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good heart (faulty machine of a man) - 15/30 (icymi)
chapter summary: bucky spends thanksgiving alone…
word count: 972
tags: post endgame, pre tfatws, hurt/comfort, slow burn, canon divergent, canon compliant, au
warnings: referenced character death, sad!bucky
a/n: icymi
Bucky takes a long drink from the bottle as he stands in front of Steve’s grave. Son, Soldier, Avenger, American Hero. Bucky scoffs, undeterred by the burn of the alcohol.
“You’re such a punk,” he finally says. The crack in his voice echos. “Why did you get to leave, and I’m still here?”
He takes another long drink and splashes some on the concrete. He’s on his knees now, feeling defeated. If someone saw him, they’d think he was crying out to God.
“...haven’t I suffered enough?”
Ran
Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture, etc.
Bucky Barnes x F Reader
Chapter 2 / 3
1980 words
fluff, angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI
You told him it was a bad idea. That it was going to be loud. Luckily, he has somewhere to run too.
She watches him settle, smiling proudly as his metal fingers flutter upwards in search of a part of her to hold on to, they come to a satisfied stop when they reach the hem of her t-shirt, knotting in the cotton to tug at it restlessly, even though the man attached to them is seemingly deep asleep.
“Shhhh” she soothes, stroking his brow again, “’s okay, sweetheart, everything’s okay”
His jaw locks, and then releases at her assurances, and she only becomes more certain about their necessity when she hears his arm whine, metal plates folding down to form a smooth surface.
“d-do you require a mission report?” the unconscious man croaks, unsure and clearly afraid.
“No” Y/N is quick to reply, “I know you’ve done well, it’s time to rest now, it’s alright.”
He seems to like that, even though his eyelids flicker uncertainly as he gives her the smallest nod of agreement.
“Rest” she hears him repeat, voice almost inaudible now, “Rest.”
“Mhm” she hums, bringing his flesh knuckles to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss across them, “that’s right, rest.”
His breathing slows, again- his lips parting as he lets go of whatever tension had been lingering in his muscles before.
Y/N thinks he’s beautiful like this, he’s always lovely, she thinks, but seeing him so unguarded, so peaceful seems special, maybe it’s because he only seems to look like this with her, when they’re alone, or maybe it’s just because it’s nice to see him so tranquil, when he’s usually trying so hard to hold it together.
She strokes his hand, she spends a few minutes showering him in gentle touches, in whatever contact she can, until he seems totally settled, at which point, with a final kiss against his broken thumb nail, she picks a book up from her side, depositing his hand against her side as she starts to read, letting him be silent and still on her lap.
The room is quiet, the soundproofing Tony had installed for her seems to be doing it’s job, because even though she knows the match the others have been watching must be ending, she can’t hear a thing through the walls.
A few hours pass, and Bucky stays pliant and heavy in position, it’s only when the clock on the wall catches her eye, that she considers waking him. It’s evening, now, and she knows he hasn’t eaten, she hasn’t either, but she’s less concerned about that, it’s him who barely touches anything when she’s not there to remind him it’s alright, that the food is for him, that it’s not going to be ripped away at any moment.
It worries her, the thought of him being hungry, but too afraid to mention it is almost too much for her too tolerate.
“FRIDAY?” she calls quietly, “Order us a pizza or two, please, cheese and that, meat one that Steve likes, ask someone to bring it, when it arrives.”
The AI conveys it’s polite agreement at a similar, tempered volume, and although Barnes’ arm creaks at the disturbance, when she runs a comforting hand through his hair, the noise chokes off, and he slips back down into stillness.
It’s Natasha who brings the food, when it turns up 40 minutes later, in cardboard boxes spotted with rain.
She’s silent, as she opens the door to their suite, giving Y/N a kiss on her cheek as she lowers the containers onto the sideboard and exits before she can risk waking the man who’s still managing to cling to sleep against his lover.
Y/N makes a mental note to buy her something shiny.
In the end, she doesn’t have to say anything to wake Bucky up, she just has to open the pizza boxes, and take out a slice.
The smell of food rouses him, making his mouth water, making his stomach cramp as he rubs his nose into her thighs, trying to suppress the way he’s ready to beg for as little as a mouthful of something cooked.
“Hey, sweetheart” he hears a familiar voice coo, further bringing him round, “I’ve got dinner, for when you’re up”
He can barely believe his luck when he blinks his eyes open, and is met with the sight of Y/N, beaming at him sweetly with a collection of food by her side.
“I…” he gulps, “That’s for us?”
Y/N chuckles softly, reaching over with her clean hand to card his hair back, again
“Sure it is” she tells him, “I got that one Steve always gets, figured you’d like it too”
Bucky shifts a little, straightening up despite the ache in his bones.
“I’d eat anythin’ you’d give me” he murmurs honestly, as his knees click.
I’m just lucky to get fed.
Her head shakes, as she grins, pushing the meal towards him, shuffling over a little so he can slip in beside her.
“I figured you’d skipped lunch” she comments, not wanting to sound like she’s scolding him, “It’s good, too” she adds, smiling at him again, “we’ll have to tell Steve that he’s onto a winner”
The box is hot on his lap, now. He’s blinking down at a pizza that’s half cheese and half, whatever order she’s talking about Rodgers’ having gotten right, and despite the stabbing pains in his stomach, he realises he can’t make himself reach down to take a slice.
His arm groans with tension as he brings vibranium fingers up to prod at his scar. It’s absentminded, the ache in the flesh beneath the solid metal is grounding, so is the heat of Y/N’s palm, when it lands suddenly against his jaw, steady and gentle.
In…Out…In…Out
Breathing is good, he thinks, he can focus on it, he can make himself inhale slowly through his nose, he can make himself expel it through his lips.
“Not hungry?” Y/N prompts, knowing he is-
“I am” he replies quietly, suspecting she doesn’t really need is confirmation.
She hums, keeping her hand against his face as he drags in another, deeper, lung full of air.
Bucky presses hard along the back of his shoulder, letting himself really feel the plates beneath the jagged, raised, scar.
He hisses when his thumb catches a bump that feels suspiciously like a screw.
Y/N’s brow furrows, and she curls her own thumb up across his cheek, pulling his eyes to hers.
“Stop” she soothes calmly, gaze flicking to his hand, “Eat now, sweetheart, it’s alright”
His arms drop in surrender, he feels the strangest urge to look away.
There’s a flush of red creeping up his neck, it’s prickling and warm-
Bucky realises it’s being caused by shame. By the shame he’s feeling, now, as he struggles to eat, even though he’s hungry.
“Sweetheart” Y/N murmurs, coaxing his eyes back over to her face, “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know” he replies, realising, as he says the words, that they’re true, “I’m sorry, doll- I- I don’t know why I’m doin’ this”
“You’re not doing anything” she counters quickly, offering him another smile, as he pecks a soft kiss to her palm, “anythin’ I can do?”
He lets his eyes drop shut for a moment, as he relishes in the feeling of her fingers trailing across his jaw-
His pulse is thrumming through his veins, she can feel it throbbing as she traces his skin.
A few minutes pass quietly, until he blinks his eyes open, and lets himself look around the room.
“Ca-“ he begins, before clearing his throat shyly, and making himself turn to face his lover, “Can I eat down there?” he asks, nodding to the floor, to the corner of the room, where he thinks he might stand a chance at feeling less visible.
The idea of being alone on the ground isn’t particularly appealing, really. Bucky doesn’t want to lose the feeling of Y/N against his side, he doesn’t want to part from her, even for an instant- but he’s starving, and if tearing himself away from the safe space he’s found on her bed, to eat on the ground like an animal is his only option, then, he’ll take it, no matter how terrible he’ll feel once he’s full.
“Only if I can come too” Y/N purrs, snapping him back to the present.
His head tilts, eyes muddled as he processes her response.
“Are- Are you serious?” he asks, cautious- barely daring to believe that she means what she’s saying
“Of course I am” she half chuckles, reaching down to grab her own pizza box, “C’mon, handsome, it’s gettin’ cold”
Bucky is still just watching, when Y/N is well and truly settled in her place on the floor. Her back is resting against the wall, her dinner on her lap.
He follows, earnestly hoping that she won’t change her mind, that she won’t move back to the bed, or start to tease him some how, about his desire to hide in a corner.
He drops to his haunches on her right, wide eyed and adoring.
“What?” Y/N asks, with a mild tone of joking in her voice, “Do I have somethin’ on my face?”
“No” he replies quickly, averting his gaze as he settles into position, “No, doll, you’re- you’re beautiful”
Y/N chuckles, nudging his shoulder playfully as he finally makes himself start to eat.
It lightens to tension in his gut, it helps him continue to feed himself without bile flooding his mouth at the thought of how much he’s being allowed to consume at once.
It feels awfully strange- being well fed, and comfortable, and safe, after spending a life time being starved, and tortured and in danger.
It’s only when he’s almost done with his meal that Bucky considers the fact that comfort is very much subjective, and the floor where he’s sitting now, is much less desirable than the bed he’d been on before.
Guilt stabs at his chest, leaving a familiar sickness to churn his stomach.
His eyes flick sidewards, to the woman he loves, to the woman he’s dragged down with him.
She’s smiling, wiping her hands on her pants, and looking anything but displeased.
He’s confused. It shows in a crease between his brows, he’s just about to look away when Y/N catches his gaze, and widens her smile.
“I’m sorry” he says instantly, “I’m sorry I- I brought you down here, doll- you- you should go get, get comfortable up-”
She laughs, soft and sweet in the air between them.
His cheeks flush redder, he chews his lip, feeling utterly undeserving of the sound.
“I’m comfortable here” she tells him, more sincerely, now she can see the sadness behind his eyes, “I’ve eaten dinner in much worse places”
She hears him hum- he’s still looking at his knees, and she can see the way his metal fingers are twitching. She decides to cut him off, bringing her own palm down to cover his, before he can bring it up to worry at his scar, again.
“What are we gonna do with you, huh?” he hears her whisper
His fingers curl around hers, he blinks shyly at her, before shrugging, and looking away.
“whatever you want” he mumbles in honest response, “I’m yours, I- I’m always gonna’ be yours, I think”
It’s Y/N who hums then, considerate and quiet.
Bucky thinks he should probably look at her again, maybe he owes her some kind of apology too? He’s not sure about that, he always feels like he should be saying sorry for one thing or another, and at best, she laughs his statement off, pecking his cheek to remind him his remorse is misplaced, and at worst, she straight up tells him to stop apologising.
He’s not sure he can take something that close to a scolding right now. Not with how delicate he’s feeling.
“I think we better get you showered, then, handsome- then you’re comin’ to bed”
Warnings: being in an abusive relationship, domestic violence, covering up bruises (nothing is ever explicit, just talked about), minor fluff at the end
Summary: Bucky Barnes has been assigned to you as a way to overcome his feelings and separate himself from the Winter Solider. You're his saving grace and maybe, he can be yours.
Squares Filled: "need a medic?" (2021) @star-spangled-bingo
Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3
x
The mirror above the steering wheel is so tiny but it’ll have to do since you don’t have your big mirror in your purse this time. You make sure your makeup is good enough to last the whole day, and more importantly, to keep what’s underneath hidden from everyone else. You don’t know what you’d do if people found out about your home life.
When you deem yourself okay, you grab your things and head straight to work. Your assistant, Carly, greets you with a friendly smile and a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, boss!”
“Morning. Who do we have on the books today?”
“The only one is Bucky Barnes.”
“Great. Send him in as soon as he gets here.”
“Sure.”
You walk into your office and make sure everything you need for today’s session is in front of you. Bucky Barnes has only been seeing you for a couple of months so it’s still so new to either of you. You're a well-respected psychologist who had many clients, but you never thought you’d be seeing the former Winter Soldier.
You’ve heard the stories. You know what he’s done but he’s trying to atone for his mistakes. One of the important ways he’s going to do that is if you give him the chance to. He’s been respectful of you even though he’s closed off. Someone like him who experienced the torture he’s been through isn’t going to open up easily. It’s hard getting him to talk about himself but you’re hoping that if you start from before Hydra it will get him to open up to you a lot more.
His appointment is in a couple of minutes so you check yourself using your desk mirror to make sure everything still looks the same.
“Boss, Mr. Barnes is here,” Carly says through the phone intercom.
“Send him in.” The door opens and Bucky walks in with an uncertain look in his eyes. You give him a small yet friendly smile to ease his concerns. “Hello, Mr. Barnes. Please, have a seat.”
“Please, call me Bucky.”
“Okay, Bucky.” He sits down on the couch across from your desk. “How was your week?” He shrugs in response. “Did you do anything special?”
“I spent time with Sam and his family.”
“How did that make you feel? Did you like it?”
“It was alright,” he sighs.
“Did you uphold your three rules?”
Rule #1: Don’t do anything illegal.
Rule #2: Don’t hurt anyone.
Rule #3: Introduce himself as James Barnes instead of Bucky, formerly the Winter Solider.
“Yes.”
“That’s good. I’m proud of the progress you’ve made since seeing me. Is there anything you’d like to talk about specifically that happened this week?”
“No.”
He can’t seem to look at you. He’s talking to you, that’s a plus, even though he’s only giving you one-syllable words.
“Bucky, if this is going to work, I need you to try here. I’m not asking you to write me a novel about your life. I’m asking you to give a little. Can you do that for me?” you ask in a gentle tone.
“Okay,” he sighs and looks into your eyes. “I’ll try.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Steve.”
“What about Steve?” Bucky looks like he wants to cry. Anything about Steve makes him question everything about him. He left Bucky. He left everyone behind to start a life in another timeline. “This is a safe space. Everything you’re feeling is valid, Bucky. When you’re ready, I’d love to hear what you have to say.”
It takes him ten long minutes to find the courage to talk and when he does, he can’t look at you.
“What if Steve was wrong about me? I was under Hydra’s influence when we crossed paths again, and he did everything he could to save me. He even brought me to Wakanda to get that shit out of my head. What if it’s still there? What if they say those words again and I’m back to being the Winter Soldier? Sometimes I don’t think I’m worth saving.”
You want to cry for him. He is so badly damaged that it will take a long time if not the rest of his life to be okay again. He might have happy moments here and there, but those fears will always be there. You have to choose your words carefully.
“It’s hard to see the good in someone who has done bad, but that doesn’t make you a bad person. Steve remembered his best friend and knew the kind of person he was. Steve remembered something in you that is still true to this day.”
“What?” he asks and looks up at you with hints of tears in his eyes.
“I see a man trying to do good, to atone for his mistakes, and I think that’s someone worth saving. Steve saw it, too.” A single tear escapes his eyes but he doesn’t wipe it away. “If you are who you think you are, you wouldn’t feel remorse for what they did to you. The fact that you do shows me that you’re more than what they put in your head. You’re trying to do good with the bad you’ve been given, and that’s not a bad person.”
You’ve made excellent progress with Bucky this session, and you think the next one is going to go by just as smoothly. He only gets an hour but you make the most of the rest of the hour.
“The same time next week?” you ask.
“I’ll see you then, Doc,” Bucky smiles and leaves your office.
With each passing session, you and Bucky form a stronger bond until he realizes he looks forward to being with you. You make his day a bit brighter but the last thing he is gonna do is tell you that. You’d never have romantic relations with a client but you can’t say the same once they no longer are your clients.
You show up to work one week dabbing makeup on your face while driving. You’re on the phone with your husband. He isn’t on speakerphone and your phone is resting in one of the cup holders, but you can still hear every word he is saying as clear as day. He is yelling that loudly at you. You forgot to do the dishes before you left for work and now he is telling you what a burden you are, how much he hates you, and that you’re useless…
…and those are the nice things.
“Baby, I was running late this morning. I’m sorry,” you sigh and pick up the phone.
“I will deal with you later,” he growls and hangs up the phone.
You’d cry but then you’d ruin your makeup, and you’re already at work. You push down your feelings about your abusive husband and walk into work. You gasp at how hot it is, and you look at your assistant who has her work jacket off.
“What is going on in here? Why is it so hot?”
“The air conditioning is broken but someone is coming to look at it later.”
“Fine,” you sigh. “How many today?”
“Three.”
“Send them through.”
You get through the first two clients with as few problems as possible but by the time Bucky comes in, you’re almost about to break. You're tired, your face is pulsing with pain, your makeup feels like cake at this point, and you don’t know how much longer you can stand sitting in the heat.
“Hi, Bucky. Please have a seat,” you greet. He sees the immediate shift in your behavior and you’ve only said six words to him. “I’d like to start this session by talking about last week. You said something about taking a trip with Sam, right? How did that go?”
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Bucky, we’re here to talk about you, not me.”
Bucky has to let it go for right now but he can’t when you wipe your face to clear the sweat. You forget that you have makeup on otherwise you wouldn’t have wiped your face with your handkerchief. It’s not entirely present but Bucky knows a bruise when he sees one, and you have a dark one near your eye.
“Need a medic?”
“I’m fine. I fell.”
“I’ve fallen plenty of times. I’ve gotten hit enough times to know a bruise caused by a punch when I see one.”
“Bucky, please. Drop it. We’re not here to talk about me.”
Bucky notices you play with your wedding ring nervously whenever the spotlight is on you. He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what’s been happening here. For your sake, he lets it go. The session is cut short due to Bucky needing to be somewhere, and you made it clear he is still getting charged the full hour whether he uses it or not. He was fine with it so you moved on with three other clients after him.
The air conditioning was fixed after the first client, so you redid your makeup in the bathroom to be more presentable. It’s late when you finish with your last client, and you curse at the time. Your husband is going to kill you if you’re late again. You gather your things and rush out of your office, but Carly stops you before you can get far.
“Listen, I’m running late, so can you--”
“The police called earlier. I told them you were with a client and they asked if you could call them back. They said it was urgent.”
“Oh, okay,” you stutter. She hands you her phone after redialing the last number called. “Hi, my name is Y/N. My assistant got a call earlier?” You hear the words they’re saying but your brain isn’t processing them. “Wait, I’m sorry, he’s what?”
“Your husband is dead, ma’am. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“How? When? I just talked to him this morning.”
“My guess is that he’s been dead for maybe four hours. He died from a severe beating and blunt-force trauma to the head.”
All you hear them saying is that you’re free. You’re finally free. No more pain. You’re not sure who killed your husband because he didn’t have a lot of enemies. Despite how he treated you, he was very charming to everyone else. He put up this facade that made him look like a saint when really, he was the devil.
When you show up to work the next week, your hair is pinned up, you have light makeup on, a nice outfit, and your heart is light. You’ve never been happier now that your husband is out of the picture. He was a wealthy man, so you got all of his money to use how you see fit. He was so horrible to you so maybe his money will bring some happiness to people when you donate a chunk to different charities.
Bucky shows up right on time, and you give him a smile when he enters your room. You look down and notice some bruising and scabs on his knuckles, and if his metal hand could scar as easily as flesh, he’d have scars there, too.
“Have a seat, Bucky.”
“You look happier.”
You chuckle in amusement. You look Carly through the small glass window who is busy taking calls for you to listen to later. You look back at Bucky who raises his eyebrows in question.
“The following conversation didn’t happen.” He nods in understanding. “My husband is dead. Someone killed him.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long five minutes.
“Did he deserve it?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“Did you break rule number two?”
“I might have,” he smiles, “but I had a really good reason.”
“What reason is that?” you ask and sit back.
“There’s this woman I know, and for the first time since I met her, she actually had a genuine smile on her face… and it is gorgeous. I guess her husband didn’t know what he had when he had her.”
You smile at Bucky.
“No, he didn’t.”
x
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bucky barnes x 40s!fem!reader — series masterlist
series summary (part one): The life in the beginning. Before the the war, before the losses, before the grief.
chapter warnings: none, just fluff
word count: 823
author's note: chapter two, here we go ! part two chapters are planned to be longer, since part one is just for setting the scene, so enjoy short under 1k chapters, thehe. reblogs, comments, etc. to show support and that you like it are very much appreciated <3
CHAPTER TWO — Buicks and would-be proposals
Summer of 1941
The sun was setting beautifully, when the green sedanette glided on the road, back towards the City. The slightly cool summer wind was caressing her bare arms and hair through the open window. She could still feel the ocean wind of Long Beach on her skin and taste the most amazing gelato on her tongue she’s ever had. And, of course, feel the warmth of his skin in her other hand, thumb caressing her palm over the middle console.
Bucky looked at her for a couple of seconds before returning his gaze back to the road. He kept going back to look at her at certain intervals. He couldn’t fathom that he had finally found her. His perfect girl. Family and friends around him wondering, why he hadn’t proposed yet. Bucky’s answer always was, that there was no rush — he wanted to do this right, wait for the right moment.
One very good moment came today at the beach. He had borrowed his dad’s car to take her for a day trip. It was a Buick Special, of which his dad was very protective over. “This better lead to an engagement, son,” George Barnes had told him with raised eyebrows and an expecting look when handing the keys over. But it didn’t. It could’ve, but it didn’t. Because unbeknownst to her, Bucky had chickened out from asking. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when he was tired of Steve for teasing his ass about it he’d finally man up.
The infamous doorway of the Larimer Apartments came into view in the now dark evening too quickly. That doorway felt like the bane of his existence to Bucky, always taking his girl away from him at the end of the day. If he just had the courage to ask her hand in marriage, the doorway wouldn’t haunt him anymore. They could live together, without stupid curfews. Her dad would never let her move in with a man unmarried, she’d told him one night. It was a struggle for her to move out on her own, to start with.
The green Buick finally reached the front of the doorway of the Larimer, and Bucky had to hit the break in order not to drive past it. As much as he’d wanted to. When he turned to his right, he was already met with the most beautiful pair of eyes he’d ever seen. She was already looking at her, body turned to him, the side of her head resting on the car seat.
“I had such an amazing time today, Bucky. Thank you,” she smiled at him. I love you, she wanted to say next, but instead bit her lip. Maybe it was too early? Her mother didn’t think so, when she told her about Bucky in her letters. Her mother was wondering what was taking Bucky so long in proposing — she was eager to see her daughter married. The daughter herself didn’t mind, though. Yes, she knew she’d be elated to get proposed by Bucky, but there was no rush. They were still young and had their whole lives ahead of them, to possibly spend together. Or that’s what she at least hoped.
“No need to thank me doll,” Bucky smiled adoringly at her. “I love spending time with you as much as I can,” he continued. And I love you. But instead, he bit his lip slightly, and leaned over the console. She understood the gesture and met him in the middle, closing the distance and colliding her lips with his soft ones. She had never seen Bucky using any kind of balm, but still his lips were always so soft.
When they broke apart, foreheads touching, she glanced at the watch that was on Bucky’s left wrist on the wheel. It showed fifteen minutes to ten. Before she could utter a word about it, Bucky said, “I know, doll. Curfew,” with a sad smile, which she returned. He let go of the wheel and lifted his hand to her cheek, caressing it softly with the pad of his thumb.
Getting lost in his blue eyes and that soft gaze, she almost didn’t hear Bucky when he said, “I love you.” It made her freeze for a second, before a big, cheek-aching smile spread on her face and a warm, fuzzy feeling took over her body.
“I love you too, Bucky,” she whispered. He smiled brightly, and kissed her again, more deeply this time. It almost made her forget the time and just stay in the car forever with the man who loved her, but her brain had to interfere and remind her of the time. Breaking the kiss, she said, “I really don’t want to go, but I have to. Now.”
“I know, I know,” Bucky said and kissed her again before asking, “I’ll see you tomorrow ?”
“Yes, bright and early,” she smiled, before gathering her things and getting up from the car, excited for tomorrow.
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Summary - You are celebrating baby barnes' birthday, which is on the same day as your husband's birthday.
Pairings - Bucky Barnes x wife!Reader
W/C - 1.3k
Warnings - fluff, little cussing...i think, no use of y/n, your baby's name is not mentioned, neither is there any description of you or the baby. let me know if i missed anything. Happy reading<3
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At around 4 am you awoke, bursting with excitement. It was your baby's first birthday. And also, one of your husband's. It was difficult for you to fall asleep in the first place, so you thought you might as well get up from your light, restless sleep and get things ready for the day.
Knowing Bucky, he would most likely be knocked out asleep by now and wouldn't wake up till around 8:30 - 9 am. Normally your husband tends to be a light sleeper, but off late he has been sleeping like a log and you hope that carries on to tonight as well. You prayed to the universe he would not wake up when you silently moved out of bed.
First things first you freshened up, ate a quick meal and started decorating the house. Thankfully earlier in the day your baby managed to exhaust himself to a point where he would sleep the whole night without waking up once. You got streamers and balloons out of a box. Some easy to clean up confetti. You gritted your teeth as you tried to move the heavy couch around. You strong husband would have been useful here if this wasn't for his birthday.
You gave up on trying to blow the balloons and decided to bake the cake to get rid of some steam. Figuring out what Bucky would like was not that hard. Ever since Oreo came out, he has absolutely loved it. And with oreo having so many variations now-a-days than just biscuits, it's been the only thing Bucky eats when he wants a snack. Not the healthiest option but the man likes it and needs to eat.
You found a very simple oreo cake that you could make. You got started on making it. Flour, milk, butter, oreo biscuits obviously. By around 6 am the cake was in the oven getting ready. With nothing left to do, you got back to decorating. But there was an issue. You still needed to move the couch to another location.
At that exact moment your phone started ringing loudly. You ran to the kitchen and answered it, mentally kicking yourself for putting in on vibrate. You just hoped Bucky had not woken up. Thankfully he had not. Putting the phone to your ear you whispered-yelled into it, "What?!"
"I get it that you forgot to put your phone on silent?" Sam chuckled on the other side of the line. You blew an irritated breath out as you rolled your eyes. "Yes, I did. You need something Sam, cuz I'm kinda busy with trying to move my heavy ass couch."
"How about you open the door first and then we can figure out if I need something."
You moved from the kitchen to the front door and opened it to reveal a smirking Sam Wilson on the other side. You lowered the phone from your ear, cutting the call. "You son of a-" you say shaking your head a bit, a smile making it way onto your face. You both go in for a quick hug and you invite him inside. Not that he needed the invitation. He practically lived there at this point.
"What are you doing here at this ridiculous hour in the morning?"
"Helping you prepare for a double-birthday party." You didn't know how any man could be as generous as Sam Wilson. It was just a little past 6 in the morning and here he was in your house ready to lend a helping hand in getting your home ready for a birthday party. You smiled a grateful smile and told him about the couch and where you needed help in moving it. He hung his jacket on the coat hanger and got to helping you with whatever you needed.
You left in the middle to bring the cake out of the oven and let it cool. By that time the couch was moved along with some more furniture, balloons were hung and so were some streamers. With the extra help you were able to have the house decorated by 7 am with snacks and everything else ready. That was when you heard some cries coming from the bedroom. Realising that your son was awake, you quickly headed to the room to sooth him before Bucky woke up with the sound.
Bucky was dead asleep. A small part of you was worried with how deep his sleep was, but you knew it meant he was sleeping peacefully. "Hi my baby!" you greeted your son with a soft voice. "You're awake, yes. It's your first birthday." you said while cuddling him. He needed that after he woke up. His cries died down; he was wide awake and cheery. "Yes, its papa's birthday too. We'll wish him later, first let's get you ready for this double birthday."
You got to work bathing him and dressing him up in some adorable but comfortable clothes which would be easy to clean. Sam had headed back to his place to freshen up a bit before your son woke up. It was now past 8 am and you were getting dangerously close to when Bucky would wake up. You took 20 minutes for yourself to look presentable since there would be photos.
Bucky woke up just as you finished changing your clothes. "Doll?" he called out when you weren't found in his sight. "Coming." you replied and walked out of the closet he had built for you. Before fatherhood, Bucky had a big passion for construction. It kept him busy, allowed him do something for you and learn some new skills in the process.
"Happy birthday honey." you say with a smile. "How old are you turning today?" you joke, tilting your head to the side. He opened his arms and pulled you in for a hug. "Ha ha very funny. But thank you." saying the first part with mock annoyance, he pulled away and just stared at you for a good 10 seconds before he asked, "Where's the little one?" You said nothing and just smiled, gesturing him to follow you.
You jogged out of the room making him chase after you. You pick up your son who was waiting with Sam in the living room and stood there waiting for your husband. He walked in and Sam set off a confetti popper in his face which surprised for a second but then he hugged Sam. Bucky pulled back, looked around and then at you holding your son. You took the baby out of your arms and kissed him all over his tiny adorable face.
Bucky wasn't a man of many words and preferred to show his gratitude in actions rather than words. He pulled you close and just kissed the top of your head. You left his side when Sam came closer, "Happy birthday man, and happy birthday little man!" You then came out of the kitchen with the cake and lit candles and set it down on the table. In the moment Bucky couldn't be any more grateful for his little family. You, his son and Sam. They were his motivation for everything he did.
The candles were blown out and the cake was cut and fed to everyone. Your son got to devourer whatever cake was left on an already dirty towel laid on the floor. Sam played the role of a photographer for free, only because it was his nephew's birthday.
"it's been a year already." you say.
"Time flies fast, no?" he held you by his side as you both watch lovingly as Sam plays with your son. Bucky still remembers the time when you were pregnant with him, the random cravings you would have and the mood swings from time to time. There were a few hellish moments, but they were all worth it. Reminiscing about the past only made you more appreciate the present moments even more and anticipate the future.
"Happy birthday once again J."
Bucky didn't reply. But he did kiss you deeply.
A/N - this has been sitting in my drafts since 2022😐
I wanted to get this out. It started as a random idea which took me forever to write. Hope you enjoyed reading.
If you want to find out more about me or my works, you can head to my navigation.
Spy
General Wintersolider context warnings, nothing too extreme.
Bucky Barnes x F Reader
Chapter 2
3765 words
Fluff, angst, comfort.
18+ MDNI
Steve hadn't meant to spy on you and Barnes. Not exactly, anyway.
When Steve blinks urgently at Natasha, he finds very little comfort in the aghast expression she’s wearing.
Y/N, however, looks smug, more than angry.
“I installed that mirror, assholes.” she says, “This is my house- do you really think you can get away with watchin’ me through the walls without me clockin’ on?”
“It wasn’t you we were watching” Natasha says calmly, “It was-”
“I know” the other woman agrees, taking a drink.
Bucky tilts his head up, realising they’re admitting to spying on him.
Steve feels himself flush even redder than he had the night before.
“Listen, Buck we didn’t mean-
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”
He is worried though. He’s very worried.
“We where just-”
“Worried” Y/N finishes on his behalf, “We know.”
“How-“
She rolls her eyes at Natasha.
“Your motives are hardly complex” she replies, “You-” she nods at Steve, “Have been fussing over him” she looks at Bucky, “since long before HYDRA, I’d bet— and you-” she focuses back on the woman, “-are just loyal enough to get roped into that concern.”
The red head blinks, and Steve realises that he’s gawking.
“I’m fine” Bucky inserts then, speaking properly for the first time since the subject has been changed, “I’m.. I’m workin’ on some stuff, but you- you don’t need to get wound up ‘about it. I’m a grown man, I’m fine”
“You were acting strange-” Natasha states bluntly, “- Someone noticed, told us to check in”
“Someone noticed-” Y/N says, “-and they told Steve to check in, as a friend, y’know, the way that you sometimes come and check in on me, when I’ve been on a hard job and someone gets antsy”
Steve feels his brow furrow at that. How long exactly had these two known each other?
“We were concerned that-”
“We know what you were concerned about” she says, rolling her eyes at Natasha, “Do you really think we don’t have somethin’ worked out for that kinda’ situation?”
Steve finds himself swallowing as he looks over at Bucky again.
He’s wearing a tight lipped smiles that he knows means he’s uncomfortable. His eyes are lowered to the plate in front of him, but before he can speak to offer some kind of support, he watches him look up, at Y/N.
“…doll, thinks it’s.. it’s unlikely, anyway” he says, “she, uh— she says it’s…”
“Almost completely impossible for anything short of repeated exposure to proven stimuli to trigger that kind of a total sub-nuero relay inversion when it’s been this long since you’ve last had a wipe.”
“In english, please.” Natasha says dryly.
This time, the roll of Y/N’s eyes isn’t playful. It’s exasperated.
“Because it’s been so long since anyones fiddled around in his head, it would take a whole new, professionally orchestrated set up to get him anywhere close to what you’re talkin’ about.”
Bucky’s leg is shaking now. Steve watches it bouncing on the stool for a moment;
Y/N catches it too, and reaches out under the counter with her foot, brushing it against his calf.
He stills himself at the contact, exhaling shakily as Natasha hums curiously.
“So we don’t have anything to watch out for?”
“I wouldn’t say that” Y/N counters, “You’ve pissed me off, for a start”
“But Winter Solider wise-”
“Bucky is fine.” She says decisively, “But, that doesn’t mean we don’t have a plan in place, in case anything changes on that front.”
“And that means…”
“That means” Y/N hisses impatiently, “That you don’t need to worry about anybodies state of mind, other than mine, because as usual, the Starks have taken care of everything else, and all my brother meant when he asked Rodgers to check in on his friend, was that he might actually want to consider asking if he was doin’ okay, not that he should grab you and spend the next twenty minu-”
“-Doll…”
Bucky’s interruption silences her instantly. She inhales sharply, before sitting back in her seat, irritation flaring, but then, when she looks across, and see’s the way that Barnes is watching her, with nothing but genuine adoration behind his eyes, it evaporates like smoke, leaving her looking as composed as ever in her seat.
“We shouldn’t have watched after you came in” Natasha concedes, looking genuinely remorseful, “I’m sorry”
“Me too, Y/N— Both, Both of you, I- I’m sorry”
Bucky shakes his head.
“You shouldn’t have watched at all” Y/N says, ignoring Steve completely, “Sestra, vy dolzhny verit', chto u nas vse vyyasneno. Yesli by byl shans, chto kto-nibud' mozhet postradat', my by uzhe ispravili eto.” Sister, you have to trust that we have things figured out. If there was a chance that anyone was going to get hurt, we'd have fixed it by now.
Steve’s jaw hangs slack as he hears russian pouring easily from the woman’s lips.
“YA doveryayu tebe.” Natasha replies, “i, yesli vy skazhete, chto vse v poryadke, ya ne budu sporit’.
I trust you, and, if you say everything is okay, then I won't argue.
“Vse v poryadke.”
Everything is okay.
Y/N’s answer has an air of finality too it. Even though he has no idea what she’s actually said.
“So” Natasha says, tone incredibly light, “How long as you two been a thing?”
Steve almost chokes on air at that.
Bucky chuckles quietly beside him, whilst Y/N goes back to eating.
He can barely keep up with the atmospheric shift. It’s so strange that only a few minutes ago the women were close to an argument, where as now, they might as well be best friends.
How, did they meet, again?
He has no idea, he realises, he’d always assumed that Y/N, was a package deal that came with Tony, he’d never given any thought to how she might know anyone else, even the night before, when Romanoff had said that she’d known the woman for a long time, he’d never actually thought about it.
“He’s doin’ that face again” Y/N observes, using her fork to point at Steve, “He really should stop workin’ so hard over breakfast”
Bucky laughs almost silently, as Steve blinks himself back to the moment.
“That’s not an answer” Natasha says.
“I know” Y/N agrees cheerily, “You’re not supposed to know there is a ‘thing’ anyway. Don’t see why I should confirm or deny”
“Confirm” the other woman repeats, with a chuckle of her own, “You spent the whole night curled up together like lap cats-”
“I’ve spent more than one night curled with you, like a lap cat.” Y/N says, “Wanna talk about any things that we might have had going on?”
Steve chokes on a bite of pancake that he doesn’t remember taking.
Natasha shakes her head, taking a drink from Y/N’s mug.
They both catch her throwing a wink at Bucky, who just grins, bashful and sweet down at his own food, as he starts to pick at it again.
“Beregi yeye, Barns.” The red-head says calmly, “
Take good care of her, Barnes.
“YA budu. YA klyanus’.”
I will, I swear.
His reply is calm, it’s composed and that, is what makes Steve tilt his head.
It’s so odd, hearing the Russian words without the fear that laced them before.
Natasha just nods, satisfied, and Y/N, goes back to eating.
Steve thinks he should apologise, again. He feels like he should, like he’s misjudged the whole situation, like, he’s betrayed Bucky and totally under-estimated Y/N.
“I…” he begins, anxiously shifting, “I’m really, I’m really sorry”
To his surprise, it’s Barnes that answers.
“We know, Stevie, it’s alright, just… just, ask me next time… it’s like doll said— if you’re… if you’re worried, you can just talk to me”
“You’ve already apologised” Y/N reminds him cooly, “It’s alright, just don’t let me catch you at it again— last thing we need is you turnin’ into a peepin’ tom. Although Tony would love that-”
“Oh, god” Bucky mutters, “Don’t tell your brother bout it, darlin’, he’ll never let them live it down”
Her face is a light. Steve notices then, for the first time, how beautiful she is. With no make up, hair tied back, genuinely grinning, with a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Maybe that’s exactly why I should tell him, huh?” she teases, “might take the heat off you for a bit-”
“Steve watchin’ ya’ through a mirror is hardly comparable to anythin’ I’ve-”
“I don’t think he’d compare” she says, “he’d probably just take the excuse to be an asshole to someone else for a couple of weeks”
“He’s not an asshole” Bucky counters dryly, “Darlin’, I think he’s been-”
“Your judgement is skewed” Y/N cuts in, eating again, “You wouldn’t say a bad word about him regardless”
Barnes doesn’t argue, he just shrugs, smiling a little as he goes back to picking at the meal before him.
“So, does he know?” Natasha asks, brow quirked, “Bout this ‘not a thing’ you’ve got goin’ on?”
Steve blinks, unsure of why she’s pressing the issue.
“Does that matter?” Y/N counters, like she’s genuinely interested in the other woman’s answer, “He’s my brother, it’s my relationship, surely it’s my business-”
“Your brother has a bad temper” Nat answers calmly, “I’d like to know if we need to be ready for-”
“Awww, Red” Y/N inserts, grinning, “are ya’ sayin’ that I don’t have a bad temper?”
Steve is gobsmacked, absorbed in the exchange and almost as fascinated by the way that Bucky is ignoring it completely;
“No” Natasha says, “I’m saying that if there is some kind of fight, then I’m with you-”
“’til the end of the line, right?” Y/N finishes, clear teasing in her tone.
Steve opens his mouth to object to the jab, but Bucky is laughing before he gets chance;
“You’re bein’ a jackass, doll” he chuckles, “she’s tryin’ to be nice”
“I’m a Stark” the woman says calmly, “some might say that jackass is a genetic trait”
When he rolls his eyes, Steve realises that he’s gawking; He hasn’t seen Barnes talking this much since… well, since the forties, really.
“Whatever” Y/N snorts, attention back on Natasha, “I love you too, Nat, you don’t have to declare sides on a war that isn’t ever goin’ to start”
“But-”
“Even if it did” she continues, “I trust you, I know you’ve got my back, alright?”
Natasha looks like she wants to say something more, but, eventually, after a strained look at Steve, she just nods, picking at her pancakes.
“You all worry way too much” Y/N declares after a moment, taking a sip from her coffee, “I swear it’s a wonder you haven’t gone grey”
“He tried to kill-” Natasha begins,
The other woman cuts her off with a pointed glare. Steve finds himself blinking at the look, and the way it’s worked at silencing the spy so quickly.
“Three years ago” she says, seemingly calm, “my brother came up with the mark 58 suit…”
The trio blink at her a little blankly. Even Bucky looks confused.
“You wouldn’t remember” Y/N allows, “It was red, like the others, gold like the others— brilliant like the others”
Steve opens his mouth to question her train of thought, but quickly decides against it, when he notes how she’s clearly not finished speaking.
“But” she says, taking a drink of her coffee, “It was the first model to have auto-aiming energy conducers.”
Nobody responds, so she shrugs.
“It wasn’t actually that big of a deal, since his previous models had all had the same long range damage capability, and JARVIS used to be pretty good at setting targets up, but it was time saving, y’know? It meant that if he wanted to take down a jet he didn’t even have to be able to see the thing, just scan for it, lock on, and boom, no amount of evasive manoeuvres or counter attacks would make any difference-“
“What does that have to do with-” Natasha tries to cut in
“-He was on mark, what? back when ya’ll had that fight?” Y/N continues, ignoring the woman’s attempt, “102? 103? I mean, I think we’re on 121 now.”
“Y/N” the red head insists, “What does that-”
“Even forgetting about all the significant upgrades he’s made over the years…” she drawls, locking eyes with her friend, “he definitely had the ability to take out military grade weaponry- even moving missiles with the push of a button- without even having to stop and lock on himself.”
She looks at Steve, and then, at Bucky.
“If he wanted to kill anybody they’d be dead” she finishes, gaze back on Natasha, “it was a glorified fist-fight, Red, and considerin’ the video he’d just seen, I’d say a brawl was the least you could expect.”
The mention of the video as brief as it was, has had an instant effect on Bucky. He’s stiff now. Eyes firmly on his plate even though his cutlery is discarded, hands both hidden on his lap beneath the counter.
Natasha looks contrite. Everything Y/N is saying makes total sense, she supposes, there was never another way Tony was going to react- and he didn’t actually hurt either of the men that are sitting around the table with them.
“Have you seen it?” Steve asks suddenly, eyes meeting Y/N’s again—
His question shocks everyone, including him. He hadn’t meant to speak, or at least, he hadn’t meant to ask that, not with Bucky sitting at his side.
“More times than you.”
Her answer surprises him even more.
Natasha watches with the same look of fascination that she’d worn the night before as Y/N takes another bite of her breakfast;
“Y/N, I-”
Her head shakes before Steve can even finish his sentence.
“It doesn’t matter” she says firmly, “I knew way before I it, it was never a shock for me like it was Tony-”
“That my dad didn’t die in a random car accident on the one night he decided to transport his top-secret super serum across country without any security?” she mocks, “Yeah, Nat, I figured that one out all on my own.”
Her brown eyes roll in her head, and Steve notices how she’s deliberately not looking at anyone, anymore;
“How long had you known for?” the red-head presses, tone more careful, now.
“A while” Y/N replies, “I knew I was right when Peg wouldn’t let me and Tony get an autopsy, she said it was because he was probably drunk, didn’t want to ruin his legacy, or something’… Tony bought it but-” she shrugs, “-I was younger, I didn’t have a company to take over, guess I had more time to dwell on things”
“But you would’ve been 12 years old back then-” Nat says, “You’re saying you’ve known since then-”
“-It wasn’t an accident-” Y/N cuts in, “I didn’t figure out the details right away, and it took me awhile to dig around enough to find that tape-”
“So you knew before we did?” the red haired woman continues “that Barnes-”
“No” Y/N replies quickly, “Not exactly.”
Her eyes flicker to Bucky, she offers him a calm smile, and then, she looks back at her friend, altering her expression to something a little more forgiving.
“I knew that something had happened— That it hadn’t been a crash— and when I got older, I figured that HYDRA had probably been involved, that was enough for a while, when we were workin’ y’know?” she stops to see that the woman is following her, “when I had some more time, I… I found the footage, and then when I’d managed to decode it all, including the audio… I heard him saying ‘Sargent Barnes’—”
“Please” Bucky gulps, looking desperately at his lover, “Please don’t-”
Don’t talk about this, right now, he thinks, please, I can’t handle it.
Whatever words Y/N was about to say die in her throat. Her entire face softens as she gives the man a nod.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway” she tells Natasha, realising that she’d gotten a little caught up, “I know what happened now— Tony knows enough, and everything-”
“You know what happened” Natasha repeats, “and Tony knows… enough?”
Steve raises his brow when he catches the implication behind the woman’s words, but Bucky’s breathing is noticeably shallow, now, so he daren’t push any further.
“Yes.” Y/N says firmly, suddenly standing, “That’s exactly what I said.”
There’s a beat of silence, and he finds himself expecting Natasha to challenge Y/N further. He’s never seen her back down before- he’s formulating a way of getting Bucky to follow him out of the room, should the women start some kind of argument, he’s been warned about Y/N’s temper, after all, but, to his surprise, the red-head just…nods.
“yesli ty tak govorish’”If you say so, she says, attention returning to her food-
“Da, Nat … Obeshchayu, vse v poryadke, prosto … slozhno”
I do, Nat… I promise, everything's fine, it's just… complicated.
Y/N’s words are emphasised by the way she comes to stand, pacing around until she’s by Bucky’s side.
He doesn’t move to look at her. He’s fallen back into silence, now, and Steve finds himself watching him with poorly disguised concern.
“Do you want to come for a walk with me?” Y/N asks, tone calm and unassuming.
Almost instantly, the man nods. Eyes aimed at the floor as he gets off his stool in one swift movement;
“C’mon then” she says, taking his hand in her own— “We’ll see you guys later.”
“Wait!-” Steve exclaims, reaching out to grab the other man’s shoulder, “-Buck are you-”
The second his fingers makes contact with Bucky’s shirt, the man flinches away, jolting back and almost stumbling into the wall.
It’s Y/N that stops him, by adjusting her position instantly, correcting her footing and shifting so that she’s in front of him.
Steve looks horrified. Bucky’s face has morphed into something so terror-stricken that he feels absurdly guilty for the way he’s tried to touch him without permission.
Both men blurt out a ‘Sorry’ at exactly the same time, and Y/N can’t help but roll her eyes, despite the way that Bucky’s apology is one that’s clearly motivated by some kind of fear induced reflex.
She squeezes his palm, and offers him a calm smile as he tries to calm himself down.
Nobodies coming to hurt you, he thinks, It’s just Steve— He’s not going to hurt you—
“-Buck, I- I didn’t mean to-“ Steve tries to explain, “-I just wanted to apologise, again…”
He looks so intensely embarrassed, that even she can’t help but take pity on him, even though he’s not her first priority at the moment.
Bucky’s fingers are clinging to hers, now. She can feel his pulse hammering through his palm.
“I think you’ve covered that base” Natasha inserts, from where she’s watching the interaction unfold, “We won’t do it again”
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x former Handler!(fem) Reader; Past Winter Soldier x former Handler!(fem) Reader
Warnings: angst, mentions of Hydra/Bucky’s past, implied/past abuse/sexual abuse on the Winter Soldier, blood, mentions of violence, (mentions of) knife play, pain kink (reader), toxic "relationship", implied smut/past non-con on the reader (no description), fingering, darkfic
Catch up here: The past always catches up
Please consider this is a darkfic. Both the reader and Bucky are not nice in this story.
It’s done. The last handler was found.
He places one hand against the tile wall as the hot water runs down his body. He drops his head and closes his eyes to forget about the things he did within the last few days.
He can still feel the blood on his hands and hear the screams echo in his ears. It feels like your scars are his now too.
It’s done. He got his revenge.
The water continues to cascade down his body as he ponders if his actions are justified. Until he faced you again, he believed that bringing all his tormentors down was his only purpose in life.
Now things have changed.
The fire that used to burn deep inside his chest was extinguished with your last scream.
He sighs and looks at the drain to watch the blood disappear. If only he could wash his past away so easily too.
He turns off the shower and steps outside. He shivers and struggles to grab the towel as his eyes land on a speck of blood on his hand.
The smell of your blood still stings in his nose, and he can’t help but feel giddy knowing he can go back to the room and touch you again…
You flinch at his touch. Not because it’s unwanted. You simply didn’t expect to wake after your soldier wrapped his metal hand around your throat.
He stared at you for what felt like an eternity until he stole your last breath. Or so you thought.
Darkness welcomed you, but fate kissed you back to life with pain. The cold steel ran over your skin, breaking it to let crimson streams pour down your back.
He groaned and whispered your name while you screamed in pain and pleasure. You gasped and begged him for more, or to end your life.
The soldier knew about your kinks and your secret needs. Only he could fulfill them. That’s why you chose him and made him your loyal toy. He would break you little by little only to bring you indescribable pleasure at the same time.
“дорогая (darling),“ his voice brings you out of your dreamy haze. You blink your eyes open but don’t move. “Beautiful.” He purrs as his eyes look on your back. “Perfect.”
“Why?” You dare to whisper. Anyone else would be happy to be alive. Not you. Death finally came to you to collect, but the soldier refused to take your offered soul.
He dips his head to watch you lie on the ruined mattress. Your blood and juices soaked the cheap bedding. “Why what?”
“Why am I alive?” You weakly croak. “I wished for death.”
“Exactly,” he steps toward the mattress to look down at you. You’re shivering at the cold, but his heated gaze keeps you warm. “I want you alive because you wish for death. I won’t fulfill your wishes. You’re not my handler any longer.”
“I know,” you sigh dreamily. “I have missed your hands on me.” You chuckle darkly. “Do you remember the last time? You slammed me into the wall and took what you wanted. I didn’t know you broke out of the programming.”
“You wanted me to be your toy,” he crouches down to run his fingertips over the fresh wounds on your back. You hiss but wiggle on the mattress. “I wanted you to be my toy.”
“You forced my legs apart and made it hurt so good,” you slowly roll to your side to glance at the soldier you once knew so well. “You got weak.” You huff. “Last night you held back.”
“I tried to not kill you,” he leans over your body to press a kiss to the first letter he carved into your skin. “I will break you little by little again. You will be nothing but an empty shell.”
“I was an empty shell after you left me,” you grimace when his lips travel along your back. “There is nothing you can destroy. Hydra took everything I had to offer.”
“No,” he growls and stares at his name carved into your skin. “You are not broken or an empty shell. Not yet. It’s my fate to break you completely. Hydra can’t have this too!”
He seems to be angry at your admission. “I got defeated by my greed and moral flaws. There is nothing left you can steal.”
“This can’t be,” he grits his teeth. “No. You are…you are mine to destroy. I cannot destroy Hydra because they are all gone. But I can ruin you.”
“All gone,” you laugh as you struggle to sit up. “Sweet soldier,” you kneel on the mattress and reach out for him to touch his cheek. He allows you to touch him and kiss his lips. “Hydra is not dead. It has nine heads, and you only decapitated four.”
“No—” He shakes his head and pushes you away. “I killed them all.”
“You killed the handlers, and the foot soldiers,” you flutter your eyes close and run your hand over your exposed chest. “Maybe you took a few heads too. Five remain, sweet soldier, and not even you and your friend will bring them down. No one can.”
“How do you know?” He growls and wraps his hand around your throat. The soldier easily lifts you off of your feet. You gasp and claw at his hand as your toes scrape over the floor. “HOW?”
“I was their best minion,” you smile at him. “You were my masterpiece. Beautiful and so deadly. I bet it was a pleasure to your victims to get killed by you.”
“You’re crazy and sick,” he grunts. “I should’ve killed you.”
“I simply state the truth,” his eyes drop to your chest, and he hums as you whisper, “You’re a beautiful death, my soldier. I welcomed you with open arms, and always will. Even if you break me.”
“I’m going to break you, дорогая (darling),” he kisses you hard. “Bit by bit. Day after day. If not with my hands, but with my,” he grins now and drops his eyes to your crotch. “You know how good I can make it hurt.”
You squirm in his hold. “Yeah. If you hurt me good, I will tell you where you can find the remaining heads and their minions. You know, I was a smart little minion and know every dirty little secret they try to hide from you and the golden boy.”
“You want me to make it hurt?” He slams you into the wall, making you wince as your wounds open again. “How bad do you want me to hurt you?”
“So…so bad, soldier,” you guide his flesh hand down to your crotch. “What’s left of me is all yours. If you don’t kill me, make me feel alive again.”
“Only,” he leans closer to breathe in your face, “if you call me Bucky. The soldier is gone.”
“Is that the name you carved into my flesh?” You look him straight in the eyes when he slips three fingers inside your cunt.
“You will see when I allow you to see my masterpiece…”
Spy
General Wintersolider context warnings, nothing too extreme.
Bucky Barnes x F Reader
Chapter 2
3765 words
Fluff, angst, comfort.
18+ MDNI
Steve hadn't meant to spy on you and Barnes. Not exactly, anyway.
When Steve blinks urgently at Natasha, he finds very little comfort in the aghast expression she’s wearing.
Y/N, however, looks smug, more than angry.
“I installed that mirror, assholes.” she says, “This is my house- do you really think you can get away with watchin’ me through the walls without me clockin’ on?”
“It wasn’t you we were watching” Natasha says calmly, “It was-”
“I know” the other woman agrees, taking a drink.
Bucky tilts his head up, realising they’re admitting to spying on him.
Steve feels himself flush even redder than he had the night before.
“Listen, Buck we didn’t mean-
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”
He is worried though. He’s very worried.
“We where just-”
“Worried” Y/N finishes on his behalf, “We know.”
“How-“
She rolls her eyes at Natasha.
“Your motives are hardly complex” she replies, “You-” she nods at Steve, “Have been fussing over him” she looks at Bucky, “since long before HYDRA, I’d bet— and you-” she focuses back on the woman, “-are just loyal enough to get roped into that concern.”
The red head blinks, and Steve realises that he’s gawking.
“I’m fine” Bucky inserts then, speaking properly for the first time since the subject has been changed, “I’m.. I’m workin’ on some stuff, but you- you don’t need to get wound up ‘about it. I’m a grown man, I’m fine”
“You were acting strange-” Natasha states bluntly, “- Someone noticed, told us to check in”
“Someone noticed-” Y/N says, “-and they told Steve to check in, as a friend, y’know, the way that you sometimes come and check in on me, when I’ve been on a hard job and someone gets antsy”
Steve feels his brow furrow at that. How long exactly had these two known each other?
“We were concerned that-”
“We know what you were concerned about” she says, rolling her eyes at Natasha, “Do you really think we don’t have somethin’ worked out for that kinda’ situation?”
Steve finds himself swallowing as he looks over at Bucky again.
He’s wearing a tight lipped smiles that he knows means he’s uncomfortable. His eyes are lowered to the plate in front of him, but before he can speak to offer some kind of support, he watches him look up, at Y/N.
“…doll, thinks it’s.. it’s unlikely, anyway” he says, “she, uh— she says it’s…”
“Almost completely impossible for anything short of repeated exposure to proven stimuli to trigger that kind of a total sub-nuero relay inversion when it’s been this long since you’ve last had a wipe.”
“In english, please.” Natasha says dryly.
This time, the roll of Y/N’s eyes isn’t playful. It’s exasperated.
“Because it’s been so long since anyones fiddled around in his head, it would take a whole new, professionally orchestrated set up to get him anywhere close to what you’re talkin’ about.”
Bucky’s leg is shaking now. Steve watches it bouncing on the stool for a moment;
Y/N catches it too, and reaches out under the counter with her foot, brushing it against his calf.
He stills himself at the contact, exhaling shakily as Natasha hums curiously.
“So we don’t have anything to watch out for?”
“I wouldn’t say that” Y/N counters, “You’ve pissed me off, for a start”
“But Winter Solider wise-”
“Bucky is fine.” She says decisively, “But, that doesn’t mean we don’t have a plan in place, in case anything changes on that front.”
“And that means…”
“That means” Y/N hisses impatiently, “That you don’t need to worry about anybodies state of mind, other than mine, because as usual, the Starks have taken care of everything else, and all my brother meant when he asked Rodgers to check in on his friend, was that he might actually want to consider asking if he was doin’ okay, not that he should grab you and spend the next twenty minu-”
“-Doll…”
Bucky’s interruption silences her instantly. She inhales sharply, before sitting back in her seat, irritation flaring, but then, when she looks across, and see’s the way that Barnes is watching her, with nothing but genuine adoration behind his eyes, it evaporates like smoke, leaving her looking as composed as ever in her seat.
“We shouldn’t have watched after you came in” Natasha concedes, looking genuinely remorseful, “I’m sorry”
“Me too, Y/N— Both, Both of you, I- I’m sorry”
Bucky shakes his head.
“You shouldn’t have watched at all” Y/N says, ignoring Steve completely, “Sestra, vy dolzhny verit', chto u nas vse vyyasneno. Yesli by byl shans, chto kto-nibud' mozhet postradat', my by uzhe ispravili eto.” Sister, you have to trust that we have things figured out. If there was a chance that anyone was going to get hurt, we'd have fixed it by now.
Steve’s jaw hangs slack as he hears russian pouring easily from the woman’s lips.
“YA doveryayu tebe.” Natasha replies, “i, yesli vy skazhete, chto vse v poryadke, ya ne budu sporit’.
I trust you, and, if you say everything is okay, then I won't argue.
“Vse v poryadke.”
Everything is okay.
Y/N’s answer has an air of finality too it. Even though he has no idea what she’s actually said.
“So” Natasha says, tone incredibly light, “How long as you two been a thing?”
Steve almost chokes on air at that.
Bucky chuckles quietly beside him, whilst Y/N goes back to eating.
He can barely keep up with the atmospheric shift. It’s so strange that only a few minutes ago the women were close to an argument, where as now, they might as well be best friends.
How, did they meet, again?
He has no idea, he realises, he’d always assumed that Y/N, was a package deal that came with Tony, he’d never given any thought to how she might know anyone else, even the night before, when Romanoff had said that she’d known the woman for a long time, he’d never actually thought about it.
“He’s doin’ that face again” Y/N observes, using her fork to point at Steve, “He really should stop workin’ so hard over breakfast”
Bucky laughs almost silently, as Steve blinks himself back to the moment.
“That’s not an answer” Natasha says.
“I know” Y/N agrees cheerily, “You’re not supposed to know there is a ‘thing’ anyway. Don’t see why I should confirm or deny”
“Confirm” the other woman repeats, with a chuckle of her own, “You spent the whole night curled up together like lap cats-”
“I’ve spent more than one night curled with you, like a lap cat.” Y/N says, “Wanna talk about any things that we might have had going on?”
Steve chokes on a bite of pancake that he doesn’t remember taking.
Natasha shakes her head, taking a drink from Y/N’s mug.
They both catch her throwing a wink at Bucky, who just grins, bashful and sweet down at his own food, as he starts to pick at it again.
“Beregi yeye, Barns.” The red-head says calmly, “
Take good care of her, Barnes.
“YA budu. YA klyanus’.”
I will, I swear.
His reply is calm, it’s composed and that, is what makes Steve tilt his head.
It’s so odd, hearing the Russian words without the fear that laced them before.
Natasha just nods, satisfied, and Y/N, goes back to eating.
Steve thinks he should apologise, again. He feels like he should, like he’s misjudged the whole situation, like, he’s betrayed Bucky and totally under-estimated Y/N.
“I…” he begins, anxiously shifting, “I’m really, I’m really sorry”
To his surprise, it’s Barnes that answers.
“We know, Stevie, it’s alright, just… just, ask me next time… it’s like doll said— if you’re… if you’re worried, you can just talk to me”
“You’ve already apologised” Y/N reminds him cooly, “It’s alright, just don’t let me catch you at it again— last thing we need is you turnin’ into a peepin’ tom. Although Tony would love that-”
“Oh, god” Bucky mutters, “Don’t tell your brother bout it, darlin’, he’ll never let them live it down”
Her face is a light. Steve notices then, for the first time, how beautiful she is. With no make up, hair tied back, genuinely grinning, with a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Maybe that’s exactly why I should tell him, huh?” she teases, “might take the heat off you for a bit-”
“Steve watchin’ ya’ through a mirror is hardly comparable to anythin’ I’ve-”
“I don’t think he’d compare” she says, “he’d probably just take the excuse to be an asshole to someone else for a couple of weeks”
“He’s not an asshole” Bucky counters dryly, “Darlin’, I think he’s been-”
“Your judgement is skewed” Y/N cuts in, eating again, “You wouldn’t say a bad word about him regardless”
Barnes doesn’t argue, he just shrugs, smiling a little as he goes back to picking at the meal before him.
“So, does he know?” Natasha asks, brow quirked, “Bout this ‘not a thing’ you’ve got goin’ on?”
Steve blinks, unsure of why she’s pressing the issue.
“Does that matter?” Y/N counters, like she’s genuinely interested in the other woman’s answer, “He’s my brother, it’s my relationship, surely it’s my business-”
“Your brother has a bad temper” Nat answers calmly, “I’d like to know if we need to be ready for-”
“Awww, Red” Y/N inserts, grinning, “are ya’ sayin’ that I don’t have a bad temper?”
Steve is gobsmacked, absorbed in the exchange and almost as fascinated by the way that Bucky is ignoring it completely;
“No” Natasha says, “I’m saying that if there is some kind of fight, then I’m with you-”
“’til the end of the line, right?” Y/N finishes, clear teasing in her tone.
Steve opens his mouth to object to the jab, but Bucky is laughing before he gets chance;
“You’re bein’ a jackass, doll” he chuckles, “she’s tryin’ to be nice”
“I’m a Stark” the woman says calmly, “some might say that jackass is a genetic trait”
When he rolls his eyes, Steve realises that he’s gawking; He hasn’t seen Barnes talking this much since… well, since the forties, really.
“Whatever” Y/N snorts, attention back on Natasha, “I love you too, Nat, you don’t have to declare sides on a war that isn’t ever goin’ to start”
“But-”
“Even if it did” she continues, “I trust you, I know you’ve got my back, alright?”
Natasha looks like she wants to say something more, but, eventually, after a strained look at Steve, she just nods, picking at her pancakes.
“You all worry way too much” Y/N declares after a moment, taking a sip from her coffee, “I swear it’s a wonder you haven’t gone grey”
“He tried to kill-” Natasha begins,
The other woman cuts her off with a pointed glare. Steve finds himself blinking at the look, and the way it’s worked at silencing the spy so quickly.
“Three years ago” she says, seemingly calm, “my brother came up with the mark 58 suit…”
The trio blink at her a little blankly. Even Bucky looks confused.
“You wouldn’t remember” Y/N allows, “It was red, like the others, gold like the others— brilliant like the others”
Steve opens his mouth to question her train of thought, but quickly decides against it, when he notes how she’s clearly not finished speaking.
“But” she says, taking a drink of her coffee, “It was the first model to have auto-aiming energy conducers.”
Nobody responds, so she shrugs.
“It wasn’t actually that big of a deal, since his previous models had all had the same long range damage capability, and JARVIS used to be pretty good at setting targets up, but it was time saving, y’know? It meant that if he wanted to take down a jet he didn’t even have to be able to see the thing, just scan for it, lock on, and boom, no amount of evasive manoeuvres or counter attacks would make any difference-“
“What does that have to do with-” Natasha tries to cut in
“-He was on mark, what? back when ya’ll had that fight?” Y/N continues, ignoring the woman’s attempt, “102? 103? I mean, I think we’re on 121 now.”
“Y/N” the red head insists, “What does that-”
“Even forgetting about all the significant upgrades he’s made over the years…” she drawls, locking eyes with her friend, “he definitely had the ability to take out military grade weaponry- even moving missiles with the push of a button- without even having to stop and lock on himself.”
She looks at Steve, and then, at Bucky.
“If he wanted to kill anybody they’d be dead” she finishes, gaze back on Natasha, “it was a glorified fist-fight, Red, and considerin’ the video he’d just seen, I’d say a brawl was the least you could expect.”
The mention of the video as brief as it was, has had an instant effect on Bucky. He’s stiff now. Eyes firmly on his plate even though his cutlery is discarded, hands both hidden on his lap beneath the counter.
Natasha looks contrite. Everything Y/N is saying makes total sense, she supposes, there was never another way Tony was going to react- and he didn’t actually hurt either of the men that are sitting around the table with them.
“Have you seen it?” Steve asks suddenly, eyes meeting Y/N’s again—
His question shocks everyone, including him. He hadn’t meant to speak, or at least, he hadn’t meant to ask that, not with Bucky sitting at his side.
“More times than you.”
Her answer surprises him even more.
Natasha watches with the same look of fascination that she’d worn the night before as Y/N takes another bite of her breakfast;
“Y/N, I-”
Her head shakes before Steve can even finish his sentence.
“It doesn’t matter” she says firmly, “I knew way before I it, it was never a shock for me like it was Tony-”
“That my dad didn’t die in a random car accident on the one night he decided to transport his top-secret super serum across country without any security?” she mocks, “Yeah, Nat, I figured that one out all on my own.”
Her brown eyes roll in her head, and Steve notices how she’s deliberately not looking at anyone, anymore;
“How long had you known for?” the red-head presses, tone more careful, now.
“A while” Y/N replies, “I knew I was right when Peg wouldn’t let me and Tony get an autopsy, she said it was because he was probably drunk, didn’t want to ruin his legacy, or something’… Tony bought it but-” she shrugs, “-I was younger, I didn’t have a company to take over, guess I had more time to dwell on things”
“But you would’ve been 12 years old back then-” Nat says, “You’re saying you’ve known since then-”
“-It wasn’t an accident-” Y/N cuts in, “I didn’t figure out the details right away, and it took me awhile to dig around enough to find that tape-”
“So you knew before we did?” the red haired woman continues “that Barnes-”
“No” Y/N replies quickly, “Not exactly.”
Her eyes flicker to Bucky, she offers him a calm smile, and then, she looks back at her friend, altering her expression to something a little more forgiving.
“I knew that something had happened— That it hadn’t been a crash— and when I got older, I figured that HYDRA had probably been involved, that was enough for a while, when we were workin’ y’know?” she stops to see that the woman is following her, “when I had some more time, I… I found the footage, and then when I’d managed to decode it all, including the audio… I heard him saying ‘Sargent Barnes’—”
“Please” Bucky gulps, looking desperately at his lover, “Please don’t-”
Don’t talk about this, right now, he thinks, please, I can’t handle it.
Whatever words Y/N was about to say die in her throat. Her entire face softens as she gives the man a nod.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway” she tells Natasha, realising that she’d gotten a little caught up, “I know what happened now— Tony knows enough, and everything-”
“You know what happened” Natasha repeats, “and Tony knows… enough?”
Steve raises his brow when he catches the implication behind the woman’s words, but Bucky’s breathing is noticeably shallow, now, so he daren’t push any further.
“Yes.” Y/N says firmly, suddenly standing, “That’s exactly what I said.”
There’s a beat of silence, and he finds himself expecting Natasha to challenge Y/N further. He’s never seen her back down before- he’s formulating a way of getting Bucky to follow him out of the room, should the women start some kind of argument, he’s been warned about Y/N’s temper, after all, but, to his surprise, the red-head just…nods.
“yesli ty tak govorish’”If you say so, she says, attention returning to her food-
“Da, Nat … Obeshchayu, vse v poryadke, prosto … slozhno”
I do, Nat… I promise, everything's fine, it's just… complicated.
Y/N’s words are emphasised by the way she comes to stand, pacing around until she’s by Bucky’s side.
He doesn’t move to look at her. He’s fallen back into silence, now, and Steve finds himself watching him with poorly disguised concern.
“Do you want to come for a walk with me?” Y/N asks, tone calm and unassuming.
Almost instantly, the man nods. Eyes aimed at the floor as he gets off his stool in one swift movement;
“C’mon then” she says, taking his hand in her own— “We’ll see you guys later.”
“Wait!-” Steve exclaims, reaching out to grab the other man’s shoulder, “-Buck are you-”
The second his fingers makes contact with Bucky’s shirt, the man flinches away, jolting back and almost stumbling into the wall.
It’s Y/N that stops him, by adjusting her position instantly, correcting her footing and shifting so that she’s in front of him.
Steve looks horrified. Bucky’s face has morphed into something so terror-stricken that he feels absurdly guilty for the way he’s tried to touch him without permission.
Both men blurt out a ‘Sorry’ at exactly the same time, and Y/N can’t help but roll her eyes, despite the way that Bucky’s apology is one that’s clearly motivated by some kind of fear induced reflex.
She squeezes his palm, and offers him a calm smile as he tries to calm himself down.
Nobodies coming to hurt you, he thinks, It’s just Steve— He’s not going to hurt you—
“-Buck, I- I didn’t mean to-“ Steve tries to explain, “-I just wanted to apologise, again…”
He looks so intensely embarrassed, that even she can’t help but take pity on him, even though he’s not her first priority at the moment.
Bucky’s fingers are clinging to hers, now. She can feel his pulse hammering through his palm.
“I think you’ve covered that base” Natasha inserts, from where she’s watching the interaction unfold, “We won’t do it again”
Request: From my New Years Celebration (which is still open) from @iignissfatuus : 🍎 sambucky, bucky joining sam's family for christmas week/weekend and him seeing the chaos during christmas dinner
A/N: my new years celebration is completely open still so head over there with the link and send me some stuff! i'd appreciate it <3 i loved writing this and i hope it fits how you saw it when requesting. this is a lot longer than i planned considering my celebration is supposed to be short fics but here i am… ADSFLJKJAsd
Words: 1441
Christmas with the Wilsons is nothing short of magical. Sam, who literally spent hours putting up the tree in the living room, let Bucky put on the lights. It was his way of showing Bucky that he was a part of the family. Bucky doesn't admit how emotional that makes him, but he thinks that Sam could tell by the way he wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek when Bucky got even quieter than usual.s
There are decorations everywhere, lights, wreaths, ornaments hung up on hooks on the walls, and Christmas paintings, it's like he walked into a stereotypical house from a Hallmark movie.
Bucky loves it. He loves the little coasters with cute snowflakes on them that Sarah made by hand, the paper snowflakes hanging in the air that the boys made, and every other little detail that brings together this wonder Christmas landscape for him to enjoy.
This morning when he and Sam were woken up by the insistent loud banging on their door at 6:47 AM, Bucky forced himself to get up, woke Sam up, and they had all made their way to the large tree with all the neatly wrapped presents.
Well… Some of them were neatly wrapped. Some were thrown together with too much tape, Aj, and some were thrown together with too much paper, Cass, and some were just outright… A little wonky. They could thank Bucky, who had not wrapped a Christmas present since the 1940s.
They had all opened their gifts and it had been wonderful. The kids each got Bucky a little keychain to add to his ever-growing set of keys. Who knew actually doing things outside of assassinations could make you accumulate so many keys? The key to the house, a key to Sam's car, a key to Sarah's car for when Sam was busy out and Sarah was busy in the house, the key to the old truck that Sam's been fixing up for him, even a key to his AND Sam's work. It's a little absurd.
Sarah had given him an old cookbook of hers, something passed down to her by her aunt. It's a beautiful one with handwritten notes on the edges. She told him that she'd noticed how interested he was in cooking and wanted to open that world to him more… She also said that now that he has a cookbook he has no excuse not to cook and Bucky had laughed.
Sam, wonderful Sam, gave him an antique chest with a few items inside. An old photo of the howling commandos, an old bottle opener, and varying other items. But one thing caught his eye. The bottom held a book. He pulled it out and stared at it with a smile on his face. There the book was sitting in his lap, and when he opened it he could tell how old it was. Something like this, at that age, must have been hard to find. He had thanked Sam and pulled him into a big hug and he could hear AJ and Cass whispering amongst themselves that next year they'd have to get him more keychains to beat that.
When Bucky and Sam first started dating the first gift Sam gave him was 'The Hobbit' trilogy of movies. Sam had insisted that even though Bucky might hate it since it was fairly different from the book itself, he just had to watch it. They sat on the couch and watched all the movies in one sitting and Sam couldn't believe when Bucky told him he loved it. Bucky's still not sure if the love he has for the movies is because of Sam or because of the movies themselves.
Bucky's gift… Paled a bit in comparison. At least, he thinks it did, but Sam's face lit up and it made Sam happy when Bucky embarassedly handed over the two smal gifts he got Sam. The first one Sam opened was a painting of the backyard on a small wooden board. It had taken Bucky hours and Sam knows that because Bucky had forced Sam to go on a trip to the store and kept texting him every half hour to stay away.
The second was in a small cardboard box and when Sam opened ithis eys widened. It was a key to Bucky's apartment. The one thing that Sam didn't have access to because it was always Bucky's "safe space" that he could run to, even Bucky's therapist had said at the begininng of their relationship it'd be best if Bucky left his apartment to meet with Sam just so he had his own space.
Bucky had awkwardly explained how he talked to his therapist about being ready to give Sam the key, and she had thought it'd be a good idea. Bucky had been quick to say it didn't have to mean anything but that after everything, after the way they accept him into his home the way they had, he was finally able to return the favor. Sam had teared up and hugged him and Bucky's never felt so loved than he did in that moment.
Even though Bucky saw how much it meant to him he still couldn't see how his gifts were anything compared to what Sam has given him. A new life… A christmas.
He used to love Christmas, back when he still had his family to be around. It was a small holiday, nothing too special, nothing like this. It was something that brought them together though. Christmas dinner was quiet, comfortable, and safe. It was Bucky's favorite night of the year.
Bucky wasn't entirely expecting the pure chaos to come from the Wilson family Christmas Dinner. He probably should have, he's seen the cookouts, but he didn't really expect half of the town - yes he's aware it's an exaggeration, Sam - to show up and squeeze into the small little house. There are people everywhere. Couples singing to the Christmas music playing in the living room, Sarah and her girlfriend cooking some dessert as everyone crowds around them in the kitchen, Sam talking to some of the locals about the boat, it all seems so perfect but way too loud all at once. Bucky is trying to keep track of the conversation with Sam and a friend of theirs, Jake, as a few of the kids try to grab his arm. It's getting a bit… Overwhelming.
Bucky throws a fake smile at the kids and tries not to get too freaked as more people join the party. How many people did Sam invite, the whole neighborhood? It's only 3 pm and everyone is already crowding in before the dinner at 5. Even though it feels like the whole neighborhood, he knows there are probably only 10 people excluding Sarah, Sam, Aj, Cass, and himself. He takes a deep steadying breath and he feels a warm hand on his lower back. He looks over at Sam to see him smiling softly at him.
"Let's go get a breather," Sam whispers in his ear. He turns to the guy he's talking to and flashes his winning smile. "Gonna go get some air. Getting pretty crowded in here, even for me."
Bucky feels grateful for the escape as Sam takes him to the backyard and sits him down in one of their chairs. Sam sits next to him and gives him a knowing look, which Bucky chooses to ignore.
"Lot of people," Bucky says simply, nodding. Sam chuckles and nods.
"Yup. Warned you it'd be a bit much for you. You doing alright?" Sam asks, reaching out and taking his hand. Bucky smiles and nods.
"Oh, yeah. Great. It's… It's nice. Just. A lot." Bucky admits, shrugging. Sam smiles and kisses his hand.
"Just let me know when it gets to be too much. I'll rescue you. Knight in shining armor, the whole deal." Sam says, nodding seriously.
"The pretties knight to exist." Bucky snarks, trying to keep a straight face before laughing. Sam rolls his eyes and stands up, stretching. "Getting old, there?"
"Oh shut it, gramps." Sam jokes. He leans down and gives Bucky a kiss. "Come back in when you're ready. Nobody'll judge."
"Got it. See you soon."
"See ya, baby," Sam says, before patting his shoulder and walking back in.
Bucky takes a few moments to breathe in the chill air. Yeah, he's happy here. He goes back inside and is instantly bombarded by kids on both sides, asking him hundreds of questions at a thousand miles an hour and when he looks up he sees Sam laughing.
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Bucky has to spend a few days at a cottage to rest. Stuck between Sam's friend, who loves the outdoors, and heavy snowfall, what could possibly go wrong for the Winter Soldier?
Bucky x Reader - (In my head it is set somewhere around TFATWS but you can imagine Bucky at your favorite moment). - Words count : 4,981 - on AO3
Fluff, non-sense, slight angst, Bucky being grumpy, Reader being a bit of a brat.
Been a while since I posted a fanfic. And, to my great shame, it was for a prompt! But here it is! Thanks @lucifers-legions, I had lots of fun writing this utter non-sense with Bucky!
Dividers from @saradika-graphics
Like it? think about supporting me through Kofi.
Bucky is slouching on the couch, a blanket thrown over his legs, arms crossed, and jaw set tight. He glares at everything around him: the wooden table, the rug, even the snow falling outside, as if it has personally offended him.
He blames Sam, the weather, the world, everyone. Why did he even listen to Sam? It’ll be fun, he had said. It’ll be good for you to get some fresh air. Fresh air… Bucky has been freezing his butt off since the moment he arrived. And now? He is snowed in, stuck in this cabin with you.
Going to a cabin in the middle of nowhere for a few days had almost seemed like a good idea at first. He just wanted to rest after another mind-numbing mission. Just him and nature. Until Sam mentioned his “good friend.” Bucky’s brows had furrowed at those words.
“You’re trying to set me up.”
“Who, me? I would never do that,” Sam had said, wearing a shit-eating grin that almost convinced Bucky to say no. “Don’t worry, man, you won’t see much of her. If I know her well—and I do—she’ll be out and about most of the time. She loves the outdoors… not grumpy old men who glare at everything.”
Those were the exact words Sam had used, and Bucky had finally relented. Sam even repeated them when he dumped Bucky in front of the cabin, waving with an infuriating smile as he drove away.
To Bucky’s surprise, and mild relief, the cabin turned out to be a rather spacious, cozy cottage. But you hadn’t been there when he arrived, and though he would never admit it to Sam, he had felt a tiny bit disappointed. Still, the door had been left unlocked, with a set of keys and a note waiting on the table. It was a list of where to find things, along with a few tips to navigate the cottage. Beside it sat a box of cookies. It caught him off guard, and it made him smile.
After that, Bucky didn’t see you for almost two full days. He heard you coming back late in the evening and leaving early in the morning, but he did nothing to force an introduction. He was exhausted—and not just from his last mission. Though he would rather eat glass than admit it to Sam, the quiet peace of the surroundings had actually helped him get some sleep.
Then, one morning, he finally ran into you.
You were in the kitchen preparing breakfast—bacon, eggs, and toast. Humming and smiling to yourself, you merely nodded when he appeared, his hair wild, wearing a rumpled shirt and an old pair of gray sweatpants. He almost retreated to his room, feeling caught in his most vulnerable state, but you didn’t even glance at him, entirely focused on your cooking.
When you both sat down at the table, you surprised him again. There was no small talk. Just a smile, warm as the sun, as you pushed a full plate in front of him, and that was it. You immediately turned your attention to a map spread out beside your plate, tracing a trail with one finger while eating bacon strips with your other hand.
Bucky wasn’t used to being ignored. To say it surprised him was an understatement. Truth be told, it irritated him… Maybe just a tiny bit. But at least it allowed him to watch you. He noticed the way a lock of hair fell across your face while you read, the tip of your tongue poking out slightly between your lips, and your cleavage, which became a little too visible as you leaned far over the map.
He felt a sudden rush of heat, his eyes darting away in a quick flash of gentlemanly panic as he suddenly felt far too tight in his briefs. Then, you looked up at him with a smile… and all Hell broke loose.
“Out. Of. Question. I came here to rest,” Bucky said, crossing his arms with a set jaw.
“Snowshoeing is resting.” You looked a bit surprised by his bluntness, but your smile remained.
“No, it’s not. And my answer is final.”
Your eyes went wide, and you giggled as if he were joking. But he wasn’t.
“I thought super soldiers were all about physical activity and sports…”
“Not if we don’t have to be.”
“Really?” You arched a delicate eyebrow. “You’re being so dramatic.”
“I’m not going out,” he said, sounding petulant even to his own ears, like a stubborn child. “And you can’t make me.”
He sat there, trying to stare you down. You watched him for a few minutes, as if unable to believe he was actually refusing. Then you shook your head, and Bucky could have sworn you looked disappointed. A pang of guilt hit him, but then you spoke again.
“You really give off old man vibes.”
He blinked, taken aback, before shrugging to look unaffected. “Cause I am old…”
“If you choose to believe that.” You shrugged, cleared your side of the table without looking at him, and went to pack for your trek.
Bucky remembered that moment vividly because you had left him simmering in his own frustration. Alone. The whole situation upset him, leaving him with the lingering feeling of a missed opportunity.
Eventually, the storm rolled in, trapping you both inside the cottage. Thankfully, you had made it back just in time—though Bucky would never admit how much he had worried. Now, he just didn't know what to do with himself, or how he was going to survive this situation.
The snow keeps falling, and Bucky keeps glaring out the window. As you walk past him, he hears you snort, which makes him grumble. That makes you laugh, which, of course, makes him even grumpier. The fact that the flurries are flying horizontally outside doesn’t help his mood. Even though the cottage is perfectly cozy, he can’t stop shivering. Faded images from his past and old, buried feelings are slowly nudged back to life by the bitter cold and the endless white landscape.
Tearing his eyes away from the window, he focuses on the fire roaring in the hearth. Instinctively, Bucky reaches for another blanket.
“You need another one, old man?” you ask, your voice a mix of surprise and disbelief.
Bucky frowns deeper, pulling the second blanket over his shoulders. You let out a sigh.
“You’re hogging all the blankets, Barnes.”
“Why d’you care? You love the snow.”
You step in front of him, crossing your arms over your chest, with your lock of hair and legs molded by your yoga pants. He swallows thickly, feeling his heart race as he quickly looks away.
“I do love the snow. Outside,” you counter. “I also love to sleep comfortably. I don’t want to freeze my butt off just because a century-old man has decided to be petty.”
“I’m not being petty…” He tightens the blankets around himself. “I’m cold.”
“You’re being pathetic. With a fire this big? I feel like I’m cooking, and I’m standing right by the window!”
Bucky pouts. “There’s a draft.”
You roll your eyes, uncrossing your arms to slap your hands against your thighs in exasperation.
“You’re such a baby,” you sigh. “I am never believing Sam again.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, instantly suspicious as Sam’s smug grin flashes in his mind. “W-what did he say?”
“Nothing special.” You lean back against the window frame, ostensibly watching the snow fall.
“What. Did. He. Say.”
You shrug. “Just that you’d be manageable…”
Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. Noting your crossed arms and your slight pout, he can't help but wonder what the Hell Sam actually told you about him.
“Manageable?”
“Drop it.”
“I’m perfectly… manageable. Whatever that means. You’re the impossible one, wanting to go snowshoeing… in the freezing cold… and snow!”
You finally snap your gaze back to him, and the sheer astonishment on your face would be funny if it weren't directed at him.
“It’s winter. In the mountains. Of course it’s cold! What were you expecting, flowers and bees? And newsflash: you need snow to go snowshoeing!”
It’s Bucky’s turn to shrug and look away.
You let out one last sigh. “At least I’m not a couch potato.”
Before he can fire back a retort, you turn on your heel, shake your head, and slam the door behind you. Bucky’s jaw ticks, but he doesn't call after you, utterly torn between irritation and shame.
The morning comes full of light, almost blindingly bright. Everything outside is pure, endless white. You are already awake and ready to go out, standing with your hands on your hips. Bucky steps out of his bedroom, the sight of the infinite whiteness instantly dredging up old, buried memories. Absentmindedly, he moves his left arm, trying to fight a phantom pain etched deep into his marrow.
Not noticing his unease, you turn toward him with determination written all over your body. You slap your hands together, almost in glee.
“Okay, the snow has stopped! We can go out and start digging ourselves out.” You look at him with a wide smile, visibly expecting him to jump at the chance to help. But there is a dull throbbing in his shoulder, and a heavier weight pressing on his mind. Bucky shakes his head.
“No.”
You blink. Once. Twice. “What do you mean, no?”
Bucky takes a deep breath. “I’m not going out.”
Your mouth parts in astonishment, forming a perfect "O" that would have teased Bucky’s mind, and his body, on any other day. But not this morning. You snap your mouth shut and march right up to him.
“And how do you think the snow is going to go away? You think it’s going to melt by magic? There’s no flamethrower around, you know.”
Bucky knows he should tell you, should explain… but he can't bear the thought of seeing pity in your eyes. Or worse, fear. He looks away, stuttering as he tries to find an excuse. “We… wait some more?”
“For what? For spring?” You gesture dramatically toward the wall of white outside. “That’s in two months!” You look at him, your brows furrowed now. “Seriously, what’s your deal, Barnes?” Your head tilts slightly as you study him. “You’re a super soldier. Aren’t you guys supposed to be tough?” You point once again toward the blinding whiteness. “It’s just snow! And, yes, a bit of cold…” Your tone softens just a fraction. “Besides, it’s not even that cold.”
For a moment, he wonders if you’re going to beg, and he feels utterly shitty about the whole thing. But the shivers running along his spine won't leave him alone. He shakes his head again, stubbornly avoiding your gaze.
“I said no.”
You fall silent. It doesn’t last long, but when you speak, your voice is low. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
You begin pulling on your boots, then your gaiters, and finally your heavy cloak. He can hear you grumbling under your breath, though he can’t quite make out the words. Bucky looks back out the window, fighting the intense dread building in his chest. It’s gray and windy out there… and it reminds him too much of another day, another lifetime.
Your voice suddenly snaps him out of his trance. “By the way, you’d better watch your use of firewood. If you keep going like this, we won’t have enough for the rest of the stay.”
Your tone isn’t unkind as you leave, closing the door quietly behind you. You don’t even slam it. He probably would have in your position.
For a moment, Bucky doesn’t move. The fire you lit before he woke up beckons to him, a thick blanket folded neatly beside it. Did you prepare that just for him? Even though you think he’s just some grouchy old man, you keep being kind to him. The thought twists his heart.
Then, a sound catches his attention. A scraping noise. A soft grunt. Another long, heavy scrape. He walks over to the window.
You are right there in front of the door, shovel in hand. You are methodically pushing away the snow that accumulated inside the covered entrance, tackling the white wall methodically. He watches you move. You do it seemingly effortlessly, as if you’ve done this your entire life. Maybe you have.
Bucky sighs, another violent shiver wracking his frame. He feels a crushing wave of guilt for not helping you. Hell, he’s felt bad about the whole situation since the moment he arrived, but he can't seem to shake his visceral hatred of the cold. It runs too deep inside him. Too many wounds, too much blood, and too many horrors are intertwined with it.
The scraping sound goes on, punctuated by your occasional grunt.
No. He can't let you do this alone. Yes, you’re insufferable, but this is partly his fault. He should have just explained it to you. At least then you would know. Grabbing his heavy coat off the rack, he pulls on his boots, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.
The freezing air hits him square in the face, making his whole body shudder. Bucky clenches his jaw, steps out, and walks the few paces into the snow to stand beside you.
You are ahead of him, shoveling methodically. The rhythm comes easily to you. He hesitates for a split second, the warmth of the cottage screaming for him to come back inside. You don't need him out here… No. He has to stay. His Ma had raised him better than that.
With another heavy sigh, he steps up right next to you. You hear him approach and look up in pure surprise, your eyebrows disappearing beneath your winter hat.
He grits his teeth. “Don’t say a word, or I’m leaving.”
You keep your mouth shut, your eyes searching his face. Strangely, you don't hand over the shovel right away, forcing him to hold out his hand. “Gimme that. I’ll do it.”
He sees the exact moment you are about to argue, but then something shifts behind your eyes and you shrug. You place the shovel in his hands almost solemnly, as if passing over a trophy. Bucky is already freezing and irritated, so he doesn't comment.
He works hard to break the snow wall, aggressively carving out a path though, toward what, he isn't even sure. You don't go back inside. You just stand there watching him, arms crossed over your chest, a knowing half-smile playing on your lips.
Bucky wonders what you're thinking. Did you really think he was going to let you shovel alone? Probably. Honestly, he had almost stayed inside.
To his surprise, the snow is incredibly heavy, and he genuinely struggles despite his super-soldier strength. It’s packed tight, forcing his muscles to strain in weird, uneven ways. He fumbles to stack the snow so it doesn't come tumbling back down onto the cleared path, all while the wind blows icy powder right back into his face.
After a few minutes, Bucky wants to throw the shovel into the drift and just scream in sheer frustration. And to make it worse, you begin teasing him mercilessly.
“You’re doing great, old man.”
“Keep going and you’ll finally be warm.”
“Maybe it’ll melt your grumpy ass.”
Bucky desperately wants to shut you up. For a fleeting, dangerous instant, he imagines exactly how he'd do it. Spinning around suddenly, catching you in his arms, and crashing his lips onto yours…
No. You don't look at him that way. Especially not after how he’s been acting.
Instead, Bucky just grumbles under his breath. Thankfully, you finally pick up a second shovel and start working on the opposite side of the path, helping him finish the job without another word.
Time passes.
Despite the heavy physical exertion, the cold slowly seeps into him. First his feet go numb, then his hands, and then violent shivers begin to ripple through his entire body. They are so intense he feels as if his very bones might shatter.
But Bucky refuses to say a word. There is no need to completely destroy whatever image you have left of him. So he keeps shoveling.
The shivering gets worse. The white landscape starts to blur. Suddenly, he hears Steve screaming his name. Bucky blinks. He feels his body hitting the snow—hard. He tries to breathe, then a sudden, blinding pain flashing through his vibranium arm.
“HEY!”
Bucky snaps back to the present, blinking rapidly. He looks up at you. Your face is entirely pale, the shovel hanging slack in your hand. He shakes his head, actively avoiding your eyes as he scrambles to grab his shovel again.
“That’s enough, Barnes. I’ll do the rest.”
“M’fine.”
“You’re not. You sound like your mouth is frozen shut.”
“S’not.”
You let out a heavy sigh. He hears your footsteps crunching in the snow, but his stubbornness locks him in place. He tries to lift another heavy pile of snow. Visibly, you are just as stubborn as he is. Your hand suddenly wraps around his—a shocking burst of warmth flooding his frozen fingers—and you firmly pull the shovel away from him. The movement is slow, incredibly kind.
“Come on. Let’s go inside.”
You are standing directly in front of him, and he opens his mouth, ready to bite back with an angry remark. But then he actually looks at you. Your eyes are wide and full of worry. Your smile is soft, devoid of any teasing or anger.
“Please. You look frozen, Barnes.”
Your voice is quiet, a little pleading, matching the look in your eyes. Bucky stares down at you for a few seconds—just on principle, just because he is a grumpy old man—and then he finally nods. Slowly, stiffly, he turns and walks back toward the cottage.
You follow closely behind, leaning the two shovels against the wall before closing the heavy door securely behind you both.
“Go change your clothes. Take a good, hot shower, and then go sit right by the fire.”
“I don’t need—”
“Please?”
It is impossibly difficult to resist you when you look at him like that, especially now that your teasing edge is entirely gone. He simply nods, a sudden, crushing exhaustion falling over him like a lead blanket.
When Bucky returns from his shower, he feels a bit better, even if his mind is still reeling from the flashback. He goes to sit near the fire and notices the thick blanket waiting for him. He hesitates for a second, touched by the gesture. You prepared all of this for him. The fire is burning bright and warm, casting a cozy glow across the room. That is when he notices the scent in the air: cinnamon and something sweet.
You emerge from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs and hold one out to him.
“Chai tea, with a big dollop of cream and maple syrup.” He takes it, welcoming the sudden warmth between his hands. “It’ll help take the chill out of your bones.” You sit down beside him on the floor, and in a quieter, softer voice, you ask, “How are your toes?”
“What?”
“Your toes. Are they burning? Were they white?”
“No.” He shakes his head, a bit caught off guard by the maternal concern. You study his face for a second and nod, satisfied.
“How are your fingers…?” You reach out, trying to gently take his hand, but instinctively, he snatches it back.
A flash of hurt and worry crosses your face. Seeing it, Bucky softens instantly. “I don’t have frostbite…”
“Barnes…”
“I promise. No frostbite.”
You watch him intently for a moment, then nod. For a while, neither of you speaks, both of your gazes locked on the dancing flames.
“Why the sudden change of heart?” he asks quietly.
“I could see you shivering.” You pause, taking a slow sip of your tea with your eyes cast down. You look incredibly guilty. There is a fleeting moment where Bucky feels a dark, petty sense of satisfaction, but it doesn’t last. The feeling vanishes because he knows he could have just explained things to you. And simply because your vibrant smile is gone. He hates seeing you look so deflated.
“And then you just froze… You weren’t answering me anymore,” you continue, looking up at him with wide, slightly glassy eyes. “Why did you keep going?”
“You were badgering me.”
The words snap out of him, much harsher than Bucky intended. He watches your face turn a shade paler. You look away, taking another small sip of your tea.
“I’m sorry.”
Bucky lets out a heavy sigh, but before he can apologize, you keep going.
“It’s just… That’s no excuse, I know. But I thought—well, Sam said…” You sigh in sheer frustration, shaking your head. “I should have listened to you.”
Bucky reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours and giving it a gentle squeeze. You look up at him. He offers you a soft, reassuring smile, but you still look like a kicked puppy, and the sight twists his heart.
“Hey. I’m okay. I’m just… really not good in the cold.” His tone is lighter now, trying to pass it off as a joke. But your smile still doesn’t return. “What exactly did Sam say?”
“Oh.” You shrug, though you don’t pull your hand away from his. His heart flutters stupidly at the contact. “He just said you’re a super soldier, you like exercising… so I assumed you would enjoy being out, doing some physical activity in the snow.” You let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I was just really looking forward to it, and… I guess I was disappointed.”
There is a vulnerability in your voice that gives Bucky a sudden spark of hope—of what?
“Well, I really did act like a grumpy old man, so I can’t exactly blame you.”
You tilt your head slightly, but your face remains solemn. Bucky hesitates, trying to find the words to explain. “It’s just… because of my past…”
The words barely leave his mouth before you go even paler than before. You suddenly smack your hand against your forehead so hard that Bucky actually winces. Yes, he admits to himself, a moment ago it had felt nice to see you feel a little guilty—it made him feel vindicated. But it is something else entirely to see you completely breaking down. Because in the end, you simply didn’t know.
Bucky Barnes, a man who has fought aliens and gods, feels completely out of his depth as he watches tears well up in your eyes. After a moment, your hand falls away from your mouth. You can't look at him yet, but you whisper, “The cold… it’s because of what they did to you.”
Bucky winces slightly, entirely unwilling to broach the horrific details of his time with Hydra, but he speaks softly, desperate to stop making you miserable. “Yeah.”
You fall silent for a while, and Bucky wonders if he should do or say something to fix it. Then, you take a deep, shaky breath and look him dead in the eye.
“Gosh, what an imbecile I was.” You shake your head in disbelief. “I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Bucky feels like he’s repeating himself on a loop now.
“How can you say that? It’s not okay! I was being selfish. I forgot who you are…”
“Wait.” Bucky’s hand catches yours again, cutting you off. You stop, surprised. “You forgot I was… the Winter Soldier? The ex-Hydra assassin?”
You furrow your brows at his choice of words. “Well, it’s not as if you had a choice. I mean, you were brainwashed and…” You falter for a split second, your voice dropping to a whisper as your eyes grow glassy again. “…You were a prisoner of war.”
Bucky suddenly feels all warm and mushy inside, but you don’t seem to notice because you keep rambling. “How could I have been so thoughtless—”
This time, he takes both of your hands in his, firmly but gently forcing you to look at him. You freeze, silencing your rambling.
“Hey. No. It really is okay.” You look entirely confused now, and Bucky can't help but smile, a wave of soft awe washing over him.
“What?” you ask softly.
Bucky lets out a quiet, slightly breathless laugh. He looks at you, his eyes softening as he realizes just how beautiful you look in the firelight. He shakes his head, trying to clear his racing thoughts.
“It’s just… most people are terrified of me,” he admits, his voice dropping. “They see the ex-assassin. The…” He gestures vaguely toward his vibranium arm. “…The weapon. And you…” He locks his bright blue eyes onto yours, his throat suddenly tight with emotion. “…You’re not afraid of me at all.”
He can't even finish the sentence. Feeling his throat constrict, he looks away, focusing intensely on the fire, the pattern of the blanket, his mug—anything to hide how deeply moved he is. He finally releases your hands, taking a hasty sip of his tea to mask his emotion.
“I didn’t see a weapon,” you say softly.
He looks up. You are smiling at him. It’s a small, kind, slightly shaky smile, but it’s so beautiful it almost hurts. You reach out, placing a gentle hand on his metal arm.
“You weren’t terrifying at all. Even with your death glare and your grumpy face.” He arches an eyebrow, making your smile widen. “Maybe you were a bit funny. And certainly…” You clear your throat, a sudden blush creeping up your neck. “…Cute.”
Bucky blinks, entirely unsure if he heard you correctly. “Cute?”
“Yeah.” You offer him a bashful smile, and Bucky can feel the tips of his ears burning hot. He quickly hides his own growing smile behind his mug. For a moment, a comfortable silence settles over you both. Then, he chuckles softly.
“I have to admit… I admire you,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “You looked so tough out there. Trudging through the snow, handling the cold and the wind, shovelling like it was nothing…”
“You’re kidding.”
“No! It’s really not that easy.”
You smile, a genuine glint of amusement returning to your eyes as a pink flush colors your cheeks. Bucky’s heart squeezes softly, you look completely adorable.
“I grew up doing those things, you know? Ever since I was old enough to strap snowshoes on.” Your eyes drift toward the window, your gaze becoming distant as you let out a happy sigh. “I just love it. The beauty of it, the way the snow glitters under the rising sun. The clean smell of the crisp air. The deep blue of the winter sky…” You look back at him, your eyes bright. “It’s just so magical.”
Bucky feels his throat tighten again, but for an entirely different reason this time. He swallows thickly, his gaze dropping to your lips.
“That’s not the only magical thing in this room.”
You blink in surprise, and then you laugh. It’s a soft, musical sound, and it warms Bucky’s entire body more than the roaring fire, the blankets, or every sun in the universe ever could.
“Oh. That was smooth,” you tease, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Did you learn that line back in the 1940s?”
“What? No.” He laughs, suddenly feeling a bit shy. But then his eyes lock back onto yours, holding your gaze. “It’s just easy to say when you’re looking at me like that.”
You say nothing for a heartbeat, and Bucky’s stomach drops, thinking he might have crossed a line. But then, slowly, you lean in and press a soft, chaste kiss against his lips. It’s just a gentle, lingering pressure, and he closes his eyes, completely savouring the sudden rush of butterflies in his chest.
When you pull back, you whisper, “You’re not bad yourself, for a grumpy old man.”
Bucky rolls his eyes playfully, but he doesn't move away. You are still so close that he can feel the warm fan of your breath against his skin. His eyes flicker downward, tracing the line of your lips before locking back onto your eyes.
“I might be willing to try this magical winter thing…” he murmurs.
“Oh, yeah?”
“As long as I’m doing it with you.”
This time, he is the one to close the gap.
He leans in, crashing his lips against yours in a much deeper, more passionate kiss. His hand slides into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he pulls you even closer. For a long, breathless moment, the only sounds in the cottage are the crackling of the fire, the quickening of your shared breaths, and the heat of your kisses.
When you finally pull apart, entirely breathless, you whisper against his lips, “Or… maybe we can find some other activities to keep you warm inside.”
Your suggestive smile makes him feel completely weak in the knees. It’s a good thing you are both already tangled together on the rug in front of the hearth, or his legs would have given out completely.
“Which ones?” he murmurs, his voice low and thick.
“Let me show you,” you whisper against his ear.
Your words, breathed so close to his skin, make a delicious shiver ripples straight down his spine.
When the snow starts falling again outside, neither of you notices. And even when the freezing wind begins to howl against the glass, no dark memories come back to haunt Bucky's mind. Not tonight. Not while he is safely entangled in the warmth of your body, your fingers threading lovingly through his hair as he finally drifts into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Fandom: MCU
Pairing: Bucky/Peter
Rating: R
Summary: Peter burns dinner (again). Bucky decides they should skip straight to dessert. Established relationship, lots of praise, dirty talk, and Bucky manhandling his favorite spider exactly how they both like it.
AO3 can be found here
Written for the @marveltrumpshate for @maukree
Summary: Your honeymoon ends in shambles. You pick them all up. Man by man… 😈
Pairing: OC!Husband x Wife!Reader (only for the prologue)
Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes
Warnings: angst, mentions of divorce, awful husband
Spa Paradise Masterlist
It was a dream wedding, followed by a week of wild sex, beautiful scenery, and dreams of life after honeymoon.
It was perfect. Almost too perfect.
Your husband was attentive, loving, and wild in the bedroom. Making promises you believed he’d keep. He painted your future in beautiful colors, already talking about children and adopting pets.
Everything was perfect until the evening of your second week in the Maldives.
You were getting ready to go out for dinner and celebrate another wonderful day far away from his nagging mother, nosy friends, stressful jobs, and jealous exes.
That was the moment your world exploded. Your husband was sitting on the bed you had made love on not an hour ago, looking like he was about to cry. He never cried. Not even when his dog died.
Your heart stuttered. “What’s wrong? Do you feel sick? What happened?” You tried to find out what happened to make your husband cry. “Was it your mom again? Did she say mean things? I can take it, you know that.”
“It’s…” He burst out into tears, and between sobs, he told you that this was a mistake.
At first, you didn’t understand the meaning of his words. Not so long ago, he was happy and horny. Just how he should be on his honeymoon.
“Baby, you are scaring me. What’s going on? Please talk to me,” you pleaded, tears in your eyes. “Just say something.”
“I made a mistake,” he choked out. “This was all a mistake, Y/N. My friends were right. I shouldn’t have gone through with all this.”
“All…this?” You felt like someone had poured cold water over your head. Your body went stiff, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. “Do you mean the wedding?”
He nodded, and your heart shattered. You believed this man was the love of your life, only for him to call the best day of your life a mistake.
“Y/N, we have known each other since childhood. We have been dating since we were teens. I think that we should’ve dated other people before marrying.” Your husband sounded like a stranger. Every word he said sounded like a bad dialogue from a low-budget rom-com.
“You can’t be serious,” you cried, wiping your eyes, but the tears kept coming. “We were happy not an hour ago. You told me you love me. We made love. And now you are sitting there, telling me you want to fuck other people!” You were screaming at that point.
“Yeah,” he casually said, as if this didn’t mean the end of your marriage.
Days ago, you believed you could finally start thinking about starting a family. Now, that future was gone. All because your husband was having second thoughts.
“I—I need fresh air,” you coldly said, grabbing your keys and phone, fleeing out of the room.
He didn’t follow you or try to stop you. Your husband, the man you loved since you knew what love was, watched you leave without regret.
It took you three hours and lots of tears to find the strength to go back to your room. Your hand was shaking when you unlocked the door.
The moment you stepped into the room, you knew something was wrong. All of your husband’s things were gone, just like the man himself.
You found his wedding band in the trash, along with three notes he tried to write and never finished.
A suffocating silence settled over the room. And with it came clarity.
This man was never worth your love or time. He wasted all these years, making promises he never wanted to keep.
You did five things that night.
You called your family, telling them what happened.
You moved all your money from your joint account.
You called a lawyer, asking them to prepare an annulment.
You asked your friends and siblings to move all your belongings out of the apartment before your soon-to-be ex-husband had the chance to fly home.
You booked a massage…
"Buck, we have another one," Steve grinned wolfishly. From the moment you and your husband set foot into their wellness hotel he was following you around like a shadow. "She's the one."
"Are you sure?" Bucky asked, glancing at the reservation you made. "I thought she hated massages."
"He hated them," Steve said, still grinning. "Didn't you hear? The honeymoon phase is over..."
Summary: An uneasy alliance finally fractures as grief, anger, and the weight of an impossible legacy push John Walker past the point of no return. In the aftermath, you, Sam, and Bucky are left to reckon with a bloodstained shield and the broken man the government once chose to carry it.
Links to Masterlist | Next Chapter | Previous Chapter
Walker blinked. "...That's not how jurisdiction works."
"It is now." You muttered.
Walker sighed dramatically. "I think we're just getting off on the wrong foot." Then, he made the single worst decision imaginable. He reached out. And casually rested a hand on Ayo's shoulder.
Time seemed to stop.
"...John." You whispered. Too late.
Ayo moved. One smooth motion. She twisted beneath his arm, hooked his wrist, and slammed him across the room with such effortless precision that Walker crashed shoulder-first into the stone pillar.
The spear already embedded there vibrated violently. Walker barely had time to breathe before another spear struck his shield with enough force to send him sprawling again.
The apartment exploded into motion. Lemar rushed forward. The Dora answered instantly. Steel clashed against vibranium. Walker struggled to regain control of the shield while two Dora drove him backward with relentless precision.
Across the room, Zemo calmly finished the last sip of his drink.
You stared at him. "...Seriously?"
He merely raised an eyebrow. "It seemed wasteful to spill it."
You looked back toward the fight. Walker wasn't winning. He wasn't even close.
Bucky folded his arms. A playful taunt in his tone. "Looking strong, John."
Despite yourself, you laughed. Walker shot him a murderous glare. "This isn't helping!"
"No." Bucky admitted. "It isn't."
You looked back toward him. "Maybe we should step in."
He glanced over.
"Maybe..." You nodded toward Walker, who had just been kicked into another table. "...before he accidentally starts an international incident?"
Bucky sighed dramatically. "I was hoping he'd learn."
"James."
"...Fine." He stepped forward. "Ayo."
She barely acknowledged him before another spear swept toward Walker's ribs. Bucky intercepted the strike. The metal rang loudly through the apartment.
"Ayo." He blocked another strike. "We need to talk."
She answered by attacking him instead. Their movements were entirely different from Walker's fight. No wasted motion. No anger. Just two warriors who already knew exactly how the other fought.
Watching them was almost beautiful. Until it wasn't. Sam jumped in moments later, intercepting another Dora before her spear reached Lemar.
Within seconds, the apartment had become complete chaos. One of the remaining Dora turned toward you.
You immediately lifted both hands. "I really don't want to do this."
The answer came in the form of a spear flying directly toward your head.
"...Okay." You ducked. The spear buried itself into the pillar behind you.
You caught the shaft instinctively, using it to swing yourself sideways as another strike narrowly missed your ribs. Your feet landed lightly against the wall.
Tony's bracelet shimmered faintly beneath your sleeve. Tiny strands of nanotech crawled over your wrist. Ready. Waiting. You could feel the arc reactor humming softly beneath the metal. One blast would end this fight.
You looked at the Dora advancing toward you. Then at Bucky. Then at Sam. No. Not against them.
You slipped beneath another strike, using the spear as leverage to redirect her momentum instead of meeting it head-on. She recovered almost instantly. Faster than you expected. Of course she did. She's Dora Milaje.
Another strike. Another. Another. Each one pushed you farther backward. You blocked. Dodged. Redirected. Never attacking. Only surviving. Eventually, you lowered your hands. "Alright, I’m done."
The Dora stopped immediately. Her spear remained poised. But she did not strike. Respect. Not mercy.
Across the apartment, Sam had also found himself overwhelmed beneath two coordinated fighters. Then, a sharp metallic click echoed through the room.
Everyone turned. Ayo's fingers had found a small pressure point beneath Bucky's left shoulder. His expression changed instantly. Confusion. Then realization.
His vibranium arm disengaged with a series of mechanical clicks before falling heavily onto the hardwood floor. Clang. Silence.
Bucky stared. Not at the arm. At Ayo. His face wasn't angry. It wasn't even shocked. It looked… Hurt. Deeply. Quietly. As though something far greater than metal had just been taken from him.
You felt your own stomach sink. Of course. Wakanda built it. They had always retained the right to take it back.
Ayo's expression softened almost imperceptibly. She spoke quietly. "James." There was apology in her voice. Even if there wasn't forgiveness. She stepped past him without another word.
The Dora quickly searched the apartment. Empty. Ayo looked toward the open window. "...He's gone." She didn't sound surprised. Only disappointed. The Dora gathered their spears.
"Leave it." One warrior casually pulled Walker's shield free before tossing it back toward him. It clattered loudly across the floor.
None of them even looked at it. Then, they were gone. The apartment became silent once more.
Bucky remained exactly where he stood. His eyes still fixed on the empty space where Ayo had disappeared. Only after several long seconds did he finally crouch and pick up the detached vibranium arm.
You walked over first. Sam right behind you. You knelt beside him.
"Did you know..." Your voice stayed gentle, "...they could do that?"
He looked down at the arm resting across his knees, "...No."
One word. Quiet. He carefully aligned the connection against his shoulder. The mechanisms locked together one by one with familiar metallic clicks. He rotated the wrist once. Then the elbow. Then his shoulder. Testing every movement. Perfect. Mechanically. Emotionally. You didn't say anything else. You simply reached over, and quietly brushed a piece of dust from the sleeve of his jacket.
A tiny gesture. Barely noticeable. Bucky glanced sideways at you. For a brief second, some of the hurt in his eyes softened. He gave you the faintest nod.
Thank you. No words were needed.
Across the apartment, Lemar hurried to Walker's side. "John." He crouched beside him. "You alright?"
Walker sat motionless for a long moment, his shield lying forgotten only a few feet away. His breathing came hard. Not from exhaustion. From humiliation.
Finally, he looked up. "They..." He swallowed. "They weren't even Super Soldiers." The words barely escaped him.
Lemar offered him a hand. "Come on." Walker accepted it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. He brushed imaginary dust from the front of his uniform, trying desperately to recover what little dignity remained.
No one said anything. Because there wasn't anything to say. Everyone in that room had just watched four women dismantle Captain America without breaking a sweat.
Sam walked past him. Not stopping. Not slowing. Only giving him one long look. Disappointed. Walker looked away first.
You followed Sam toward the bathroom, where the door hung partially open. Bucky reached it a second before you did. The three of you looked inside. The bathroom was empty. The sink still dripped quietly. The window remained closed. But beneath the rug, the manhole cover had been pushed aside.
Sam sighed. "I cannot believe..." He rubbed both hands over his face. "...he pulled an El Chapo."
You looked down into the tunnel. Dark. Dirty. Exactly the sort of escape route Zemo would've planned hours ago. You shrugged. "I can."
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. So can I." He looked back toward the apartment one final time before nodding toward the hallway. "Come on."
The streets of Riga had grown noticeably quieter. Even the rain had finally stopped. The three of you walked without much conversation. Bucky led the way. You walked beside Sam.
For several minutes, no one spoke. You found yourself glancing toward Bucky every so often. He looked normal. Almost. But every now and then, his left hand flexed. Almost absentmindedly. As though he were reassuring himself the arm was still there.
He caught you looking once. You immediately looked away. He didn't mention it. Neither did you.
Sam's phone suddenly rang. He frowned. "Sarah."
He answered immediately. "Hey." The warmth disappeared from his face almost instantly. "...She said what?" He stopped walking. "So she actually called your phone?"
Your stomach tightened. Bucky stopped too, immediately reading Sam's expression.
Sam turned slightly away, already slipping into the calm voice of an older brother. "Listen to me. I need you to pack a bag. An overnight bag. The boys too." He paused.
You could hear Sarah talking rapidly through the speaker. "I know. Only use cash. Don't tell anybody where you're staying. Call me when you get there."
Another pause. His shoulders lowered slightly. "I love you. I'll never let anything happen to you. Any of you. Okay? Bye."
The line disconnected. For a second, Sam simply stared at the phone. Not speaking.
You'd heard that tone before. Years ago. Tony.
When he decided to fly a nuclear missile through a portal to save New York City. He called you first. Telling you how much he loved you, and you were the best sister he could’ve ever imagined. He called Pepper after. Trying to sound calmer than he actually felt. Heroes always sounded the same when the people they loved were in danger.
You quietly rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "What happened?"
He finally looked up. "Karli." His jaw tightened. "She found Sarah. Threatened my nephews."
You felt your chest tighten.
"So now..." He exhaled. "...this isn't just about stopping her anymore."
Sam looked down as his phone vibrated again. A text message.
Bucky's expression hardened. Almost immediately. "What did she say?"
He opened it. Read it once. Then again. The silence somehow became even heavier. Finally, he turned the screen toward the two of you. "She wants to meet." He looked up "...Alone."
Bucky answered before Sam could finish speaking. "I'm coming."
"No." Sam shook his head.
"I'm serious."
"So am I." Bucky replied. "I'm not letting you walk into that by yourself."
You stepped closer. "Neither am I."
Sam looked between the two of you. One stubborn super soldier. One equally stubborn Stark. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You two are impossible."
You smiled faintly. "We've been told."
Bucky nodded once in complete agreement. "Frequently."
Despite everything, the corner of Sam's mouth finally lifted. Just a little. It didn't last long. But it was enough. For one brief moment, the three of you didn't feel like reluctant allies anymore. You felt like a team.
The abandoned municipal building echoed with every footstep. Dust floated lazily through broken shafts of afternoon sunlight pouring in from shattered windows overhead. It felt empty. Too empty.
Sam adjusted the harness across his shoulders as the three of you entered. His Falcon suit looked almost unfamiliar without the shield resting across his back.
You and Bucky followed a few paces behind, both dressed in dark tactical clothing that blended easily into the shadows of the old building.
No one spoke. Until—
"There." You looked up. Karli stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the atrium. She hadn't even tried to hide.
Sam immediately started up the stairs. "Karli!" His voice echoed through the building. "You called my sister?" Another step. "Threatened my nephews?" Another. "That's what we're doing now?"
Karli didn't flinch. "I would've never hurt them." She spoke quietly. "I wanted to understand you." Her eyes shifted behind him. "I see you didn't come alone."
You and Bucky remained halfway up the staircase. Far enough back that Sam still had space to talk. Close enough to intervene if things went sideways.
Sam never looked away from Karli. "You have to end this."
She almost smiled. "You still don't understand." She slowly descended one step. "I don't want to hurt you. You aren't my enemy." She gestured toward him. "You're a tool. A good man trapped inside broken systems. If I killed you..." She shrugged sadly. "It wouldn't change anything." A pause. "I was actually hoping you'd join me." Another. "Or..." She tilted her head. "...you could do the world a favor. And let me leave."
Sam didn't answer. For just a moment, it almost looked like she believed he might. Then, your comm crackled.
Sharon's voice burst into your earpiece. "Sam." Urgent. "Walker is moving." A short pause. "I think he found them."
Sam cursed under his breath. "Walker."
Karli's expression changed instantly. "No—"
Before anyone could react, Bucky vaulted over the stair railing without hesitation. Dropping nearly an entire floor before landing smoothly below. Sam spread his wings and dove after him. You didn't wait.
Tony's bracelet shimmered. Nanotech raced down your legs, replacing your boots with compact thrusters. Blue-white arcs ignited beneath your feet. You launched yourself from the landing.
For one exhilarating second, You were weightless. Then gravity caught you as the thrusters redirected your fall, carrying you safely to the lower floor.
Bucky glanced up only briefly. Saw you already landing beside them. No hesitation. No worry. Just trust.
"Sam." Karli suddenly tackled him from the side, crashing both of them into a concrete wall before pulling her mask over her face. The Flag Smashers scattered.
Sam recovered first. He looked toward you and Bucky. "I'll send the location. Go."
His wings snapped open. He shot upward through the broken ceiling.
You and Bucky exchanged one quick look. No words. Then both of you ran.
The abandoned warehouse was already falling apart by the time you arrived. Concrete dust filled the air. Metal screamed somewhere overhead.
Walker stood halfway up a staircase. Face bruised. Shield raised. Across from him, Dovich. One of the Flag Smashers. The super soldier swung a rusted steel beam. Walker caught it. With both hands. Metal groaned. Bent. Folded like paper.
Dovich's eyes widened. "...Shit."
Walker shoved him backward with enough force to send him tumbling down the stairs. He immediately chased after him. Then stopped when he noticed you and Sam arriving.
"What happened?" Sam demanded.
Walker didn't even look at him. "They took Lemar."
Everything inside him had narrowed to a single objective. Find Hoskins. Nothing else mattered. The four of you split through the warehouse. Searching room after room. Empty. Then, noise. A crash. A shout.
You burst into the largest room yet. Flag Smashers. Everywhere. The fight began immediately. Knives flashed. Metal clanged.
Walker slammed one man through a railing. "What is it with you people and knives?"
No one answered. You ducked beneath one blade before driving your elbow into another attacker's ribs. Behind you, Sam folded one opponent with his wings before another knife shot toward his blind side.
You barely had time to warn him. "Sam!"
A flash of silver intercepted it first. Bucky caught the attacker's wrist. Twisted. Disarmed him. Then glanced toward Sam. "You're welcome."
Even now. He had time to be sarcastic.
Sam rolled his eyes. "I was handling it."
"Sure you were."
The fight surged again. Bodies collided. Concrete cracked. You knocked another attacker backward just as Walker disappeared beneath two Flag Smashers trying to pin him to the ground. Then, Karli appeared.
She charged straight toward Walker. Knife raised. Walker never saw her.
"Walker!" Someone shouted.
Hoskins sprinted into the room. He hit Karli full-force. Knocking her away from Walker. The two stumbled across the floor. Trading desperate blows. Everything seemed to happen at once. Karli shoved him backward. He recovered. She threw another punch. This time, with everything the serum had given her.
The sound echoed through the warehouse. Hoskins' body flew backward. His back struck a concrete pillar with a sickening crack. The column splintered. Chunks of cement rained onto the floor.
Then, silence. Not the peaceful kind. The awful kind. The kind that follows something so irreversible that even the world seems to hesitate.
Dust drifted lazily through the air. Pieces of concrete rolled across the warehouse floor. Lemar didn't.
For one impossible second, your mind refused to understand what your eyes already had.
Blood slowly spread beneath the back of Hoskins' head. Walker turned. His breathing stopped. "Lemar..." His voice barely existed.
The sound hit something deep inside you. Another voice. Another battlefield.
"Tony..." Your own voice.
Raw. Broken. Begging.
You blinked hard. No. Not now.
But the memory didn't care. You remembered dropping beside your brother. The blood. His trembling hand. The way you'd kept talking because silence would've meant accepting what was happening.
You'd told him he was okay. Even when you knew he wasn't.
Walker hadn't reached that part yet. He still believed there was time.
You looked instinctively toward Bucky. His face had gone completely still. The kind of stillness that only came when something terrible had just happened. Without thinking, your feet carried you toward Walker.
Not because you trusted him. Not because you liked him. But because, in that moment, he wasn't Captain America. He wasn't your rival. He wasn't the man who took Steve's shield. He was simply, a man kneeling beside his best friend. Watching him die. And for the first time, your heart broke for John Walker too.
Walker collapsed beside Lemar. "No..." His voice cracked. "...No."
He gathered Lemar into his lap with trembling hands. "Hey." A shaky laugh escaped him. "C'mon."
Nothing.
"You gotta get up." He patted Lemar's cheek. "Hey."
Another little shake. "Quit screwing around."
Still nothing. Walker swallowed hard. "...Lemar." A little louder. "You hear me?"
His friend's head rolled limply against his arm. Walker froze. Because bodies weren't supposed to move like that.
Around the room, the remaining Flag Smashers slowly began backing away. One by one. No one spoke. No one attacked. Even Karli stood frozen. Her eyes locked onto Hoskins' body. Horror spread across her face. She hadn't meant to--she turned and ran.
The others followed. Within seconds, they were gone. Only the four of you remained.
Sam looked from Lemar to Walker. Then toward the fleeing Flag Smashers. He made the decision first. "Bucky."
Bucky already knew. The two of them sprinted after Karli.
You stayed. Walker hadn't moved. He still held Lemar. His knuckles had gone white around his uniform. You slowly approached. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.
Without thinking, you reached for him. Your hand rested carefully against his shoulder. Not to stop him. Not to pull him away. Simply, to remind him he wasn't alone.
The contact was light. Gentle. Minutes ago, that same shoulder had brushed roughly past yours outside the church. Now, you held it together because he no longer could.
You checked Lemar’s pulse. But you already knew.
"John..." No response. You crouched beside him. "I'm so sorry." Still nothing.
You didn’t want to try to stop him. You knew nothing you’d say would matter anymore.
You looked down at Lemar. Then back at Walker. Your throat tightened. "I don't know what this feels like." You swallowed. "...Not exactly."
Another breath. "But I know what it's like to lose someone who would've done anything to keep you alive."
Tony. Lemar. Different men. The same choice. Both had stepped between danger and someone they loved.
Walker finally looked at you. His eyes were empty. Completely hollow. Something broken. You felt your heartbeat stumble.
"John..." You whispered. "Take a breath. We'll figure this out together. We'll find—"
His gaze drifted past you. Toward the shattered window. Toward the city outside. Toward the people responsible. You saw the decision happen. Right in front of you.
"He was supposed to come home." Barely a whisper. "I promised."
The words weren't really for you. They were for himself. Like if saying them aloud might somehow change what had happened.
You wanted to tell him none of this was his fault. You wanted to tell him Lemar had made his own choice. That he would've done it again. That people who loved us, always seemed willing to step between us and danger.
Your father. Natasha. Tony. Now, Lemar.
The words stayed trapped in your throat. Because no sentence had made your own grief smaller. Why would they make his?
"John..."
He gently lowered Lemar's body back onto the floor. Almost reverently. Then stood. Towering over you. For one impossible second, you thought maybe he'd listen. Maybe he'd stay. Maybe—
His eyes drifted past you. Toward the shattered window. Toward the city. Toward the person responsible. Something changed. The grief didn't disappear. It hardened. Like molten steel cooling.
You recognized it. Not vengeance. Purpose. The dangerous kind. The kind grief often became when it had nowhere else to go.
He was already gone. He vaulted through the broken window. Glass exploded outward.
"John!" You rushed after him before stopping yourself.
Your eyes fell back to Lemar. Still lying exactly where Walker had left him. Alone.
No one should be left alone like that. Not after spending a lifetime making sure someone else wasn't.
Your chest tightened. "I'm sorry." You whispered. "I'll come back."
You forced yourself away. Nanotech flowed down your legs as blue-white thrusters ignited beneath your feet. You jumped.
The drop was farther than you'd expected. Repulsors roared just before impact, slowing your fall enough that you landed hard, but safely against the pavement below.
People were already screaming. Running. Pointing. Somewhere ahead, Walker. You took off again. Following the sound.
The plaza had dissolved into chaos. People shoved past one another. Phones already filled the air. Someone screamed. "There!"
You rounded the corner just in time to see Walker tackle one of the fleeing Flag Smashers onto the stone steps of the monument. It wasn't Karli. Just one of the super soldiers..
Walker didn't care. He slammed the shield into the man's chest. "Where is she?"
The man cried out. "I don't know!"
Another strike. "Where is she?!"
"I wasn't—" Another. "It wasn't me!"
You broke into a sprint. "John!"
He either didn't hear you or chose not to. The shield rose again. And again. Each impact echoed across the square. His strength was no longer fully human, as the super soldier serum he’d injected earlier ran through his veins. People screamed. Some ran. Others stood frozen. Recording. Always recording.
"John!" Your voice cracked. "Stop!"
Another strike. The man stopped moving. Walker didn't. The shield came down again. Then, one final time. Silence.
The only sound left was Walker's ragged breathing. He remained standing over the body. The shield hanging loosely from one hand. Blood dripped slowly from its edge. Bright red. Against vibranium. Against the symbol Steve had carried through wars. Through sacrifice. Through hope.
You stopped several yards away. Unable to move. Unable to breathe.
Across the plaza, Sam landed hard beside the crowd. Bucky emerged from another street at nearly the same moment. All three of you stared. Not at Walker. Not at the body. At the shield. Steve's shield. Your brother and dad’s design. The shield that had once represented the best parts of humanity.
Now, stained with innocent blood.
Walker slowly turned. For the first time, he seemed to notice the hundreds of phones pointed toward him. The horrified faces. The silence. The blood.
His eyes finally dropped to the shield in his hand. His expression faltered. Just slightly. As though reality had caught up to him.
No one spoke. No one could. Because in that single irreversible moment. Captain America hadn't just killed a man. He had shattered everything Steve Rogers had spent a lifetime trying to build.
And there would be no coming back from it.
Later, the warehouse was almost empty. Rain tapped softly against the rusted metal roof overhead. Broken machinery cast long shadows beneath flickering fluorescent lights. The silence somehow felt louder than the fight that had happened only an hour earlier.
Walker stood alone. One knee resting against the concrete. Steve's shield leaned against the floor beside him. His hands rested over it almost reverently. Not as Captain America. As John. As a man trying desperately to convince himself he had done the right thing.
The warehouse doors groaned open. Walker didn't turn immediately. He already knew who it was. You. Sam. Bucky. The three of you stepped inside together. No words. No weapons drawn.
Just three people hoping this could still end peacefully. Walker finally stood. He looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot. His uniform still carried streaks of Lemar's blood.
"So." He picked up the shield. "Time to get back to work." His voice sounded almost normal.
That frightened you more than if he'd been screaming.
"John." You stepped forward first.
He glanced toward you. "You guys should probably see a medic." His eyes lingered on the bruise forming beneath your cheekbone. "You don't look so good."
He tried walking past.
"John."
Nothing.
"Walker."
This time, he stopped. Slowly. "What?"
"You saw what happened."
His breathing quickened. "You know why I did it."
You held his gaze. "I know why you wanted to." Silence. "But that's not what happened."
His jaw clenched. "I killed him because I had to. He killed Lemar."
"No." Bucky's voice echoed through the warehouse. Quiet. Controlled. "He didn't."
Walker looked toward him. "You don't get to tell me that."
Bucky slowly approached. "I've walked that road." His expression never changed. "I convinced myself every person I killed deserved it. I convinced myself I didn't have a choice. I convinced myself revenge would make it stop hurting." He shook his head. "It doesn't."
Walker scoffed. "I'm not you."
"No." Bucky answered. "But if you keep going you will be."
The words landed harder than any punch.
Sam stepped forward. "John. It happened during the fight. If you surrender now...We can explain it. Your record. Everything you've done before today… They'll take it into account. We don't want anybody else getting hurt."
You looked at him again. His breathing had become uneven. His grip tightened around the shield.
"John." You softened your voice. "Please."
For a second, it almost worked. His eyes met yours. The anger disappeared. Only grief remained. Then, he looked at the shield.
Everything changed. A bitter laugh escaped him. "...So that's what this is." He looked between the three of you. "You almost had me."
Sam frowned. "What?"
Walker slowly backed away. "You don't care about me." His voice grew louder. "You want this." He lifted the shield.
"You made a mistake." Sam answered calmly.
Walker laughed again. "No." His eyes burned. "You did."
The warehouse fell silent.
Sam sighed. "You've gotta give me the shield."
Walker stared at him. Then at Bucky. Then, finally, at you. "You really want to do this?"
Bucky answered first. "Yeah." He took one step forward. "We do."
The first punch landed before anyone saw who threw it. Walker exploded forward. The fight began. There was no warning. One moment he stood across the warehouse, the next, he was already on top of Sam. The shield slammed forward.
Sam barely raised an arm before the vibranium edge crashed into his forearm, sending him skidding across the concrete. Bucky met Walker head-on. Vibranium collided with vibranium. The impact echoed through the warehouse.
You darted in from Walker's blind side, aiming low the way Natasha had drilled into you years ago. "Never fight the strongest part of your opponent. Take away their balance."
You swept your leg toward Walker's ankle. He stumbled. Only for a second. Then, his hand caught your wrist. Too fast. Too strong. He threw you hard enough that your shoulder slammed into the concrete.
Pain exploded through your arm. By the time you looked up, Sam had already been knocked down beside you.
Walker stood over Bucky now. The shield angled toward his throat. Your stomach dropped. "No." The thrusters beneath your boots ignited just long enough to propel you forward.
You caught Walker's forearm with the heel of your boot. The shield flew sideways. Walker grunted, more surprised than hurt. His attention shifted. To you.
For one brief, terrifying moment, You saw exactly what Steve had spent years protecting you from. A Super Soldier who wasn't holding back.
You had sparred with Steve countless times. Early mornings. Late nights. Training rooms. Backyards. Sometimes just because one of you was bored.
Back then, you'd always thought you were getting better. That maybe, one day, you'd actually beat him. Now...
Watching Walker charge you with the same shield, You understood the truth. Steve had never fought you. Not really. He had loved you too much.
Walker didn't. The shield came toward your head. You ducked. A punch. You redirected it. A kick. You rolled beneath it. Everything Natasha had ever forced you to learn suddenly came rushing back. Don't meet strength. Redirect it. Make him chase you. Make him overcommit.
Walker swung again. You caught his momentum, twisting around his shoulder and sweeping both legs from beneath him. He hit the floor. You immediately kicked the shield farther away. Good. Keep him away from it.
Walker looked up. Breathing hard. Then smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was rage. His next punch came faster. Harder. You barely blocked it. Another. Another. Each one drove you farther backward.
You weren't losing. But you weren't winning either. He was getting stronger. Or maybe, he was simply getting angrier. You finally found an opening. You jumped. Locked your legs around his neck. Twisting. Trying to cut off his balance instead of his breathing.
"I'm not trying to hurt you!" You grunted.
"Then stop fighting!" Walker roared. He grabbed your waist. Lifted you completely off him. Then slammed you into one of the steel support beams. The impact drove every bit of air from your lungs. Stars burst across your vision. You crumpled to the floor. Somewhere nearby, you heard someone shout your name.
Walker was already sprinting toward the shield again. Before he could reach it, a blur of black slammed into him. Bucky.
Watching Bucky fight was nothing like watching Steve. Steve always looked controlled. Disciplined. Hopeful. Bucky looked inevitable. Every movement efficient. Every strike deliberate. No wasted motion. No anger. Only purpose.
For several long moments, the two Super Soldiers looked evenly matched. Until, Walker hurled the shield. Bucky caught it.
The impact alone shoved him backward into one of the warehouse beams. Metal screamed. The concrete cracked. But he never let go.
Walker charged. Both hands slammed against the shield. Driving it into Bucky's chest. Pinning him against the support column.
"Why?" Walker screamed. "Why are you making me do this?" He shoved harder. Hard enough that the steel beam behind Bucky groaned beneath the pressure. "You think I wanted this?" Another shove. "I did everything right!"
Electricity suddenly erupted through the damaged beam. Sparks exploded beneath Bucky's metal arm. The vibranium hand jerked violently. His body convulsed.
Then, he collapsed. His left arm smoking. Motionless.
"James!" You pushed yourself upright despite the pain shooting through your back. Before you could reach him—
Sam crashed into Walker. The two rolled across the warehouse floor. Walker recovered first. He raised the shield. Exactly the same way he had in the plaza. The same angle. The same motion. Your blood ran cold.
"No!"
Sam blocked the first strike with his wings. The second. The third. Walker screamed. "I AM CAPTAIN AMERICA!" His hands dug beneath the metal wings. With a roar, he tore them free. Metal shrieked.
Sam cried out in agony as the wings ripped away from the harness. Walker lifted the shield. Ready to bring it down. Then, Bucky hit him like a freight train.
The shield spun between them as both men struggled for control. Sam rejoined the fight seconds later, grabbing the opposite side despite the damage to his suit. Neither could overpower Walker.
You forced yourself back to your feet. Your vision still blurred. Your bracelet hummed. Nanotech flowed over your right hand. Not your whole body. Just enough. You ran.
Walker never saw you coming. You drove the reinforced gauntlet between his wrist and forearm. The impact echoed. A sickening crack followed.
Walker screamed. His grip failed. The shield flew free. Sam stumbled backward with it.
Walker dropped to one knee, clutching his arm. Still, he tried to stand. "It's..." He panted. "...mine."
You stood between him and Sam. Breathing just as hard. "It's over, John."
"No." His eyes were wild. "It's mine!"
He charged again. Bucky intercepted him with one devastating punch.
The fight lasted only seconds now. Walker was exhausted. Outnumbered. Broken.
Bucky finally hooked one arm beneath Walker's legs. Lifted him. And threw him hard enough to shake the warehouse floor. Walker didn't get back up immediately. Silence settled. The only sound left was vibranium scraping across concrete.
Bucky turned. You stood several feet away. Steve's shield resting quietly in your hands. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Bucky slowly exhaled. The fight had finally ended.
You crossed the distance between you. Without a word you offered him the shield. He looked at it. Not at you. His eyes looked distant. Exhausted. Haunted. He accepted it silently. Walked past you. And gently laid it beside Sam.
Not tossed. Not dropped. Placed. Like something sacred. Then he turned… And walked away. You watched him go. Something inside him had changed. Again.
You helped Sam to his feet. He picked up the shield with both hands. Neither of you spoke. He stared at the blood still clinging stubbornly to the vibranium. Slowly, almost reverently, he began wiping it away with the sleeve of his jacket.
As though cleaning the shield, could somehow begin repairing everything it had witnessed. He looked toward you once. You managed the smallest nod. Neither of you had won today. You had only stopped something from becoming even worse.
Then, without another word, the three of you walked away separately.
For the first time since Steve had left, it no longer felt like grief was the thing driving you apart. It was everything left unsaid.
By the time you regrouped, the adrenaline had long since faded. It left behind only bruises. Aches. And exhaustion.
The apartment the authorities had converted into a temporary command post overlooked the now-empty refugee camp. The raid had already happened. Doors hung open. Mattresses had been overturned. Children's drawings still clung to cracked walls with faded tape. Yet somehow, Karli had vanished again.
You had showered. Changed into clean clothes. Patched the cuts across your knuckles. None of it made you feel any less tired.
When you stepped into the living room, Sam stood over a table littered with maps and reports while Joaquin scrolled through surveillance photos on a tablet.
Bucky stood nearby with his arms folded. Quiet. Always quieter after a fight. Sam looked up first.
"The GRC has already started raiding every refugee camp connected to the Flag Smashers." Joaquin pointed toward the map. "They hit this one first. Same result as the others." He exhaled. "Followers. No Karli."
Torres zoomed in on another satellite image. "They tore the place apart. Found nothing."
Sam rubbed tiredly at his jaw. "She's gone. We're never gonna find her like this."
Torres finally looked up. His attention immediately landed on Bucky's reattached vibranium arm. His face brightened. "Oh. You got your sleeve back."
Bucky stared at him. Expressionless."...Arm."
Torres blinked. "...Right. Arm." A beat. "Looks good."
Bucky sighed through his nose. Without another word, he turned toward the hallway.
"You heading to deal with Zemo?" Torres called after him. "...Good. I mean...I'm glad you're alive."
Bucky paused only long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes met yours. Just briefly. There was something in that look. Tired. Heavy. Almost, apologetic. Then he disappeared down the hallway. You watched him go longer than you meant to.
"Damn." Torres muttered under his breath. "I don't think he likes me."
A tiny smile escaped you. "He doesn't." You paused. "...But if it makes you feel any better, he barely likes the rest of us either."
Sam chuckled quietly. "So." Sam leaned back against the table. "What are our options?"
Torres' smile faded. "Honestly?" He grimaced. "Not many." He tapped another report. "Captain America killing a foreign national on camera kind of became everyone's problem." He looked toward you. "The higher-ups have already stepped in."
You nodded before he even finished. "They're taking jurisdiction."
"Yeah." Torres sighed. "So we're officially being told to stay out of it."
His attention drifted toward the large case resting against the wall. Sam's wings. Bent. Broken. He walked over, crouching beside them. "...What happened to these?"
Sam ignored the question. "So there's really nothing?"
Torres shook his head. "They've locked everything down. The camps. The borders. The investigation. And after yesterday?" He whistled softly. "Karli's probably underground."
"No." He corrected himself. "Under underground."
Sam looked down at Steve's shield resting quietly on the table. "The longer we wait the harder she's gonna be to find."
"I know." Torres nodded. "But she's got people helping her everywhere. Every country. Every platform. She's good." He looked back toward the wings again. "...Seriously though. What happened?"
Sam finally laughed. A tired one. "Long story."
Torres shrugged. "I guess all we do now..." He leaned back in his chair. "...is sit tight. Sometimes there's nothing to do until there's something to do."
Sam looked at him for a second before smiling. "...That's bizarrely wise."
Torres grinned proudly. "I am a bizarrely wise man."
"You keep telling yourself that." Sam laughed again. This one came a little easier. He reached for Steve's shield. Its surface was finally clean. No blood remained. Only scratches.
He nodded toward the door. "C'mon." You followed him outside.
The afternoon air felt strangely quiet. Torres carried the damaged wings outside behind you. "Hey! You forgot these."
Sam looked back only briefly. "Keep 'em."
Torres stared. "...Seriously?"
"You'll know what to do with them." Sam smiled. "I hope."
Torres looked like he'd just been handed Excalibur. "I…Thanks."
Sam loaded the shield into the back of the truck. You expected him to climb into the driver's seat. Instead, he noticed you hadn't moved.
"You coming?"
You smiled faintly. "Not this time."
His expression softened. "Work?"
You nodded. "I got called in. The Senate wants me present during Walker's hearing." You let out a dry laugh. "They figured the government liaison who keeps defending Captain America might as well defend this one too."
Sam shook his head. "They really don't make your life easy."
"They never have."
A quiet silence settled between you.
"You think you'll be alright?"
You considered the question longer than expected. "Work?" You shrugged. "That's the easy part." You looked out toward the empty refugee camp. "It's everything after that I haven't figured out yet."
Sam understood exactly what you meant. He leaned against the truck door. "I've gotta head home. Louisiana." He smiled. "Help Sarah with the boat." A pause. "Come with me."
You looked at him.
"Sarah would love to see you. The boys too. And..." He hesitated. "I think it'd do you some good."
You smiled despite yourself. "You offering me therapy?"
"I'm offering you decent food." He grinned. "And my sister. She's a lot cheaper than therapy."
A quiet laugh escaped you. The first genuine one in days. "I'll think about it."
Sam nodded. He didn't push. He never did. "That's all I'm asking." He climbed into the truck. Before closing the door, he looked back one last time.
"Oh. If Bucky shows up before you do..." He smirked. "Try not to let him do all the work."
You rolled your eyes. "As if he'd volunteer."
Sam's grin only widened. "You'd be surprised."
He started the engine. You watched the truck disappear down the road until it became little more than a speck against the horizon.
Only then did you realize, for the first time since Tony died, someone had invited you somewhere that wasn't a mission. It wasn't work. It wasn't an obligation. It was simply… Home. Even if only for a little while.
Washington, D.C. - The Following Morning
The hearing was scheduled for nine. You arrived nearly an hour early. Not because you expected to change anyone's mind. Because you already knew you wouldn't.
Government hearings weren't about justice. They were about optics. And after what the entire world had watched happen in Latvia, someone had to take the fall.
The marble hallways outside the chamber buzzed with reporters and military personnel. Cameras flashed every time someone important walked past. You hated places like this. Too many polished floors. Too many expensive suits. Too many people pretending decisions hadn't already been made behind closed doors.
You adjusted the folder tucked beneath your arm, Walker’s personnel file, incident reports, witness statements, psychiatric evaluations. You had spent most of the night reading through all of it.
Decorated. Brilliant. Disciplined. Three Medals of Honor. A man built his entire identity around serving his country. And then, one terrible decision. One moment of grief. One public execution.
It had erased everything that came before it. Or at least, that was the story everyone wanted to tell. The conference room door opened. John Walker stepped into the hallway. He still looked like he hadn't slept.
There was a fading bruise across his jaw from the warehouse fight. His knuckles were wrapped in fresh bandages.
He stopped the second he saw you. "What are you doing here?" His voice wasn't angry. It was exhausted.
You looked up from the folder. "Besides recovering from the mild concussion you gave me?" The corner of your mouth lifted. "I'm here to represent your ass."
His brow furrowed. "You're not a lawyer."
"No." You tucked the folder beneath your arm. "I'm worse." A beat. "I work for the people writing today's headlines."
Walker looked toward the hearing room. "...Lucky me."
Silence settled between you. You glanced toward the conference room door. No one else had come out yet.
Good. Quietly— "Can I ask you something?"
Walker looked back. "...Depends."
You lowered your voice. "Does Olivia know?"
His expression didn't change. "Know what?"
"The serum."
The words landed heavily between you. For the first time that morning, Walker looked genuinely caught off guard.
His eyes searched yours. "You figured it out."
"You bent a metal pipe" You answered simply. "And I watched you throw a man through a concrete wall."
A beat. "You weren't doing that two days ago."
Walker looked away. His jaw flexed. "...No."
"She doesn't know?"
He shook his head once. "No."
Silence. You nodded slowly. "I figured."
"You gonna tell her?" He finally looked back at you. There was no anger. No challenge. Just exhaustion.
You held his gaze. "If I wanted to..." You lifted the folder. "...I would've put it in there."
His eyes dropped to the file. Then back to you. "You didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
You considered the question. "Because that's a conversation your wife deserves to hear from you."
His shoulders sagged. Almost imperceptibly.
"And because..." You continued. "...You've got bigger problems walking into that room than another charge."
Walker let out a quiet breath.
"You should tell her."
He frowned.
"You don't know what that serum does yet."
His eyes drifted down toward his own hands. Neither did he. Not really. He'd thought it would simply make him stronger. Faster. More capable.
Nobody had explained what it did to grief. To anger. To guilt.
"It doesn't just change your body." You said softly. "It changes every decision you make from here on out."
Walker swallowed. "I wasn't trying to become..." He searched for the words. "...That."
"I know."
"You do?"
You nodded. "I read your file." A small smile. "I also watched you with Lemar." Silence. "I don't think John Walker wanted that man to die."
Walker's throat tightened. "He shouldn't have."
"I know."
"Lemar stepped in because of me." His voice almost disappeared. "And now he's gone."
For the first time, the hearing didn't seem to matter anymore. Not to either of you.
Before Walker could respond, another voice interrupted. "John." Olivia Walker stepped into the hallway.
She looked tired in a way only spouses of soldiers seemed to understand. Strong enough to keep standing. Too exhausted to pretend everything was okay.
She smiled gently at you. "Thank you for calling so early this morning. You didn't have to come."
"I wanted you to know what was going to happen. And I thought you could use the support."
Walker blinked between the two of you. "You talked?"
Olivia smiled. "For almost an hour."
"When?"
"This morning."
"About what?" He looked even more confused.
She looked at you.
You answered first. "You."
He stared. "...Why?"
You shrugged lightly. "Because somebody had to."
You sighed. "Mrs. Walker—"
She interrupted immediately. "Olivia."
You smiled. "Olivia."
Walker folded his arms. "I'm missing something."
"You usually are," you muttered.
He frowned. "What was that?"
"Nothing." You shut the folder. "She's worried about you. So am I."
Walker looked almost suspicious. "You barely know me."
"You might be right," You admitted. "But, I know enough." A small pause. "I've spent enough time around soldiers to know what grief looks like."
His eyes flickered.
"And I've spent enough time around this building to know what they're about to do to you." You nodded toward the chamber doors. "They're not walking in there to understand you. They're walking in there to make an example out of you."
Walker stared. "You still came." A long silence settled between you. Finally he asked, "...Why?"
"I'm here because that's my job." You held his gaze. "And because everyone else in that room is about to see Captain America. I'd rather see John."
Something flickered across his face. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
"You know..." He looked at you for a long moment. "I thought after the warehouse..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "...You'd hate me."
You smiled sadly. "I’m still pretty upset about the concussion."
That earned the tiniest laugh.
Then you became serious. "I hated what happened." A pause. "I don't hate you."
Walker looked away. Almost relieved. "I appreciate that."
You gestured toward the chamber doors.
"Come on. They're waiting."
The hearing room was already full. Rows of military officials. Members of Congress. Press. Observers. Every seat occupied. Camera shutters echoed through the chamber the moment Walker entered.
Olivia quietly took a seat in the front row. You remained standing a few feet behind Walker. Not as his attorney. As his liaison. As the one person in the room whose job was to speak before everyone else decided to speak for him.
The committee chairman adjusted a folder. "John F. Walker." His voice carried through the chamber. "It is the decision of this council that you are no longer authorized to act in any capacity as a representative of the United States Government or its Armed Forces." A pause. "You are hereby stripped of the title and authority of Captain America effective immediately."
Camera shutters exploded. You stepped forward. "Mr. Chairman." The room quieted. "Permission to address the council regarding the circumstances surrounding the incident."
Several senators exchanged looks. One finally answered. "The circumstances have already been reviewed. They have been summarized."
You remained calm. "With respect, Senator, a summary and context are not the same thing."
Another senator leaned forward. "Miss Stark, the council appreciates your perspective. But the findings remain unchanged."
Your jaw tightened. Of course they did.
Walker cleared his throat. "With all due respect, I don't believe the council fully understands the circumstances."
"This is not a negotiation."
"I understand."
"It is a mandate."
"I understand that."
"It is a mandate."
His breathing grew sharper. "I understand that!"
You stepped closer. "John." Quietly. "Take a breath."
For half a second, you thought he might actually listen. Instead, he looked directly at the council.
"I lived my life by your mandates." His voice cracked. "I dedicated everything to your mandates. You told me who to be. You trained me. You put that shield in my hands. And I became exactly what you asked me to become."
The room remained silent. Not sympathetic. Just...Silent.
The chairman didn't even blink. "You will receive an other-than-honorable discharge. Effective immediately. You will hold no military rank. No retirement status. No associated benefits."
The room gasped. Reporters practically climbed over one another to capture Walker's reaction. You lowered your eyes.
This wasn't discipline anymore. It was spectacle. You had stood in rooms like this before. After Washington. After Siberia. After choosing Steve over the Accords.
Different accusations. Different senators. Same outcome. Someone always had to become the example.
Walker stared ahead. Almost whispering now. "You built me."
Nobody answered. Finally, "I am Captain America."
The chairman sighed. "Not anymore. And if you continue to challenge the authority of this council, you will spend the remainder of your life in the United States Disciplinary Barracks."
Silence. Walker laughed once. It wasn't amusement. It sounded hollow. Then he turned. Without another word, he walked out. The doors slammed behind him. The echo lingered through the chamber.
You gathered your folder. Before you could leave, "Ms. Stark."
You stopped.
One of the senators looked directly at you. "I trust you'll exercise better judgment regarding the individuals under your supervision." A beat. "The council has shown considerable patience following your previous... associations."
You knew exactly what he meant. Tony. Steve. Bucky. The Avengers.
"If we determine that you are no longer capable of performing your duties objectively, your position will be reevaluated."
There it was. The threat. Wrapped politely.
You met his eyes. "Understood, Senator."
He nodded once. "See that John Walker returns the shield promptly."
You inclined your head. "I'll relay the message." You left without another word.
Outside, the hallway was empty. Walker was already gone. You considered following him. You even took two steps toward the exit. Then stopped. He didn't need another government representative chasing after him. He needed space.
So instead, you walked outside into the cool afternoon air. For the first time all day, there were no cameras. No senators. No applause. No accusations. Only silence.
You wondered if this was how Steve had felt after signing nothing. How Bucky had felt after every hearing. How Tony had felt after every congressional subpoena.
Maybe that was the cruelest part. The government had a remarkable way of building symbols, only to abandon the people inside them the moment they became inconvenient.
And despite everything Walker had done, you couldn't bring yourself to hate him. Not after watching the machine that created him pretend it had nothing to do with his fall.
You went home. Because there wasn't anywhere else to go.
Summary: You discover you're pregnant, and now you have the task of telling the baby's father.
Warnings: pregnancy
A/N: This is based on a writing prompt I found (and from a list of prompts I've collected. The prompt: "About the baby…it's yours."
Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Character Masterlist
You stared at the stick in your hands. The double lines taunted you even as you grappled with the thought of what it meant.
Pregnant.
How could you let this happen?
Two months ago, you'd just needed to release some pent-up steam. Too many back-to-back missions with mixed results in terms of success. You'd been burnt-out and in need of distraction. It just so happened you'd found that distraction in the intoxicating scent and strong arms of the one man who continued to remain an enigma to you. James "Bucky" Barnes.
Now, you were sitting in your bathroom, doing your best to breathe through this anxiety-inducing new reality.
How were you going to tell him? Could you tell him? What if he didn't want anything to do with the baby? With you? Could you cope being his teammate and raise his child if he wanted nothing to do with either of you? Would it mean you'd have to resign from the Avengers? Would he?
The questions continued to swirl, producing the beginnings of a massive headache. Your temples had already started to throb.
Needing to get out of your room, you tossed the stick into your trash and strode from your room. You needed to find some air. Clear your mind so you could think properly. So many decisions to make, so little time to make them.
As your luck would have it, the first person you nearly slammed into was the very man you'd hoped to avoid for as long as possible.
His hands came up to steady you even as his features softening upon recognizing you. Because of course they did and had since that night.
"Hey, where's the fire?" Bucky asked.
"Nowhere. Just going for a walk."
"Want some company?"
It was on the tip of your tongue to say no, but his hopeful expression dissuaded you from hurting him. If it'd been anyone but him, then maybe you could've walked away without the guilt. But it was him.
So, you nodded and did your best to meet his smile with one of your own.
That was how you found yourself walking along the streets of Manhattan, making your way towards Central Park. You needed the spot you'd found during one of your earlier explorations of the city. It was always a place of peace, a place of clarity, when your mind was too loud.
Bucky kept pace at your side, making sure you always remained on the inside of the sidewalk. Watchful of those around you both. Never failed to keep you within a hand's reach though he never made complete contact with your skin. He wouldn't, either, until you invited him to.
Only when you two reached the place you needed most did he finally break the silence. "You okay?"
You could feel the hysteria building within you. A laugh escaped of its own volition. Meeting his concerned gaze, you finally shook your head.
"Anything I can do?"
So many things, you couldn't help thinking, but you didn't say any of them aloud. Instead, you opted to say, "Just stay with me. Please?"
He did.
He always did.
It wasn't often you asked, but he never failed to step up when it happened.
Time stood still as you watched the small ripples along the pond's surface. Little bugs dancing over the surface while fish occasionally peeked out, hoping for a meal. You could see the slight breeze as it tousled the grass near the pond's edge.
The words came out of you eventually.
"I'm pregnant."
Bucky inhaled, but he didn't back away. In fact, he crept a little closer, his warmth seeping into you. His hand brushed against yours.
"You keeping it?"
There wasn't any hesitation as you nodded.
"About the baby, Buck," you took a deep breath, bracing for his reaction to the next part you needed to confess, "it's yours."
"I know," he said softly. An even softer grin quirked the corners of his mouth. His eyes crinkled at the edges. "You haven't been with anyone else since our night together."
"How do you know that?"
He glanced at you then. "Because I know you."
That pulled you up short.
As much as you wanted to deny his words, you couldn't.
Because he did.
He knew how you liked your morning drink, your favorite author, and your favorite comfort show. He also knew how you spent your evenings after a tough day with your go-to comfort snack. There wasn't a favorite of yours that he didn't seem to know, having watched and taken note.
"I'm in it, too, as much as you want me to be. I wanna be a father to our kid. Full-time, part-time, whatever you think is best." His eyes didn't meet yours as he spoke, squinting instead at the pond you'd been studying not minutes ago.
The words didn't surprise you.
Bucky never shirked his duties, and you knew he'd be a good father.
But what if you wanted more? What if you wanted him to be part of your life, too? Would he want that as well? Did he want you, or was that night a one-time thing? Sure, you two hadn't slept together again since that night, but he hadn't kept his distance from you. In fact, he seemed to spend whatever free time he had seeking you out, wanting to be close to you.
As if sensing your thoughts, he finally met your gaze, his eyes boring deeply as though he could see into your heart, your soul. "Can I take you out tonight? We can go to your favorite place, eat as much as you want. Maybe talk about us."
"You want there to be an us?"
His expression softened, and a small smile formed. "Yeah, I really do."
"I do, too," you whispered, leaning into him and taking his hand for the first time. "I really do, too."
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plot: all the things that happen between you and Bucky while falling in love with each other
warnings: FLUFF but there’s some angst and an hint of SMUT (but like a few phrases not too explicit)
word count: idk
author’s note: hey guys, umh this is something really easy that i kinda dreamed few days ago, hope you’ll enjoy, you have to imagine it as a sort of series of episode.
The glass doors of the Avengers Tower lobby slid shut behind you with a soft, clinical hiss, sealing out the damp, clinging midnight air of Manhattan. You stood frozen on the polished marble floor, your fingers white-knuckled around the handles of your suitcases. The ceiling soared stories above you, supported by sleek, metallic pillars and illuminated by recessed, cool-toned lighting that cast long, sterile shadows across the floor. The sheer scale of the space made you feel incredibly small, an interloper in a high-tech fortress built for gods and heroes.
Your chest felt tight, your breathing shallow. You had spent the last several hours traveling, your mind racing with a hundred different anxieties. You didn't belong here. You were just a normal person dropped into a world of legends.
"Welcome home," a smooth, disembodied voice chimed from overhead, causing you to jump. The sound echoed off the polished walls. "I am FRIDAY. Shall I summon Boss?"
"No! No, thank you," you whispered quickly to the ceiling, your face flushing as you looked around to see if anyone had witnessed your panic. "I—I can find my way. I think. Just... which way is the elevator?"
"You look like you're about to faint."
The voice didn’t come from the ceiling. It was deep, gravelly, and rough with sleep, carrying a low, rumbling resonance that seemed to vibrate in the quiet air of the lobby.
You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat. Emerging from the shadows of the wide, dark marble kitchen island at the far side of the lobby was Bucky Barnes. He was wearing a faded, worn-in gray t-shirt that clung to the broad frame of his shoulders, and loose dark sweatpants. His long, brown hair fell messily around his face, damp at the ends as if he had recently washed it. In his right hand, he held a glass of ice water.
Despite his relaxed, domestic attire, the sheer size of him and the piercing, hyper-observant intensity of his blue eyes made you take a subconscious step back, your boot heel clicking sharply against the marble.
Bucky paused instantly. He stopped in his tracks, his gaze dropping to your defensive stance, then to the white-knuckled grip you had on your bags, and finally back to your wide, anxious eyes. The guarded, distant expression he usually wore around the Tower melted away, replaced by a soft, cautious gentleness.
"Sorry," he said quietly, keeping his voice low and level. He raised his right hand slightly, showing he was unharmed, while keeping his metal left hand tucked securely in the pocket of his sweatpants. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, giving you ample time to back away if his presence made you uncomfortable. "Didn't mean to jump you. It's... a lot to take in at first, isn't it? The whole place."
"Just a bit," you admitted, your voice trembling as you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since you crossed the threshold. "I'm supposed to be on floor seventy-two, but I... I don't even know how to work the elevator. I don't want to break anything."
Bucky set his glass down on the edge of the kitchen island with a soft, glassy clink. "Let me help."
He closed the distance between you with slow, unhurried steps. When he reached you, he didn't crowd your space. Instead, he reached down and easily swept up your two heaviest suitcases in his right hand, lifting them as if they were filled with feathers rather than your entire life. He gestured toward the elevator bank with his head.
"Floor seventy-two is the residential wing," Bucky said, walking a half-step ahead of you to guide the way, his broad back a solid, protective shield in front of you. "It's quieter up there. Less of Stark's flashing gadgets. Less people, too."
The elevator doors opened silently, revealing a wood-paneled interior that felt slightly warmer than the rest of the lobby. You stepped inside, and Bucky followed, placing your bags neatly in the corner before tapping the button for seventy-two.
The ride up was quiet, but it wasn't the suffocating, awkward silence you had feared. Bucky stood near the control panel, keeping a respectful distance. He kept his eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers, giving you the space to breathe and adjust. You sneaked a glance at him in the reflective metal of the elevator doors. Even in the dim light, his profile was striking, his jaw clenched in quiet thought.
When the doors finally chimed and slid open to a softly carpeted, dimly lit hallway, Bucky led you down the corridor. The walls were lined with closed doors, the quiet hum of the building's climate control the only sound. He stopped in front of a door marked with your name.
He set your bags down gently beside the doorframe. He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, his metal left hand still hidden. He looked down at you, his blue eyes incredibly soft in the warm hallway light.
"Here you go," he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave as if sharing a secret. "If you ever get lost, or... or if you just need something. Anything at all. My room is just down the hall. Right at the end. You can always ask me."
"Thank you, Bucky," you said, the tension finally leaving your shoulders, a genuine smile touching your lips. "Really. I don't think I would have made it past the lobby without you."
He gave you a small, tentative nod, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Goodnight."
As Bucky turned to walk back down the corridor, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the communal kitchen area at the end of the hall. Sam Wilson was leaning against the wall, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand and a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face. He had clearly been watching the entire exchange.
"Well, look at you, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood," Sam whispered loudly as Bucky approached. "Didn’t know the Winter Soldier offered a midnight room-service concierge. Do you get tips for that?"
Bucky’s ears flushed a bright, unmistakable pink under his long hair. He glared at Sam, his eyes narrowing as he shoved past him with a muttered, "Shut up, Sam."
"Oh, come on!" Sam chuckled, turning to follow him down the hall, his voice echoing slightly. "You even carried her bags! My back hurts just watching you be that polite! Since when do you carry anyone's bags?"
"I'm going to throw you off the roof, Wilson," Bucky growled back, though there was no real venom in it—just a desperate desire to hide the blush creeping up his neck.
_______________________________________________
Three weeks in, you had quickly learned that the easiest way to navigate the Avengers Tower was to live like a ghost. The common areas were constantly bustling with loud, larger-than-life personalities, and you felt like an interloper. To avoid the midday rush, you started setting your alarm for 5:30 AM, slipping out of your room to enjoy the quiet of the communal kitchen before the rest of the team woke up and filled the space with clanging pans, loud banter, and overwhelming energy.
But there was one major obstacle to your peaceful mornings: Tony Stark’s Italian espresso machine. It was a massive, chrome monstrosity that looked more like a spaceship control panel than an appliance. Every time you tried to use it, it hissed violently, beeped in harsh reprimand, or demanded a software update in a language you didn't speak.
On a Tuesday morning, you walked into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes, ready to battle the machine for a cup of tea. You were yawning, your hair messy, wrapped in a comfortable cardigan.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Sitting on the marble countertop was your favorite ceramic mug—the one with the chipped handle you always chose. Next to it sat the kettle, silently steaming, and a small, neatly arranged plate holding two bags of your favorite chamomile tea and a single silver spoon.
The kitchen was completely empty, bathed in the soft, gray light of the dawn.
You blinked, looking around. "FRIDAY? Did you do this?"
"I am programmed for many tasks, but I do not curate tea selections," the AI responded smoothly from the ceiling.
You smiled, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. You made your tea, wondering who had been so thoughtful.
The next morning, it happened again. This time, the kettle was hot, and there was a small jar of raw honey sitting next to the mug, the lid already loosened so you wouldn't have to struggle with it. Beside it was a tiny post-it note with a hand-drawn arrow pointing to the honey.
On the fifth morning, your curiosity got the better of you. You decided to slip down ten minutes earlier, creeping quietly down the hallway in your thick socks.
The kitchen lights were dimmed, the city outside the glass windows still shrouded in pre-dawn blue. Standing by the counter, his back to you, was Bucky. He was wearing his usual gray t-shirt, his hair pulled back into a messy bun.
He was carefully placing a fresh mug on the counter. With agonizing slowness and absolute precision, his heavy, silver metal fingers picked up a single tea bag by its paper string. He placed it perfectly beside the cup, aligning it with the spoon. He looked incredibly focused, his brow furrowed and his tongue slightly poking out of the corner of his mouth as if he were defusing a bomb rather than prepping breakfast.
You leaned against the doorframe, folding your arms, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "You know, you could just invite me to breakfast."
Bucky jumped, his metal hand twitching and nearly knocking the silver spoon off the counter. He spun around, his eyes wide, his face instantly turning a deep, burning crimson. He looked at the mug, then at you, and quickly shoved both of his hands into his pockets.
"I—I wasn't..." Bucky stammered, his usual cool, stoic demeanor completely evaporating into thin air. "I just... I wake up early. Old habits. And I noticed you always fight with the espresso machine. It's loud. Thought I'd save you the trouble. And the noise."
"It's incredibly sweet of you," you said, stepping into the kitchen and approaching him, your eyes locked onto his flustered face. "Thank you, Bucky. Really. The honey yesterday was a nice touch."
"It's nothing," he muttered quickly, his eyes darting toward the hallway exit like a trapped animal. "Just... making some for myself anyway. I'll let you get to it. Enjoy your tea."
Before you could say another word, he practically bolted out of the room, his long strides carrying him away in a flash.
From the shadow of the kitchen island, a tablet was slowly lowered. Natasha Romanoff was sitting on a barstool, a mug of green juice in her hand and a smug, highly amused expression on her face. She had been sitting there the whole time, completely unnoticed.
She didn't look up from her screen, but as Bucky’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hall, she spoke smoothly.
"You know, Barnes," Natasha called out, her voice carrying easily through the quiet kitchen, "if you put that much attention into your target practice, you'd actually hit the bullseye occasionally."
From down the hall, the only response was the loud, embarrassed slam of Bucky's bedroom door.
Natasha looked at you over the top of her tablet, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. "Cute," she murmured, taking a sip of her juice.
_______________________________________________
The rain was lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tower library, creating a steady, rhythmic static that made the cavernous room feel incredibly cozy. The library was three stories high, filled with rows of old wooden bookshelves and comfortable leather furniture. You were curled up on the massive leather sofa, wrapped in a thick knit blanket, completely absorbed in a romance novel.
The heavy wooden doors of the library creaked open. Bucky stepped in, holding a dusty paperback. He stopped when he saw you, hovering awkwardly near the entrance, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"Oh. Sorry," Bucky said, gesturing toward the door. "I didn't know anyone was in here. I can go. Don't want to disturb you."
"No, stay!" you said, shifting your legs to make room on the massive couch. "There's plenty of space. It's nice in here today."
Bucky hesitated, his eyes lingering on the empty spot next to you before he walked over. Instead of sitting on the couch, however, he opted for the heavy armchair positioned directly across from you. He sat stiffly, his back straight, his book open in his lap. But he wasn't reading. His eyes kept darting over the top of the pages to watch you.
An hour passed in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the rain against the glass and the occasional turning of a page.
Then, Bucky cleared his throat softly. "Is, uh... is the light better over there?"
You looked up from your book, blinking. "Yeah, the reading lamp is right above me. Why? Do you want me to turn another one on for you?"
"Just... thinking I might get a headache over here," he muttered, standing up. He walked over to the couch, sitting down on the absolute opposite end. He was so far away he was practically resting on the armrest, his body angled toward his book.
You hid a smile behind your pages. "You can come closer, Bucky. I don't bite. I promise."
He gave a quiet, self-deprecating huff but slid a few feet closer, his posture relaxing slightly.
Another thirty minutes passed. The rain grew heavier, casting the room in a soft, dim light. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between you shrunk. First, he shifted to get more comfortable. Then, he leaned back against the cushions, his shoulder drifting closer to yours. By the time the clock chimed 4:00 PM, Bucky was sitting close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his broad body.
He wasn't even looking at his book anymore. He was looking at yours.
"What's it about?" he asked softly, his voice low and intimate, so as not to disturb the quiet of the room. "The story."
You turned to him, your face lighting up as you began to explain the plot. You talked about the characters, the drama, the slow-burn romance, gesturing with your hands as you got excited. Bucky didn't interrupt once. He just rested his chin on his right hand, his blue eyes fixed entirely on your face, a soft, incredibly captivated smile playing on his lips. He looked completely mesmerized—not by the story you were telling, but by the sheer, unbridled joy in your voice and the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed.
Suddenly, a bright flash illuminated the dark hallway outside the glass doors of the library.
You both turned instantly. Tony Stark was standing in the corridor, his phone held up, a massive, devilish grin on his face. He quickly tapped his screen, his thumbs flying across the keyboard.
A second later, your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You picked it up, and Bucky leaned over your shoulder to look. It was a message in the group chat.
> Tony: Beauty and the Winter Beast. Shhh, don't scare him, he's actually socializing.
> [Image attached: Bucky looking at you with a look of pure, undivided devotion]
Bucky glared at the glass doors, his jaw clenching as his metal hand tightened into a fist. But Tony was already sauntering away down the hall, throwing a peace sign over his shoulder.
Bucky looked back at you, his face burning red, but he didn't move away. In fact, he slid a little closer, his arm brushing against yours. "He's an idiot," Bucky muttered, though he didn't deny the photo's caption.
_______________________________________________
It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and the Avengers Tower was uncharacteristically quiet. Most of the team had headed out on a rare free weekend, leaving only a skeleton crew behind. You had decided to spend your afternoon baking, occupying yourself with a recipe for homemade cinnamon rolls that required a significant amount of kneading.
You were up to your elbows in flour, your hair pinned up haphazardly, hum-singing a quiet melody to yourself as you worked the sticky dough on the marble kitchen island.
The glass doors lids open, and Bucky walked in, carrying a basket of clean laundry he had just fetched from the residential level. He paused, his gaze instantly locking onto you. A soft, warm expression immediately settled over his features, his broad shoulders losing their habitual tension.
"Smells good in here," he murmured, setting the basket down on a nearby chair. He walked over to the island, leaning his hip against the edge, watching you work with a look of quiet fascination.
"Baking therapy," you smiled, blowing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. Unfortunately, the action only succeeded in smudging a white streak of flour across your cheek.
Bucky let out a soft, low chuckle. He didn't say a word. Instead, he reached out with his flesh hand, his warm, rough thumb gently sweeping across your cheekbone to brush the flour away. His touch was incredibly light, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. His blue eyes darkened slightly as they dropped to your lips, before darting back up to your eyes.
"There," he whispered, his voice suddenly husky. "Got it."
"Thanks," you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flip in your chest. You looked down at the dough, suddenly finding it very hard to concentrate. "Do, uh... do you want to help? The dough is incredibly stubborn today."
Bucky looked at his hands—his flesh right hand, and the heavy, silver metal of his left. A familiar shadow of hesitation crossed his face. "I don't think I'd be very good at that. Might crush it."
"Nonsense," you said firmly. You grabbed his right wrist, pulling his warm hand down onto the cool marble, placing it directly over the ball of dough. "Just press down with the heel of your hand, fold it over, and repeat. Like this."
You stood close, your shoulder brushing his chest as you guided his hand through the motion. Bucky held his breath, his chest expanding against your side. He worked the dough with agonizing, careful gentleness, his movements incredibly deliberate as he adapted his immense strength to the delicate task.
"See? You're a natural," you smiled, looking up at him.
Bucky didn't look at the dough. He was looking down at you, his breath warm on your forehead. "Only because I have a good teacher," he whispered, repeating your words from the gym weeks prior.
The moment stretched, thick and heavy with a quiet, domestic intimacy that made your knees feel weak. You realized then that these quiet, ordinary moments with him were fast becoming the anchor of your entire life.
_______________________________________________
It was a rare Sunday where absolutely nothing was expected of anyone. The sun poured through your bedroom window, painting bright geometric patterns across the rug. You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, a sewing needle threaded with dark gray string held between your teeth as you meticulously repaired a tear in the seam of Bucky’s favorite heavy-knit cardigan.
Bucky was lying lengthwise across the foot of your bed on his stomach, his chin resting on his crossed forearms, watching you work. His long hair was completely unbound, spilling over his shoulders, and he looked profoundly content just being in your orbit.
"You don't have to fix that," he said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I could've just asked Tony for a replacement. Or thrown it out."
You took the needle out of your mouth, casting him a playful, disapproving look. "Throw it out? It's perfectly good wool, Bucky. Just because you got it caught on a tactical rack downstairs doesn't mean it's trash. Besides, you look nice in this color."
Bucky’s gaze softened exponentially. He reached out with his flesh hand, his large, warm fingers lightly brushing against your ankle where it peeked out from your sweatpants. He didn't pull away, just kept his hand anchored there, absorbing the touch.
"My mother used to stitch things like that," he murmured, a rare, unprompted memory of the 1930s slipping out. "Sitting by the window in the apartment. She'd fix Steve’s trousers because he was always tearing them running away from guys three times his size."
You paused your needle, looking down at him with a tender smile. "Did she teach you?"
"A little," he admitted, a small, nostalgic smirk lifting his lips. "But my fingers were always too clumsy. Even back then." He shifted slightly, his eyes dropping to his silver metal hand resting flat against your duvet. "Definitely too clumsy now."
"Hey," you said softly, setting the cardigan down in your lap. You reached forward, sliding your hands beneath his large metal palm, lifting it up and turning it over so you could interlock your fingers with his cybernetic ones. "Your fingers aren't clumsy. I've watched you handle tea bags like they were made of spun glass. You are incredibly gentle, Bucky. Don't talk down about yourself."
Bucky stared at where your small fingers were woven seamlessly between his vibranium ones. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his chest expanding against the mattress. He didn't speak, but he pulled your hand up to his face, pressing his lips firmly against your knuckles, holding the kiss there for several long, breathless seconds. The sheer weight of his silent gratitude filled the sunny room, sweeter than any spoken promise.
_______________________________________________
The silence of the 3:00 AM corridor was shattered by a sound that made your blood run cold.
It was a muffled, choked gasp, followed by the heavy, metallic thud of something striking a wall, and then a low, desperate groan.
You dropped your glass of water onto the kitchen counter, the liquid splashing over the marble, and ran down the hallway. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the sound of your own breathing loud in the empty corridor. The sounds were coming from Bucky’s room at the very end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of pale, cold moonlight cutting across the dark hardwood floor inside.
"Bucky?" you whispered, pushing the door open slowly.
He was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, his chest heaving violently. He was shirtless, his broad back slick with cold sweat. His right hand was clawed tightly into his hair, pulling so hard his knuckles were stark white. His metal left arm hung completely limp at his side, a heavy, useless weight that he seemed completely disconnected from. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at the far wall, seeing things that weren't there. He was trapped in the past, drowning in a memory of cold snow, blood, and the metallic tang of fear.
"No, no, no," Bucky choked out, his voice cracked, raw, and barely recognizable. "Please... I can't... I don't want to do this anymore... please..."
You didn't run for Steve. You didn't panic.
Slowly, deliberately, you crossed the room and dropped to your knees directly in front of him on the floor. You kept your distance at first, ensuring he didn't feel cornered in his dark room.
"Bucky," you said, your voice steady, soft, and quiet, a gentle anchor in the storm of his mind. "Bucky, look at me. It's me."
He didn't hear you. He let out a ragged, terrified gasp, his body shaking violently as a tremor ran through his shoulders.
"Bucky, I'm going to touch you, okay?" you whispered, moving closer.
Slowly, you reached out and placed your warm hands over his bare knees, pressing down firmly to ground him to the physical reality of the room. "Feel the floor. You're in the Tower. You're in New York. You're safe. I'm right here with you."
At the warmth of your hands, Bucky flinched, his head snapping down. But he didn't pull away.
You slid your hands up, gently reaching for his left arm. You didn't avoid the metal. You didn't treat it like a weapon or a curse. Instead, you slid your warm palm down the cool, smooth vibranium of his forearm, eventually wrapping your fingers entirely around his metal hand. You squeezed his cold, rigid fingers with all the strength you had, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.
"It's just me, Bucky," you murmured, leaning in closer so he could hear you over the rushing sound in his ears. "I've got you. Focus on my voice. Breathe with me. In and out."
A long, shuddering gasp broke from his chest, his shoulders dropping slightly. The blank, terrified fog in his blue eyes began to clear, slowly focusing on your face, your eyes, your hands. He looked down at his lap, his gaze landing on your small, warm hand completely encasing his cold, metallic fingers.
"You're... you're here," he whispered, his voice trembling like a child's.
"I'm right here," you smiled softly, squeezing his hand again, feeling the metal fingers slightly twitch, returning the pressure. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe, Bucky. The Winter Soldier is gone. You're just Bucky."
You stayed on the floor with him for hours. You helped him sit up, made him a warm cup of herbal tea, and sat next to him on the edge of the bed in complete, comfortable silence, your hand never leaving his. As you watched him slowly drift back to sleep, his features finally relaxing in the soft light of the fading moon, a profound realization washed over you.
You were falling for him. You didn't just care for him as a friend; you wanted to protect him, to hold him, to be the one who pulled him out of the dark.
_______________________________________________
The following afternoon, the training gym was empty save for Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, who were running a high-intensity tactical sparring drill. The air was thick with the dull thud of heavy strikes against hand-pads.
Bucky entered the gym quietly, his arms wrapped in white athletic tape, his jaw tight. He picked up a pair of heavy leather gloves but didn't put them on. He just leaned against the edge of the elevated boxing ring, watching them.
Steve paused mid-stance, catching the distinct, heavy weight of Bucky’s presence. He lowered his pads, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "You look like you didn't sleep a wink, Buck. Everything alright?"
Bucky didn't answer right away. He stared down at his taped hands, his thumbs tracing the edges of the cloth. "She came into my room last night," he muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, vulnerable register that instantly made Sam stop his footwork drill.
Sam walked over, grabbing a towel from the corner turnbuckle. "The night terrors?"
"Yeah," Bucky rumbled, a slow, trembling breath escaping him. "The whole room went black. I couldn't breathe. I was back in the snow. I was screaming at her to leave, yelling that I was a monster, that I’d break her." He looked up, his blue eyes wide, glassy, and completely stripped of his usual defensive walls. "And do you know what she did? She didn't call for backup. She didn't back away. She dropped to her knees right in front of me and grabbed the metal arm. Both hands. Held it like it was just... part of me. Forced me to feel her heartbeat."
Steve’s expression softened exponentially, a profound, deeply emotional look of relief washing over his face. He walked over to the edge of the ring, leaning his forearms against the ropes to look down at his lifelong friend. "She stayed?"
"She stayed for hours," Bucky whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at Sam, then back to Steve, his broad chest rising and falling as if he were carrying the weight of the world. "I don't understand it. I’ve spent seventy years being forced to tear things apart, and she looks at me and just sees... a man worth saving. The old noise, the programming—whenever she's in the room, it just goes completely quiet. I'd do anything for her, Steve. Anything. I'm entirely gone. I love her so much it feels like it's going to split my chest wide open."
Sam stared at him for three seconds, completely stunned by the raw intensity of the confession, before a massive, proud grin broke across his face. He threw his towel onto the floor and clapped Bucky hard on his flesh shoulder.
"Well, look at that," Sam said, his voice thick with genuine affection beneath his usual teasing tone. "The terrifying Winter Soldier is officially a goner. It’s about damn time, Barnes. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you, and frankly, we all knew it before you did."
Steve reached over the ropes, his large hand gripping Bucky's neck with the deep, protective brotherhood of Brooklyn. "She loves you too, Buck. You don't have to be afraid of it anymore. Let yourself have this."
Bucky let out a ragged, huffed breath, a small, incredibly relieved smile finally touching his lips as he nodded against Steve's grip.
_______________________________________________
The charity gala in the main ballroom of the Tower was a glittering, suffocating nightmare of flashing cameras, clinking champagne glasses, and hundreds of wealthy strangers laughing too loudly. The air was thick with perfume and expensive cologne.
You stood near the edge of the room, holding a glass of sparkling water, keeping a constant eye on Bucky. He was dressed in a sleek black suit that fit his broad frame perfectly, making him look incredibly handsome. But he looked like a caged animal. His collar was too tight, his shoulders were stiff, and his eyes kept darting to the exits as the press corps crowded around the Avengers table, the strobe lights of their cameras flashing rapidly and relentlessly.
A loud glass shattered across the room, followed by a sudden burst of startled, sharp laughter.
Bucky flinched violently, his right hand instantly clenching into a tight fist, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was starting to spiral, his breathing hitching as the loud noises and flashing lights triggered his combat reflexes.
Before anyone else in the crowd could notice his distress, you weaved through the sea of socialites. You slipped your hand directly into his right hand, your fingers interlocking with his, offering a sudden, warm anchor.
Bucky looked down at you, his eyes wide and panicked, his chest heaving.
"Hey," you said, your voice a calm, steady whisper that cut through the roaring din of the ballroom. "I am absolutely starving, and the catering here is terrible. Come with me to the pantry? I want to steal some of those fancy chocolate desserts before Stark eats them all."
Bucky stared at you, his heart pounding, before a wave of pure, overwhelming relief washed over his face. "Yeah," he breathed, his grip on your hand tightening. "Yeah, let's go. Please."
You pulled him out of the ballroom, navigating the quiet hallways until you slipped through a side door into the dark, quiet prep kitchen and back into the pantry. The heavy steel door shut behind you, instantly cutting out the deafening noise of the party.
Bucky leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes as he let out a long, ragged exhale. He looked down at you in the dim light of the pantry, his blue eyes soft and filled with a profound, quiet devotion.
"You didn't want chocolate, did you?" he asked quietly, a small, tired smile touching his lips.
"I mean, I wouldn't say no to it," you smiled, looking up at him, your hand still holding his tightly. "But I wanted to get you out of there more. You looked like you were about to punch a reporter."
Bucky let out a soft, genuine laugh, the tension fully leaving his shoulders. "You're amazing, you know that? You always know exactly when to pull me out."
Outside the pantry glass, Colonel James Rhodes watched the door close. He turned to Bruce Banner, nodding toward the hallway.
"Look at that," Rhodey said, a soft smile on his face. "He's got a guardian angel now. Best thing that ever happened to him. He's actually smiling."
Bruce smiled, taking a sip of his sparkling water. "Yeah. It really is. She's good for him."
_______________________________________________
The sun had long set, leaving the common room in a deep, peaceful quiet. You sat on the floor of the living room, a soft microfiber cloth and a small bottle of specialized, non-abrasive synthetic lubricant resting on the coffee table in front of you. In your lap lay Bucky’s spare vibranium hand-plate—the protective casing he had taken off earlier because the joint was clicking. He had left it on the workbench, and you had quietly brought it up to clean the stubborn grit out of the intricate gold filigree.
You were so focused on carefully wiping down the delicate grooves that you didn’t hear the elevator doors slide open.
"You know, those plates cost more than a high-end sports car," a voice remarked quietly.
You gasped, nearly dropping the heavy metal plate. Tony Stark was standing by the bar, holding an empty tumbler. He wasn't wearing his usual cocky armor; he just looked tired, his hair slightly disheveled. He walked over, his eyes tracking the cloth in your hand, then moving to your face.
"I'm just cleaning the seals," you said defensively, cradling the plate a little closer to your chest. "The dust from the upstate mission got into the tracking track. It was making a clicking sound that was driving him crazy."
Tony sat down on the armchair opposite you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He studied you for a long, quiet moment. The usual sarcastic glint in his eyes was replaced by a genuine, searching curiosity.
"Why do you do it?" Tony asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I mean, really. The guy is a walking museum of defense mechanisms. He's grumpy, he's quiet, and half the time he looks like he wants to disassemble my coffee maker with his bare hands. But you... you treat him like he's made of glass. You polish his armor, you make his tea, you sit in the dark with him. What is it?"
You set the cloth down, your fingers tracing the cool, elegant gold line of the vibranium. You let out a soft, steady breath, finally putting into words what you had been feeling for months.
"Because everyone else in this world looks at him and sees what he can do," you said quietly, looking Tony dead in the eye. "To the world, he’s either a threat, a weapon, or a legendary hero from a history book. Even to himself, he's just a collection of mistakes he can't undo."
You looked down at the plate in your lap, a soft, incredibly tender smile touching your lips.
"But when I look at him... I just see Bucky. I see the man who notices when I'm overwhelmed and quietly carries my bags. I see the man who takes ten minutes to carefully set up a tea bag just so I don't have to hear a loud espresso machine in the morning. He has so much gentleness inside him, Tony. He’s spent seventy years being forced to break things, and all he wants to do now is protect them. When I'm with him, I don't feel like an outsider in this giant tower. I feel safe. I feel seen. Caring for him isn't a chore. It's the easiest, most natural thing I've ever done."
Tony stared at you, completely silenced. For once, the fast-talking billionaire didn't have a witty comeback or a sarcastic quip.
He slowly stood up, nodding his head toward the plate in your lap. "The blue microfiber cloth works better on the gold joints," he said softly, a genuine, respectful smile touching his face. "Less static. Keep doing what you're doing. He needs it."
As Tony walked back to the elevator, you didn't notice the shadow standing in the darkened hallway just beyond the kitchen. Bucky had been standing there, intending to grab a glass of water. He had heard every single word. His hand was pressed against the doorframe, his chest heaving as your words washed over him, filling the empty, cold spaces of his heart with a warmth so fierce it brought tears to his eyes.
_______________________________________________
The communal living room was packed.
The giant flat-screen TV was playing a classic action movie, and the team was scattered across the massive sectional couch.
Bucky was sitting on the far end of the couch, leaving a respectful, wide gap beside him. He sat quietly, watching the screen but looking slightly isolated from the group.
You walked into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn. Instead of sitting on the empty armchair, you walked straight over to Bucky and sat down right next to him, closing the gap completely. Your shoulders brushed, and you could feel the instant, rigid tension in his body as he held his breath, terrified of crowding you or making you uncomfortable.
As the movie progressed, the air conditioning in the room kicked in, sending a cold draft through the space. You shivered slightly, subtly shifting closer to Bucky’s side, seeking his warmth.
He noticed. He didn't say a word, but he slowly draped his right arm over the back of the couch behind you. He didn't touch you yet, leaving his hand hovering, giving you the choice to lean in or stay put.
You smiled, leaning your head back against his broad shoulder and reaching over to rest your hand gently on his knee.
Bucky let out a long breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. His arm droped around your shoulders, pulling you securely against his side, creating a warm, protective cocoon that shielded you from the draft and the rest of the room. He rested his cheek against your hair, his grip firm and loving.
From the floor, Clint Barton was stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. He blinked, nudging Natasha with his elbow, pointing a piece of popcorn at the two of you.
"Ten bucks says they’re holding hands under that blanket," Clint whispered loudly to Natasha, not even trying to hide his voice.
Without even taking his eyes off the TV screen, Bucky reached over with his metal hand, grabbed a thick throw pillow from the side, and launched it with perfect, superhuman accuracy directly into Clint's face.
You burst out laughing, the sound bright and clear, and Bucky’s arm tightened around you, a quiet, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as he pulled you closer.
_______________________________________________
It was a freezing, miserable Thursday afternoon, and a brutal sleet storm was rattling the floor-to-ceiling glass of the common area. You had come down with a mild head cold—nothing serious, but enough to make you feel congested, chilly, and thoroughly miserable. You were huddled on the sectional sofa, wrapped in three different blankets, your nose a faint, irritated pink.
The glass doors slid open, and Bucky walked in. He had just finished a grueling physical therapy session down in the medical bay, his hair damp and his shoulders slightly stiff.
He took one look at your bundled, shivering form, and his stoic expression instantly morphed into a look of deep, focused concern.
"You're freezing," he said, walking over and kneeling by the side of the couch. He reached out, his warm flesh hand gently pressing against your forehead to check your temperature. His palm was incredibly soothing against your cool skin.
"Just a little cold," you mumbled, your voice congested. "And my throat is scratchy."
Bucky didn't say another word. He stood up and marched straight into the kitchen. For the next ten minutes, you heard the quiet, rhythmic sounds of him moving around—the soft click of the kettle, the opening of the pantry, and the distinct, sliding sound of a knife on a cutting board.
When he returned, he was carrying a single, massive ceramic mug. Steaming hot water was infused with fresh ginger slices, a thick squeeze of lemon, and a generous dollop of honey.
He sat down on the edge of the couch, gently pulling you up so you were leaning against his side. He held the mug in his right hand, blowing on the surface to cool it before holding it to your lips.
"Drink," he murmured softly. "It'll help the scratchiness."
You took a slow, warm sip. The spice of the ginger and the sweetness of the honey instantly coated your raw throat, making you let out a soft sigh of relief. "It's perfect. Thank you, Bucky."
You reached out to take the mug, but your fingers were shivering so hard the hot liquid sloshed near the rim.
"I've got it," Bucky whispered.
Instead of letting you struggle, he adjusted his position. He slid behind you, pulling you back so you were resting entirely against his broad chest, your back flush against his stomach. He wrapped his strong arms around you, his heavy, silver metal left arm resting securely across your lap to hold you steady, while his warm flesh right hand held the mug. Together, your hands clasped around the ceramic.
With his metal hand acting as a solid, unyielding brace and his body heat radiating through your blankets like a furnace, the shivering stopped almost instantly. He patiently held the cup for you, guiding it to your lips every time you wanted a sip, his chin resting gently on the top of your head.
"Better?" he rumbled, the vibration of his voice traveling straight through your back.
"Much better," you whispered, closing your eyes as you let the cozy, overwhelming safety of his embrace wrap around you.
By the time the storm outside began to clear, you had fallen fast asleep, completely secure in his arms. Bucky didn't move an inch. He simply set the empty mug on the table, tightened his grip around your waist, and let himself drift off to the steady, peaceful rhythm of your breathing.
_______________________________________________
The common room was a chaotic blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of sweet vanilla frosting. It was your birthday, and the team had gone all out. You stood by the coffee table, surrounded by a mountain of colorful wrapping paper and bows. You had already received some incredible, characteristically grand gifts: a sleek, custom-designed tablet from Tony, a beautifully restored vintage camera from Steve, and a gorgeous, tailored leather jacket from Natasha.
But throughout the entire evening, your eyes kept drifting to the back of the room.
Bucky was standing quietly by the bar, leaning his hip against the counter. He was wearing a soft, dark crewneck sweater that made him look incredibly cozy, his long hair pushed back behind his ears. In his right hand, he held a medium-sized box wrapped in simple, slightly uneven brown butcher paper, tied with a neat piece of twine. He looked incredibly nervous—his blue eyes darting to you, then down to the box, his thumb running anxiously over the rough paper.
When the crowd finally thinned and Tony dragged Steve away to argue about a playlist, Bucky took his cue. He walked over, his steps slow and deliberate, and stopped in front of you.
"Hey," he said, his voice a quiet, gravelly murmur that instantly cut through the room's background noise. He held out the package. "Happy birthday."
"Bucky," you smiled, taking the box. The weight of it was surprising, solid and steady. "You didn't have to get me anything. Really. Your presence is enough."
"Just... open it," he whispered, his cheeks flushing a faint, endearing pink. He tucked his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tense as he waited.
You untied the twine and peeled back the brown paper. Sliding the lid off the cardboard box, you pushed aside a layer of soft white tissue paper.
You stopped breathing.
Resting inside was a pair of shoes. But they weren't just any shoes. They were a pair of classic Mary Janes made of the softest, richest cherry-red leather. They had the signature delicate T-strap, a small silver buckle, and a perfectly rounded toe.
A sudden, sharp wave of nostalgia hit you so hard it made your chest ache. Your mind immediately flashed back to a quiet evening months ago...
The storm outside the library windows had been relentless, but inside, the fire was roaring. You were curled up on the rug with your back against Bucky’s shins as he sat on the couch, reading. You had been flipping through an old photo album your parents had mailed you.
You had stopped on a faded, grainy photograph of yourself at six years old, sitting on a playground swing. You were laughing, your head thrown back, wearing a bright yellow dress and a pair of shiny, scuffed red shoes.
"What are you looking at?" Bucky had asked, his deep voice rumbling above you. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees to look over your shoulder.
"Just... these," you smiled softly, tapping the photo. "My red Mary Janes. I was completely obsessed with them when I was little. I wore them until my toes curled and the soles literally fell off. My mom eventually had to throw them away in secret because I refused to take them off, even to sleep."
"Yeah?" Bucky let out a soft, low chuckle, his eyes warm.
"Yeah," you sighed, a little wistfully, tracing the tiny scuffed toe in the photo. "I've spent years—literally years—trying to find another pair just like them. But they’re never the right color, or the leather is too stiff, or the strap is wrong. I guess they just don't make them like that anymore. It’s silly, but... I really miss those shoes."
Bucky hadn't said anything for a long moment. He had just stared at the photograph, his blue eyes incredibly focused, as if he were memorizing every single detail of the stitching, the specific shade of cherry-red, and the shape of the buckle.
You stared down into the box.
You reached in, your fingers trembling as you lifted one of the shoes. The leather was unbelievably supple, smelling of high-quality craftsmanship, and the shade of cherry-red was exact. It was the precise, vibrant hue from your childhood memory.
"Bucky..." your voice was barely a whisper. You looked up at him, your eyes instantly bright with tears. "How... how did you...?"
"I remembered," Bucky said softly. He took a step closer, his eyes scanning your face, searching for your reaction with an anxious intensity. "I knew they had to be perfect. The right leather, the right strap. I... I had a cobbler in Brooklyn custom-make them. I gave him the photo you showed me. Took him a few tries to get the dye exactly right, but... I wanted you to have your red shoes back."
You looked at the shoes, then at Bucky, who was standing there looking at you like his entire world hung on your next breath.
It was the most thoughtful, deeply personal thing anyone had ever done for you. It wasn't a high-tech gadget or a luxury item; it was a piece of your childhood, a piece of your heart, brought back to life because he had listened to you on a random rainy Tuesday.
You let out a wet, breathless laugh. Without care for who was watching, you set the box down on the table, took a step forward, and threw your arms tightly around Bucky’s neck.
Bucky stiffened in surprise for a fraction of a second—always hyper-aware of his own strength—before his arms locked around your waist. He pulled you flush against him, lifting you slightly off your feet. His head buried itself in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he held you with a desperate, fierce tenderness.
"I love them," you whispered into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter. "I love them so much, Bucky. Thank you."
"Happy birthday," he murmured, his voice thick with a relief so profound it made his chest shake against yours. He didn't let go, holding you close in the middle of the crowded room, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.
Over by the bar, Wanda Maximoff watched the two of you, a soft, incredibly knowing smile on her face. She took a sip of her drink and nudged Natasha, who was watching with a rare, quiet fondness.
"You know," Wanda murmured, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "usually people buy rings when they want to show that level of devotion. But Bucky just went and raised the bar for every man in this Tower."
Natasha academic smirked, raising her glass in Bucky’s direction. "Stark is going to be furious that his multi-million dollar tablet got upstaged by a pair of red shoes."
_______________________________________________
The day after your birthday, the frantic energy of the party had settled, but the high-vibrational thrill of his gift still pulsed under your skin. It was just past midnight, and the Tower was completely dark. You couldn't sleep. The shiny, cherry-red Mary Janes were sitting on your rug, catching the moonlight. On an impulse that made your heart skip, you slid your feet into them, buckled the delicate silver T-straps, and slipped out of your room.
The polished hardwood corridors of the residential floor were a silent gallery of shadows. The only sound was the rhythmic, crisp click-clack of your new leather soles echoing softly off the walls.
You walked down to the massive panoramic observation deck, where the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked a sleeping Manhattan.
Standing right at the edge of the glass, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers, was Bucky. He didn't look up when the glass doors slid open, but the moment your shoes made a sharp click against the metallic trim of the floor, his head snapped around. His eyes dropped immediately to your feet, and a remarkably soft, dazed look washed over his features.
"They fit," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a wave of fierce pride.
"Perfectly," you smiled, walking over to join him at the railing. The red leather gleamed under the city lights outside. "I couldn't sleep. I just... wanted to wear them. I feel like I'm six years old again, running around the backyard."
Bucky let out a low, rumbling chuckle, moving his broad frame just an inch closer so his shoulder brushed yours. "You look beautiful. The color is exactly how I remembered it from the photo."
"You have an incredible memory, Bucky Barnes," you whispered, turning your back to the glass and leaning against the rail, looking up at him.
"Only for things that matter," he replied instantly, his blue eyes dropping to your mouth before locking back onto your gaze with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
The silence stretched, no longer comfortable, but charged with a thick, heavy longing that made the air between you feel electric. You took a half-step forward, the click of your shoe sharp in the quiet space. Bucky’s hands slowly slipped out of his pockets. His right hand hovered near your waist, his fingers twitching as if he desperately wanted to pull you into his space but was holding himself back by a thread.
"Bucky..." you breathed.
"We should get some sleep," he muttered abruptly, his jaw clenching as he pulled his hand back, the old walls slamming shut in a flash of panic. "It's late. Happy birthday again."
Before you could reach for him, he turned and walked away into the shadows, leaving you standing alone by the glass, the crisp click of your red shoes the only sound left in the dark.
_______________________________________________
The training gym was empty, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Bucky’s metal hand striking a heavy leather punching bag. The air in the room was warm and carried the sharp scent of sweat and leather.
You walked in, wearing your workout gear, holding a roll of athletic tape. "Need a hand wrapping those?"
Bucky stopped his strike, the heavy bag swinging wildly on its chain. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his damp, grey t-shirt. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, a soft, warm smile breaking through his exhaustion when he saw you. "Yeah. Thanks. Could use the help."
He sat on the edge of the elevated boxing ring, his legs dangling over the side. You stepped between his knees, unravelling the white athletic tape. You worked slowly, your fingers brushing against his warm skin as you wrapped the tape tightly around his knuckles, his palm, and his wrist.
The silence between you was heavy, thick with an unspoken tension that had been building for months.
"You're getting good at this," Bucky murmured, his voice low and intimate, his blue eyes fixed entirely on your hands as you worked.
"I have a good teacher," you replied, looking up to meet his gaze.
Your faces were only inches apart. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, see the deep blue of his eyes, and trace the slight stubble along his jawline. Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, almost magnetically, his right hand slid up to rest on your waist, his grip tightening just enough to pull you a fraction of an inch closer.
He looked down at your lips, his jaw clenching. His eyes were filled with a sudden, agonizing longing. For a second, you thought he was finally going to lean in. You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, waiting.
But at the last second, Bucky closed his eyes, let go of your waist, and took a step back, running a hand through his damp hair. His voice was strained, thick with frustration and fear.
"We... we should take a break," he muttered, looking away at the floor. "I'm sweating. I don't want to... I should go. Clean up."
Before you could say anything, the heavy double doors of the gym swung open. Thor bounced into the room, his booming laughter echoing off the walls. He looked at Bucky’s flushed, tense face, then at your breathless expression, a giant grin breaking across his face.
"A break indeed, Friend Barnes!" Thor boomed, slamming his heavy hand onto Bucky’s back so hard the supersoldier stumbled forward. "Though I believe the only battle you are fighting here is with your own stubborn silence! Speak your heart before the lightning strikes, brother!"
Bucky groaned loudly, grabbing a towel from the bench and throwing it completely over his face to hide his embarrassment. "I'm going to throw you out a window, Thor," he muttered from beneath the terrycloth.
_______________________________________________
The thunderstorm outside didn't just rattle the glass of the Tower; it felt as though it were tearing the sky apart. Inside Bucky’s room, the only light came from the violent, erratic blue flashes of lightning cutting through the pitch black, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor.
Bucky hadn't left his room in over twenty-four hours. The silent, suffocating weight of his own mind had finally closed in on him, triggered by the raw, terrifying realization of how deeply he had fallen for you.
You overrode his door scanner and pushed the door open.
"Get out."
The voice didn't sound like Bucky. It was a hollow, dead rasp, coming from the corner of the room. He was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest. He was stripped down to a dark tank top, his metal left arm shaking violently, the gears clicking in a frantic, distressed pattern.
"Bucky," you said, your voice trembling but resolute. "I'm not leaving you like this."
"I said get out!" he suddenly roared, scrambling to his feet and backing himself into the wall like a cornered animal. "Do you have any idea what's in my head right now? What I'm seeing? I can't look at you without seeing the blood on my hands. I can't breathe!"
You didn't flinch. You closed the distance until you were standing only inches from him. "Then let me help you breathe. Let me in, Bucky. Stop fighting me."
"I am trying to save you!" he screamed, the sound raw and agonizingly painful. In a desperate burst of panic, he grabbed you by the shoulders with his flesh hand, shoving you back a step. "I don't know how to love you without wanting to touch you. And I don't know how to touch you without remembering what these hands have done. I am a weapon. You look at me and you see a man, but I look in the mirror and I see a monster that is going to break you!"
He collapsed back against the wall, sliding down until his knees hit the floor, his shoulders shaking with violent, broken sobs. "I want you so bad. But I am poison. Please... don't make me ruin you."
You dropped to your knees right in front of him. With absolute, unyielding force, you grabbed his shaking metal left arm, refusing to let him wrench it away. You pulled his heavy vibranium hand toward you and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart, forcing him to feel the rapid, frantic beat of your life beneath his metal fingers.
"Does this feel broken to you?" you whispered, your tears hot as they fell onto his silver fingers. "My heart is beating because of you. I am alive, and I am safe, and I am not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Let me love you, Bucky. Please, just let me."
Bucky stared at his metal hand pressed against your chest. He felt the steady, warm thump of your heart beneath his cold fingers—a life he wasn't destroying, a life that was choosing him. A ragged, choked breath escaped him. The paralyzing fear collapsed, and he lunged forward.
His mouth crashed down onto yours with a bruising, desperate hunger. The kiss was wild, intense, and raw, tasting of salt and tears. His tongue parted your lips, claiming your mouth completely as his flesh hand tangled fiercely in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.
A low, primal growl tore from his throat as the emotional dam broke entirely, turning the raw angst into an overwhelming, unquenchable physical desperation.
In a single, fluid motion, his heavy metal hand locked around your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and pinning you against the wall. The contrast of the cool wall against your back and his scorching, massive body pressing into your front made your breath hitch.
"God help me," Bucky groaned against your lips, his chest heaving as he pulled back just an inch. His blue eyes were dark, stormy, and completely blown out with desire. "You're everything I think about. Every night. It’s driving me insane. I love you. Tell me I can have you."
"Yes," you whined, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, your fingers clawing at the broad muscles of his shoulders. "Bucky, please."
He didn't wait. His hands slid under your clothes, his warm skin and smooth, cool vibranium tracing the curve of your hips, completely consuming you in a chaotic, breathless rush of pure, unchecked desire. He kissed your jaw, your throat, biting gently at the column of your neck until you were arching against him, gasping his name into the dark. Every touch was heavy, possessive, and thick with the realization that he didn't have to be afraid of his own strength with you—you wanted all of it.
"I've got you," you murmured against his damp skin as he buried his face in your neck, his body trembling with the sheer force of his release. "I've got you, Bucky. I'm right here."
"I love you," he gasped, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone, his arms locking around you so tightly you felt entirely welded to him. "God, I love you so much. Don't let me go."
"Never I love you James…" you whispered, sealing the promise in the quiet dark of the fading storm.
_______________________________________________
The violent fury of the storm outside had finally settled into a soft, steady patter of rain against the glass, casting a serene, almost hypnotic quiet over Bucky's bedroom. The air was cool, but the space between the two of you was thick with a warm, heavy peace.
Bucky was still sitting on the floor, his back rested against the foot of his bed, his legs stretched out. He looked utterly exhausted, the emotional storm having drained every ounce of his supersoldier energy. His chest rose and fell in slow, quiet breaths.
You stood up quietly, your joints popping in the silence. Bucky’s eyes followed you instantly, a flicker of that old, anxious panic parting through his gaze as if he feared you were leaving.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered, reaching down to press a soft kiss to his temple. "I'll be right back. I promise."
You walked into his dark, spacious bathroom. You ran the tap until the water was comfortably warm, dipping a soft, clean cotton washcloth into it. You grabbed a small jar of soothing, lavender-scented skin balm—something you had bought him weeks ago to help with the irritation around his cybernetic ports, though he had been too stubborn to use it himself.
When you returned, you dropped back down to your knees between his legs. Bucky watched you with wide, vulnerable eyes, his hands resting loose and open on his thighs.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice incredibly soft and raspy.
"A clean-up," you smiled gently, folding the warm washcloth over your hand. "You're covered in sweat and tears. Let me take care of you."
You raised your hand, pausing to let him see what you were doing. Bucky gave a slow, tentative nod, closing his eyes as you gently pressed the warm cloth to his forehead. You wiped away the dried sweat, moving down to trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones, his jaw, and the bridge of his nose. Your touch was feather-light, incredibly deliberate. Bucky let out a long, trembling sigh, his entire body melting under your care.
"You're too good to me," he mumbled, his eyes still closed. "I don't deserve this."
"Quiet," you murmured affectionately, wiping a stray tear track from the corner of his eye. "You deserve everything."
You set the washcloth aside and opened the jar of balm, warming a small dollop between your palms. Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly as you reached for his left side. The seam where his vibranium arm met his flesh shoulder—the angry, red scar tissue and metallic plates—was his deepest source of shame. He hated looking at it, let alone letting anyone touch it.
"Can I?" you asked softly, holding your warm hands just an inch away from the joint.
Bucky hesitated, a heavy swallow working its way down his throat. But he looked into your eyes, saw nothing but pure, unadulterated love, and slowly nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
You gently pressed your warm palms against the delicate, scarred flesh around his collarbone and shoulder blade. You massaged the balm in slow, circular motions, working out the tight, painful knots of muscle that had built up from hours of him clenching in panic.
Bucky gasped softly at the relief, his head falling back against the mattress. A low, rumbling groan of pure comfort vibrated deep in his chest. Your small, warm hands slid effortlessly over the boundary where flesh met cold silver metal, treating both with the exact same tenderness. You rubbed his cybernetic forearm, your fingers tracing the elegant, glowing gold seams of the vibranium, showing him that every single inch of him was safe in your hands.
"Does that feel okay?" you whispered, leaning in so your breath fanned his neck.
Bucky didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached out with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, gently halting your movements. He pulled your hand up to his lips, pressing a slow, incredibly deep kiss into the palm of your hand, his eyes burning with an intense, quiet devotion.
"It feels like peace," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled you up by your waist, guiding you to crawl up onto his lap. You wrapped your legs around him, burying your face in his neck as his strong arms locked around you, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the entire universe. "It feels like home.”
