howdy.

After finally getting into therapy, he decided to socialize more. Bring back the womanizer persona, try to maintain a connection. So, the first step he took was to make more time for Sam. Okay, what does making more time mean if the only thing Bucky ever did was avoid him? The second step was to actually tell Sam that he made time for him. The third step was to schedule said free time. The first two times that they hung out together were quite awkward, to say the least. Sure, they knew each other quite well. But that didn’t make it better, in fact, only worse! Sam kept making fun of Bucky’s supposed ‘emo look’ back in 2014, while Bucky was too embarrassed to admit that it did look pretty melancholy.

Okay, back to the story.

After said awkward phrase, the two men warmed up to each other. They opened up and felt like they could talk forever.

They browsed through spots and shops and malls, determined to find the perfect spot to just chat for as long as they wanted to. Going through cafés like they’re nothing for what felt like months (okay, to be fair, Sam is a little dramatic).

After the 43rd location, they stumbled onto a small bistro in a secluded corner in Brooklyn. The name of the small place was ‘Heartful Teas’ which Bucky found a little too spirited. But, anyway. This little café soon became their go-to address for coffee. In fact, it was so good that they gave gracious tips every time they visited.

You were the owner of ‘Heartful Teas’. And the barista, and the baker and everything in between. You baked little pastries in the early morning, and when the café opened, you made sure to serve every person that came with your usual charm. It was very exhausting, honestly. You didn’t have a manager that handled business, nor did you have a cashier that rang up orders. Everything went by you, and only you. Luckily, the part of the city that you’re located in is densely populated. If it weren’t, you’d probably sell foot pictures on the internet. Ha-ha, probably very funny to whoever is reading this.

Handling rude customers wasn’t for the weak. And it was certainly not something you saw yourself doing at the ripe age of 9.

At 9, you dreamed of helping people. You always looked up at ‘heroes’. For example, you made a supergirl drawing and presented it to everyone that listened. 23 years later, you kept the crumpled paper in the depths of your closet. No one should ever see it, you thought. And certainly not a future boyfriend that insisted on cleaning up your space.

Now we’re on the topic of boyfriends, we might as well continue. You had very high expectations, as an understatement. That standard got produced in your teenage years, after catching your father cheating on your mother. It’s not like you completely refused to date. It’d be embarrassing to say that at 32 you were still a virgin. At 17, you dated a boy called Matt. Well, his actual name was Leopold, but he was too embarrassed to tell people. So, he went by Matt. You looked at him like he hung the moon, and he seemed to meet your expectations by far. After he took your virginity, you heard him complaining to his friends about how inexperienced you were. Ouch. You broke up the relationship that evening.

Since then, you went on 201 dates. 70% of them resulted in you being too weirded out and blocking them on all platforms. 23% ended up with you stalking their profile and seeing that they lied to you. The other 7% unfolded in them having a family and a wife.

At this point, you were over it. You already accepted your fate.

At 70, you were going to have 13 cats, and you were going to yell at younger baristas that they made your coffee wrong. It was a hard truth, to say the least.

You noticed Bucky after the 4th time he and Sam sat down in your café. He was tall, and god was he handsome. Sometimes you oversugared a client’s tea just because you were practically dreaming looking at him. Safe to say you didn’t get a tip on those times. But, seriously! How could one look like he was straight from a 40s movie, where he died in the war (Spoiler alert: you were just thinking of Bucky Barnes)?

The 9th time they came into your little store, you recognised him. The reaction was priceless. The winter soldier and the new Captain America in your shop? Holy shit! You freaked out across all platforms. Seriously, you put it in your private Instagram story. How didn’t you recognize them? Your college essay was literally about Steve Rogers. You had a picture of Bucky Barnes hanging over your bed at 14, because that was the only person of the male species you actually found worthy of your love. And now he was here. You fantasised about a war veteran in your sleep. How didn’t you recognize them earlier, you asked yourself. Just how?

Let’s forward towards the present.

Finally finishing the coffee of a regular, you smiled at the old lady. ‘That’s gonna be $5, please. Would you like a napkin?’ She nodded, and took roughly 30 seconds to find the note. That really annoyed you, actually. ‘Here you go, dear. Keep the change.’ You pressed your lips into a thin line, as the “change” the lady was talking about was $0. This was a recurring issue, and you weren’t sure if she did it just to piss you off or whether she had some sort of math problem. Was it called dyslexia? No, that’s the reading issue. Dyscalculia, right!

But again, you seriously doubted that a woman in her 60s had trouble figuring out that a $5 note didn’t leave any change if the original bill is $5, too.

You thought about it for roughly 3 minutes, letting your mind wander. Maybe you should tell her next time? No, silly! She was a regular. That lady was loyal to you, like Mijolnir was loyal to Thor. Speaking to her about it would ruin your status in her brain.

Then, the next order rang up. You looked up and it felt like you were in some sort of romcom. Gosh, the stubble, the blue eyes, the way the sunshine hit his metal arm. Snapping out of it, you smiled. ‘Hello, what shall you order?’ Fuck, why did you talk like you’re in the 19th century? ‘The usual, please. Except make it one coffee this time. My pal couldn’t make it, hero duties and all that.’ You nodded as if you were enchanted, already brewing the coffee.

‘Let me guess, some bad guy came to earth?’ That was the worst gig you ever made, you probably just blew your chances. But, to your surprise, Bucky laughed. Like, actually laughed. That sound was like music to your ears. As if the angels had started singing, and you were about to get blessed by God.

He looked at you, then. ‘Not every crisis on earth has something to do with aliens, y’know?’ Now you were sure that you blew your chance. Sheepishly getting the mug out of the machine, you handed it to him. ‘It’s free, for your serving. In the avengers, of course.’ He nodded slowly, as if he was absorbing your words, but then he still took out his wallet. As if he was going to pay you, despite you telling him that it wasn’t necessary. ‘I don’t treat ladies like that. Especially not working ones.’ You swore that your legs were about to give out. Luckily, he didn’t notice your hands tightening on the counter. ‘Right, well, the total’s $4.’ He nodded, handing you a $10 bill. You were about to give him the change, when he stopped your hand. ‘Keep it.’ He said.

Unusually, Bucky stayed later today. He switched between reading the newspaper and helping you. You found that really nice, since your back already ached after being in the café for roughly 6 hours already. He really lived up to your expectations, actually. He excelled in them, reaching milestones far above that.

Soon, it was time to close the shop, though. He helped you stack the chairs and pack up leftover pastries. You gave him 5 croissants that still looked pretty tasty, since nobody wanted to eat those apparently. It was really a shame, since those usually took the longest and were the hardest to do. But, Bucky took them happily. The other baked goods you usually gave the local fire station, as a thank you for protecting the community.

It was starting to rain outside when you finally took off your apron. Your eyes were heavy, and your muscles tight. Bucky finished cleaning up the tables then, too. ‘Thanks for the help, Bucky. I really appreciate it.’ You murmured, your voice not as vibrant as it would be earlier in the day. He smiled softly, and you noticed how close he was now. ‘It’s alright. But, uh, would you be free? I mean, as in, for lunch? Or dinner, whatever you prefer, really-‘ you stared at him, your eyes suddenly glinting. Before you could even think, you nodded. ‘Of course. Yeah, that’s good. Awesome, actually. I’d love to go to dinner!’

you shined in his eyes, now. You shined as if you’re the second star in the solar system. He was enchanted, now. Bucky didn’t know what hypnotised him to lean in, and when you followed him, his lips met yours. It was like a shot of tequila, as if his eyes were suddenly opened. The kiss was sweet, and it lasted a while, too. When you two finally pulled apart, he grinned. ‘Great. Then we’ll have dinner.’

"But I want to help make the big pancakes, Daddy!" Becca’s high-pitched voice carried clearly through the door, full of morning excitement.

He was always so careful with her, treating her as if she were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain. It was a stark contrast to the strength he carried in his frame, a strength he constantly tried to downplay. For the past three years, Bucky had thrown himself into fatherhood with a desperate, beautiful intensity. He was determined to be nothing but a source of warmth and safety for the little girl who carried his bright blue eyes.

Yet, beneath that devotion lay an unspoken, rigid boundary that he refused to cross. Becca was never, under any circumstances, to find out about the Winter Soldier. You had told him a thousand times that it was alright, that she would love him regardless, but he remained steadfast. To Bucky, the shadow of who he used to be, in and out of Hydra’s control, was a monster that could taint his daughter’s innocent world.

Stepping into the kitchen, you found Bucky dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirt as he expertly flipped a pancake. Becca sat securely on the kitchen counter, her small legs swinging back and forth.

"Look, Daddy! Mommy’s awake!" Becca squealed, pointing a sticky finger toward the doorway.

Bucky looked up, his eyes softening instantly as a genuine, relaxed grin broke across his face. "Morning, sweetheart," he said softly, leaning across the counter to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "Did we wake you up? I swear I was trying to keep the monster under control."

"I'm not a monster, I'm a helper!" Becca protested, giggling as she pointed at the flour dust on his nose.

"You're a very messy helper," you laughed, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s waist from behind. You felt the slight tension that never truly left his shoulders, a silent reminder of the internal vigil he kept every single hour of the day.

"Pancakes are almost done," Bucky whispered, turning his head slightly to kiss your cheek. "Go sit down. I've got it under control."

The peaceful morning routine was delightfully disrupted around midday by a loud, familiar commotion at the front door. Yelena didn’t believe in knocking politely. Instead, she used her spare key to barge right in, carrying a massive cardboard box under one arm. Bob shuffled in behind her, looking slightly overwhelmed.

"Auntie Yelena! Uncle Bob!" Becca shrieked with delight, scrambling off the sofa and sprinting towards them with her arms outstretched.

"Ah, there is my favourite tiny diva!" Yelena announced proudly, catching Becca with a dramatic gasp and spinning the toddler around in the air before setting her down. "Bob, look how much she has grown since last week. It is ridiculous."

"She grows fast, Yelena," Bob said with a soft, sheepish wave, offering you and Bucky a warm smile. "Hello, everyone. Sorry to just drop in."

Bucky emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. A fond but slightly wary expression crossed his face as he greeted Bob with a firm nod and a pat on the shoulder. "You're always welcome, Bob. Yelena, however, needs to learn what a doorbell is."

"Doorbells are for boring people," Yelena shrugged, setting the large box down on the coffee table with a heavy thud. "Look what I have brought for the little one. I was in the toy shop in London, and they have a whole section for the New Avengers. The selection was very bad until I found the vintage section."

"Yelena, what did you buy?" you asked, a faint note of caution in your voice as she began rummaging through the box.

"Only the best," Yelena said, pulling out a wooden bow and arrow set. "Here, for targeting practice."

"Maybe we keep the arrows away from the television," Bob gently suggested, taking the toy from her hands with a worried mutter about safety.

Yelena rolled her eyes affectionately at Bob before digging deeper into the box. Her face lit up as she pulled out a sleek, modern action figure dressed in dark tactical gear with a distinct, shining silver arm. "They had a special anniversary release of the historical figures. I thought, why should the star-spangled captain get all the glory when the moody one does all the heavy lifting?"

Bucky frozen instantly. The dishcloth slipped from his fingers onto the counter as his entire body went rigid, his eyes locking onto the plastic figure in Yelena's hand. It was a highly detailed Winter Soldier action figure, complete with the masked face, the tactical harness, and the red star emblazoned on the metallic left shoulder.

You felt a sudden spike of anxiety in your chest, looking from Bucky’s pale, struck face to Yelena. She was completely oblivious to the silent panic she had just initiated. She truly didn’t realise that Bucky kept this entire chapter of his life a strict secret from his daughter. To Yelena, their pasts were just something they lived with, an objective fact of their existence rather than a source of deep, suffocating shame.

Before you or Bucky could intervene, Yelena knelt down to Becca’s eye level and handed the toy directly to the toddler, giving her a bright, encouraging nod. "Here you go, little Becca, a proper warrior to protect your dollhouse from the boring civilian toys."

"Yelena, wait—" Bucky’s voice was barely a choked whisper, but it was too late.

Becca took the action figure, her small hands gripping the plastic tightly as she turned it over. She studied the silver arm that caught the midday sunlight streaming through the living room window.

Bucky looked as though he had stopped breathing entirely. His knuckles turned white against the edge of the kitchen counter as he prepared himself for the worst. His mind was undoubtedly racing with the fear that his daughter would look at the toy, look at him, and see a monster.

Becca traced the tiny painted red star with her index finger, her brow furrowing in deep concentration as she compared the toy to the man standing frozen across the room. She looked up at Bucky, her eyes wide with a sudden, pure realisation, and then looked back down at the figure in her hands. A massive, gap-toothed grin spread across her face.

"Mommy, look!" Becca chirped, her voice echoing clearly in the sudden, tense silence of the flat as she held the toy up high. "Wow, this superhero looks just like daddy! He has a shiny arm and everything!"

The silence that followed was absolute, but the tension in the room instantly shifted from suffocating fear to a profound, heavy emotion that seemed to knock the breath right out of Bucky's lungs.

Yelena blinked, finally picking up on the strange atmosphere. She looked between Bucky and Becca with a sudden realisation of her own. "Oh," she murmured, her voice dropping its usual teasing edge. "I did not think..."

Bob awkwardly cleared his throat, offering a soft, sympathetic smile to Bucky. "It's a very good likeness," he offered gently.

Bucky stood completely still, his eyes wide and glossy as he stared at his daughter, his mouth opening slightly but no sound coming out. The word 'superhero' hung in the air, vibrating with an innocent weight that shattered every single wall Bucky had built up over the last three years. Becca didn't see a brainwashed assassin. She just saw her dad, the man who made her pancakes, immortalised as a protector of the world.

Seeing her father’s shocked silence, Becca toddled across the room, her small shoes squeaking against the floor. She pressed the plastic figure against Bucky's leg, looking up at him with absolute adoration.

"Are you going to fly later, Daddy? Superheroes can fly, right?" she asked earnestly, her voice full of the unshakeable faith that only a three-year-old could possess.

Bucky slowly sank to his knees, his movements mechanical as he brought himself down to her level. His breath hitched in his throat as he looked into her bright, innocent face. He carefully reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

"No, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice completely thick with unshed tears when he finally managed to speak. "Daddy doesn't fly. I just stay right here with you."

"That's okay," Becca said authoritatively, patting his knee comfortingly. "Superheroes need to stay home for dinner anyway."

Becca seemed entirely satisfied with this answer, turning back to Yelena to show off her new favourite toy, completely unaware of the tectonic shift she had just caused in her father's soul.

Yelena, realising her blunder but seeing the beautifully unexpected outcome, quietly gathered the rest of the toys. She gave you a softened, apologetic look as she signaled to Bob that it was time to leave. "We will go find some lunch now," she said softly, her usual bravado replaced by genuine care. "Goodbye, little Becca. Take care of your superhero."

"Bye, Auntie Yelena! Bye, Uncle Bob!" Becca waved, already distracted by her new game. Bob gave Bucky a supportive squeeze on the shoulder on his way out, and within a few minutes, the front door clicked shut behind them.

For the rest of the afternoon, Bucky was unusually quiet. His eyes never left Becca as she played on the living room rug, orchestrating a complex game where the Winter Soldier action figure saved a group of plastic farm animals from a plush monster.

"Look, Daddy! He saved the cow!" Becca shouted happily, holding the silver-armed figure in the air.

"He did a good job, sweetie," Bucky replied, his voice a little tight but filled with immense warmth.

Every time she made the toy strike a heroic pose, Bucky’s chest would heave with a silent, shaky breath. A mixture of profound relief and overwhelming emotion washed over him. You stayed close to him on the sofa, resting your hand in his, letting him process the incredible truth that his daughter's love was unconditional.

By the time evening arrived, Becca was thoroughly exhausted from her heroic adventures. Her eyelids dropped as you gave her a warm bath and changed her into her favourite pyjamas.

"Can Daddy tuck me in?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she held the action figure tightly against her chest.

"Of course he can, sweetheart," you said smoothly, kissing her forehead before calling Bucky into the room.

Bucky carried her to bed, holding her a little tighter than usual. He rocked her gently in the dim light of her nursery whilst she mumbled softly about superheroes and shiny arms until her eyes finally closed for sleep.

He stayed by her crib for a long time after she fell asleep, just watching the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. His metal hand rested gently on the wooden rail, no longer hidden away beneath layers of clothing as it often was, but completely accepted in the open air.

When he finally stepped out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click, the weight of the day seemed to catch up with him all at once. His shoulders sagged as he walked back into the living room where you were waiting for him on the sofa.

The room was illuminated only by the soft glow of a single floor lamp, casting long, warm shadows across the space. Bucky walked over and sank down beside you, his entire body suddenly trembling.

"Bucky?" you asked softly, reaching out for him.

Without a word, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large arms wrapping around you with a desperate, clinging grip as the first sob broke through his chest. It was a low, agonising sound, the release of decades of tightly coiled pain, shame, and fear that he had carried alone for far too long.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, running your fingers through his hair. "I've got you," you murmured softly against his ear as he wept openly, his tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. "It's okay, let it all out."

He was crying with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, his broad frame shaking with the sheer magnitude of the relief that had washed over him. He gripped the back of your shirt as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

"She called me a superhero," Bucky choked out, his voice cracked and raw with emotion as he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red and swimming with tears that ran down his stubbled cheeks. "She looked right at it, she saw the arm, and she didn't run away. She wasn't scared of me."

"I told you she wouldn't be," you said gently, wiping a tear from his cheek with your thumb. "She loves her dad."

He shook his head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "I spent so many years being a monster. Being the thing that people screamed at when they saw me coming. I never thought... I never thought I'd get to have this."

"You deserve this, Buck. More than anyone," you whispered, holding his face in both of your hands.

"A normal life," he wept softly, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips to yours for a brief, emotional moment. "A home. A little girl who looks at me and thinks I'm a protector, not a killer. I didn't think it was possible."

You reminded him, firmly and lovingly, that Becca was right. He was a hero for fighting his way back to his humanity, and he deserved every single ounce of the love and peace he had found in this home. Bucky let out a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he held you close, finally letting go of the ghost of the Winter Soldier, safe in the knowledge that to the person who mattered most in the world, he was simply her hero.

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His eyes darting just slightly down to your own weapon on the nightstand, his head still not wrapping around completely what had just occurred.

His breathing had yet to settle, each breath dragging through lungs that still burned from chasing you across half of Rome. 

Somewhere outside, he knew you were trying to get away, and he listened until there was nothing left to hear.

He closed his eyes.

His gaze drifted toward the open window once more. The curtain stirred gently in the night air, moving with the same lazy rhythm it had before either of you had spoken. 

His jaw clenched tightly.

Less than an hour earlier, he'd stood beneath Bellini's chandeliers unable to understand why a complete stranger had managed to steal his attention. 

He had hated himself, completely detested himself, for it before he'd even known your name. It was too soon.

Then he'd seen the scar, and whatever brief moment of peace he'd found inside that crowded ballroom had collapsed so completely that he no longer trusted his own thoughts. He didn’t even trust himself anymore. 

Something inside of him shattered, something he wasn’t even aware was still there.

The image refused to leave him. The image of the girl who had apologized after bumping into him. The girl who had smiled politely before disappearing into the crowd.

The girl whose eyes had met his with the same startled confusion he'd felt himself.

Someone he had on instinct considered so innocent it was almost bittersweet. 

For one unforgivable moment, he'd seen her as anything other than the person he believed had destroyed his life. 

He clenched his jaw.

She had become his nightmare in the space of a heartbeat. Nothing else mattered anymore the moment there realization came crashing down.

The ballroom didn’t matter, the chase didn’t either.

A sharp knock interrupted the silence, and if Bucky wasn’t numb, he probably would’ve jumped at the sound. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” The voice came through the hotel door. American and professional. "We're secure.”

He holstered the pistol without answering and crossed the room in slow, measured steps before unlocking the door. So measured it would’ve terrified anymore.

He was no longer Bucky Barnes; he was not reverted back to the shell of a man, but this time worst.

The hallway beyond had transformed completely.

The quiet luxury of the seventh floor had disappeared beneath controlled urgency. Tactical FBI officers stood at both ends of the corridor, speaking into radios as federal agents moved between hotel staff and investigators already photographing the room. A pair of paramedics wheeled an empty stretcher toward the elevators while another team disappeared through the service stairwell, responding to reports coming in over their radios.

Everyone looked at him the moment he stepped into the hallway but no one spoke.

The analyst Bucky was staring to get annoyed with beyond belief arrived only seconds later, weaving through the growing crowd before stopping several feet in front of him.

"They have visual," she said carefully. "Dive teams intercepted her approximately four hundred meters downstream. She lost consciousness after entering the river.”

Bucky didn't answer. His expression never changed. It wouldn’t ever again. 

He was done.

The analyst waited another moment before continuing.

"EMS is transporting her now. They'll rendezvous with the Quinjet within twenty minutes.”

Still nothing.

She studied him for a second longer, searching his face for some indication that he'd heard her.

There wasn't one.

Before she could say anything else, Sam emerged from the stairwell, breathing harder than anyone else in the hallway. His suit jacket had long since disappeared, his tie hanging loosely around his neck after running through half the city trying to catch up with a pursuit he'd never reached.

He should’ve been angry, and under normal circumstances, he would’ve been so pissed at Barnes. But this wasn’t normal circumstance.

His eyes found Bucky immediately, face softening just a bit.

 "You alright?” He asks urgently.

He knew only Bucky and H-17 knew what had gone down in the room. Sam was just glad she was alive.

Bucky looked at him. For a long moment, he simply held Sam's gaze.

Then he walked past him without saying a word.

Sam watched him disappear toward the elevators before looking back at the analyst.

She sighed quietly. "Go with him.”

Sam didn't hesitate and followed directly behind. BBy the time the elevator doors slid open, Bucky was already standing inside, his eyes fixed on the polished metal doors ahead of him. He could see his own reflection; a shell.

Neither man spoke during the ride down.

Sam wanted to ask more questions, but decided against it. Now wasn’t the time.

The silence between them felt heavier than anything either of them could have said.

When the doors opened onto the lobby, the noise hit them immediately.

Hotel guests crowded behind temporary police barriers, speaking over one another in confused whispers while officers directed them toward the opposite entrance. The concierge stood beside two FBI agents answering questions as quickly as they were asked, and somewhere across the room a manager apologized repeatedly into a telephone, promising that every inconvenience would be addressed before sunrise.

Bucky walked through the middle of it without acknowledging a single person. Several agents straightened instinctively as he passed. One opened his mouth to speak.

No words came.

Something about the look on Bucky's face convinced him otherwise.

The revolving doors carried him back into the Roman night.

The city hadn't changed, even though everything inside him had.

Before tonight he had been a grieving widower. He had been heartbroken. 

This was different. This was so passed that.

Traffic still rolled through the streets. Couples still laughed beneath café lights. Music drifted from restaurants only a block away. Rome continued exactly as it had before.

Bucky stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring out across the city without really seeing any of it.

Sam joined him a few seconds later.

He looked at Bucky, opened his mouth as though to say something, then quietly thought better of it.

______________________________________________________________________________

The Quinjet waited at the far end of the runway with its rear ramp already lowered.

Floodlights bathed the aircraft in white light while medical personnel moved quietly between the transport vehicles and the open cargo bay. There was no shouting, no frantic rushing, only the practiced rhythm of people who had rehearsed moments like this hundreds of times before.

The ambulance arrived less than a minute after they did. Its rear doors opened almost immediately.

A pair of paramedics guided the stretcher carefully down the loading rails while two federal medical officers stepped forward to receive the transfer.

You were still unconscious. 

The evening gown you had worn to Bellini's had been covered by thick thermal blankets, only damp strands of hair visible against the white pillow beneath your head. 

Oxygen tubing rested beneath her nose while a portable cardiac monitor emitted soft, steady beeps that somehow seemed impossibly loud inside the otherwise quiet airfield.

One of the physicians looked toward Sam.

"We'll need an extra set of hands.” Sam stepped forward without hesitation.

"What do you need?” He asks.

"The transport restraints.” The doctor says.

He nodded once before moving to the side of the stretcher.

The physician spoke as they worked.

Sam gently lifted one wrist while the physician secured the padded restraint beneath it, careful not to place unnecessary pressure against skin already bruised from the recovery. 

The process repeated itself at the opposite wrist before moving to your ankles, reinforced transport cuffs quietly locking over the medical restraints once everything had been checked twice.

Each buckle clicked softly into place.

None of the sounds seemed to belong to a woman who, only hours earlier, had been walking through one of Rome's most exclusive galas.

Across the cargo bay, it was a different kind of energy.

Bucky stayed where he'd first sat down. He hadn't moved.

One of the fold-down seats along the bulkhead supported his weight as he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, his gaze fixed on the textured metal floor beneath his boots. His pristine white dress shirt was still damp with sweat.

He never looked toward the stretcher. Not once. Even when the wheels rolled past him. Even when the medical monitor sounded only a few feet away indicating life.

His eyes never left the floor.

The physician noticed. Hell, everyone did. For just a moment, the doctor considered saying something.

Instead, he turned back to his patient.

"Let's get a full inventory before we depart.”

Another medic picked up a waterproof evidence bag recovered with your belongings and carefully emptied its contents onto a stainless-steel tray.

A passport.

A slim leather wallet.

A soaked notebook.

A prescription bottle with the label beginning to peel from the moisture.

Several loose keys.

The medic opened the passport first.

He frowned.

“Hayden."

The second the word left his lips, Bucky’s heart raced just slightly. 

So that was your name.

The second physician looked up from the cardiac monitor.

"Last name?” The pages turned once. Then again. He shook his head. "If that's even her real passport…"

Sam glanced over.

"That's the only name you've got?” He asks.

"So far.”

The medic closed the passport again before placing it beside the remaining belongings.

“Hayden."

The name lingered quietly inside the aircraft.

No one repeated it. No one needed to.

Across the cabin, Bucky remained completely still.

If he'd heard it, he gave no indication to them.

Sam’s gaze still didn’t leave him.

______________________________________________________________________________

The Quinjet touched down well before sunrise.

Outside the narrow cabin windows, the runway was dark, broken only by long rows of floodlights reflecting across rain-soaked concrete. Their white glow stretched endlessly into the distance, illuminating a military airfield.

No one moved when the landing gear finally settled.

The engines continued their low mechanical hum as the aircraft gradually powered down, leaving behind a silence that somehow felt even heavier than the noise itself.

A hydraulic hiss echoed through the cargo bay as the rear ramp began lowering.

Cold air swept inside immediately.

No. 

It carried the unmistakable scent of rain, jet fuel, and damp asphalt.

One of the physicians quietly disconnected the portable cardiac monitor from its flight mount before checking Hayden's pulse for what felt like the hundredth time since leaving Rome. The steady rhythm beneath his fingertips earned only the smallest nod before he looked toward Sam.

"We're ready.”

Sam stood without a word.

Together, he and the medical team released the stretcher from its locking mechanism, guiding it carefully toward the opening cargo ramp. Every movement was deliberate, practiced, almost rehearsed, the wheels barely making a sound as they crossed onto the waiting tarmac.

You never stirred.

The sedative continued to hold you beneath a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Several strands of damp hair had escaped across your forehead sometime during the flight, but otherwise you looked exactly as she had when they had lifted her from the river hours earlier. Thick thermal blankets concealed the evening gown you had worn to Bellini's, while padded medical restraints remained secured beneath reinforced transport cuffs, each one checked repeatedly throughout the journey until every physician on board could probably have recited the restraint protocol from memory.

No one intended to take chances.

Bucky stayed seated until the stretcher had already disappeared down the ramp.

When it was out of sight and out of mind, only then did he stand.

The movement seemed almost automatic.

He didn't offer to help carry her and no one expected him to.

Without saying a word, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket and followed several paces behind the medical team, his footsteps slow against the wet concrete as the convoy waiting beyond the aircraft gradually came into focus.

Everything had already been arranged.

Three black SUVs stood in a staggered formation beside the runway, engines idling quietly beneath the floodlights. None carried government plates. None displayed emergency lights. 

To anyone driving past the secured perimeter, they would've looked like little more than executive transport waiting for an arriving diplomat.

The illusion was intentional.

Several men in plain clothes stood nearby speaking quietly into concealed earpieces, their posture relaxed enough to avoid attention while remaining just alert enough to notice everything around them. 

Another pair waited beside the rear vehicle, watching the perimeter instead of the aircraft itself.

Someone had planned every detail. 

Probably Tony.

The stretcher disappeared into the rear compartment of the lead SUV through a concealed hydraulic lift designed specifically for medical transport. The mechanism raised it smoothly into place before locking with a soft metallic click, allowing the physicians to reconnect monitors and oxygen without ever exposing their patient to the outside world for longer than absolutely necessary.

One doctor checked the restraints again and another adjusted the IV line.

Satisfied, they closed the rear doors.

The locks engaged automatically.

Sam climbed in beside the stretcher before the doors shut behind him.

Bucky didn't look inside.

He opened the passenger door of the second SUV and climbed in without a word.

A moment later, the car pulled away from the airfield.

______________________________________________________________________________

It was 3AM. New York City was suspended in that strange hour before actual morning when the city almost seemed willing to forget itself.

Rain had washed the streets clean during the night, leaving the pavement slick beneath endless rows of amber streetlights that reflected like ribbons of gold across the empty avenues. 

Delivery trucks drifted lazily through intersections where traffic would become impossible only a few hours later, while sanitation crews worked quietly beneath flashing hazard lights, preparing Manhattan for another ordinary day.

Ordinary.

The thought almost felt insulting.

Inside the SUV, silence settled almost immediately.

The driver never switched on the radio. No one attempted conversation.

Only the quiet rhythm of windshield wipers disturbed the stillness as they swept steadily across the glass, pushing aside the last traces of mist collecting from the damp morning air.

Bucky watched the city pass beside him without truly seeing any of it.

His eyes drifted toward his own reflection in the passenger window.

For a brief moment, he barely recognized the man looking back.

His tie still hung loosely around his neck, wrinkled from the chase through Rome. Dried blood remained visible across one knuckle where he'd scraped it against ancient stone, while exhaustion had settled permanently beneath eyes that hadn't known real sleep since Asa's funeral.

He looked older than he had only three weeks ago.

Not physically. Just worn down.

Somewhere several cars ahead, hidden inside the lead vehicle, Hayden was still unconscious.

He refused to think about it. He refused to think about her.

The attempt lasted less than a minute.

Against his own will, his mind betrayed him once more.

Bellini's ballroom. The collision. Your eyes meeting his. The world stopping. The apology. 

His nose wrinkled just slightly. 

The scar.

His jaw tightened.

You killed his babygirl.

He stared harder out the window until the memory finally disappeared beneath the blur of passing buildings.

Across the city, his apartment waited exactly as he'd left it before boarding the Quinjet to Italy.

______________________________________________________________________________

Crossing the Brooklyn bridge felt unwelcoming for the first time in his life.

The lead SUV slowed as it approached Bucky's neighborhood. Yet still, no one spoke.

They all knew the gravity of this unfortunate situation.

Instead of turning toward the front entrance of his building, the car went into the direction that it had been planned to. 

The convoy continued another half block before disappearing beneath the concrete overhang of an underground service garage tucked between two neighboring apartment complexes.

At first glance, it looked forgotten.

An aging steel security gate stood halfway open while a faded sign reading AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY hung crookedly beside the entrance.

Only when the SUVs disappeared beneath the street did the operation reveal itself.

The garage had already been secured.

Two plainclothes federal agents stood beside the entrance pretending to inspect electrical panels mounted against the wall, their reflective maintenance vests disguising them as city utility workers to anyone passing overhead. 

A white service van bearing the logo of a local electrical contractor sat parked near the loading dock with its rear doors standing open, lengths of conduit and coiled wiring arranged carefully enough to satisfy anyone curious enough to glance inside.

The disguise was almost convincing.

Almost.

Behind the van, three additional agents watched every entrance into the garage without appearing to look anywhere at all.

The convoy rolled to a stop and the engines fell silent into the dark night.

For several seconds, no one moved.

Then the rear doors of the lead SUV opened.

The physicians stepped out first.

"Easy," one of them murmured as they released the stretcher from its transport locks.

The hydraulic lift lowered slowly, bringing you back onto solid ground without waking you.

You were exactly as you were during the flight.

Still unconscious.

Still restrained.

Still completely unaware that you had crossed an ocean and was now under United States FBI custody, but not on paper.

Sam climbed out behind the stretcher, quietly taking hold of one side while another physician adjusted the blanket that had slipped slightly during the drive.

A cool breeze swept through the garage.

You didn't stir.

Bucky finally stepped from the second vehicle.

This wasn’t home anymore.

His apartment building shared the underground level through an old service corridor originally designed decades earlier for deliveries and maintenance access, one rarely used by residents and almost never acknowledged by anyone who didn't work there.

Tonight it belonged to the Bureau.

A man wearing a navy maintenance jacket approached the analyst, quietly handing her a laminated access badge.

"The cameras are looped.”

She nodded. "For how long?”

"Twenty-three more minutes.”

"And the concierge from the lobby?”

"He thinks there's a burst water main in the basement. We asked him to stay upstairs while the inspection's completed.”

"No residents?”

“None."

Another nod. “Good."

Everything had been anticipated.

The service elevator waiting beyond the loading corridor had already been locked onto the basement level, its brushed steel doors standing open as though expecting them.

No one outside the operation would ever know it had been used. The stretcher rolled forward.

Its wheels whispered softly across polished concrete before crossing into the service hallway, where bright fluorescent lights replaced the dim glow of the garage.

The hallway itself felt clinical. For a few years, Bucky had called his Brooklyn apartment warm and inviting. This wasn’t it.

Freshly painted walls. Concrete floors. Exposed pipes running overhead.

The sort of place every resident passed dozens of times without ever realizing it existed.

No one spoke.

Even the physicians communicated mostly through brief glances and practiced gestures. The only consistent sound came from the portable cardiac monitor resting beside Hayden's shoulder, each steady electronic pulse echoing softly through the otherwise silent corridor.

Bucky walked at the very back of the group.

Far enough behind that no one expected him to help.

Close enough that he couldn't escape it.

The sound followed him all the way to the elevator.

When the doors finally slid open, the stretcher disappeared inside first, followed by the physicians and Sam.

The analyst stepped in beside them before looking back toward Bucky.

"The apartment is ready.”

He met her eyes for only a moment.

Then stepped inside without a word.

As the elevator doors closed, sealing them away from the empty garage below, the cabin began its slow ascent toward a life none of them could undo anymore.

By the time the apartment finally fell quiet, dawn had already begun creeping through the windows. The Bureau had left nothing to chance.

______________________________________________________________________________

The expensive Zimmerman black evening gown recovered from Rome had disappeared into an evidence bag alongside the shoes abandoned somewhere inside Bellini's gardens, every item documented before being transferred into federal custody. 

The waterproof pouch recovered from her person had been inventoried just as meticulously. The passport bearing the name Hayden. The nameless prescription bottle. The notebook. The keys. Everything now rested inside the locked drawer built into the desk in the guest bedroom, exactly where the Bureau had said it would remain until investigators required it.

One of the physicians had stayed behind long enough to examine you again after the drive from the airfield. The bruising along both legs had already begun darkening beneath your skin, a consequence of the fall into the river and the retaining wall you had struck beneath the surface. 

Your soaked clothes had been removed respectfully by a female physician, photographed only where protocol demanded it, before another female physician had helped change you into loose gray cotton sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, warm socks, and a lightweight blanket tucked carefully around you against the lingering chill.

The IV had been removed before the doctors left but the restraints had not.

They stayed exactly where the Bureau wanted them, secured discreetly beneath the blankets, long enough to allow movement without offering any realistic chance of escape. 

Medical necessity had given way to federal custody the moment they crossed the apartment threshold.

Only then had the agents finally gone home.

______________________________________________________________________________

The apartment had become so quiet that the low hum of the refrigerator seemed unnaturally loud.

Sam stood near the kitchen island, one hand resting against the cool granite countertop as he watched his best friend stare out the living room window without really seeing the city beyond it.

Bucky hadn't moved in nearly twenty minutes.

The wrinkled white shirt from Rome still clung to his back, sleeves rolled unevenly toward his forearms, dried streaks of dirt and rainwater remaining along the cuffs where he'd never bothered changing after the flight. His wedding ring caught the first traces of morning light filtering through the windows, though he seemed completely unaware of it.

He hadn't asked how she was. He hadn't asked whether she'd wake up. He hadn't even looked toward the closed guest bedroom door since the physicians wheeled her inside. He didn’t care. He simply stood there.

Silent and still.

His eyes fixed somewhere beyond the skyline as though the city itself no longer held anything worth looking at.

For the first time in a long time, Sam was terrified of the mental state Bucky was in, because he had seen that look before.

But not after Asa. That was different. That was normal behavior; this look was different. He has seen it after Hydra.

The realization settled uncomfortably in his chest.

Grief had made Bucky cry.

This was something else.

He let another minute pass before finally breaking the silence.

"The doctors went over everything before they left.” Bucky didn't answer. "They're not expecting her to wake up for a few hours, maybe longer if the concussion's worse than it looks.” Nothing. Sam sighed quietly. Still nothing. He studied Bucky for another moment before pushing away from the counter. "I'm not going to stand here and pretend I know what this feels like.”

For the first time since they'd entered the apartment, Bucky spoke. “No." It wasn't bitter and it wasn't angry. It was empty.

A long silence settled between them again.

When Sam spoke next, his voice had changed.

There was no sympathy in it anymore.

Only honesty.

"But I do know what happens if you let it make your decisions.” Bucky's reflection remained motionless in the window. "You heard every word those doctors said tonight. She's dehydrated. She's concussed. She's going to wake up confused, probably terrified, and she's going to need food, water, and someone making sure she doesn't get worse.” He paused, waiting for some acknowledgment. None came. "So I'm going to say this now, because once I walk out that door, there's nobody left to say it.”

Bucky finally turned. His expression hadn't changed. His eyes looked older and colder than they had yesterday.

“—I don't care how angry you are.” Sam held his gaze. "I don't care who you think she is.” Another pause. "You don't get to starve her.” The words landed heavily inside the apartment. "You don't get to decide she's not worth treating because you're pissed off.” Bucky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "You don't get to hurt her.” Sam didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "You don't get to scare her because it makes you feel better.” Silence. "And if you get to a point where you think you might…" He took one slow step forward. "...you walk out that damn front door.”

Bucky’s gaze was dark but he said nothing.

"You call me.” Another step. "You call Steve.” Another. "You call the Bureau. I don't care who you call. But you don't walk into that room until you know you've got yourself under control.” 

For the first time that morning, something flickered behind Bucky's eyes.

It wasn’t anger and it wasn’t grief.

Something harder.

"What if I can’t?" The question was so quiet Sam almost missed it.

He didn't answer immediately. Because there wasn't a good answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost painfully calm.

"Then you keep walking.You leave the apartment. You keep walking until you can.” Sam glanced briefly toward the closed guest bedroom. "I'm not asking you to forgive her. I can’t even image how this situation is for you.” His eyes returned to Bucky.

"Hell..I'm not even asking you to look at her.” He let the words settle. "I'm asking you to remember that whatever happened before tonight…none of it gives you permission to become someone you're going to hate when this is over.”

The apartment fell silent once more. Neither man spoke. The silence stretched comfortably between them, not because either of them had found peace, but because there was nothing left worth saying.

Sam studied him for another moment.

He'd known Bucky long enough to recognize when a conversation was over. This one had ended several minutes ago.

He reached for the jacket draped over the back of one of the dining chairs, slipping it over his shoulders before collecting the small set of apartment keys the Bureau had issued him earlier that morning.

"They'll rotate agents every twelve hours outside," he said quietly as he walked toward the front door. "but they won't bother you unless something goes wrong.” Bucky stayed standing near the window. Sam rested a hand against the doorknob. "The doctors left everything you need in the kitchen.” His eyes drifted briefly toward the hallway. "Medication's labeled. The emergency numbers are on the refrigerator. If anything changes medically,” He looked back at Bucky. "don't try handling it yourself.”

Sam opened the door.

The hallway beyond looked exactly as it always had.

Mrs. Donnelly's fern still sat outside apartment 5B.

Someone had collected yesterday's newspaper.

A maintenance cart stood abandoned near the elevator where one of the Bureau's cover stories had apparently become convincing enough to leave behind.

Ordinary. Painfully ordinary.

Sam stepped into the hallway before stopping. He didn't turn around immediately.

When he finally did, his expression had softened.

“Buck." Bucky looked over. Sam held his gaze for several long seconds. "I know."

Two words.

Nothing more.

He didn't need to explain what they meant.

I know you're angry.

I know you're hurting.

I know this shouldn't be happening.

I know.

Then he walked away.

The apartment door closed quietly behind him.

The lock clicked.

TAGS:

"Time for bed now," Bucky soothed.

"Just one more time, Daddy." Natalia pulled at the book again, knocking the trinkets and treasures she'd collected off her shelf.

"Sweetheart, it's late, Mommy said lights out before eight tonight, okay? You have kindy tomorrow."

"Eight?" She looked at the clock on her wall, each five minutes segment a different colour. "Then we have…five minutes!"

Grant stirred in his sleep, snuggling deeper into Bucky's side, and his chest squeezed at the feeling of his soft breath.

"I dunno little bookworm, five minutes isn't long and I have to get Grant to his bed."

"Please, daddy, please please please." She looked up at him with her big wide pleading eyes and he was powerless to resit.

"Okay, are you picking a new book? We need to be quick."

"Don't waste time, Daddy, this one, this one."

Bucky took the board book from her little hands and opened the first page.

"One Sunday morning, the warm sun came up and pop!" Bucky popped his finger in his mouth and Natalia giggled.

"Pop!"

Grant stirred, resettling himself, and Natalia did the same, grabbing at his shirt with her hand.

By the time the caterpillar had eaten "one nice green leaf" they were both fast asleep. Bucky turned the page anyway, he liked this one, liked the little face on the big fat caterpillar, liked the butterfly at the end and the way the children still loved him, even though he was different.

Carefully, he placed the book on the floor and slid Natalia onto her pillow. Grant squirmed, his face scrunching up, until Bucky lifted him up too and then he dropped his head onto Bucky's shoulder.

As he was heading for Grant's room, you appeared at the top of the stairs.

"There you are — oh!" You put your finger over your lips and started whispering instead. "I was worried you'd fallen asleep too."

"No chance." Bucky smiled, "they wanted extra stories, how could I say no."

He took Grant into his bed room and knelt slowly on the big planet Earth rug by his bed. He tucked him in, curled his fingers around his teddy and stepped back into your waiting arms.

"He's so cute." You hushed.

"They both are."

Across the hall you could just see Natalia's face relaxing into her dreams.

"I love you, Mr Barnes."

"Love you too, Mrs Barnes."

Small stone, at that.

He tilted his head back once, studying the face of a structure looming over the street, and felt something close to vertigo.

The bricks -if that was even the word- were absurdly small, identical, and stacked in rows so precise they might have been drawn with a ruler and simply willed into permanence. Higher than any keep he'd laid siege to. Higher than the bell tower at Wintermouth Cathedral, which had taken forty years and three master masons and had still needed scaffolding twice in his lifetime.

How does it hold?

She stopped in front of one such building, smaller than its neighbors, though smaller was doing considerable work in that sentence, and mounted three steps to a set of doors.

She pulled one open without ceremony, without announcing herself to anyone, without a steward or a porter to bar entry to a stranger, and walked inside as though the building belonged to her the way a woman owns a shawl.

He followed, because there was nothing else to do, and stepped into a hall.

Marble underfoot, or something convincingly like it. A row of small brass boxes set into one wall, each with a slot and a number, they purpose entirely opaque. Light again without flame, hanging in a glass fixture overhead, steady and shadowless.

This is not a florist's household, he thought.

He knew what it was to walk into a great house as a guest and be received as one. He knew, with rather more bitterness, what it was to walk into a great house as staff, had spent enough of his squireship fetching, carrying, standing at attention in halls not unlike this one, waiting to be noticed or ignored, whichever suited the lord in question that day.

Was that it, then? Flowers by morning, service by evening? some second position in a household large enough to warrant it, explaining the marble, the brass, the strange indifferent grandeur of the place?

He said none of this. He had learned, in the space of one morning, that his conclusions about this century had a poor survival rate once spoken aloud. So he held his tongue and followed her toward a narrow staircase at the back of the hall.

The climbing did nothing to improve his opinion of the day, since each step was a constant reminder of the state of his bruised ribs. He kept his breathing even through will alone, one hand trailing the rail, and said nothing.

She glanced back once, near the second landing, some question half-formed on her face. He gave her nothing to work with, so she turned around and kept climbing.

By the third floor, sweat had gathered along his spine beneath the ruined shirt, and his vision had gone a touch too bright at the edges, a warning he chose to ignore in favor of counting doors instead of stairs.

---

She'd clocked it two flights ago, the careful, deliberate way he was breathing, the hand that never quite let go of the rail, the fact that a man who'd crossed half of Camden without complaint had gone very quiet somewhere around the second landing.

She didn't say anything. She had a feeling he'd sooner collapse on her stairwell than admit to needing a minute, and there was something in the set of his jaw - stubborn, absurdly proud, entirely unbothered by what it was clearly costing him - that she found herself, against her better judgment, a little charmed by. Which was not a thought she had time for right now, with a bleeding stranger three steps behind her and a landing still to reach.

She kept climbing. Slower than she strictly needed to. Just in case.

----

A corridor stretched ahead of them, narrow, lined with identical doors, and identical brass numbers screwed into identical wood.

He catalogued it out of habit -the width, how many doors stood between them and the stairs- before it occurred to him that there was likely nothing here worth defending against, and the habit still refused to switch itself off.

From behind one door, there was music. Not lute or pipe, but something layered and strange, a woman's voice threaded through with instruments he couldn't place.

From another, the smell of onions frying, rich enough that his stomach gave a low, traitorous rumble.

He frowned at that second door as they passed it.

The kitchens were on the third floor. It made no sense.

Kitchens belonged low, ground level, or below it if the house could afford the excavation, close to the well and the fuel stores, far enough from the sleeping quarters that smoke and grease didn't creep into a lord's bedding.

Every keep he'd ever served in, ever laid siege to, ever simply visited, kept its kitchens low. He turned it over, half convinced he was missing some obvious explanation, and came up with nothing.

Unless this household ran differently. Unless the entire logic of the place inverted itself the way everything else in this century seemed determined to.

She stopped in front of a door indistinguishable from the others save its number, and drew a ring of keys from her purse, finding the right one without hesitation, the ease of long habit. The lock turned, and the door opened onto a narrow entry, dim and modest, but unmistakably a dwelling.

He stood in the corridor a moment longer than necessary, his gaze moving once more down the row of identical doors stretching in both directions. Service quarters, he decided.

"You may introduce me to your employer at your convenience," he said, following her through. "I would prefer not to be mistaken for an intruder in his household a second time today."

She turned to look at him with an expression he was rapidly learning to be wary of, the kind that came right before she informed him he'd misunderstood something, in a manner she found simultaneously exhausting and, despite herself, a little bit funny.

He didn't yet know what he'd said wrong. That, too, was becoming familiar.

"My employer," she repeated.

"The lord of this house." He gestured back toward the corridor and its row of doors, already bracing -without quite knowing why- for the ground to shift under him again.

She closed the door behind him and looked at him a moment, one hand still on the latch, working through how precisely to explain something she'd clearly never had to explain to a grown man before.

"Mr. Barnes," she said slowly. "There is no lord."

"Then whose house-" He stopped himself. Every theory he'd voiced aloud today had met the same fate, and he saw no cause to expect this one would fare better.

"This is my apartment." She said the word carefully. "It's mine. I pay rent on it every month, out of what the shop makes. Every one of those doors you just walked past, that's not one household. That's a different family behind every single one. A different kitchen, different bathrooms. Strangers to each other, mostly, sharing a staircase and nothing else."

He stared at her, and felt the shape of the building rearrange itself in his mind. It was not a great house at all, but something closer to a hive. Dozens of lives stacked one atop the other with nothing holding them together but shared stairs and walls.

"An entire building," he said slowly, "of strangers."

"Yes."

"Stacked."

"...Yes."

She was watching him, but with an attention that had nothing to do with the conversation they were having, and he felt it land somewhere just beneath his collar before he'd decided what to make of it.

"Hey," she said, softer than before. "You look like you're about to go down again. Sit for a minute?"

She gestured toward a low, upholstered thing pushed against the far wall. Two cushioned seats joined into one continuous piece, the fabric a bright, unrepentant orange.

He had never seen its like. Not a bench, not quite a settle, too soft-looking for either, its cushions plump and uniform in a way no upholsterer he knew could have managed by hand.

It looked, if he was honest, extremely inviting.

It also looked new. Unmarked. The kind of thing a household kept for guests of consequence, and he was aware, with some discomfort, of exactly how far he fell from that description at present.

"I would ruin it," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"The seat." He gestured at himself, at the dried blood, the dirt ground into the linen, the general catastrophe of a man who had crossed six centuries without the benefit of a bath. "That fabric will not survive contact with me. And I am not dressed to sit in a lady's parlor regardless."

Something flickered across her face, not quite amusement, but not quite exasperation either.

"It's not a parlor," she said. "It's just the living room. And it's a couch, Mr. Barnes, not a coronation throne. It'll survive."

"All the same." He held his ground, aware even as he did it that the ground in question was faintly ridiculous: a man arguing etiquette while swaying on his feet in a stranger's home, in a century that had already proven it cared nothing for the rules he knew.

He couldn't seem to let go of them regardless. They were, at the moment, nearly the only thing of his own he still had. "If you have something less consequential."

She studied him a moment longer, then exhaled through her nose in a way he was beginning to recognize as her particular flavor of surrender. "Fine. The kitchen, then."

She led him into a smaller room with a tiled floor, pale and clean, a window over a deep basin, and, against the wall, a small table with two chairs, their seats covered in the same relentless color as the couch, though blue instead of orange.

He lowered himself into one carefully, his ribs complaining the entire way down, and studied the chair beneath him.

Bright, even, unfaded blue. The kind of pigment that, in his experience, cost more per yard than the chair itself was likely worth.

For kitchen furniture.

"Water?" she asked, already moving toward the far wall.

He nodded, distracted, still cataloguing the room: the smoothness of every surface, the absence of soot anywhere. Then she opened a tall white cabinet set against the wall, and he stopped cataloguing anything at all.

Cold air rolled out of it. He felt it from where he sat, and some old instinct, the one that had kept him alive through winters of campaign, sat up and took notice before the rest of him had caught up.

"What," he said slowly, "is that?"

"The icebox?" She glanced back, one hand still on the door, a bottle in the other.

"It has no ice."

"It doesn't need ice, it's electric. Keeps things cold on its own."

He rose, forgetting his ribs for exactly as long as it took three steps to carry him there, and looked into the cabinet himself before she could object.

Shelves. Bottles. A bowl of eggs, pale and ordinary, sitting beside butter, unmelted, in a room warm enough that any butter he'd ever known would have long since gone soft and glistening on a table.

He found himself wanting, absurdly, to touch it, to confirm with his own hand what his eyes were telling him couldn't be true.

"How?"

"I don't actually know," she admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in it. "Something with wires, a motor… I don't know the mechanics of it any more than I know how a telephone carries a voice across town. It just works. You plug it in, and it's cold, and that's as far as my understanding goes."

He stared at the shelves a moment longer, at the ordinary miracle of butter refusing to soften, and felt something very close to wonder. And beneath the wonder, quieter, something that felt uncomfortably like grief.

Traveling through centuries, he had arrived at a place where a woman kept the dead of winter locked in a box in her kitchen and thought nothing of it.

She poured water into a glass -clear, flawless glass- and set it in front of him as though it were nothing at all.

He was hardly positioned to complain, since she had taken a bleeding stranger into her home and fed him besides, but he found himself glancing toward the cabinets regardless, expecting a jug of small ale, a pitcher of cider, anything a household of any means offered a guest before water.

Water alone, had killed men he'd known. Good men, careful men, who'd survived worse than a bad well and gone down anyway with their guts turned to fire. Almost every house's table poured ale or wine for that reason as much as for taste.

That this place, with its marble hall and its brass boxes and its indifferent grandeur, should hand him water and nothing else struck him as strange enough to notice.

He lifted the glass and drank anyway, telling himself that whatever this century had done to its water, it had also apparently solved the preservation of food in a cool box, and a man who trusted one miracle might as well trust the other.

The taste caught him off guard. It wasn’t unpleasant, but strange. No hint of the barrel it had traveled in, no faint rot at the back of the throat that a man learned to drink around.

It tasted, as far as he could tell, of nothing at all. Clean. He'd never had water that tasted that clean, and some old, wary part of him kept waiting for the sickness to follow regardless.

"Is it safe?" he asked, careful to keep the question light, a thing he was merely curious about, rather than a thing he genuinely needed answered before his next swallow.

"Perfectly. It's tap water, comes straight out of the faucet, city runs it through filtration before it ever gets to a pipe. You could drink it all day and never think twice."

Faucet. He turned the word over, another one for the stack, and said nothing.

She caught the blankness on his face and rose, crossing to the basin set into the counter.

"Here. If the jug ever runs dry and you want more, don't wait around for me. Just do this." She turned a small metal handle.

Water came. No need to pour, carry, or draw it up on a rope from some hidden well; it simply arrived, a clear, steady stream falling into the basin, as though the house itself had a vein opened somewhere and this was where it bled.

He was on his feet before he'd decided to be, some part of him needing, absurdly, to see the mechanism of it, as if enough looking might finally make it make sense. "Where does it come from?"

"Pipes. Underground, runs under the whole city, connects to a reservoir north of here. Every building's hooked into it." She watched him with open curiosity now. "You want it hot instead of cold, there's a second handle."

"Hot?"

"Mm-hm."

He looked at the two handles. Looked at her. Looked back at the water, still running, and felt the day's tally of impossible things tip over into something he no longer had the will to keep counting.

"You are telling me," he said slowly, "that every house in this city commands its own well. Hot and cold both. Without a servant, a bucket, or a rope."

"That's the general idea, yeah."

He said nothing for a long moment, turning it over, what a man could build, what a man could stop needing, if he never again had to haul water himself.

He thought, unbidden, of every squire and servant he'd ever sent down to a well at dawn, or even gone himself when he squired, and wondered what those boys would have made of this.

She reached past him and shut the tap. The water stopped as abruptly as it had come, and the silence that followed felt, absurdly, louder than the sound itself had been.

----

She watched him sit back down, slower than he probably wanted her to notice, and felt her own worry sharpen in response.

He was pale under the bruising. Worse than in the stockroom, now that the adrenaline of the street and the stairs had burned off and left him with nothing to run on but stubbornness. She was starting to suspect stubbornness was mostly what he had left today.

He needed a bath. Badly. And rest, and quiet, all of which she could actually provide here, behind a locked door, away from patrolmen and gossiping bakery owners. That part, at least, she could manage.

What she couldn't provide was clothes, and that was the part actually nagging at her.

He couldn't wear what he had on; there was no version of a corner grocery where a six-foot-something man in a laced medieval tunic and thigh straps walked in without every head turning. She'd been running through options since the stockroom and kept landing on the same one.

"I can wash what I'm wearing," he offered, apparently following the direction of her thoughts more accurately than she'd expected. "It only wants soap and water. I've done worse with less on campaign."

"It's not really a laundry problem, Mr. Barnes." She said it as gently as she could manage, not wanting to make him feel worse than he already seemed to about needing help. "Even clean, that's not something a man wears walking down Camden Street in this year."

"I have nothing to offer you outright," he said, after a moment, "but I could part with something of value. The belt. The leg straps." He nodded down at the heavy leather still buckled across his hips and thighs, the only thing of worth currently on his person. "The leather alone is good work. It should fetch enough for whatever I need."

She wasn't sure whether to be touched or exasperated, and settled, after a second, on both at once. There was something almost unbearable about how hard he was working to make sure he didn't owe her anything. "I'm not taking your pants apart for scrap, Mr. Barnes."

"It is not scrap. It is craftsmanship."

"I believe you. I'm still not doing it. I know a place. Charity, secondhand, mostly donated. You don't have to pay, and you don't have to give me your belt to make yourself feel better about not paying. It's fine."

He didn't look like he agreed that it was fine, but he said nothing further, which she was coming to understand was as close to agreement as she was likely to get from him. She'd take it.

"Stay put and drink your water," she said, smoothing her skirt. Then she crossed to a basket near the icebox and drew out a cloth bundle with biscuits, plain and slightly dense.

"You're probably still hungry. One sandwich isn't much, considering whatever it is you've been through today. Eat those while I'm gone. I'll be as quick as I can."

He looked at the plate, then at her, something in his face she couldn't quite name, and she decided not to push for a name for it.

"Thank you," he said, quiet enough that she almost missed it over the sound of her own keys. "And… Bucky." He said it almost before he'd decided to. "Please. Call me Bucky."

She paused with her hand on the door, caught off guard. It was a small, private surprise hearing a man this formal hand her something informal on purpose, like he'd decided she'd earned it.

"Alright then," she said. "Bucky."

She was out the door before she could decide what to do with the rest of it.

----

She took the stairs two at a time, bags of flour-sack cloth knocking against her hip with every step, and allowed herself a small, private satisfaction over the haul.

Two pairs of trousers, both plain, both in decent shape. Two undershirts. Three button-up shirts, all in the largest size the donation bin carried; apparently the largest size was also the least popular, because she'd had her pick of three, tags barely worn off. Socks, a few pairs, unmatched but clean.

She'd even swung by the little men's shop on the corner for the one thing charity boxes never carried enough of, sliding two pairs of short underwear across the counter to a clerk who hadn't so much as blinked. Small mercies.

Not bad, she thought, climbing the last flight. Not bad at all for forty minutes and whatever cash she'd had folded in her coat pocket.

The apartment was quiet when she let herself in, quiet enough that her stomach gave one small, unpleasant lurch before she registered why. The living room was empty, and for one dumb second her mind went straight to worst-case: gone, hurt because he meddled with something unknown, collapsed somewhere she couldn't see.

She set the bags down just inside the kitchen doorway and leaned in.

There he was. Exactly where she'd left him, same chair, same table, the plate of biscuits reduced to crumbs and one lonely survivor. Relief hit before she'd even fully processed why she'd been braced for something worse.

His head had tipped back against the wall at some point, throat exposed, mouth slightly open, one hand still loosely curled around the water glass as though he'd meant to keep drinking.

He hadn't heard her come in. Whatever was going on with him, and whatever had actually happened to leave him bruised and half-convinced he was a knight out of a storybook, the exhaustion was real, and something about seeing it made her chest ache a little more than she felt entitled to on a few hours' acquaintance.

She crossed the room slowly, quiet out of some instinct she didn't examine too closely and stopped a few feet away. He frowned in his sleep, and she found herself wondering what a man like him dreamed about. Nothing good, probably.

It was, she noted with some irritation at herself, deeply unfair how good-looking he still managed to be while doing it. Even bruised, even filthy, even asleep in a kitchen chair with his neck at an angle that was going to cost him.

Great, she thought. That's exactly the thought you needed to be having right now.

She shook it off, mostly, and refocused on the more immediate problem: he was going to wake up with a crick in his neck to rival his ribs if she let him stay like that much longer.

"Hey," she said, gently, crouching down to something closer to his eye level before she reached out. She touched his shoulder. Lightly, carefully, and tried to say his name again.

It happened faster than she could track.

One second her hand was on his shoulder, his name half-formed on her lips for the second time, and the next, his eyes had snapped open, his hand had closed around her wrist like a manacle, and his other hand was at her throat.

Not gripping, not yet. Just a half-second suspended somewhere between reflex and intention, fingers pressed light but certainly against her skin, the pressure of a man who knew exactly where to close his hand and how much force it would take, poised on the edge of applying it.

Her whole body had gone very still, some animal part of her taking stock of the situation faster than the rest of her could catch up.

Then he saw her. Not whatever ghost his sleeping mind had conjured in her place,  and his hand recoiled from her throat like he'd touched a stove.

He let go of her wrist a half-beat after, both hands snapping back, and shoved himself away from her so hard the chair legs shrieked against the tile.

"I'm sorry." Low, fast, wrecked. "I'm sorry- I didn't- are you hurt, milady? Did I hurt you?"

Milady? Well, at least it wasn’t wench.

"I'm fine." She kept her voice level, even though her pulse hadn't quite caught up with that fact yet, one hand coming up unconsciously to touch her own throat, still warm from where his'd been. "I'm… fine."

He didn't look like he believed her, and honestly, she wasn't sure she believed herself either. Not shaken by what he'd done, exactly, but by how close it had come, and how little time there'd been between his eyes opening and his hand finding her throat with that kind of certainty.

He was staring at his own hands now, jaw working, color gone from his face in a way that had nothing to do with the morning's injuries.

"May I see?" His voice had dropped, quiet and careful, stripped of all its usual formal armor. "Please. I need to see that I didn't-" He didn't finish it. "Please."

She lowered her hand and let him look, some instinct telling her this wasn't a moment to argue with him about it, that he needed the proof more than she needed the space.

He stepped close, close enough that she could feel him not quite touching her, his eyes moving over her throat, but there was nothing to find. The barest ghost of pressure, gone already, nothing that would leave a mark.

She was abruptly, uselessly aware of how near he was standing, and annoyed with herself for noticing it now of all moments.

He looked at her face once he was satisfied, and whatever was in his eyes in that moment, she didn't have a word ready for it.

"I shouldn't have grabbed you like that," she said finally, quiet. "Waking someone up out of a dead sleep, I should've known better. My fault too."

"No." His answer was fast, firm, and with no room in it for argument. "It is not. A man does not require permission to be startled to see reason before he raises a hand to a woman who has done nothing but show him kindness. No excuse covers what I nearly did. I won't let you make one for me."

She opened her mouth to push back  -some instinct to smooth it over, to meet him halfway- then closed it again, because the look on his face told her plainly this wasn't a fight she'd win today, maybe not ever.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and this time it landed somewhere lower and more tired than the first two.

She let it sit a moment before she moved. Then she nodded toward the doorway, toward the bags still waiting where she'd left them, glad for once to have somewhere else to point his attention, and hers.

"C'mere. I want to show you what I got."

It wasn't subtle, the redirection of the topic, and she suspected he knew exactly what she was doing. But he let her do it anyway and followed her the few steps to the kitchen table, watching her upend the flour-sack bags across it with something that might, in a better hour, have been curiosity.

Trousers. Shirts, still stiff with the fold-lines of whoever had donated them and never worn out. Socks in mismatched pairs. A single undershirt he picked up and turned over in his hands, studying the cut like it was a garment he half-recognized, and half didn't.

"They're not much," she said, "but they'll get you through the next few days. We'll figure out the rest as we go."

He set the undershirt down and looked over the rest of the pile with careful attention.

"Thank you," he said. She was starting to lose count of how many ways he'd found to say it, and how much he seemed to mean it every time and how much, against all reason, she was starting to like hearing it.

"Don't thank me yet." She managed something close to a smile, enough to pull the air in the room back toward ordinary. "You still have to survive a bath. And getting dressed. I have a feeling that's going to be its own adventure."

He looked at her like he had no idea what she meant by that.

She decided not to ruin the surprise.

Next Chapter

You’ve always had a big imagination. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s ok to imagine anything. Although, you do take your imagination a bit too far with a certain someone who’s not real. Not over the edge too far. Just a bit. That someone is James Buchanan Barnes. He’s your everything. Yes, you know he’s not real. You just like to imagine that he is.

One day, you were upset and crying about something. Bucky appears in your bedroom and lays down next to you. He wraps his arms around you to comfort you. You felt his arms around you. You felt the warmth of his body. That’s how real your imagination makes it.

“It’s ok. I’m here.” Bucky whispers.

You began to cry harder. In your imagination, he is there for you. In reality, he’s not. He’s not real. What you said next felt like an outburst, even though it wasn’t.

“But you’re not real!” You screamed.

Bucky slowly faded away after you screamed through words. You felt it. You turned over to see that he wasn’t there. Your eyes filled with a new wave of tears and your bottom lip quivered. Then a loud sob left your lips.

“Wait, no! I’m sorry!” You cried.

You thought apologizing would get him to come back, but it didn’t. You felt your heart shatter into millions of pieces. Even though he’s not real, you want him to come back.

You haven’t seen Bucky since that day, which was a few days ago. You want him to reappear. No matter how much you imagine about him, he won’t reappear. You have no idea how to make him reappear. Your heart keeps breaking at the thought of him never coming back.

One night, you were in bed on the verge of tears. You thought about the times Bucky had appeared for you. You also thought about him saying that he’s always there for you. If that’s true, then why isn’t he there for you and with you right now. That’s what made you break down in tears. After a few minutes, you thought of a way of possibly getting Bucky to come back. You sniffled as you sat up in bed.

“Here goes nothing.” You say to yourself.

You took a deep before trying to get Bucky to reappear. You’re not sure how it’s going to work, but it’s worth a try and it won’t hurt to try, right?

“Bucky?” You called out to him.

You waited a moment and nothing happened. He didn’t reappear.

“Bucky?” You called out a bit louder.

Still, nothing.

“Bucky!” You screamed. “You said that you would be here for me and you’re not!” You cried out.

A new wave of tears filled your eyes and you started crying again. That’s when Bucky reappeared.

“I am here for you.” Bucky says.

Your head shot up when you heard his voice. You smiled when you saw him. You were relieved that he’s there.

“You’re back.” You say.

“I am.” He says.

Bucky walks over to your bed and sat down across from you. He reaches a hand out to wipe your tears away.

“Where were you?” You asked.

“I was giving you some space.” He says.

“Don’t leave me like that again.” You say.

“I won’t do it again. I promise.” He says.

You smiled and patted mattress next to you. Bucky moves closer to you. You cuddled yourself against his side as he wraps his arms around you.

“I’ll always be here for you.” Bucky says softly, kissing the top of your head.

Steve reached his hand up and caressed smooth skin, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist. “Buck,” he groaned when it had the desired effect.

Bucky looked down at Steve through half-lidded eyes, lips parted in a gasp.

Steve reached out to pull Bucky in for a kiss.

He held onto Bucky’s torso and felt Bucky’s hand grip his shoulder.

Face pressed into the sheets right next to Steve’s ear, Bucky let out a soft moan. So close, it was easily audible even over the rolling thunder. “Steve…” he sighed.

The sound alone was enough to push Steve over the edge.

~~~~~~~~

Part of A Whisper, a Cry, a Yell, a Sigh

Day 6 of @monthlywritingchallenges Firefly July: Summer Thunder

AO3 link

It had been two days since River told them about Brock Rumlow awakening from his coma.  During that time, they worked with the AI trying to reconfigure its systems to detect what kind of tracker Bucky had in his body.  Just as River guessed, it was a hybrid system, using a Bluetooth connection to find him over long distances.  The ultra wide band device was encrypted at a level that River, even with all of its abilities, could not fully crack.  The RFID part, which would allow the person tracking them to isolate their precise location once within a certain perimeter (believed to be about 100 meters but possibly more because of the signal boosting technology in it) was successfully turned off by the AI, or so they thought.  With only the two burner phones to test the connection on, there was no real way to know if it worked in a larger environment with a larger sample of cell phones that could carry the signal.  They would have to go elsewhere and have River try to track them to test it properly.  The problem with that was that it would expose them to Rumlow and his accomplices, and they would have the HYDRA equipment that was needed to find Bucky.

River finally got into the internal surveillance system at the HYDRA depot confirming the former field commander did have help when he arrived there but not from the other HYDRA believers.  Whatever happened to him at the Triskelion had destroyed his belief in the organization.  He arrived at the depot with known mercenaries, looking for others to help him in his new quest but it was soon obvious that his hate had morphed into something more personal.  He raved at the believers who were still hiding out there, insulting their insistence that HYDRA could rebuild.  His gruesome appearance from the burns he suffered were used by him as proof that the organization was finished and rightly so.  His new mission was revenge; finding the Winter Soldier, then using him to track Steve Rogers and kill him, as Rumlow blamed him for his injuries and for tearing down the organization that had given him power and purpose. 

Getting the tracking equipment was Rumlow's first priority, as he offered the mercenaries who were there, millions of dollars that only he knew the location of to join him in finding Bucky.  The others, the true believers, were dismissed as unimportant and when several stood up to him, he showed no hesitation in mowing them down.  To Joanne, as she witnessed the carnage that was caught on the security system, it seemed that Rumlow fully believed in a dog-eat-dog world, and he had every intention of being the top dog.

"Have you been able to find Rumlow since he left the depot?" she asked.

"No," answered River.  "He has gone underground, likely to access more resources there to assist his medical needs.  No doubt the mercenaries he has recruited have connections he can use for that."

It seemed to her that he had also turned the figurative bloodhounds loose with one command; "Find the Winter Soldier."  Bucky was staring at the screen, at the different individuals who were joining forces with Rumlow.

"Can you identify these people and provide better images of them?" he asked.

They watched as River isolated the individuals, three that came with Rumlow and three that threw their lot in with him at the depot.  On the edge of the larger screen, their driver's licence images appeared as their records were accessed, along with their known aliases and brief personal history.  Joanne shook her head at them, all former military from several different countries, disgraced for criminal behaviour, offering their services to whoever would pay them the most.  They were scum of the earth.

"Even with that tracking equipment you can still block Bucky's location within that 100 meter perimeter, can't you?" she asked River.  "We can't be detected if they come here?"

"Yes." 

For an AI who had been giving them long-winded explanations this single one-word answer for both questions seemed unusual and troubling.  Bucky tried different wording.

"So, the past two days have been successful in removing the threat of me being tracked?"  More silence.  "River?"

"With the new configurations in my own abilities, I studied your body more thoroughly," said the AI.  "It has revealed other redundant measures.  Older tracking systems are still present in your body, likely from when you were a Russian HYDRA asset.  There is evidence of a fail-safe system, that would disable you temporarily by the application of an internal charge similar to a taser."  There was another pause.  "It would allow your handlers time to drug or bind you.  The 100-meter perimeter may not be enough to protect you from that feature."

"How long will it disable him for?"

"I do not know.  I have attempted to access it, but it is encrypted, and I am unable to unlock that encryption."  The AI almost sounded despondent.  "HYDRA was very paranoid about retaining control of you when you were the Winter Soldier."

All their efforts from the past two days had been for nothing.  Even though the RFID had been turned off, they could still immobilize Bucky remotely then find his more precise location.  He stood up and walked away from the screen displays.  Following him, Joanne called to him, but he ignored her as he headed to their room.

"Bucky, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to the nearest town," he said.  "The only way to find out if anything we have done so far works is to test it."

"And if they find you, they'll immobilize you.  You'll be caught.  You need me to come with you."

"It's too dangerous," he replied, as he grabbed his wallet and jacket, then touched her cheek.  "Stay here, monitor my location.  I'll take one of the burner phones and call you."

"No, I'm not staying here.  I'm not going to let you go anywhere on your own.  You need backup."

He looked down at his hands, flexing his left metal hand, then looked at her face, swallowing as he contemplated his words.

"What kind of backup will you be?  You are not physically strong.  I weigh 260 lbs. If I am disabled, you will be unable to move me to safety.  Although I have been training you on firearms, you are still afraid of them, and your aim is terrible."  Joanne's eyes became glassy, and he gently touched her cheek.  "I am not trying to be cruel, just truthful, and practical.  Your intent is good, but I am more effective not having to worry about your safety."

Pressing her lips together, she fought the urge to cry.  Then she swallowed and looked up at him with some defiance.

"Then I'll stay in the car and follow you while you walk around," she offered.  "River can tell me if you get into trouble when you're out of sight and if I must ram someone with the car to get them away from you, then I'll do it.  But I can't ... I can't lose you and I can't stay here watching you put yourself in danger without any way to help."

Breathing noticeably, she looked at him, imploring him to let her come.  River's voice startled both.

"If you wear a monitoring bracelet, and they are successful in tracking you, it can reveal much to me.  I may be able to deactivate it that way, if it happens.  Ms. Phelps is right that you should have backup, even if it is her."

She almost laughed at that ringing endorsement, then looked earnestly into his eyes, and after several moments of consideration he nodded.  They would go together.  First, River instructed Bucky on setting up a monitoring bracelet for each of them.  It would allow two-way communication with the AI and also provide basic sensory information of their bodies.  Next, they would be armed, Bucky with firearms and knives, Joanne with a handgun and taser.  He prepared all the guns, making sure they were clean and loaded.  They would each carry a burner phone, and she would bring the satellite phone, just in case it all went sideways.  Although River could contact Fury on their behalf, if anything happened to their connection with the AI they would need the satellite phone as backup.

It was late when they finished their preparations, but they would be ready to go the next morning after breakfast.  As they prepared for bed, Bucky noticed that Joanne seemed preoccupied.  There was a moment while they were brushing their teeth and he finished first, stepping out of the bathroom.  He glanced back, noticing that she had turned sideways to the mirror, running her hand over her lower abdomen.  As she turned again, she noticed he was watching and smiled at him.

"Thought I spilled something on my shirt, but it was just a shadow," she said, a little too quickly.

Not responding, he got into bed and waited for her to join him.  Spooning behind her, he told River to turn off the lights.  The only sounds were their breaths and the occasional rustle of the bedclothes as they shifted to get more comfortable. 

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Just nervous about tomorrow."  She placed her hand on his right one, as it rested on her abdomen.  "How long was Brock Rumlow part of your life?"

"My memories of when I was brought to America permanently are muddled," he answered.  "I was in cryostasis and am unsure how long I was kept in that state before they woke me.  I believe he was there when it happened.  He was much younger then, as was Alexander Pierce."

"I know that Pierce was in his late 70s when he died," she mused, yawning.  "Do you remember how you did escape them before?"

It was a while before he answered.  "A mission gone wrong where I was separated from the team.  I went to New York as something drew me there."

"You're from Brooklyn.  Maybe you went to find your family."

"Maybe, but I was found and tranquilized.  When I woke up, I was in an aircraft, bound with titanium cuffs on my hands and feet.  There was another time in Europe somewhere, I think.  I was given correction for failure to complete my mission."

He stopped talking then, and she didn't press it.  His body warmth felt relaxing, and she soon fell asleep.  Bucky, still awake, laid in the dark, thinking of the next day while trying not to think of everything that could go wrong.  Then he heard it, a faint heartbeat, faster than his own, and faster than the pulse on Joanne's wrist.  Concentrating, he narrowed the location down to just under his right hand, becoming aware of the minute pulse inside Joanne's body, just barely felt by his fingertips.  It didn't take much to realize the truth.  The pill to prevent a pregnancy hadn't worked.  A baby, his baby, was growing in her and had reached the point where it had a heartbeat.  Why hadn't she said anything?

Breathing in deeply, he noted a difference between her scent now as compared to that day when they made love while the rain fell outside.  He acknowledged the small things that hinted of this since then; emotional moments, physical changes as her body adapted to the new life within her, and most recently the nausea she tried to hide from him.  The rational part of him thought that she shouldn't come with him in the morning; that she should stay here where she was safe.  But something deeper inside didn't want to leave her behind as if he couldn't trust anyone else with her safety, hers, or the baby.  Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against the back of her head, inhaling everything about Joanne.  He wouldn't leave her, not when she was carrying his child.

🎞️ 🎞️ 🎞️

Driving north on Highway 340 winding through the valley cut by the Shenandoah River in Virginia, Bucky headed towards Front Royal, a small town of about 15,000.  The day was forecast to be hot and was already in the high 80s by noon.  With school out, the scenic stops along the way were full of cars taking advantage of the weather to visit the historical tourist attractions.  Staying connected with River through the bracelet signal, they learned that so far, their general location was visible to its systems.  Advised to go into Front Royal, leave the car, and stay in one area, the AI was going to try to narrow down their location to see if the RFID, even when turned off, would reveal exactly where they were.  As they sat on the steps of the gazebo in the town square area, eating an ice cream cone, they could almost forget that they were trying to stay unnoticed.  It was pleasant to people watch, and no one paid them much attention.  With the tourists stopping there before going on to the various scenic spots further south, they were just another couple taking in the sights.  Then Bucky's burner phone rang, as the two-way communication with the bracelet would draw attention at their location.

"Leave Front Royal," said River's voice.  "I'm detecting another signal trying to ping your location and although it is well outside the 100-meter perimeter, and your RFID tracker is still off, they're too close for comfort.  The metal frame and armour of your vehicle should mask any signal that your body is transmitting.  Go towards Washington.  See if that draws them away from this location."

Bucky hung up, then gestured to Joanne, visually searching the area as he did.

"We have to go."

Without hesitation, she followed him to the vehicle, getting inside as he started it up.  As Bucky headed towards Route 66, Joanne stayed connected with River, who said all signals were now blocked by the vehicle, except for the monitoring bracelets on a secure frequency.  With few security cameras in the Front Royal area to hack into, River only had the tracking equipment signal to know where the others were.  After some time driving, they believed that they lost their pursuers as they turned west onto Route 66 instead of east, following a random RFID signal from another source. 

Bucky kept driving towards the outskirts of Washington so that they could find a place where it was safe for them to stop.  With the heavy traffic it was taking a long time to find a good spot but eventually he pulled off into a truck stop, noting that they needed gas for the vehicle. 

"I need the bathroom," said Joanne, feeling nauseous.  "I'll give them $50 inside if you can handle getting the gas."

"I have filled a gas tank before," he said, drily.  "They had cars in the 1940s."  He smiled at her, then reached out and squeezed her hand.  "Go ahead.  I'll wait at the perimeter if I finish before you."

Walking across the hot pavement was brutal but entering the cooler air-conditioned space provided almost instant relief.  Handing the cash to the clerk and pointing out which pump Bucky was at, she headed towards the restrooms, entering inside.  At first, she thought she might throw up but in the cooler air the feeling dissipated and she washed her hands and face instead.  Coming out, she saw the clerk watching their vehicle, but Bucky wasn't visible.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Yeah, a couple of guys approached your boyfriend and said something.  He just went with them and left the pump running.  Good thing I put the shut-off on it for the $50."

Fear sliced through Joanne, and she ran out to the SUV, hanging up the nozzle, getting behind the wheel, and adjusting the seat to fit her height. 

"River?" she said into her bracelet.  "Something happened.  Apparently two guys got Bucky while I was in the bathroom.  Can you access the security feeds here?"

"That's impossible," it replied.  "There is no ...."  The voice stopped, and Joanne began to worry when it didn't speak for what seemed like a long time.  "My apologies.  I should have known something was off, but I will explain later.  I accessed the security feed and have a description of the vehicle, a 2014 Lincoln Navigator, black in colour, Maryland licence plate 02432 AY, but that plate is assigned to a different vehicle according to the motor vehicle database.  It is only a couple of blocks from you.  You should be able to catch up but stay back far enough so that you are not spotted."

Following River's instructions Joanne drove slightly above the speed limit to catch up to where she could see the vehicle, then she dropped back as the AI continued tracking it through traffic cameras.  As it went through the southern edge of DC and approached the Maryland border, River gave her some disturbing information.

"That licence plate is registered to an Air Force major who has connections to Brock Rumlow.  He is stationed at Joint Base Andrews.  If they get into the base with Sergeant Barnes, you won't be able to follow them.  We have to make them stop before then."

"Can you do that?  Can you hack into its computer?"

"Working on it."  Traffic slowed ahead as they approached an intersection.  "I have interrupted the traffic light sequence.  It should take some time to get through the intersection while I continue my efforts to get into the Navigator's computer.  Try to move up so you are closer to them."

With a little huff, Joanne changed lanes to decrease the distance between herself and the Navigator.  By the time they got through the affected intersection, she was only two cars back.  River kept her informed of where it was then announced that it had successfully got into the vehicle's system and was affecting its performance.  Carefully, she followed it into the industrial area that was nearest. 

"They are pulling into a parking lot behind this building," said River.  "Go on to the next parking lot, go behind that building and double back.  You can put yourself into a position to observe them without being seen.  Further communication will have to be by the burner phone.  Mute the sound but keep it on vibrate for text updates.  I now have Sergeant Barnes' wrist bracelet on audio.  It was turned off somehow.  It will be converted to text and sent to your phone."

She did as River told her, then muted the phone while she was still in the car.  They should have stopped off and got some ear buds so they could listen, but it was too late now.  She would have to rely on River's ability to convert what it heard to text.  Making sure she had the taser, along with two replacement cartridges which she put into her purse, she also checked her handgun, breathing shakily as she put it into the back of her jean's waistband.  Putting her purse over her shoulder so it sat crossways across her body she stepped out of the car and into the heat of the late afternoon.  Crouching as she ran, she saw a large electrical box between the two parking lots and hid behind it.  Just like River said, she could see the other vehicle but the box and some shrubbery between them shielded her from their view.

One man was standing outside the vehicle trying to use his cell phone and getting frustrated that it didn't work.  The other man sat partially inside the vehicle with his door open, also trying to use his cell phone.  She felt her phone vibrate and took it out, reading the transcript.

River – Have jammed cell phone signal.

Unknown man 1 - No signal.

Unknown man 2 – Tell me something I don't know.  You think it was a trap?  He came with us too easily.

She watched as the second man looked into the back seat.

UM2 – Hey, do you have backup with signal jamming?

Barnes – Fuck off.

She smiled.  He was conscious at least but he must be immobilized if he couldn't fight his way out.

UM2 – We should have waited for the woman to come out of the gas station.  If we can get a call out to Rodney, his team can get her.

UM1 – They're an hour out.  Might have better luck hot-wiring a car and calling Mercer from a pay phone.  With his contacts he can send a helicopter here and take him to a safe house.  Rumlow knows the words to activate the Asset.  Once that's done, we don't have to worry about him.  We can even send him to finish off the woman and she won't be a problem.

Barnes – That's not going to happen.  My body is regaining function and when it does, I'll take care of both of you.

“They must have used a paralytic drug that’s wearing off,” thought Joanne.

UM1 – You're pretty chatty now.  You weren't like this at home base.  They could do anything they wanted to you.  I'd ask you for a blow job, but you probably need some conditioning first.

Barnes – You never could get it up.

The first man opened the back door and leaned in towards Bucky.  She winced as she saw his fists punch Bucky several times.

Bucky – Is that all ya got?  No wonder you got kicked out of the military.

There were more visible punches.

UM2 – Knock it off.  Why don't you go looking for a car to hot-wire?

UM1 – Why don't you mind your own fucking business?

Barnes – Wow, Rumlow really is scraping the bottom of the barrel.

She smiled again.  Bucky really knew how to irritate people.  Too bad she could only read the transcript; hearing it in person would likely be quite entertaining.

UM1 – I should cut you up first, but Rumlow wants you intact.  I'm going then.  Should be a car somewhere nearby. 

For a moment, Joanne wondered if she should move their vehicle, but he didn't come her way, and she watched as he walked in the other direction.

UM2 – What an asshole.

Barnes - It's Purdue, isn't it?  Your name?

He must have recognized him from the search that River did.

UM2 – Yeah, so?

Barnes – What are you doing this for?  You really want a guy like Rumlow to have control over me?

UM2 – Doesn't bother me as long as I get paid.

Barnes – What's to stop him from ordering me to kill you?  More money for him. 

She looked at the vehicle as the mercenary suddenly stood up and went to the back car door, looking into the back seat.

UM2 – Hey, stop.   You're supposed to be ....

Bucky's legs rose up, kicking the mercenary in the chest hard enough that he landed on his back in the parking lot.  It took a moment for Bucky to get out, with his hands bound behind him in strange looking cuffs.  He straddled Purdue trying to use his legs to trap the mercenary's hands from getting his gun.  With a deep breath, she ran out from where she hid. 

"Bucky?  Get off of him so I can shoot the taser."

"Get closer!  Don't miss!"

When she was about 10 feet away from the pair, Bucky rolled off and she fired the taser at the flailing man.  It hit him perfectly and he stiffened as the charge caused his muscles to contract.  With his face locked into a frightening grimace, the man eventually lessened his efforts to fight it.

"Turn it off," said Bucky, as he kneeled on the ground.  "Wait for the charge to dissipate and look for the key for these cuffs.  I think they're in his front pocket."

She waited, then gingerly touched the man, searching his jeans pockets for the key.  Pulling it out, she unlocked the cuffs, then watched as Bucky switched the cuffs to Purdue, and stood up.

"They were going to shoot up the gas station," he said, "so I went with them.  Thought I could take them from inside their car but one jammed the paralytic drug into my neck.  Took a while for it to wear off."  He looked appraisingly at her.  "You did good.  I'm glad you were my backup.  We should get out of here."

"How did they find us?"

"Purely by chance," he said, placing his hand on her back as they turned to go back to their vehicle.  "They were chasing signals all over the Washington area.  I guess that a similar unit to the tracking device inside me is now used in the trucking industry or something.  They can't tell the difference between mine and one in a truck."

He turned suddenly and pulled Joanne towards him just as she heard the sound of a gun firing.  A blinding pain in her shoulder caused her to cry out as Bucky shielded her with his body, pushing her to the ground.  Seeing her gun, he pulled it out from her waistband and ran towards the shooter.  She watched, fighting the urge to pass out, as he put his left hand out and caught bullets with it while he shot back.  Just before she blacked out, she saw him standing over the shooter, aiming his gun at the man.

Chapter 23>>

Series masterlist

beer. from the glass into bucky’s system it goes. great, now it’s gone. another, please! before he knew it, the bartender eyed bucky, horrified, with twelve pints of beer gone from their stock in less than thirty minutes. ‘maybe it’s time to leave.’ he swivels around on his barstool and holy shit.

BANG! is anyone gonna check on that sound? no, of course not, silly. because that was the sound of his heart falling out of his chest and thud-thud-thudding along the wooden planks. or at least that’s what it felt like, because bucky has never felt so enraptured by another, feeling more adrenaline in his system currently than during that awful, gruelling mission. that grin, those eyes, your lips. crap, are his hands sweaty? that’s new. bucky needs to catch himself before he falls irrevocably deeper into this hole…and before people notice the creepy staring. 

he forces the lump in his throat down, and he opens his mouth, “hi.” you turn. 

‘you stupid motherfucker. out of everything you could’ve said.’ 

“hello,” you reply, smiling. 

‘oh my. she’s smiling at me. okay, say something, smart guy.’ 

“um,” 

‘fuck’

he continues, delivering a painfully strained introduction. 

“could i buy you a drink? miss…” 

you say your name, and, oh. he repeats your name, and for a split second, he thinks about what it would be like to whisper a heavy sigh, your name, into the crook of your neck, before gently placing a kiss shortly after. he extends his hand, fingers toward you, “it’s lovely to meet you.” 

“likewise,” as your palm meets his, you slip into the barstool next to him, “i would love that drink.” 

conversation flows almost as well as the beer down his throat, and goodness, bucky doesn’t think he’s been so out of breath in forever. every word you say, the way each syllable rises from your larynx, slips off your tongue, and hits his ears sends shivers down his spine.

the drinks arrive as you ask for his number, to which he immediately grabs the closest napkin and begins scribbling. you glance at the napkin and smile. he adores that smile, doesn’t he? he realises that, with each second you spend with him—talking, smiling, laughing—the knots in his shoulders and neck dissipate, the burning behind his eyes replaced with a flurry in his stomach.

shit. he feels like a kid again. 

applause for the band’s last song floods the room, and they start the next tune. you jump up, excitedly, “this is my favourite song!” 

saying he would commit war crimes doesn’t mean much to bucky, given he’s been recognised as a war criminal in the past, but bucky would listen to marvin gaye’s soundtrack to troubleman for a decade straight if it meant getting to see the lights dance in your eyes. you drag (well, drag is a stretch; anywhere you go, he goes) him to the floor, and your scent envelops him: a mix of whatever alcohol you fancied and your sweet perfume. he could get used to that smell. all he can feel is you, see is you, smell is you. 

his head spins, the walls bending, blurring. maybe he’s had too much. not too much alcohol, but you. you, intoxicating you. you smile once more, and his vision tunnels. after all, the rest of the universe has no consequence when you’re in the room. 

your hand slips from his, a vague sound to the effect of “wait!” tumbles from his lips, and you’ve run away from him, lost in the crowd, dancing to your favourite song. 

he wonders about the dip in your lower back, where two halves of the same flesh meet the spine, how deep, how wide, how quickly his fingers could traverse the arch before reaching the other side of your waist, pulling you closer to his side. he allows his mind to drift to the curves of your shoulders, the way your feet slip into your shoes, the way you grip a steering wheel. 

he weaves, like a thread through the eye of a needle, through the crowd, searching for you, your eyes, your voice, your scent. he never got your number, did he? song after song passes, and the worrying feeling of anticipation grows, rising in his chest. maybe he’ll ask you out on a proper date. no, he will ask you out on a date; he swears that, as hopeless as he may be, you’re it for him. there’s no one else. your scent lingers back to him, your giggle grows as he reaches the far wall. 

there you are and…oh. oh. well, what else did he expect? he turns on his heel, looking, looking back at you. once, twice. she catches his figure through the crowd, glancing between the leather on his back and the lips of the man before you. once, twice. making his way to the doors of the bar, he steals one last look at your grin as she leads the man before you to a room at the back by the collar of his jacket. 

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

Chapter 3 - Orchids and Love Notes

Weeks bled into one another like ink on wet paper, and you remained the only clear thing in Bucky Barnes’s world.

He didn’t sleep the way he used to. Sleep used to be a weapon—short, sharp, dreamless. Now it was torture. Every time he closed his eyes you were there: the slow glide of your emerald dress against your thighs, the way your lips sand each song, like a secret meant only for him, the faint tremor of your pulse under his mouth when he kissed your wrist. He woke up reaching for you, sheets cold, chest tight with something he refused to name.

He told himself it was lust. Pure, animal want. That was easier. Safer. But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

He started digging.

Not because he didn’t trust you—he didn’t trust anyone—but because knowledge was power, and he intended to have every scrap of power over you before he ever laid a real hand on you. He had people for this. Quiet people. Expensive people. Within forty-eight hours he had a dossier thicker than most court files.

No siblings. Parents deceased. Mother—postpartum hemorrhage, undiagnosed until it was too late—died less than twenty-four hours after you were born. Your Father raised you alone until he died of liver failure four years ago. No criminal record. No social media presence worth mentioning—just an old, rarely updated Instagram with photos of coffee cups, city sunsets, and once, a single orchid in a cracked teacup captioned “Found beauty in the ordinary today.”

That orchid detail lodged in his brain like a hook.

He learned your routines the way a hunter learns an animal’s paths. You left your Astoria walk-up at 7:42 a.m. most days, walked three blocks to a corner bodega that sold decent coffee, ordered a large caffeinated black tea, with extra sugar. You tipped the barista three dollars every time even when you were clearly counting change. You ate lunch at the same falafel cart near the 59th Street bridge on performance days. You window-shopped at the same vintage record store on Steinway Street but never bought anything. You read paperbacks on the subway—mostly biographies and poetry collections. You smiled at strangers. Always.

Every detail made the want worse.

He started sending things.

The first bouquet arrived at your dressing room the following Wednesday: seven rare ghost orchids, pale and ethereal, wrapped in black tissue and tied with silver ribbon. The card was heavy cream stock, his handwriting sharp and slanted.

Your voice haunts me. These reminded me of you—delicate. Unforgettable.

—J.B.

You didn’t ask how he knew orchids were your favorite. You simply pressed the card to your lips for a long moment before tucking it carefully into the top drawer of your vanity with the others that would follow.

More came. Every performance night. Sometimes white phalaenopsis, sometimes vanda in impossible shades of violet. Always rare. Always perfect. Always with a note.

He sent wine too—vintage Barolo, bottles older than you were. A cashmere throw the color of midnight because he’d noticed you shivered when you left the stage. A vintage heart gold locket with a tiny engraved flower, your favorite flower, an Orchid.

You thanked him every time he appeared—polite, soft-spoken, eyes bright with genuine gratitude—but never threw yourself at him. Never asked for more. Never hinted that you expected anything beyond the gifts themselves.

And God help him, that only made him want you more.

He came to the lounge religiously now. Wednesday. Friday. Sometimes Saturday if the craving got bad enough. Always the same booth. Always alone at the table while his men stood guard like sentinels. Always a bottle of Macallan 25 and a single glass.

He watched from the shadows while you sang.

Tonight you wore sapphire—deep, midnight blue satin that clung to every curve like it had been painted on. The neckline dipped low enough to show the delicate gold heart locket necklace you’d started wearing lately. Your hair was pinned half-up, loose curls spilling down your back. When the spotlight hit you, the fabric shimmered like moving water.

You sat at the piano again, legs crossed, one gloved hand resting lightly on the keys as the band eased into the opening chords of “The Very Thought of You.”

Your voice slid into the room like smoke—sweet, aching, intimate. It wrapped around his throat and squeezed.

He couldn’t look away.

Your mouth moved with every lyric, soft and perfect. He imagined that mouth on his skin. Imagined you gasping his name while he pinned your wrists above your head. Imagined the sounds you’d make when he was buried so deep inside you that you forgot how to breathe anything but him.

Would your voice still sound like heaven when you screamed for him?

He was hard again—painfully so. He shifted, jaw clenched, refusing to give in to the urge to adjust himself in public like some animal.

Halfway through the song your eyes lifted.

Found him.

This time you smiled—small, secret, just for him—then gave the tiniest wink before looking away again.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

After the set you did what you always did: mingled. Thanked the regulars. Hugged the older couple who came every Friday. Laughed at the bartender’s terrible jokes. Kind. Warm. Untouchable.

You saved him for last.

When you reached the booth he stood—always stood when you approached. You looked up at him with those big, trusting eyes and offered that soft smile that made something violent twist behind his sternum.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said quietly. “You’re here again.”

“Couldn’t stay away,” he answered, voice rougher than he intended. “You looked like sin tonight.”

A faint blush climbed your cheeks. You ducked your head. “Thank you. And thank you for the orchids. They’re… they’re beautiful. I’ve never seen ones quite like those before.”

“Good.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out another thick fold of hundreds—more than last time—and pressed them into your palm. Then he turned to the nearest waitress hovering nearby. “Tell the band and the staff the next round’s on me. And this—” he handed her another stack “—is for them. Make sure everyone gets their share.”

The waitress’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

You watched the exchange with quiet wonder. “They appreciate you a lot,” you said softly when the waitress hurried off. “They talk about you. How generous you are. How you never make anyone feel small.”

“I don’t do it for them,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “I do it because it makes you smile.”

Your lips parted. For a second—barely a heartbeat—something flickered in your expression. Curiosity. Warmth. Maybe the first real crack in that professional wall.

“I… thank you,” you whispered. “For everything. The flowers. The wine. The locket. I wear it every night now.”

He wanted to reach out. Wanted to trace the chain where it lay above your breasts. Wanted to pull you into the booth, into his lap, and kiss you until you forgot your own name.

Instead he said, “Sit with me tonight.”

You hesitated—only for a second—then shook your head gently. “I shouldn’t. I don’t want to impose.”

“You could never impose,” he told you, voice low. “Not on me.”

You smiled again—sweet, a little sad. “Maybe next time.”

Then you slipped away after saying goodnight, heels clicking softly, leaving him aching and restless.

He noticed other things too.

The way your shoulders tensed sometimes when you thought no one was looking. The quick glances over your shoulder as you crossed the floor. The way your fingers would tighten around your mic stand when a loud noise came from the bar. It was subtle—most people wouldn’t see it—but he saw everything about you.

Anxiety, maybe. Natural caution in a city like this.

Or something else.

He filed it away. He’d find out eventually. He always did.

That night he left earlier than usual—business waited. But the next time he came, it wasn’t just to hear you sing. Billy’s deadline had passed three days ago. The debt was due. And Bucky didn’t forgive debts.

The lounge was alive when they arrived—same low amber lights, same velvet booths, same jazz quartet playing something slow and mournful. Customers hushed the moment Bucky and his men stepped inside. Eyes dropped. Conversations died.

Billy wasn’t at the bar.

Bucky’s mouth curved—cold, predatory.

He and his crew climbed the stairs to the office. Empty. Desk chair still pushed in. Coffee cup half-full. No sign of Billy.

“Find him,” Bucky said, voice flat.

His men scattered—checking bathrooms, storage rooms, the rooftop terrace.

Nothing.

Bucky descended the stairs again, temper simmering just under his skin. He stopped the first server he recognized—the kid he’d tipped generously before.

“Evening, Mikey,” Bucky said, calm. Polite. Terrifying. “You seen Billy tonight?”

The kid swallowed hard. “Y-yeah, Mr. Barnes. About twenty minutes ago. He was heading toward the dressing rooms. Looked… nervous.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed to slits.

He turned on his heel. His men followed without a word.

The hallway to the dressing rooms was narrow, dimly lit, walls papered in faded gold damask. Music from the stage filtered through—muted saxophone, brushed drums. Your voice hadn’t started yet; you were probably still warming up.

They were halfway down the corridor when the scream tore through the air.

High. Raw. Female.

Your scream.

Bucky broke into a run.

His men were faster—Steve and Sam kicking ahead, weapons already drawn.

The dressing room door was closed.

Steve didn’t hesitate. He drove his boot into the lock.

Wood splintered. The door flew inward.

And the world tilted.

You were on the floor.

Curled on your side. One arm wrapped protectively around your middle. Bruises already blooming dark and ugly across your bare arms. Your robe—silk—torn at the shoulder, hanging off you like a broken wing. Blood trickled from your split lip. A thin stream ran from your nose. Your hair was mussed, mascara smudged under your eyes.

Billy stood over you.

Disheveled. Shirt untucked. Face flushed with rage and something worse. His fist was raised—knuckles white—poised to come down again. The other hand gripped the lapel of your torn robe, yanking the fabric tight across your chest.

Your eyes—wide, terrified, glassy with pain—lifted and met Bucky’s.

In that single heartbeat, something primal snapped inside him.

Red.

Pure, blinding red.

The room seemed to shrink to the size of a pinprick.

And then the king of New York moved.

“Strip, and clean it,” Bucky ordered while retrieving a beer from a case and swiftly sitting down, propping his feet on the coffee table and switching on the TV.

“I thought it was coming here for a dance?”

“So dance while you clean,” Bucky scoffed, as if the question was pointless to ask.

You quickly got to work. Stripping off your strappy dress and locating cleaning supplies, whirling around the apartment to just get out of there as quickly as you could. You shook your head at yourself, cursing yourself for not listening to the advice of your more seasoned and experienced friends. You shoved clothes into the laundry machine, and threw another load into the dryer before moving onto the living area where Bucky’s hand found its way up your inner thigh, the side of a rough finger nudging the seam between your legs.

You tapped his hand away and turned towards him with a raised brow and crossed arms.

“What?” Bucky snorted as he took a sip of his beer, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “M’just lookin’, Sugar.”

“You look with your eyes, Sargent Barnes.”

Yeah, okay, you were pushing it a little, but only a little, but he swore to you that coming over was just for a dance, so why not screw with him a little bit? No harm, right?

It was just supposed to be a dance.

Nothing more.

But, you still quickly found yourself crying his name on his apartment floor.

“Such a fuckin’ mess,” Bucky spat down at you, hand gripping your throat as he drove into you. “Fuckin’ dripping on my floor, needy little whore.”

“Ohh, fuck,” You moaned, letting your head fall back against the weathered carpet.

Bruises that you would have to try and explain away were blooming on your hips and thighs, red handprints were littered across the meat of your ass and the back of your thighs, spit was dried on your chin and cheeks with a dull ache in your throat from all but swallowing his cock.

You arched up into him, the carpet biting into your ass and scraping your shoulder blades as Bucky pulled you down against his thrusts, eyes heavy-lidded and long strands sticking to his forehead. He was gorgeous; tormented and devastatingly gorgeous.

“What’cha lookin’ at, Sugar? Hmm?” Bucky’s voice was laced with a playful torment, low and breathy which made your cheeks burn up.

“You.” It was simply stated, your voice overtaken by pure want.

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, honeyed and drawn out the same way he slowed his thrusts, which made you reach out to run your hands over his. “You like me, Sugar?”

“Mmm-hmm,” You moaned out with a nod, a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making, and then let out a sharp gasp as Bucky damn-near impossibly upped the pace; the sharp slapping sound of his thighs meeting the backs of yours echoed around your moans. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Sir, please we don’t want trouble. There are kids here.” A woman, maybe in her late thirties, manages to say through her tears.

“Shut up and keep your head down.” One of the gunmen kicks the office desk she’s pressed against, making her cry harder.

Including the asshole scaring the woman, nine heartbeats thrum against your senses. Their breaths are quick but deep as they try to hold their composure. In situations like this, the robbers know that if the thirty-four civilians packed into the bank sense weakness, they’ll lose control fast.

Most of the hostages are clustered near the front entrance. It’s hard to focus only on the robbers heartbeats from this distance without accidentally killing someone or knocking out a civilian.

Finally, you catch hold of all nine, steady and taut inside your chest, as if they’re your own. With a breath, you begin to slow them. Slower. Another breath. Slower, and—

“I’m just saying this isn’t an Avengers-level threat.” Walker’s voice cuts through the silence, his “whisper” nowhere near as quiet as he thinks. It takes everything in you not to shove him out of the air duct you’re crouched in.

“Yeah, well, we’re not actually Avengers, so suck it up and let’s get this done.” Yelena elbows John aside, shimmying forward until she’s peering through the grate with you.

“We’ve got two down in the back. Bankers are safe in the vault. Bucky’s pursuing the last guy who tried to head for the roof… oh, never mind, we’ve got three down.” Ava’s voice crackles through your earpiece. You huff and pull it out.

“Can you two please shut up for one minute so I can concentrate?” You glare at Yelena and John before refocusing on the people below.

You feel the closest heart. You seize it. Then the next. Then—

“That’s it. You’re taking too long.” John interrupts, and before you or Yelena can react, he drops from the vent straight into the crowd.

“Shit.”

“Goddamn it.”

Both you and Yelena hiss before following him down.

You strip off your gloves, twist around one gunman, and press your hand to his neck. His heart seizes instantly, dropping him unconscious.

Another lunges for you. You dodge, barely, but Yelena is already there, taking him down with ease. Fighting has never been your strength; distance is safer, even if it takes longer to get a hold.

Your heartbeat spikes, except it’s not yours. Another gunman has grabbed a civilian, pressing his gun to her head. Hands raised in a mock surrender, you draw his heart into your chest. After a few seconds, you’ve got him. You stop it.

But in that final split second before blacking out, his finger pulls the trigger.

The shot is deafening. You don’t think, you just tackle the woman to the ground. Miraculously, you’re both unharmed. A quick check confirms she’s shaken but fine, so you’re back on your feet, sprinting toward the next gunman.

You lunge for his neck, but instead of skin your hand closes around a blade. Pain sears your palm as the man whirls, knife flashing toward your torso. He doesn’t get the chance, John slams his shield into him, knocking him flat, and kicks his head to keep him down.

Clutching your bleeding hand, you glare at John’s smug grin.

“You’re welcome,” he smirks before striding off.

The fight ends within seconds, though it felt like forever. As the team confirms the building is clear, you snag the knife, slice off a strip of your undershirt, and bind your palm tight. The gash isn’t deep, but it burns. Placing your gloves back on, you exhale sharply.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Quiet. Quick. Controlled. That was the plan, to minimize casualties. Your power isn’t meant for large groups; you should have been stationed in the back, where only three gunmen held their ground.

Normally, that’s what would’ve happened. You and Bucky had learned to work well together. He understood how much focus you needed, and his steady confidence in you made the job easier.

Now, though, concentration around him is next to impossible and the shame of why burns in your chest as you take in the aftermath.

Joining the others, you help guide the civilians out of the building. The evening sun is so bright it stings your eyes, forcing you to adjust after so long in an air duct. Behind the police barrier, the gathered crowd cheers, watching as hostages stumble into the arms of loved ones. You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips when you see the woman you saved throw her arms around her husband. His hands cradle her face as he kisses her forehead, relief written in every line of his body. That kind of life has never been in the cards for you, as much as you’ve ached for it. This line of work never allows for that kind of connection, and it doesn’t help that almost everyone you’ve met is afraid of you.

Across the crowd, Bucky strides toward the police, gesturing at the building as he no doubt gives instructions on containing the gunmen. Even from here you can feel his heart, steady and strong, threatening to stop your own. His metal arm catches the sunlight, flashing bright and your chest tightens. What you’d give to have his hands on you. He’s always so gentle, aware of the strength he carries. And his eyes, so soft despite everything he’s been through, always look at you like he can see right into your soul. Like now, as you realize you’ve been staring far too long. He’s noticed, of course. That crooked smile of his spreads, and you whip your head away. God, this is exactly why you can’t be near him, you lose focus and end up looking like a lovestruck idiot.

He starts moving toward you, cutting through the crowd, and your chest constricts. Before he can reach you, someone calls your name. You turn, grateful for the interruption until you see Val, waving you over toward the press.

Of course.

This has become your unofficial role on the team: stuck answering questions while the others get to pose for a few photos and head home.

“There she is. Isn’t she adorable?” Valentina trills, far too enthusiastic for the aftermath of a robbery. “She’s captured the hearts of people all across the world.”

You turn your head to hide the eye-roll threatening to break free. How long had she spent thinking of that line? From the looks of it, you’re the only one not amused. Bucky and Yelena stand nearby, the latter trying to suppress a laugh but failing miserably, until Ava calls them both away, clearly eager to return to the Watchtower.

With a long breath, you resign yourself to answering questions, hoping to wrap things up quickly enough to follow and maybe get back before sunset.

—————————————————————

After nearly two hours of standing under hot lights, dealing with Val, and forcing a smile, you finally make it to the tower. Exhaustion from the completely avoidable fight seeps into your bones. All you want is your bed.

The sound of arguing greets you before you even feel the quickened heartbeats in the common area. Suppressing a groan, you drag your feet toward the voices.

“This is ridiculous. I analyzed the situation, saw they were getting antsy, and made a tactical decision,” John Walker snaps, his voice rising with irritation. As you step sheepishly into the large room, his eyes snap to yours. “I wouldn’t have had to if she did her job.”

Don’t stop his heart. Don’t. It would be so easy, but then you’d have to dodge his shield when he woke up. Instead, you settle for rolling your eyes.

“Walker.” Bucky’s voice cuts across the room, sharp with warning. He leans against the wall, arms folded, watching.

“It’s not her fault you can’t keep your fat mouth shut, John,” Yelena drawls from the couch, sprawled out with a bag of chips. You drop into the only empty seat beside her.

“It was an easy job, and you couldn’t even handle it,” John fires back. “If you can’t fight, you should at least be able to do your… magic body stuff or whatever.”

“Magic body stuff?” Ava echoes mockingly, reaching over to steal chips from Yelena. “Don’t look at me like that. Bucky and I did our job. It’s not our fault you can’t.”

You lean forward, elbows braced on your knees, pushing your hair back with gloved hands. Being stuck with the world’s most unstable team is a challenge at the best of times. And you can’t even argue, because technically, John’s right, it was your fault. Ava should’ve taken your position, the three of them working the guards one by one. Still, no one hits your nerves quite like Walker does.

“You know,” you mutter, your voice quiet and tired, “next time I could just take the air from your lungs, Walker. Maybe then you’d stay quiet long enough for me to do my job.”

The room goes still, their heartbeats pounding louder in your ears. It’s absurd. You can barely knock out a room full of people for more than a few moments, let alone actually hurt someone unless your bare hands are on them. Even in a room full of seasoned killers, no one is immune to fearing what you can do.

“Oh wow, you guys look terrible.” Bob breezes into the room with a chuckle, climbing to his usual perch by the window.

You seize the chance for escape, pushing to your feet. “That was a joke. And I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time.”

They laugh it off, eager to let the tension shift, but you’re not listening. You slip toward the elevator, pain shoots up your hand as you press the button for your apartment's floor. The doors nearly close, until Bucky slides in at the last second. Exactly what you need to end your night: another opportunity to embarrass yourself.

You keep your gaze fixed on the panel as he presses a button. Not his floor, but to the infirmary.

Your eyes snap up, scanning him for any sign of injury. By now, you're attuned to his body; the rhythm of his heart, the way his lungs expand with each breath, the steady flow of blood through his veins. Everything moves faster than it should, a result of the serum, while the dull aches lingering beneath it all belong to a man far older than he looks. Chronic pain aside, everything is functioning exactly as it should.

Still, Bucky is good at hiding things, even from you. His control over his own body is remarkable, and considering his past, it isn't surprising.

“You’re hurt?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, worry overriding caution.

He stands tall, eyes on the glowing numbers. Only when the elevator slows does he glance at you, his brow lifting slightly. “No. But you are.”

Heat rushes up your neck. His eyes flick to your gloved hand, then back to your face. You’d forgotten about it completely, too caught up in the press and your exhaustion.

“It’s just a scratch, Bucky.”

His gaze softens, impossibly so, and it takes effort not to shrink beneath it. He shrugs, turning back to the doors. “Even scratches need to be taken care of. And that—” he gestures to your hand “—is not a scratch. You couldn’t even press the button without wincing.”

Damn ex-assassin always noticing everything.

After following him inside, you sit in the empty infirmary, watching as he pulls items out of drawers. You can’t help but take a deep breath, the room blissfully quiet as opposed to the war zone upstairs. The heart filling your chest is strong, soothing all of the nerves from the day as he lays out the disinfectant and wrap next to you.

Suddenly, he’s far closer than you thought he was. You had been too relaxed, and now his hand is open in front of you, waiting. Looking at him in question, you’re taken aback by the soft creases in his eyes as he smiles.

“Your hand.”

Hesitating, you slowly begin to remove your glove, and immediately pause. Bucky’s heart spikes, his breath hitching. To a normal person, looking at him you’d never know, his face gives nothing away. To you, though, it’s clear as day.

“I can do it, Buck.” You swallow the hurt, not wanting him to feel bad for being afraid when he’s the one trying to help.

His brows furrow before he steps closer, removing the glove for you.

You’re practically holding your breath as he unwraps your hand, his heartbeat steady once more. His flesh hand cradles yours, his metal one gently dabbing antiseptic over the cut. His hand is surprisingly soft, though it’s not as if you can compare it to many others.

You wince as the cut burns, instead focusing on the way his thumb moves in slow circles over the back of your hand.

“For the record, I think removing all the air from Walker’s lungs is a great idea.” His eyes lift to yours, humor flickering in them. “Or I could show you how to punch him properly, knock the wind outta him. Same result, and way more satisfying.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. “I don’t think his ego would recover from that.”

“I don’t know, he’d probably manage. A little humility wouldn’t hurt.” Buckys pauses, “You really did great. I know you weren’t expecting a fight, and they should’ve been more careful.” His whole demeanor shifts, jaw tight as he stares at your palm before beginning to wrap it. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, he’s not totally wrong, Bucky. I should’ve seen the knife. I could’ve gotten someone hurt... or worse.” His thigh presses against yours as he secures the wrap, and you feel how close he is, his presence overwhelming. His head is bent, his hair falling forward, and you have to fight the urge to push it back so you can see him more clearly. Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look away. “I need to improve my combat skills, it’s not like I can spend all my time talking to the press.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t see why not. You’re good at it. Better than I was, you should’ve seen the interviews during my congressional run.” Oh, you’ve seen every one of them, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I think you’ve really captured everyone’s hearts.”

You groan. “Just for that, I’m sticking the press on you next time. You can tell them how worrying the robbery was.”

He laughs at that and in his concentration finishing the wrap, you watch as he catches his bottom lip, wetting it. Oh no.

Before he can give a snide reply, you’re standing, tucking your hand safely back into the glove. His face is surprised as you put distance between the two of you. This is way, way, way worse than you thought. “Thank you, Bucky. I, uh, I’m really tired so I should…” You gesture to the elevator with your thumb. Not waiting for a reply, you quickly make your exit.

———————————————————————

The kitchen is warm, the evening sun shining softly through the windows, perfectly from your seat at the dining table. Every now and then, you pull your eyes from your book, focusing your senses on those in the building, and tracing your gloved palm. The mark underneath now faded to just a scar.

“Stop sticking your hand in the box,” Bob complains, trying to snatch the cereal box from Alexie.

“I got it, I got it, don’t worry.” He pulls out a tiny figurine, but his enthusiasm drops as soon as he sees it. He clicks his tongue. “Ghost, why is it always Ghost, huh? Why not Red Guardian? My figure looks much cooler.”

“Because people love me,” Ava says from across from you, feet propped on the table, tossing a crumpled wrapper in the air and catching it.

“It’s easier to mass-produce, you wear a mask so the cereal company doesn’t have to spend more trying to detail a face.” You interject before feeling the wrapper hit your head. “Or it’s because people love you.”

Alexie places the figure on the shelf, in line with the rest of his collection. You turn your senses back to the building… still nothing, but it’s been a few hours, so it should be any time now.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? You’re all twitchy and weird-looking.”

Realizing Alexie is talking to you, you pull your focus back before overcompensating with a laugh. “I’m not twitchy. I’m reading.”

“You haven’t turned the page in 30 minutes,” Yelena sits on the counter, now holding the cereal box, snacking.

“Sometimes when I’m reading,” Bob interjects, “I— uh— read a whole page and when I get to the end I realize I wasn’t paying attention, so I have to start all over. Does that happen to anyone else?”

You snap your finger into a point at him. “Exactly.”

“No,” Ava replies at the same time as you.

As your eyes fall back to the page, you get a faint sense of two people arriving at the building. Snapping the book shut with a clap, you stand. “I can’t pay attention, I think I’ll finish in my room.”

“You’re not staying for dinner again?” Bob says, the frown causing a crease between his eyebrows, almost making you want to stay.

Almost.

“I ate a big lunch. Not hungry.” You reply, making your way toward the exit.

“Hmm shocker.” Ava drawls, sitting up and scanning you with her eyes.

“When the others get back just text me the updates on the weapon manufacturers.” You rush out, eager to exit. All you see before leaving the room is Ava giving an exasperated thumbs up at you.

You try to not look behind you as you walk through the halls and up to your floor because you can feel Yelena following you. Failing, you chance a glance over your shoulder, only to be greeted by her smile, way too excited. “Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

“Ah,” she pretends to think, “no.”

Finally, you arrive at your door, and before you can attempt to bid her goodnight, Yelena slips through and into your room.

“Wooow.” She scans the living area, walking around and poking at various things. “It’s much tidier than I thought, given you’ve been practically hiding away in here the past month.”

All you can do is stand, fidgeting as you watch her flit around the room before heading into your bedroom. Quickly, you follow behind. “I have not been hiding. I was just in the kitchen, wasn’t I?”

“Ah, you’re right, that was inaccurate.” She flops onto the bed before startling you with a serious expression. “You only hide away when Bucky’s here.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. Of course, she’d be the one to notice. You scoff, “I have not been hiding from Bucky. What reason could I possibly have to do that?”

“Now see, that is what I have been trying to figure out. But, you can’t lie to me, you are definitely hiding from him.” Checking various pockets in her pants, then her hoodie, she pulls out her phone. “On the 2nd, you finally left your room and went to the gym to walk on the treadmill, after 5 minutes you rushed back here saying you were already tired. Bucky returned from seeing Sam early, just a few minutes later. The 11th, you practically sprinted up the stairs from the common room, only for Bucky to show up with groceries.”

“That’s not—”

“And right now, let’s see. Ah yes,” she turns the screen around, and you watch the security footage of John and Bucky entering the elevator.

You groan, resigning to sitting on your bed, holding your head in your hands. It’s been exhausting, avoiding the man. You thought that if you just went a few days without seeing him, all of the stupid feelings swarming your brain would go away. Until a few days turned into weeks, then a month. It feels like the longer you go without facing him, the worse it seems to get. “Alright. Fine, yeah I’ve been hiding from him. Mystery solved. Are you happy?”

“No, see, I care more about the why. Did you do something to upset him? Because whatever it was it couldn’t be worse than whatever John does daily. And besides, he has a soft spot for you.”

You try to ignore that last part. “No.”

“Mmm, did he do something to upset you then?”

“Yelena—”

“Oh oh, I know!” Glaring, you take in her excitement at your expense. “You accidentally saw him changing after a mission. It would make sense, those military guys always just find a corner rather than a room with a lock like a normal person.”

Your cheeks burn red at the thought, and immediately you realize your mistake. She’s standing in an instant, the dawning smile taking over her face.

“Oooo no, it’s that you wish to see that, isn’t it?” Your mouth gaps at her. Wanting to refute her, but she’s obviously not going to be convinced she’s wrong.

“It’s not—“

“No, no listen I get it. He’s attractive for a man who is over a century old, people go crazy for that, not me but people, sure.” She pops up, pacing in front of you. “And the arm. It has an appeal, I can see how it could add to it.” Suddenly she stops, turning to you with a clap of her hands. “I will help you.”

She’ll… what? “No, absolutely not, Lena he’s basically our coworker, I don’t want help sleeping with him. In fact, I’m actively trying to not.”

“Of course not,” she says in mock offense. “What I meant was locking away in your room will do nothing for the problem. No, what I’m saying is, you need to get laid.”

That’s somehow so much worse. The thought of going out and finding a stranger to sleep with has never been appealing. Sure, going to a bar and flirting is fun, but as the night goes on, there's always the question of removing the gloves. It’s always felt wrong, lying and making up excuses about why you have to keep them on. The reality is, it would take one moment for you to end someone’s life with your hands on them, and it would be unfair for them not to know.

However, the biggest issue currently isn’t that. Bucky being attractive is an objective truth. It was somehow easier to write off the moments where your eyes would catch on Bucky’s hands, wondering how they’d feel on your thighs, or his lips behind your ear. Because if you just turned away, you could think of something else entirely. But the ache in your chest, of wanting the simple act of his hand in your own again, or your mind constantly trying to find ways to make him smile, is much harder to shake. It’s as if your mind is conjuring a shadow in every waking moment, morphing images of what it might be like to have him there. But he’s not, and he never will be, and that harsh reality is devastating, as if you’re mourning a life you’ll never be allowed.

So, you’ll continue your distance, wallowing in the grief silently. At least you were… until you had a spy determined to bring it all up to the ugly surface.

“I don’t want to sleep with a stranger, alright.” There’s no fight left in you, only the hope she’ll just drop it.

Yelena stands for a moment, her earlier energy dipping. You’re surprised by the way her breath hitches in her lungs. “Oh no,” she says softly, as though the realization of how deep you are is dawning on her. “I was wrong.”

You can't even hide the horror on your face as she stands, suddenly much more serious. The only words echoing in your mind are just drop it. “Oh, this is much harder to fix.”

You can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill. Instead, you turn away, finding something to keep you busy, but nothing is enough to stop the feeling of your chest constricting. “There’s no fixing this. The reality is, I’m running around the tower, hiding, and he probably hasn’t even noticed.” You can’t help but let out a sharp laugh. “It’s like Walker said, I can’t fight, I’m a terrible shot, I’m a liability in any instance against more than four people.”

She tries to cut in, but you don’t let her. “People are scared of me. I feel it. I feel it in you, I feel it in the rest of the team, and I’ve felt it every time I’ve ever tried to get close to someone.” You can’t keep the bitterness out of your voice. “I can’t kiss someone without feeling it. Can’t hold them. You know, I haven’t accidentally killed or hurt someone since I was seven, and still, I have to wear these stupid gloves because otherwise, people are too afraid to be within arm's length of me. I’m not allowed to love someone, because they will never, ever, truly want to love me.”

Your voice is raised, the weight of everything finally breaking through, and you can hear the tremor in your words.

“I didn’t—” Before Yelena can say whatever comfort she was planning, you're both startled by Ava.

“Oh my god, don’t do that!” Yelena shouts, as Ava clicks her mask open.

“I told you to stop phasing into my room.” You turn after blinking away any tears, using the distraction to compose yourself.

“The door was unlocked. Anyway, we’re meeting on the roof in ten. Apparently, the people we think stole all of the weapons material got a heads-up that we’re looking into them. We need to get there before they’re gone.” Before either of you can ask any questions, she’s gone.

The journey up to the roof is tense. Yelena looks like she’s fighting to continue the conversation, but you spend the entire jet ride in silence, avoiding eye contact with both her and Bucky. It’s not just you who’s upset; everyone seems frustrated, and it’s easy to see why. You’ve received reports of stolen military-grade material and finally connected the dots to the organization responsible. If they complete whatever weapons they’re mass-producing, there’s no telling who they’ll sell to or what those buyers plan to do with them.

The team silently makes its way to a large warehouse that seems empty. According to your reports, however, it leads to an entire operation beneath the building.

“I’m not picking up any activity,” Yelena says.

“Me neither. Can you sense anything?” Bucky looks at you, his brow creased.

You move away from him, crouching down. This is bad. “No. Not even one person. They must’ve already packed up. They could be anywhere by now.”

“Well, we don’t know that for sure. Let’s see if anyone’s down there,” Walker says, leading the way down a tunnel. The rest of you follow behind. When you reach the opening, you see it. The ‘basement’ is essentially another warehouse, but in much better condition than the one above.

Bucky takes charge, pointing to the two levels of the basement. “Alright. There are two stories. Yelena, lead Walker and Ava on this level. Look for anyone we didn’t pick up, or anything we can use to locate them. If you find any material or blueprints, bring them back. We can use them to figure out what they’re planning to build. Meet back at the jet in an hour.”

They all nod, Ava speaking up. “What about you two?”

Bucky responds, “We’ll take the second floor. It’s smaller, likely used for storage, not building.” Before you can say more, everyone moves in different directions. Yelena waits for you, her concern evident, but you nod at her reassuringly, letting her know you’ll be fine.

“Come on,” Bucky says, all hard edges. He usually is in the middle of a mission, his mind focused entirely on the task at hand, constantly aware of anything that could go wrong. Hopefully, he’ll be too distracted to notice just how not fine you are.

You crouch together near the stairs and listen. It’s hard to focus on anything past the pounding of your own heart. “Clear.”

As usual, you stick close to Bucky’s back, following him as he leads the way, his gun drawn. Both of you scan the area, but soon, his hand drops, holstering the gun. Though seemingly more relaxed, you can feel the frustration in him. He was right about this floor being smaller. The ceiling is normal height, as opposed to the expansive space upstairs.

The floor is mostly open, with only a few scattered rooms. You both spend time flipping through scattered papers and checking drawers. It becomes clear that they had a head start, and there’s almost nothing left.

Across the room, you watch Bucky’s back as he searches. His muscles tighten under the leather, and his hair, once neatly pushed back, falls in loose waves. Turning quickly, you run a hand over your heated face. Just get this done. One hour, then you can go back to the peace of your room.

Your eyes catch on one of the open rooms near the back, and you decide to check it out. The doorway is lined in metal with a panel on the side. Inside, it’s small, clearly just for storage, though the shelves lining the walls are bare. There’s a small metal table in the middle. You tap your finger on it, taking a moment to just breathe.

“We might not even need the whole hour; they’ve already cleared out,” Bucky says, startling you. You hadn’t even realized he’d followed you inside.

“Maybe we should just go back upstairs to help. They might’ve forgotten something there.” Your heart constricts; the distance you were trying to keep has now dwindled significantly, and you’re eager to get out of the room before the ex-assassin can try to question you.

A beep sounds and as you try make your way out of the room, you're jolted back. Bucky pulls you back towards his chest, and right where you stood, a metal door slams shut with a force that absolutely would’ve hurt you. Staring, you try to calm your rapid breaths as the reality of it seeps in. You’ve both just been locked in, and there’s no handle.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks. You realize with a jolt that you’re still against his chest, his hands holding your arms where he grabbed you, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles while you calm yourself.

All at once, you try to put as much distance as you can. Which, in the tiny room —no, not room, vault— is not much at all. His eyes scan you, his heart still as fast as your own, before he turns to the sealed door. Watching as he attempts to pry it open, you try to shake the way his chest felt against your back, and the need lingering for wanting him there again.

One month, and all of these feelings are so much worse off, it’s as if you never left that stupid infirmary. “There has to be a way out.”

“There is.” He turns, hand resting on his hip. “The panel out there can open it.”

Pressing the comm in your ear, you try to reach someone from the upper level, only to be met with deafening silence. You lean against the far wall, trying to look more casual than you feel, though the way your chest is rising in panic is evidence enough. Surely they’ll notice and come for you both, right?

How fast do people run out of air in a room this size? Is it a few hours or a few minutes? With how fast you’re breathing, it’ll probably be much sooner. The vault is only dimly lit by one hanging bulb, and it feels as if everything is collapsing into darkness. There’s pressure on your face, and you feel as though everything is constricting until you register the cool metal.

“You need to slow your breathing.” As your eyes adjust, blurry from tears you didn’t even know had appeared, you see Bucky standing in front of you. His hands softly cup your face. “You can feel mine, can’t you? Take it in, follow the way I’m breathing.”

You can feel it. His breath is strong and slow, though his heartbeat is faster than his usual pace. Still, you hold onto the feeling, the way it melds into your chest as if it belongs there. As the panic from being stuck subsides, a far worse panic seeps in as you realize just how close he is. Your face heats under his hands, and he licks his lips before pulling away. You could’ve sworn he was pulling you closer.

“It’s a weapons vault, only made to keep things in. The others will realize we’re missing; we just gotta hold tight for an hour.” He moves a few steps away, leaning against the table. “Maybe less if Yelena comes down to check on you.”

Your head snaps up at that. “Why would she do that?”

In the dim light, you can barely make out the way his eyes squint as he stares. “Dunno, but she spent the entire ride looking like she was waiting for you to collapse. Or the way she was glued to your side even after I gave her orders to lead the others upstairs.”

Licking your lips nervously, you turn from his interrogating gaze. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier; she probably was just worried.”

His head nods. “That why you weren’t going to dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm.” His metal finger taps the table a few times as he chews over his words. Kicking off the table, he takes a step in your direction. “That why you’ve been missing almost every dinner the past month?”

Oh god. Every worst-case scenario you ran through in your head seems to hit you full force. Clearing your throat, you put on the most convincing face you can. “Yeah, I, uh, just have been really busy.”

Two more steps.

“That why you’ve been avoiding me all month?”

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. If Yelena did, then the man you’d been actively running from would, too. Your hand fidgets with your glove, suddenly very aware of the scar and the realization that came with it. “I wasn’t—”

Two more steps, and suddenly Bucky is back where he was just moments ago, and your chest seems to tighten again. “You were. You still are. I don’t know if you forgot, sweetheart, but I know when someone’s hiding from me.”

With nowhere else to look, your eyes land on the ground. Every explanation sounds worse than the last, and you fight against the urge to just blurt out the real reason. Rip the band-aid off so you can finally hear the words you’ve been running from: I don’t want you.

“You know I’ve had to deal with John following me around. Alexei, too. I’ve had to sit through him telling me about his glory days during the Cold War.” His head turns, biting the inside of his cheek before his eyes meet yours, the blue threatening to drown you. “I kept looking over, hoping you’d save me. Hell, I even considered setting off the alarm just to get you out of that room of yours.”

He missed you too. The truth of it causes guilt to creep in. Before you can get any word out, he continues, stepping just a bit further. “So I gotta know. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours that’s making you avoid me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” You feel his fingers as he softly pushes your hair behind your ear, before tilting your chin up, forcing you to face him. “And before you try to come up with some other lie, consider this: the reason you’ve been hiding from me is exactly the reason I’ve been wanting you not to.”

You can hear your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Or maybe it’s his. His face is so close that you can’t just feel the breath inside him, but also feel it on your skin. No words form inside you, only every want that’s been building inside the past month. Before you can even comprehend what you’re doing, you're leaning in, catching his lips.

He wasn’t expecting that, made obvious by the way his heart stutters, but he’s quick to compose himself. The hand that was holding your chin now moves to the back of your head, deepening the kiss. You grasp for anything you can to hold yourself up, one arm around his neck like a lifeline, your back hitting the wall, and he’s moving with you. You feel his metal hand sliding onto your hip, and your mouth opens at the feeling of him holding you steady. With what feels like all of his effort, Bucky pulls away just enough to look at you. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breathing, and you think that if the room ran out of oxygen, at least you would die happy.

A smirk crawls onto his face. “As much as I enjoyed that, and will be doing it again, it doesn’t answer my question.”

You try to ignore the thrill his promise of again brings, instead trying your best to clear your head. In searching, your eyes land on your hand, which still rests along his neck. Hesitantly bringing it in front of you, you mumble, “I wanted to do that. The night in the infirmary and, if I’m being honest, a lot longer than before then.”

His hands catch your own, and your heart stutters. His eyes crease, breathing in slowly to calm himself. “Why didn’t you?”

That familiar feeling is back: shame. The burden you carry always throwing up a wall, right when you think things are going well. Pulling one hand from his, you place it on his chest, trying to ignore the way he swallows. “I felt it, when I went to take off my glove, Buck. And I don’t blame you, everyone feels like that with me. I’ve accepted it. But I…” The words die on your lips as you realize he’s smiling again, not teasing, but in disbelief.

“You know, I used to wear gloves. Never left my apartment without ‘em.” His metal arm appears in front of you, the black and gold shimmering faintly in the dim light. “I knew people were scared of it. Of me. It made me a weapon, and I thought that if I just covered it up, people would see me differently. But the thing is,” metal cools your cheek as he rests it against you, “it’ll always be part of me. And hiding it only made it harder to find people who didn’t just want me despite it, but because of it. Because of the man I am right now.”

He pauses, and for the first time, you catch something almost shy in his expression. “And that feeling you got from me in the infirmary wasn’t fear, it was me getting in my head about how badly I wanted to feel your hands on me.”

And the way he says it, there’s no room for argument. No interpretation needed or room for doubt. Only the fact that you’ve been aching to touch him, and he’s wanted the exact same thing. With a breath, you tear off the gloves, tossing them in the corner before they’re moving up his neck and into his hair. In that instant, his lips are back on yours, a soft groan escaping his lips at the feeling of you.

This kiss is harder, more desperate as he presses you against the wall, and you’re achingly aware of the way his body feels against you. Your hands can’t seem to still, wanting to feel as much of his as possible, and it seems his have the same idea. His flesh hand, warm against your cheek, as his mouth moves behind your ear. His lips are hot, and you can’t help the breath that escapes you. They’re not there long, moving down the expanse of your neck, until they make it to the spot just under your chin. Your body moves involuntarily against him, and you feel his lips curve into a smirk before nipping the skin. His other hand is back on your hip, testing the hem of your shirt. Desperate for more, you manage to breathe out a quiet, “please,” and you’re taken aback by the breathy sound that escapes him. His lips are back on yours, nipping your bottom lip, and as his hand reaches under your shirt, the cold metal against your ribs makes you gasp. He takes the opportunity to move his tongue, exploring your mouth.

It’s just a slight shift in his body, as his hand moves higher, but you become quickly aware of his leg between your legs, bent just barely. The movement makes you breathe his name. You can feel the weight on him against your hip, your own thigh grinding, adding not just pressure on yourself but to him as well. He breaks the kiss just long enough to see where you’re situated, a smile curving his lips just before returning. Cold metal jolts you as he gently moves your bra out of the way, your heart thrumming as he kneads, his thumb just barely catching your nipple. His flesh hand has moved back to your hip, seemingly desperate for you to move against him again. You feel his thigh, the muscles constricting under you, and you can’t help the tremble that overcomes you as he moves you again. You can feel how wet you are, desperate for more friction.

“Bucky,” your voice is a lot more pathetic than you thought it would be, and he’s quick to kiss your forehead, moving you again against him.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” Your head falls back as his fingers pinch your nipple, his breath coming in heavy pants as he watches your face. “See what hiding was keeping you from?”

Of course, he’s going to tease you. You expect nothing less from James Barnes. But in your need, you can’t bring yourself to come up with a retort. Instead, you bring your hand to his cheek, hoping he will see the desperation. “Please, Bucky, I need more.”

Just like that, all of the composure he may have had disappears as he takes in a shaky breath. In one move, his hands move to your thighs, picking you up. Before you can let out a noise in surprise, his lips are back on you. Moving to the table, he gently sits you down, keeping the space between your bodies as minimal as possible. Your hands unzip his jacket, and he allows you to toss it off. Your hands dip under his shirt, exploring the new territory. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, the image seared into your memory, but the feeling is unimaginable. His breath hitches as you move to his back, one hand reaching his shoulder before slowly coming back down, nails lightly scraping the muscles. Where he stands between your legs, rather than his thigh, this time his hardness presses against you, and you can’t help the way your legs hook around him, desperate for more.

With a groan, Bucky’s head lands heavily on your shoulder, his breath heavy. “You know they could be looking for us right now.” His voice is deep, barely able to come out. You can’t help but want to claw more of those beautiful sounds out of him. Taking the opportunity he’s giving you with his forehead against your shoulder, you rake your hand through his hair, exposing his neck before latching on. His hands tremble against your thighs, breath hot, a soft whimper escaping as you nip and suck the spot behind his ear. With your other hand, while he’s distracted, you find his wrist. He protests as you pull away, bringing his wrist into view, and reading the numbers on his watch.

“We have 30 minutes.” A smile takes over your face at his disbelief.

He pulls in, and you think he’s going to kiss you again, but instead, he stops short. “Ya know, I should probably stop here, since you made me go a whole month not getting to see that pretty face of yours.” His breath is hot as he moves his lips across your skin, slowly until he’s ghosting your neck. “Do you know how crazy you made me? All I could think about was how I should’ve kissed you. Hell, how I should’ve kissed you the first day we met.” Shock rolls through you at his confession. His hands move back under your shirt, shifting slightly until it’s tossed over your head, and he’s kissing your chest. “All I could think about was how your hand felt, and these thighs against me.” He’s moved you so you’re laying down on the table, before moving to your thighs, kissing the fabric. His face is back to yours, long hair tickling your face as he kisses you. Finally, you manage to pull his shirt over his head, and you can’t help the way you stare.

“You’re so beautiful, Bucky.” You’re breathless as your eyes crawl back up to his face, tempted to trace the nervous crease of his brow. His lips are back on yours in an instant, his teeth nipping your bottom lip, distracting you as he unbuttons your pants. You gasp into his mouth, and he desperately takes it, as his hand dips down until he’s cupping your core. With a light touch of just his middle finger, he dips between your folds, his hip bucking against your thigh as he lets out a moan, his head coming to rest on your chest while he struggles to regain his composure.

“You’re so wet,” he drawls, his ring finger joining his middle finger, gathering your slick, and moving up to tease your clit pulling a desperate sound out of you. “That’s it, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

Your back arches at the feeling, your hand gripping his hair. His lips attach to your nipple, sucking as you grind on his fingers. Through your haze, you admire the way his back moves, the muscles shifting with the way his fingers circle you, in a slow, steady rhythm. His eyes are shut, like he’s raging some kind of internal war, until it seemingly comes to a head. All at once, he’s above you again, kissing you hard until he removes his fingers. You want to mourn the loss, but instead, you watch as he places them in his mouth, letting out a groan. His mouth is on you as soon as his fingers are out, as if he can’t stand not having you on his tongue. His hands tease your hips until you’re lifting, so he can remove your pants, tossed somewhere in the tiny room with your gloves and shirt. You think he’s going to remove his own next, but instead, his mouth is trailing down, his hands rubbing circles on your thighs, begging you to open them. You let out a keening noise, needing more as his lips suck and nip at your thighs. Going everywhere but where you need them most.

He stops only long enough for his eyes to flit over your underwear, licking his lips before they turn into a teasing smile. Before you can question it, his thumb is pressing against the wet spot on your underwear. You whine, your back arching as he takes pleasure in teasing, softly touching the wet fabric until suddenly, his thumb dips beneath it, pushing the fabric to the side so his finger can dip into your folds. He moves it just a few times inside you, before he removes the fabric completely, and immediately pumps a finger inside again. His mouth is on you in an instant, his tongue licking a strip until his lips are on your clit, sucking gently. Your hands cling to his hair, and you lift your hips at the way his moan vibrates through you. As Bucky adds a second finger, curling until he’s hitting that soft spot inside you, the coil inside you seems to tighten. He knows, his eyes flitting over your body and to your face, watching the way his tongue twists its magic. He’s seen so many beautiful expressions on your face, but this has to be one of his new favorites. Your thighs clamp around his face, and he revels in the warmth, his beard scratching as you squirm. His lips suck on your clit, tongue flicking, and you swear you’ve never felt anything so wonderful. His name escapes you like a prayer as you ride out your orgasm, his tongue staying on you, fingers slowing until you have to pull him away. And that smile, the way it shines down on you, his eyes sparkling and lips wet and swollen, you swear you died and went to heaven.

Breathing heavily, you reach for him, wanting to taste yourself, and he happily does, his hair soft against you. In an instant, you’re recovered and reaching for his belt, but he hesitantly pulls away, biting your lip once more.

It’s like the words hurt to release, his voice quiet. “We have maybe five minutes before the others are bursting in here, and as beautiful as you are, I don’t really like sharing.”

He lets out a laugh at the way you jolt up. You were so lost in him you forgot where you were. His hands are on your shoulder, stilling you, his lips gently brushing your forehead. He gathers your clothes first, gentle hands helping you into each one. You’ve never had anyone do this, the care he takes as if you’ll wither under him, placing a kiss on your thigh, hip, chest, arms, all before they’re covered. Finally, he gets his own shirt and jacket settled, and you have the pleasure of zipping the leather as his soft eyes watch you.

“How long do you think it’ll take them to realize we’re gone?” It takes a moment for him to register his words, lost in watching you.

“Oh… right. Well, they should be here soon if they can stop arguing for more than a minute and realize it. But if they don’t, the timer said it’ll release after an hour-thirty” He has the decency to look sheepish as he confesses.

You jab a finger into his chest, feigning anger. “Bucky, did you lock us in here on purpose just to have sex with me?”

“No, of course not. I just wanted you to talk to me, but I wasn’t planning for you to kiss me like that.” His crooked smile melts you, and you can’t even pretend to stay mad. “In my defense, I thought I’d be able to pry the door open before that, especially once I realized I scared you.”

He grabs your chin, his gaze steady. “Besides, I haven’t slept with you yet. And if you want that, you’re gonna have to stop hiding out in your room and go on a couple of dates with me.” His eyes crinkle, his voice teasing. “I’m a gentleman, you know.”

“We’re a little past that, don’t you think?” You can’t help but glance at his lips, and, of course, he notices.

“Of course not. I’ve got a lot planned, and you’re gonna love it. Gotta make sure my girl gets the works.” Before you can process that last part, your attention is pulled away by the sound of yelling.

It takes a few minutes, but the others finally manage to open the vault, needing to work together to pry it open. Bucky silently apologizes for it. Honestly, you'd happily stay locked in that vault forever as long as he was there.

No one counted your age against you as if intelligence had a proper timeline.

In high school, being two years younger had been a visible difference. A target. A story people thought they were allowed to narrate for you.

In university, it was… nothing.

There were nineteen-year-olds who still looked like teenagers, sure – but there were also twenty-eight-year-olds with wedding rings, and forty-somethings who sat in the back with notebooks full of careful handwriting, doing this because they wanted to start over.

There were veterans. Parents. People who worked full-time and showed up for evening lectures with tired eyes and determination.

Adults.

People who had lived long enough to understand that everyone arrived at the same place by different roads, and that being younger didn’t make you less legitimate.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel like you had to shrink to fit.

You could just… exist.

Your first archaeology lecture made your hands shake.

Not from nerves exactly – more from that rare, feral kind of excitement you didn’t let yourself feel often.

The room smelled like old paper and coffee. The professor spoke about stratigraphy like it was a language you were already fluent in, and your brain lit up, hungry, greedy, alive.

You took notes so fast your hand cramped.

And for once, you didn’t mind the ache.

Because it was proof you were doing what you were meant to do.

After class, you lingered near the front, pretending to reorganize your papers while everyone else filtered out.

Not because you wanted attention.

Because you wanted to ask a question and you’d spent your whole life learning not to be “too much.”

You were still debating whether to leave when a shadow fell across your notes.

“You,” a voice said, warm and amused. “Are the one who wrote three pages during a ten-minute introduction.”

You looked up.

Dr. Thor Odinson stood there like he’d stepped out of a story someone had told you as a child – tall, broad-shouldered, blond hair pulled back neatly, a Scandinavian accent softened by years in the States. His eyes were bright in a way that made you feel like he saw the world as a puzzle he genuinely enjoyed.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I…  I take notes.”

His mouth quirked. “Clearly.”

You felt your cheeks warm. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said immediately, gentle but firm, like he meant it. “What’s your name?”

You gave it.

He repeated it once, as if tasting the syllables. Then he glanced at your notebook again.

“You’re not here for a general education credit,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Your chest tightened, the good kind this time. “No.”

Thor studied you for a beat, then nodded slowly. “Good.”

You hesitated, then let the question out before you could overthink it. “Do you think it’s possible–” Your voice wavered, then steadied. “Do you think it’s realistic to aim for field work before graduate school? Or should I focus on research first?”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed.

“Most first-years ask me if they can miss lectures because they went out the night before,” he said dryly. Then his expression softened. “You’re already thinking about field work.”

You shrugged, suddenly shy. “I want to… do it properly.”

Thor’s gaze held yours for a moment, something assessing in it – not judgment. Recognition.

“You’re one of the few,” he said quietly, “who walked into my classroom with the intention of going all the way.”

Your throat tightened.

It wasn’t praise that made your eyes sting.

It was being seen.

Thor tapped your notebook lightly with one finger. “Come by my office hours,” he said. “Not because you need help– because I think you might actually enjoy the kind of conversations I don’t get to have with most students.”

You nodded, breath caught somewhere in your chest. “Okay.”

Then, as if he realized he’d said something dangerously close to kindness and wanted to make it less intense, he added, “And for the record? Your notes are excellent. Keep doing that.”

You laughed softly, relieved.

Thor smiled, pleased, and walked away.

You watched him go with a strange ache in your chest, the kind that came when the world offered you something good and your first instinct was to suspect it was a trick.

But it didn’t feel like a trick.

It felt like… a door opening.

You blossomed.

There was no other word for it.

You found your rhythm quickly: mornings in lecture halls, afternoons in the library, evenings at your apartment with Wanda complaining about her sociology readings like they were personally attacking her, and Pietro making tea in the kitchen while pretending he wasn’t listening to every word you said.

Your apartment became its own ecosystem.

Wanda pinned schedules to the fridge with magnets shaped like little moons. Pietro insisted on buying plants, convinced they would “fix the vibe.” You let them, secretly grateful for anything that made the place feel alive.

And you–  you became someone who belonged.

In the library, no one teased you for staying too late.

Professors didn’t roll their eyes when you asked questions. They answered them.

Classmates didn’t call you “weird” for being quiet. They assumed you were focused.

Some even gravitated toward you because your steadiness made them feel less scattered.

You started getting invited to study groups.

You started saying yes.

You started speaking in seminars without your voice shaking.

You started feeling, slowly and cautiously, like the version of you that existed outside survival might be allowed to exist for real.

The wounds of high school didn’t vanish.

They didn’t evaporate like mist.

But they stopped bleeding.

They scabbed over.

They became scars instead of open injuries.

And you realized how much of your pain had been amplified by being trapped in a world that treated adolescence like a coliseum.

College wasn’t gentle.

It was demanding, unforgiving, exhausting.

But it was fair.

It didn’t care about your past.

It cared about your work.

And you were good at work.

Steve returned to you in a way that felt like coming home.

Not romantic. Not complicated. Not threaded with “what if.”

Just… Steve.

You and he fell back into friendship the way your bodies remembered the shape of it – late-night texts about museum exhibits he loved, long walks through the city where he pointed out architecture like it was art, you showing him photos from a lecture trip and him looking at them like you were handing him pieces of a world you’d unlocked.

Sometimes he’d come over to your apartment and sit at your kitchen table while you studied, sketching quietly in a notebook.

Wanda would pass through and say, “You two are disgustingly wholesome,” and Steve would smile like he’d take that as a compliment.

Pietro would add, without looking up from his laptop, “It’s their brand.”

You would roll your eyes, but your chest would warm anyway.

Steve didn’t ask you to be someone you weren’t.

He didn’t expect you to perform.

He just… stayed.

And the longer he stayed, the more you realized that your breakup hadn’t destroyed what mattered.

It had saved it.

You could love him without fear now.

Without pressure.

Without the sense that you were living inside a fragile structure that could collapse if you moved wrong.

He was your friend, and that was enough.

More than enough.

Bucky came back too.

Not all at once.

Not with a dramatic apology or a late-night confession.

Bucky came back the way he always did – quietly, stubbornly, in pieces.

At first, he was careful with you in a way that made your spine tense.

Too polite. Too considerate. Like he was walking around a crack in the floor.

It made you angry, unexpectedly.

Because you didn’t want him to be fragile around you.

You wanted him to be normal again.

You wanted him to stop acting like he’d lost the right to exist in your space.

So one night, when he showed up with Steve at your apartment with takeout and a six-pack of something Pietro pretended not to judge, you looked up from your laptop and said, flatly, “You’re being weird.”

Bucky froze mid-step.

Steve coughed, immediately pretending he hadn’t heard.

Wanda grinned into her drink.

Pietro leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for a show.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “What?”

“You,” you said, pointing your pen at him. “You’re acting like you’re scared I’m going to break.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered, guarded. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you said simply. “And it’s annoying.”

There was a beat of silence where everyone held their breath.

Bucky stared at you, something stormy behind his eyes.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’m not trying to annoy you.”

You swallowed.

You could have softened right then.

You didn’t.

Because softness was what had always gotten you hurt.

So you said, calmer, “Then stop acting like I’m made of glass.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed. He nodded once, jerky. “Okay.”

It wasn’t an apology.

It wasn’t closure.

But it was something.

And after that, he started… relaxing.

He started showing up the way he used to.

Dropping by your apartment with coffee because “I was in the neighborhood.” Arguing with Pietro about psychology like it was a personal insult that Pietro thought he knew more about human behavior than Bucky did. Teasing Wanda until she threw a dish towel at his head. Sitting on your couch and pretending he wasn’t watching you when you got excited about a paper.

Sometimes, you caught him looking at you the way he used to when you were kids.

Like checking that you were still there.

Like he still couldn’t quite believe you existed.

You didn’t call it anything.

You didn’t name the thing that had happened and then been buried.

You didn’t touch that bone still out of place.

But you let him be close again.

You let him be your brother again – in the way you’d always meant it.

The way you both had always pretended it was only that.

Dr. Odinson became a steady presence in your academic life.

He challenged you without condescension. He recommended books that made your brain ache in the best way. He wrote a note in the margin of one of your essays that simply said, You are thinking like a researcher. Do not let anyone dull that.

Once, after class, he asked you if you’d ever considered specializing in myth as cultural memory – how societies buried truth inside stories to make it survivable.

You’d stared at him for a moment, stunned by the question.

Then you’d answered honestly, “I think… I’ve been doing that my whole life.”

Thor had looked at you, thoughtful.

He hadn’t asked what you meant.

He’d just nodded like he understood more than you’d said.

And that was the thing about college.

About adulthood.

About this new world you were stepping into.

It didn’t demand your secrets in exchange for belonging.

It just let you belong.

By the end of your first semester, you realized something quietly monumental.

You were happy.

Not constantly.

Not perfectly.

But genuinely.

You laughed more.

You slept better.

You caught yourself humming while you made tea in the kitchen and froze because it felt unfamiliar – joy, unguarded, slipping out of you without permission.

You stopped flinching every time you heard your name.

You stopped feeling like the ground under you might vanish at any moment.

You weren’t healed.

Not fully.

But you were growing.

And for the first time, that growth didn’t feel like survival.

It felt like becoming.

Time didn’t pass in one clean line.

It moved in semesters. In deadlines. In acceptance letters and internship interviews and the slow, quiet way your twenties began to take shape around you without asking permission.

At first, the apartment was still the heart of everything.

Wanda’s music drifting from her room while she wrote papers with her feet tucked under her. Pietro pacing during exam season like a caged animal, memorizing theories out loud just to hear them. You hunched over your own work at the kitchen table, surrounded by highlighted articles and mugs that never quite made it back to the cupboard.

And then – little by little – the rhythm shifted.

Because people didn’t stay students forever.

Because the world outside the campus gates started calling them by name.

Wanda finished first.

It wasn’t that she was less intelligent, or less capable – Wanda was brilliant in the way people were brilliant when they actually cared. But she knew what she wanted: a life that was grounded in people, in reality, in something tangible.

She walked across the stage at graduation with her head high, her hair too perfect, and a look on her face like she was daring the universe to underestimate her.

Afterward, she hugged you so hard you almost dropped your bouquet.

“I’m free,” she whispered dramatically into your ear.

You laughed, warm and proud. “You’re unemployed.”

“I’m liberated,” she corrected, pulling back to point a finger at you. “Don’t ruin this.”

She didn’t stay unemployed long.

You watched her apply everywhere with the stubborn focus she usually reserved for moral arguments. She wanted something where sociology wasn’t just theory – where it could become practice.

And eventually, she found it: a job with a nonprofit that partnered with the city to support housing stability – tenant advocacy, community outreach, helping people navigate bureaucracy that was designed to exhaust them. Sometimes it was case management. Sometimes it was connecting families to resources. Sometimes it was sitting in a fluorescent-lit office and explaining, gently, for the fifth time in one day, that no, the system wasn’t fair, but yes, she would help them fight it anyway.

She came home on her first week with exhaustion in her eyes and fire in her voice.

“I had to argue with a landlord who told me a single mom ‘should’ve planned better’,” she said, throwing her bag onto the couch like it offended her. “I almost committed a felony.”

Pietro looked up from his notes. “Hypothetically?”

Wanda’s smile was sharp. “No.”

You made her tea. Pietro ordered dinner. The three of you ate on the couch while she ranted, and you realized something quietly:

Wanda had always needed purpose.

Now she had it.

And she looked more like herself than she had in years.

Bucky’s path was less dramatic, but just as inevitable.

He had chased Stark Industries in his head since he was ten, the dream polished smooth by years of stubborn longing. Engineering was the first thing he’d ever wanted that felt like it belonged entirely to him.

When he got the alternance offer, he tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

He failed.

He showed up at your apartment with a bottle of champagne he absolutely could not afford as a student, grinning like he couldn’t contain it.

“I got it,” he said, breathless.

You stared at him for a second before your face split into a real smile.

“You got it,” you repeated.

Bucky’s eyes went bright. He nodded hard, as if he needed the confirmation to make it real. “I got it.”

Steve clapped him on the shoulder so hard Bucky almost stumbled. Wanda squealed and jumped up to hug him. Pietro raised his eyebrows like he was trying to act cool about it and failing.

You held Bucky’s gaze for a brief moment across the room, something unspoken passing between you.

Pride.

Relief.

And something older and deeper: the knowledge that you had watched him want this for so long, and now he was finally being handed the future he’d built himself for.

Bucky’s alternance became a routine.

Early mornings. Long commutes. Tired nights. He’d show up sometimes in your apartment doorway, still in his work shirt, hair damp from rain or sweat, dropping his bag with a groan.

“You look like you fought a war,” Wanda would tell him.

“I fought Excel,” Bucky would reply flatly.

He became… steadier.

Not softer. Not less intense.

But calmer, in the way people got when they finally had something to move toward.

And you saw it – the way working for Stark Industries wasn’t just a job to him. It was a place he could prove himself. A place where he could be excellent without apology.

He would graduate, and the alternance would turn into a real position, and that part of his life would make sense.

At least that part.

Steve surprised you less and less as the years went on, because you got used to the way the world saw him.

He didn’t chase attention. He didn’t posture. He just worked – quietly, relentlessly, with that stubborn discipline that had been forged in a childhood where everything had been unstable.

He built a portfolio that made professors pause. He got recommended for internships that made other students jealous. He got invited to private gallery events where he stood awkwardly by snack tables and texted you, Why is everyone wearing black like it’s a funeral?

By the time he was finishing his master’s, the offers started coming in.

Three museums.

Three different curators calling him “promising,” “rare,” “worth investing in.”

He told you about it like it was a weather report.

“Got an email,” he said one evening, leaning against your kitchen counter while you cooked. “The Met wants an interview.”

You almost dropped your spoon. “Steve.”

He blinked innocently. “What?”

You turned fully toward him. “The Met.”

Steve’s ears went pink. “Yeah.”

“Steve,” you repeated, because your brain needed his name to ground the fact. “That’s huge.”

He shrugged, but his mouth twitched. “I guess.”

Wanda rolled her eyes from the couch. “You’re allergic to pride.”

Steve glanced at her, amused. “I’m not.”

Pietro snorted. “You are. It’s terminal.”

You laughed, and Steve’s eyes softened when he looked at you.

Because you and he had survived becoming something else.

Because you were still here.

Because your friendship had endured the hardest thing it had ever had to endure: letting go of what it used to be without losing what mattered.

Pietro’s life clicked into place in a way that looked almost effortless from the outside.

Years of schooling, internships, supervised hours, exams that made him curse under his breath in three languages.

He was brilliant, but he was also human. He burned out sometimes. He got anxious about doing harm. He worried that he’d say the wrong thing to the wrong person and ruin them.

It made you trust him more.

When he found a practice that grouped several practitioners – one of whom planned to retire soon – he came home with that look on his face: the one that meant he was trying not to get hopeful.

“They said if it goes well,” he told you carefully, “I’ll get the list of patients when he retires.”

Wanda stared at him. “That’s… huge.”

Pietro exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

You reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “That’s yours,” you said, voice quiet. “You earned that.”

Pietro’s eyes flicked to yours, something raw in them for a second before he masked it with his usual smirk.

“Of course I did,” he said, offended. “I’m delightful.”

You smiled anyway.

Because he was.

Because he had spent years being your anchor without ever asking to be thanked for it.

And you…

You kept going.

While everyone else peeled off toward adulthood – toward salaries and contracts and jobs that came with business cards – you stayed in the world of papers and archives and late-night research spirals.

There were moments when you felt left behind.

Not intellectually.

Not academically.

But socially.

Because the longer you stayed in school, the more your life began to revolve around people who weren’t in your original circle. Other graduate students. Professors. Researchers who spoke in references and field sites and grant deadlines.

And slowly, the apartment – the shared space that had held you all together – started to empty out.

Wanda got a job. Needed her own place closer to her office.

Pietro’s practice demanded privacy, quiet, a commute that didn’t take an hour each way.

Even you, who had once clung to the comfort of shared walls, began to feel the pull of something you’d never really had: a space that belonged to you.

Not your mother’s house.

Not a childhood bedroom filled with echoes.

Not a room you shared with laughter and arguments and noise.

Just… yours.

It happened almost accidentally.

Dr. Odinson needed a teaching assistant.

At first, you assumed you weren’t qualified. Then you remembered you’d been underestimating yourself out of habit for most of your life.

You applied.

You got it.

Assisting Thor Odinson wasn’t glamorous. It was grading papers until your eyes crossed, holding office hours for students who panicked over citations, running discussion sections where half the room was awake and the other half looked like they’d rather die.

But it was also stabilizing.

A paycheck.

A small sense of authority.

A role that wasn’t just “student,” but “colleague-in-training.”

Thor treated you like you belonged.

He corrected you when you apologized too much. He pushed you when you tried to stay small. He didn’t rescue you – he equipped you.

And the money – modest, barely enough by New York standards – was still enough.

Enough for a tiny apartment.

A real one.

Not big.

Not pretty.

But yours.

The first time you stood inside it alone, keys still warm in your palm, you didn’t know what to do with the silence.

It felt… vast.

The place smelled like fresh paint and dust. The floors creaked. The kitchen was basically a hallway with a stove.

Your bedroom could fit a bed and a desk and not much else.

And still, your chest tightened – not with panic, but with something close to wonder.

Because this was yours.

You didn’t have to worry about waking anyone up if you cried.

You didn’t have to hide your books in stacks to make room for someone else’s life.

You could leave a mug in the sink overnight and no one would comment.

You could breathe.

Wanda came over first, of course, because she always insisted on being the first to bless a new space.

She brought a plant. “For vibes,” she announced.

Pietro brought a toolkit and immediately started fixing things you hadn’t even noticed were broken.

Steve brought a framed print he’d picked up at a museum gift shop – something understated, warm, like he was quietly furnishing your walls with care.

And Bucky…

Bucky arrived last.

He stood in your doorway for a second, taking in the narrow hall, the small living space, the way your books were already stacked in one corner like they’d claimed the apartment before you had.

“You did it,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it landed.

You looked at him, keys still on the counter, heart strangely steady.

“Yeah,” you said. “I did.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he nodded once, as if sealing the truth into place.

“Proud of you,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer right away, because the words hit somewhere tender.

So you just stepped aside and let him in.

And for a moment, standing in your tiny apartment surrounded by the people who had shaped your life, you realized something else:

Growing up didn’t mean losing them.

It just meant learning how to hold them differently.

And you – finally – were learning.

The first year of your PhD was… normal.

Normal in the way academia could be normal – too much reading, too many deadlines, too much coffee. Normal in the way your life had settled into a routine that made sense: mornings in seminar rooms, afternoons in the library, evenings in your tiny apartment with your laptop balanced on your knees and your brain still running long after your body had asked for mercy.

You taught.

You graded.

You met Dr. Odinson twice a week, and he treated you less like a student now and more like someone he was actively shaping – pushing you toward conferences, nudging you into conversations with professors who mattered, asking you questions that didn’t have neat answers.

“You are not here to survive,” he told you once, frowning over a draft you’d brought him. “You are here to contribute.”

You had stared at him for a second, caught off guard by how simple and firm it sounded.

Then you had nodded, because you were learning how to accept things you’d earned.

Academically, nothing was on fire.

Emotionally… Emotionally was a different story.

Because Bucky… shifted.

Not dramatically. Not in a way you could point at and say this is the moment.

But in the small things.

In the way he started showing up a little more often, as if he had excuses but didn’t need them anymore.

In the way he lingered in your doorway when he came by to drop something off for your mother and ended up staying for an hour, sitting on your couch like it was still his right to be there.

In the way his gaze started catching yours across rooms again – steady, heavy, familiar.

Like he was remembering something you’d both worked so hard to bury.

It made your skin feel too tight sometimes.

It made your stomach dip in that dangerous way that wasn’t fear – wasn’t exactly desire either – but the combination of both, tangled with history.

Sometimes you’d be talking to Wanda in the kitchen, laughing about something stupid, and you’d look up and find Bucky watching you.

Not like he was checking if you were okay.

Like he was watching because he couldn’t help it.

And when your eyes met, there would be that pause.

That beat where the world seemed to inhale.

Then he’d look away first, jaw flexing, as if he’d caught himself doing something he didn’t have permission to do.

You didn’t call him out.

You didn’t name it.

You didn’t dare.

Because naming things tended to break them.

But at night, alone in your apartment, the quiet could become cruel.

You would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of New York through your window – the muffled honk of a car, someone laughing too loud on the sidewalk, a siren slicing through the dark.

And you would catch yourself drifting into thoughts you didn’t allow during the day.

Not fantasies, exactly.

Hope.

Soft, humiliating hope.

The kind you told yourself you didn’t have anymore.

You would think about the way Bucky used to crawl into your bed when you were small, all sharp elbows and warmth, and how safe it had felt to have someone choose you in the middle of the night.

You would think about his hands – how careful they could be when he wasn’t angry, how gentle when he wasn’t afraid.

You would remember the way he said your name sometimes, low and rough, like it meant something more than a habit.

And then you’d hate yourself for it, because hope was how you got hurt.

Hope was how you convinced yourself to wait for people who didn’t know how to show up.

And still… 

Still, you’d lie there and wonder if maybe… if maybe adulthood was different.

If maybe he had grown into something softer.

If maybe you had too.

If maybe the two of you could finally stop orbiting each other like something forbidden and start being honest.

The thought would make your chest ache.

And you would fall asleep with that ache pressed against your ribs like a secret.

Then Bucky met Natasha.

It happened the way the rest of life happened: casually, inevitably, without asking if you were ready.

You didn’t even hear about it from him at first – not properly.

You heard it the way you heard most news from Bucky these days: sideways, in fragments, in things he mentioned like they were small.

You had come home for dinner with your parents on a rare evening when your schedules lined up – your seminars ended early, his work day didn’t drag late, the universe briefly decided to be kind.

The house felt warm and familiar, smelling like whatever your mother had been simmering since mid-afternoon. The dining table was set properly because your mother still treated “all of you together” like an event, even when you were all adults with jobs and degrees and keys to your own apartments.

Your stepfather asked Bucky about work.

Bucky answered with the kind of vague competence he always used when he didn’t want to talk too much.

Your mother asked you about your research.

You told her the sanitized version – conference proposals, paper drafts, an upcoming lecture you were assisting.

No one said anything about feelings.

No one ever did.

And then, halfway through dinner, Bucky cleared his throat.

Not loudly.

Just enough that you looked up.

He didn’t look at you.

He looked at your mother, then your stepfather, then back at his plate like he was bracing for impact.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” he said.

The fork paused halfway to your mouth.

The air shifted.

Your mother’s face lit up instantly, delighted in that unguarded way that always made you feel both loved and slightly suffocated.

“Oh,” she said, hand flying to her chest. “Bucky.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s not that serious yet.”

Your stepfather leaned back in his chair, curious. “Who is she?”

Bucky hesitated, then said, “Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.”

Your mother repeated the name as if she was tasting it. “Natasha,” she said, soft. “That’s beautiful.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “It’s a name, Ma.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” she insisted, because she was your mother, and she had always loved names and the meanings she could attach to them.

You forced your face into something steady.

You smiled.

You even managed to say, “That’s great.”

Your voice sounded normal.

Your eyes didn’t fill.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t break.

But inside… Inside, it was like someone had put their hand around your heart and squeezed.

Because the hope you had been letting yourself grow in the quiet – small, private, pathetic – collapsed in on itself like a paper structure in the rain.

You kept smiling anyway.

Because you had become very good at smiling while bleeding.

Your mother asked questions, of course.

Where did you meet? What does she do? Is she nice? When can we meet her?

Bucky answered, a little embarrassed, a little proud, trying to act casual while his ears went pink.

“She works in the same building. Different department,” he said. “We grabbed coffee a couple times. And yeah– she’s… she’s great.”

He said it like he meant it.

Not like he was forcing it.

Not like he was trying to prove something.

And that was the part that made it hardest.

Because you couldn’t tell yourself it wasn’t real.

You couldn’t tell yourself it was a rebound, a phase, a mistake.

You couldn’t hate her to make it easier.

You couldn’t even resent him properly, because Bucky was allowed to be happy.

Bucky deserved to be happy.

You had told yourself that for years.

You had built your entire emotional discipline around it.

So you kept smiling.

You asked one safe question “How long have you been seeing her?” and you listened like you were just his sister, like your chest wasn’t caving in.

Your mother reached across the table at one point and touched Bucky’s hand.

“I’m happy for you,” she said, eyes shining.

Bucky’s gaze flicked up, softer. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, like she could will it into being. “Yes. You deserve someone good.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

So do I, something small and bitter whispered in the back of your mind.

You ignored it.

You always did.

Later, when you stood in the kitchen helping your mother rinse plates, your hands moved on autopilot.

Warm water. Soap. Ceramic sliding under your fingers.

Your mother hummed under her breath, content.

“You’re quiet,” she said gently.

You made yourself shrug. “Just tired.”

She studied you for a second, as if she wanted to push, then decided not to.

Your mother had learned, over the years, that you were like a locked drawer: she could shake it, pull at it, but it only opened when you decided it was safe.

She didn’t try to force it.

She only said, softly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

You nodded, throat tight, because it was true.

You were glad too.

You were glad you had a mother who loved you enough to make home a place you could return to.

You were glad you had a family.

You were glad you had a future.

And still… When you left that night and stepped out into the cold air, walking toward the subway with your coat pulled tight around you, you felt tears sting your eyes anyway.

Not because Bucky had done something wrong.

Not because Natasha existed.

But because you had let yourself dream, for a few weeks, that the universe might finally hand you something you wanted.

And now you had to do what you had always done.

Swallow it. Fold it up. Put it away somewhere no one could see.

The worst part came later, when you met her.

Not at dinner. Not that night.

A week or two after.

Bucky stopped by your place to drop off something your mother had baked – cookies, because your mother communicated love in food.

And Natasha was with him.

“Hope that’s okay,” Bucky said quickly, like he hadn’t meant to bring her but couldn’t avoid it. “She was nearby.”

You opened the door wider on instinct, because manners were muscle memory.

“Of course,” you said.

Natasha stepped in with a small smile that was careful but genuine.

She was… beautiful.

Not in the fragile, soft way that begged to be protected.

In the kind of way that made the air feel sharper.

She wore confidence like it was woven into her skin. She looked at you like she was reading you – not judging, just observing.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Natasha.”

You forced your smile to stay steady. “I know. I’m–” You almost said his sister. The word caught in your throat in a way that made you want to laugh at the irony.

You said your name instead.

Natasha’s gaze warmed slightly. “Bucky’s told me about you.”

Of course he had.

You nodded, pretending it didn’t matter. “Only good things, I hope.”

Natasha’s mouth curved. “Only.”

You wanted to dislike her.

You wanted her to be rude, dismissive, smug.

You wanted to find something – anything – that would let you label her as a problem so your pain could feel righteous instead of pathetic.

But she wasn’t.

She was polite. She was sharp. She had humor that matched Bucky’s in a way that made him loosen around her.

And when he smiled at something she said, it wasn’t forced.

It was real.

You felt it like a bruise.

After they left, you stood alone in your apartment, staring at the container of cookies on your counter.

And you thought, distantly, almost bitterly:

It would have been so much easier if she wasn’t lovely.

Because then you could have hated her.

And hate would have been simpler than grief.

You didn’t know if it was the new hope – brief, quiet, humiliating – that had died on impact.

Maybe it was just exhaustion. Maybe it was the way your body always seemed to react when your heart was forced to swallow something sharp: by trying to find control somewhere else.

But a few days after that dinner at your parents’, after you’d smiled until your cheeks hurt and nodded until your neck felt stiff, you opened the folder on your laptop you hadn’t touched in months.

The one you kept buried beneath thesis drafts and bibliographies and teaching materials, as if hiding it under academic language could keep it from hurting.

Origins.

You stared at the word for a long time, cursor blinking beside it like a heartbeat.

Then you clicked.

And the first thing you felt was not grief.

It was relief.

Because this – this was something you could do.

Something you could research. Cross-check. Organize. Something with rules and sources and steps.

Something that didn’t require you to sit in the dark and wonder why Bucky’s smile at someone else felt like a knife.

You told yourself you were just curious.

That it was practical.

That you had always meant to.

You didn’t tell yourself the truth until later, when you realized you were working on it at two in the morning with the same intensity you used for your dissertation.

Like you were trying to outrun your own thoughts.

You didn’t talk to Wanda about it.

Wanda loved you fiercely, but Wanda also had a way of turning every wound into a battle, and you didn’t want this to become a war she fought for you.

You didn’t talk to Steve about it either, because Steve’s empathy was too steady, too deep. He would look at you and know you were hurting, and the idea of being seen that clearly made you want to bolt.

So you did what you always did.

You called Pietro.

It was late enough that the city outside your window had quieted into a low hum – cars in the distance, a neighbor’s TV bleeding muffled dialogue through the wall, pipes clicking faintly as if the building itself was shifting in its sleep.

Pietro picked up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said, voice thick with sleep but immediate in its alertness. He never sounded annoyed when you called. Not once. “You okay?”

You swallowed, phone pressed to your ear, eyes fixed on the glowing screen of your laptop.

“I’m… fine,” you lied automatically.

There was a pause.

Pietro didn’t call you out.

He just waited.

You exhaled through your nose, fingers tightening around the phone. “Can I come over?”

“Of course,” he said, like you’d asked if you could breathe. “Door’s open.”

It wasn’t, literally. Pietro locked his door. He just meant: you don’t need permission.

Your throat tightened at that, too, because you always had.

His apartment was small but lived-in. Books everywhere. Plants he was keeping alive mostly out of spite. A half-finished mug of tea on his coffee table like he’d abandoned it mid-thought.

He opened the door before you even knocked properly, eyes a little tired, hair messy, but posture instantly protective when he saw your face.

He didn’t ask questions right away.

He just pulled you into his arms.

It wasn’t a romantic gesture. It wasn’t even dramatic.

It was Pietro – solid, familiar, wrapping you up like he could physically hold you together if you came apart.

You leaned into it for a second longer than you meant to.

Then you pulled back, embarrassed by your own need.

Pietro didn’t tease you.

He just guided you inside, flicked on a lamp, and put a kettle on without asking.

“You want to sit?” he asked gently.

You nodded and sank onto his couch, laptop bag still on your shoulder like you hadn’t quite convinced yourself you were allowed to take up space.

Pietro sat beside you, angled toward you but not crowding. He always did that – present without cornering.

He waited until the tea was steeping, until the room smelled like chamomile, until you’d taken a breath that wasn’t entirely locked in your chest.

Then he said, quietly, “Okay. Talk to me.”

You stared at your hands.

Your fingers were stained faintly with highlighter ink. You rubbed your thumb over the spot like you could erase it.

“I started looking again,” you said.

Pietro’s brow furrowed slightly. “Looking…?”

“My origins,” you clarified, voice small despite yourself. “The files. The names. Anything.”

Pietro didn’t react with surprise. He didn’t look disappointed. He didn’t look like he was waiting for the “real reason.”

He just nodded slowly, encouraging.

You swallowed.

And then the words came faster, spilling out now that the first crack had formed.

“I feel ridiculous,” you admitted. “Because I…  I don’t even know why I’m doing it now. I mean, I do, but I don’t want to say it out loud.”

Pietro’s gaze stayed steady. “Say it out loud.”

You huffed a laugh that sounded like a sob’s cousin.

“I… thought,” you said, and your voice wavered, hate flaring at yourself for it, “that maybe… something could happen.”

Pietro didn’t flinch.

He didn’t look away.

He didn’t make a face.

He just inhaled slowly, as if he was taking in the confession like a fact, not a weakness.

You forced yourself to continue, because stopping now would make you choke on it.

“I know it’s stupid,” you rushed. “It’s not like he ever…  he never said anything. He never–” Your throat tightened. “But things felt… different, for a while. He was looking at me again, and I–” You pressed your fingers to your eyes hard, as if you could physically shove the feeling back. “I started hoping.”

Pietro’s voice went softer. “That’s not stupid.”

“It is,” you snapped, then immediately hated yourself for snapping at him. Your shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry.”

Pietro shook his head once. “Don’t apologize. Not for feeling.”

You laughed again, bitter. “Well, apparently I’m great at it.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened – not at you, but at the idea of you having to say that. He reached for the mug of tea and handed it to you.

You wrapped your hands around it like it was the only warm thing left in the world.

“And then,” you continued, staring into the steam, “he met Natasha.”

Pietro’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sharpened with attention. “And that hurt.”

You nodded, throat too tight to speak for a second.

“It shouldn’t,” you said finally, voice thin. “It shouldn’t hurt like this. I’m his 'sister'. I’m supposed to be happy for him. I am happy for him, I just–”

You stopped, because the truth lodged behind your teeth like a stone.

Pietro waited again.

You exhaled shakily. “It would have been easier if she sucked,” you whispered.

Pietro let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Yeah.”

“She’s nice,” you said, almost offended by it. “She’s smart. She’s funny. She fits.”

Pietro’s mouth twitched, but there was no tease in it. Just understanding. “Of course she is.”

You blinked at him.

Pietro leaned back slightly, eyes still on you. “You don’t fall for someone like Bucky Barnes if you’re not built for intensity.”

The fact that he said Bucky’s name so casually made your stomach dip.

You swallowed hard. “I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t keep–” Your hand tightened around the mug. “I can’t keep thinking about him. I can’t keep… hoping for things that I’m not allowed to hope for.”

Pietro’s gaze held yours. “You’re allowed.”

You shook your head quickly. “No. I’m not. Not if I want to survive this.”

Pietro didn’t argue. He didn’t force his view onto you.

He just said, quietly, “So you want move on.”

“Yes,” you breathed, relief and grief tangled in the same word. “I have to.”

Pietro studied you for a moment.

Then he nodded once, decisive. “Okay.”

Your chest loosened a fraction at the lack of judgment.

“I need to focus my brain on something else,” you confessed, voice raw. “Because if I don’t, I think about him. And then I get stuck. And then I start doing this stupid thing where I replay every look, every pause, every stupid second where he was nice to me like it meant something–”

Your voice cracked.

You looked away quickly, embarrassed.

Pietro reached out and took your free hand, grounding you.

Not squeezing too hard. Just… there.

“You’re not ridiculous,” he said firmly. “You’re human.”

You swallowed, eyes burning.

“I just want it to stop,” you whispered. “I want my head to be quiet.”

Pietro’s thumb brushed your knuckles once. “Then we give it something else to chew on.”

You let out a shaky breath. “That’s why I started looking again.”

Pietro nodded. “Okay. Show me what you’ve got.”

You pulled your laptop out of your bag with hands that trembled slightly. You opened the folder, the scanned documents, the notes you’d taken years ago and never finished.

Pietro leaned in, reading with you, shoulder brushing yours.

“You can do this,” he murmured.

You nodded, eyes fixed on the screen.

Because this was familiar territory.

Paper trails. Names. Dates. Systems.

Something you could dissect instead of just endure.

And for the first time since that dinner, since that smile you’d worn like armor, the ache in your chest eased – not gone, not healed – but quieter.

Like your mind had finally found somewhere else to rest.

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"You're different."

You hum ambivalently at Bucky's inquiry, unwavering in your performance, eyes locked and unblinking to the shadows of flames that dance across the floor.

"You're different," he repeats. "Has something happened?"

The room stays still as you trail backwards into your mind. Are you different? Ever since he first touched you with a peculiar gentleness, one that you half expected from his stoic language and wide breadth, yet it lingered on the softest environments of your skin and inked down your body in the forthcoming days in rivulets. The kind that smears clumsily, a permanent stick to the study that was your body, once tried to wipe away.

"No," Another pause. Pregnant with something unknown to you, but you're so sure Bucky already has the answer. "Nothing's happened."

But that's the thing. Nothing has happened and its crawling inside of you like maggots. Larvae rampant in your stomach like tendrils of rot, and it's eating you alive.

"Nothing's happened." He repeats, the fingers that massage within your hair still, apart from his thumb that trails a heavenly rhythm on your hairline. It's tender, sickeningly soft and domesticated. Something you wish could last forever, print with parchment and ink, kept sealed within and handled with care.

It wisps like his scent of cigarette smoke and a lingering of cardamom, a haunting mixture, impenetrable like he, one you've realised will haunt you in years to come, only now the realisation sealed itself with wax.

Its petulant. How you think about the orbit of things. How it all circles around and back to the man whose fingers still stay buried at your scalp, and lets you rest your tired head against his thighs, who only shows the affection he can behind closed doors and brick walls.

"You're thoughts are too loud," he speaks lowly, the ghost of a smile on his lips, his attention still focused on the book in his hand. "I've been following the same sentence every over and over again, it's quite distracting."

You expel a harsh breath, something humorous.

"I apologise."

Bucky sighs deeply, one that puffs his chest and caves inward with you in it. "If it's about the comment I made earlier today—"

"It's not."

He doesn't speak, doesn't think he needs to, so he drags the silence on in question, a request for you to continue.

Crackles from the hearth continue, as does his thumb, his breathing, the world spins, and your dry mouth opens with a slight pop of leftover spit on your tongue.

“I'm just tired of trying to keep up. I feel as though I have to keep proving myself over and over again, and you can… You just do whatever and people bend over backwards without a word." You say quietly, it pauses at edges, wobbling with a cower you didn't realise was fully there until set free like an animal seconds away from becoming roadkill.

"I know." he states with a similar crack at the voice, only it feels fictitious, copy over a copy, over a copy, but yet you don't move. He whispers something, a curse faded into breath. He feels a soft spark of joy, a greed that should be kept in cavernous fourths, underground and cold. Avarice for more. A sweet desire that stuck to his skin like melted candy.

The intention of his keeping of you was never a secret. An ego boost perhaps, some kind of pawn, a loyal devotee with their knees forever raw red from floorboards and hands scarred with crescents of nails, waning and waxing, tiny universes of night skies with moles and freckles impersonating stars.

Bucky could kiss every single one. He could. And yet his fingers and palms stay between pages of yellowed paper, his lips full of passages and quotations, memorised and translated.

In a way you are unsure what you're referring to exactly. The group, the work, the occupation of his mind wholly and completely. Perhaps all. Perhaps in a way you're jealous about yourself and how you yearn for every minuscule moment his eyes catch yours when you sit a chair or two away while your professor cantillates and your eyes follow the angles of the man you bend towards as if a flower to the sun.

Your knees ache instantly. Familiar tingles of rawness catching you in the moment, grounding in a way. It hurts your teeth from the edges of your gums to the root of bone where the rots already settling.

But you cant help tonguing at the darkness that corrodes. As a matter of fact, you like it.

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