.

"We still have so much to do."

"Doll."

"I know."

He rested his forehead against yours.

"Nothing on that list matters more than you."

"But—"

"I'll come back later."

"You've already spent your whole morning with me."

His eyebrows furrowed.

"That's exactly how I wanted to spend it."

Your eyes filled again.

Pregnancy hormones really were something.

"Oh, sweetheart."

He immediately gathered you into his arms.

You buried your face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of cedar and clean laundry.

"I keep ruining things," you mumbled.

His hand rubbed slow circles over your back.

"You haven't ruined a single thing."

"I wanted today to be normal."

"I know."

"I hate feeling sick all the time."

"I know."

"I just wanted one day where I felt like myself."

He held you tighter.

"You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you are yourself."

You frowned against his shirt.

"You laugh at my terrible jokes."

A kiss landed in your hair.

"You still steal my hoodies."

Another kiss.

"You still reach for my hand every time we walk somewhere."

His thumb brushed gently across your shoulder.

"The only difference is now you're carrying our baby while you do all those things."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"You don't think I'm... different?"

"Oh, you're different."

You looked up.

"You've somehow gotten even prettier."

"Bucky."

"You have."

"I have pregnancy acne."

"I don't care."

"My ankles swell."

"I know."

"I threw up brushing my teeth yesterday."

"You sure did."

You groaned which led to him grinning.

"And I have never loved you more."

The sincerity in his voice stole every remaining argument.

"I wish I could fix this for you," he admitted softly.

"If I could take every second of nausea so you never had to feel it again, I would."

"I know you would."

"I hate watching you hurt."

You reached up to cradle his face this time.

"I'm okay."

"I know."

"I've got you."

His eyes softened impossibly.

"You do."

"And our little bean."

His metal hand immediately found your stomach.

Right on cue, a tiny kick pressed against his palm.

Both of you froze.

"There they are," Bucky whispered.

Another little kick.

He laughed quietly, his entire face lighting up.

"I think that's their way of telling us to go home."

You smiled.

"Probably."

"Maybe they're craving ice cream."

"They're definitely your kid if they're interrupting errands for dessert."

"My kid?"

"Our kid."

He corrected himself instantly.

"Our perfect little troublemaker."

You intertwined your fingers with his.

"So..."

"So?"

"Can we go home?"

He smiled like you'd offered him the greatest gift imaginable.

"I thought you'd never ask."

The abandoned grocery cart could wait.

The bookstore would still be there tomorrow.

The candles could be picked up another day.

Right now, all that mattered was getting his wife home, tucked beneath her favorite blanket on the couch with ginger tea, crackers, and whatever strange pregnancy craving appeared next.

Because the errands could always wait.

The shop door clicks shut and locks behind you, the only sounds left the hum of the fridge and the faint jazz playing low on the radio. Bucky crowds you back slow until your hips bump the workbench, hands resting heavy on your waist—grease smudges still on his forearms, dark eyes burning bright.

“Quit pretending you needed an oil change,” he rumbles, thumb brushing hard over your hip bone. “You just wanted me to get my hands on you, didn’t you? Come in here every week, batting those pretty eyes…”

Before you can tease back, he hooks his fingers into your jeans and yanks them down your legs in one sharp tug, tossing them aside. He lifts you onto the bench before getting between your knees, pushes your thighs wide, and groans low in his throat when he sees you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his palms up your bare legs, squeezing soft skin hard. “So wet already and I haven’t even touched you properly. Desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans in, presses a slow, hot kiss to your clit where you needed him most, it makes you gasp loud and sharp. He teases first—light licks, gentle nips, blowing cool air over sensitive skin just to make you jolt and whimper.

“Bucky—please—stop teasing—”

“Shh,” he hums against you, then laps slow and deep, making your hands fly to his hair. “You take what I give you. You’ve been craving this all month—begging for it without even saying a word. So you take it. And you tell me how good my mouth feels on you.”

He sucks hard, and slides one thick finger deep inside you, curling it just right. Your head falls back, knocking against the metal shelf. “So good—feels so fucking good—”

“Good.” He adds a second finger, stretching you slow, pumping them deep while his tongue works you over. “You like my fingers filling you up? Like how I know exactly what makes you shake? So tight for me—so perfect.” He pulls back just enough to let you breathe, then pushes his fingers deeper, faster, making you cry out. “Beg for more. Beg me to make you come like this.”

“Please—please Bucky—make me come—”

When you’re right on the edge, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and whining. He stands up, grinning dark and wicked before he sucks his fingers clean.

“Not yet,” he teases, gripping your thighs and dragging you right to the edge of the workbench. “Gonna make you take all of me first.”

He undoes his belt, shoves his jeans down, and lines himself up—then pauses, rubbing the tip slow against you, making you arch and grind your hips forward. “You want it? Want me to fill you up? Want me to fuck you stupid right here on my workbench?”

“God—yes—please—” you frantically nod looking down between your bodies, he was holding his hard dick in one hand slowly pumping it, the sheer size of it making you chew your lip in anticipation.

He spits on it spreading the saliva before finally pushes inside in one long, smooth stroke, groaning loud when you take every inch of him. “Fuck—so tight—.” He sets a slow, teasing pace at first, pulling almost all the way out before slamming deep again, making the tools rattle around you. “Talk to me, tell me how it feels. Tell me how much better I am than anything you’ve ever had.”

“Better—so much better—the biggest—thickest i've ever had—”

“That’s right.” He grips your hips harder, picks up speed—rough, deep thrusts that knock the breath right out of you. “You love being a little slut getting fucked in my shop? Love knowing I’ve had my hands on engines all day and now I’m using them to ruin you?”

He leans in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting like you. “Such a good girl—taking me so well. Look at you—falling apart for me. You gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my cock?”

“Y-yes—yes—Bucky—”

“Then do it. Come for me now.”

He rubs tight circles on your clit, thrusts deep and steady, and praises you soft and filthy all the way—until you unravel, screaming his name, clinging to his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in the world. He follows seconds later, groaning your name into your neck, holding you so close there’s no space left between you.