howdy.

We need to talk.

Bucky sighs looking at his phone, suddenly nervous. Maybe Nat was mad about him sleeping with you. Even they broke up, and she told him to be nice to you, but he knows he went a little too far. What if you spilt all the nasty things he said to you that day. Bucky took another long swig from the whiskey bottle, before responding to Nat.

I am outside your building. I know she doesn’t want to see me, so come out here and we will talk.

Okay. I’m getting her set up for a shower and then I will come out.

Bucky sat on the steps leading up to the main door of the building. His elbows are on his knees; his head is just hanging. He wonders what you are thinking about and what could have possibly gone wrong so quickly. He was so happy when he woke up this morning with you in his arms, and now? He doesn’t know what to think. Did you play him to get back at him?

Nat came out and sat next to Bucky on the stairs. She keeps her eyes in front of her and sighs. 

“Buck, you gotta tell me what the hell happened? I thought you were finally making progress?!” she yelled.

Bucky looks at the sky before he sighs, “I honestly don’t fucking know what happened. When we woke up we were fine! She acted happy about what happened at first, and…. I went to the bathroom to change and when I came out she was acting cold to me,” Bucky said, sounding defeated.

Nat shook her head and looked at him. “Do you really feelings for Y/N? Or is this just some game to get back at her for that night in the bar?” Bucky’s eyes widened as he looked at Nat. He scoffed in disbelief.

“You and I've been together for a year, Nat! You know me better than that! How could you fucking ask me something like that!?” Bucky yelled standing.

Nat stood as well. “Look, she's my best friend, and she's been hurt! I need to know if your intentions are as true as you say, before I attempt to help you win back your girl!” Nat said.

Bucky shakes his head and wipes a stray tear from his cheek. “Yes, my feelings for her are real. I was blinded by hurt and anger, but I think I've always had some feelings for her. I'm sorry if that hurts you. You've meant so much to me, Nat, but..."

"I think I always knew. There was a reason you could never ignore her. You always had to get her attention somehow. I personally think you both would make a good couple. Since this has all come to pass though you can't sleep in my room now." Nat says with a smile.

Bucky gives a breathless laugh. "Is that what she thinks though? That I lied to get her into bed? Is that what she really thinks of me?” Bucky starts to feel anger creeping up.

Nat walks up to Bucky and pulls him into a hug. His anger starts subsiding as he holds Nat tighter allowing some tears to fall. He hides his face in her neck and tries to calm down. When he does he looks at Nat and kisses her forehead in thanks.

Before Nat can react they both hear a voice, “What the fuck!” They both pull away from their embrace quickly to see you turning around and running back upstairs. Bucky doesn’t think, he runs after you, with Nat trailing behind. 

When they walk into the apartment, you're gathering your things. “Y/N, wait! What you saw–” “I don’t care what I saw James. It doesn’t matter. All it shows is that I was right and you are the biggest asshole in the world!” you said, interrupting him. Bucky slowly walks toward you.

“Y/N please, just talk to me! I don’t understand what the hell happened! What did I do to piss you off so badly? I thought we were happy!” He pleads.

You look at him with fire in your y/e/c eyes. You ignore him and look at Nat. 

“I don’t blame you, so don’t worry Nat, but I called an Uber and I'm going to the airport now. All I want now is the key to my apartment.” You say looking back at Bucky. You hold out your hand waiting.

Bucky just looks at you with sadness in his eyes. Finally he sighs defeatedly, taking the keys out of his pocket. Once he releases the apartment key from the rest of his, he places it in your hand. You put it in your pocket and pick up your duffel bag, walking toward Nat giving her a hug. 

“I'll call you when I land and we'll start plannin' my solo trip out here okay?” you say.

Nat looks at you sadly, but nods. You don’t look back toward Bucky, just walk to the door of the apartment, and leave. Nat and Bucky just look at each other for moment. Nat turns and runs out of the apartment after you.

“Y/N!” she calls as she sees you opening the door to your Uber. You turn and face her. “Bucky does have feelings for you. I've always known, and I've been the one pushing you both together. That's why I wanted you both to drive out here,” she says.

You look at her in shock, but recover quickly. “Well, your plan failed. He's lying about his feelings toward me, because I was nothing more than a bet to him. I’m sorry Nat, but it’s over.” you say.

Before she can respond you get in the car and close the door. The car pulls away and heads toward the airport, leaving Nat and Bucky behind.

–

Once you checked in to your flight, you head toward security. You place your duffel bag, purse, jacket, and shoes on the conveyer belt. You walk through the metal detector, which goes off. You check your pockets when you see the key that Bucky had. Tears start to well up in your eyes as you look at the TSA agent. You hand the key to her, “You can just throw this away. No one will need it.”

–

Nat walks sadly back into the apartment and found Bucky sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. She walks up and sits next to him. 

“What was the bet you and Sam made?” she whispered.

Bucky doesn’t move, but she hears the muffled, “What?”

She says a little louder, “What was the bet… that you made with Sam?”

Bucky lifts his head and looks at her confused. “What the hell are you talking about Nat?” he asks, exasperated.

Nat just shook her head, “Y/N saw a text message this morning between you and Sam. You apparently told him he owed you $50 bucks and he asked how far you got.”

Bucky’s looks at Nat, still confused. “Uh… I bet him I could make it to your doorstep in 3 days, but because I decided to stop last night, I owed him $50. Why?"

Nat nods quietly. “She thought you made a bet about how far you could get with her. She thought everything you said about your feelings toward her was a lie to embarrass her because of what she said at the bar.”

Bucky stares at Nat in disbelief. “Wh- wh- why didn’t she say anything to me? Why didn’t she ask me for the truth?” Bucky says.

Nat shrugs, “I don’t know. She has always been very protective of her heart, and I guess it was easier to believe that you were lying, then toying with the idea that you actually liked her. I mean lets be honest, even I was unsure, at first. You were a complete douchebag for the last year, it makes sense that she's unsure.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Maybe I should just give up. She obviously will never trust me. What’s the point in tryin'?”

Nat gives Bucky a hug as more tears fall down his cheeks.

–

You get back to your apartment early the next morning. Looking around the room, everything looks as it did when you left, but you feel so different. You walk silently to Nat’s old room and stand in the doorway looking in. All that’s left is a mattress and box spring. You walk into the room and sit on the bed. You look at the empty walls, and for the first time in awhile, you feel utterly alone. You break down and start to sob.

You miss your best friend and you can’t believe you are thinking this after everything that has happened. But you miss Bucky.

--

Part 6 / Part 8

Will Bucky give up? Feedback is appreciated. I know my stories deal with toxic relationships and that it's not the way people would deal with things? But I use this as a therapy for me and unfortunately I have a lot of toxicity in my life. If it's not something you're down with, I completely understand.

Permanent Taglist: Permanent Taglist:  @rebekahdawkins @marajade1974 @missvelvetsstuff @phillygirl77 @pattiemac1 @winterslove1917 @vampire7595 @unkasworld @midnightramyeoncravings

Spreading some lube on his length and your thighs, he held them together against his front as you laid on the bed

The moment his leaky tip slid through the plush flesh of your thighs his head fell back as he let out a strangled groan.

Yep, definitely in heaven.

“Fuck doll, look at how much prettier your thighs look with my cock between em”

He couldn’t get enough, slowly sliding his cock between your thighs. Hitting your clit with every stroke.

He fucked them nice and slow, wanting to savour the feeling of your soft, warm skin against his wet cock.

“Such perfect fucking thighs baby. All mine.”

Eventually though, it became too much for him.

He started to fuck your thighs with a newfound desire. The only thing on his mind was the thought of covering you in his cum.

His thoughts driving him to fuck your thighs so hard that the bed frame was repeatedly hitting the wall.

He could feel himself getting closer, his previously steady pace faltering.

“Mm fuck gonna cum doll, you want me to cum all over you huh? Gonna c- fuck, cover you in my cum, make such a mess, ah shit!”

Bucky came all over your bare stomach and chest panting as he came down. He let your legs fall on either side of him.

“Look at the mess you made me make doll.”

Steve

Oh sweet Stevie. He isn’t the most experienced man out there, so when you brought up wanting to try giving him a thigh job, he was confused as to how exactly it would work.

After explaining it to him he agreed with a deep red coating his face and neck.

“Oh well I suppose we could give it a try sweetheart.”

The moment he had finished his sentence you were on him.

Pulling his pants down along with yours before kneeling in front of him.

“W-wait, but I thought we were-“

“Gotta get you wet first so you can fuck my thighs Stevie.”

You cut him off, then at his understanding nod you took his heavy cock into your mouth moaning at his taste.

Steve sighed at the feeling of your warm, wet mouth enveloping him. He’d never had a blowjob before you, but he was sure that you were an expert with the way you worked his cock in your mouth.

After getting him nice and wet, you pulled him onto his bed and helped him to position himself so he could properly fuck your thighs.

Steve inhaled sharply as he slid between your thighs.

It felt so much better than he imagined. You never fail to make him feel new kinds of pleasure he never thought possible.

He began to slowly thrust, but that changed quickly as it just felt too goddamn good.

“Oh god, feels s’good sweets.”

His hips started to stutter as he neared his end much too quickly.

“Fuck! M’not gonna last, wanna cum already baby, just feels too good.”

He pulled back just in time to cum all over your thighs making a mess as he moaned loudly.

“S-steve what are you doing?”

He laid down on his front pulling you closer before licking his spend off your thighs, inching his way closer to your soaked core.

“Cleaning up my girl. I made a mess on her, and looks like she made one too.”

He teased before delving into your wet folds.

Bucky is perched on the end of the bed, hair hanging lamely in-front of his face. Both his metal and flesh hands flex on his lap, he feels his nails bare down onto his jeans, but he ignores it, not even bothering to try and pull his eyes upwards, away from the same spot on the ground that he’d been staring at blankly for the better part of fifteen minutes.

Y/N pushes the door to their room open, it doesn’t creak, but the bottom does offer up a low scraping sound as it skims the plush carpet that the youngest Stark had insisted they had installed in the suite.

“Buck?”

Her voice is soft, softer than he’d expected her greeting to be, anyway.

He tries not to flinch at the use of his name, which despite its quiet volume and the gentle intentions of the woman using it, still seems awfully foreign to his ears.

The door shuts with a dull click, and he can’t help but tense his shoulders, pulling them back until the muscles are taught enough to distract him from the way his head is aching.

“Bucky”

This time, there’s no questioning in her voice. She’s not calling to him in the hopes of a response. He thinks the word is thick with pity, and he can’t bare it.

His cold metal hand reaches up to paw at his eyes. He pushes back against it until it hurts, until he sees stars and the stinging of tears is all but depleted.

“Hey” Y/N soothes, dropping to her knees between his legs, “It’s alright”

She doesn’t touch him yet, she just settles back on her haunches and lets out a sigh.

Bucky can’t tell if its ladened with disappointment or despair, but he feels a burning need to apologise, anyway.

He opens his mouth to speak, but a sob threatens to leap from his chest, so he clenches his jaw, he locks his mouth closed and grinds his teeth together in a futile attempt to hold it back.

Y/N shakes her head softly, reaching up to cup his cheek.

The heat of her hand jars him at first. With the way his eyes had fallen shut, the contact had startled him, and the lingering feeling of contact without pain felt eerily out of place against the back drop of adrenaline that his fight or flight response was still offering up.

Bucky sucks in a harsh breath through his nose, and tries not to pull away.

She hushes him gently, letting her fingers graze his cheek in an effort to remind him that she doesn’t mean him harm.

In no time at all, he’s leaning into her touch, using the gentle pressure to centre himself.

Pleased with this reaction, her other hand comes up to brush long chocolate strands back behind his ears, and Bucky can’t help but blink his eyes back open, and focus them in on her face.

Y/N is smiling, it’s genuine, and proud and Bucky doesn’t think she pities him at all anymore.

She loves him, and it shows.

“‘m sorry”

His voice is a gruff whisper. He forces himself to swallow as she shakes her head and draws herself closer to his body.

“It’s okay,” Y/N swears, steadying herself between his parted thighs, “everything’s okay.”

Bucky doesn’t believe her.

He doesn’t remember how he got here, he doesn’t remember why he’s so upset, and that isn’t a good sign at all.

His mind races backwards in an attempt to retrace his steps.

The mission he’d been on was clear, it’d been a small, easy recon job, he’d gone with Natasha Romanoff.

He quite liked working with the spy, even if she did occasionally bark at him in russian.

Y/N watches as the man’s eyes glaze over, before eventually dropping shut.

She lets him retreat into himself, knowing that he’s using her presence to do so in a way that feels safer than the alternative option of solitude.

Bucky winces, when he finally recalls the gash in his side. He’d pushed the widow out of the way and been caught with a blade for his trouble.

It’s all terribly clear, then. He remembers her thanking him and glaring at his ribs. He remembers the wound throbbing angrily as he pressed the fabric of his vest into it, in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

Metal fingers flutter over to that spot on his bare torso, it finds a mess of thick, warm blood and open skin.

It aches as he prods along its edges, and he can feel the stickiness of the liquid clinging to his body.

And then, just like that, Bucky knows what happened.

Steve had insisted that he get it seen to properly.

He’d tried to argue, to remind the Captain how he’d had much worse over the years, and how the serum in his veins would have the frayed skin looking like new in a few hours, without the need to bother Dr. Banner or the other medical staff with something as stupid as stitching the equivalent of a paper cut.

But in the end he’d surrendered to the fatherly tone and the blatant concern in his oldest friends voice, and so he’d let the man lead him down into the lower levels of the tower, and assured him of how fine he was, even as he’d been unceremoniously stripped out of his tactical vest by a stranger dressed in white clinical gear.

He’d even been excited to see Y/N, despite the fact that he hadn’t envisioned seeing the woman he loved for the first time that day, whilst laying flat on his back on a hard metal table.

Still, he’d been just fine until, Steve had gone to fetch her from where she’d been laughing with Bruce in the adjacent room.

At that point, Bucky Barnes had found himself unable to fixate on any familiar faces, and when met with the lack of that particular distraction, the surface he was on, had suddenly felt a little too cold.

His head had started to spin, and his skin had begun to crawl with memories of the intravenous mixture that used to always accompany rooms that looked almost identical to the one that he was in.

They’d tie him down and pump him full of chemicals that he’d sworn were liquid fire, or, had they drugged him before tying him down?

He expected it’d been a bit of both, he figured that might depend on when it was, on who his owners where.

It wasn’t worth the risk of waiting to find out if it was already too late.

Bucky had bolted upright. He’d tried to catch his breath and remember where he was, but suddenly all he could hear was the beeping of machinery, and the chatter of unseen faces that was just clouded enough to seem like a plausible threat.

He’d been up and moving, though, he didn’t quite remember running.

The sound of his boots on the floors had been the most familiar thing to him at that moment, maybe that’s why he hadn’t stopped. Or maybe that was the anxiety linked muscular response that Bruce kept telling him about.

Either way, thinking back, his quick exit must’ve caused quite a stir, because there had definitely been a siren, and flashing lights that had only served to intensify Bucky’s need to escape.

Lock-downs and rewires, and clean-slates and, cryo-chambers and slack jawed handlers were all he could picture as the rooms and floors of the tower he now called home came crumbling down around him.

Some deep-routed instinct had lead him to the last place he’d felt safe.

With hands grazing the walls in a last ditch attempt to keep himself above metaphorical water, Bucky had found himself back in his room, staring at the bed where his lover had been sleeping when he’d left her early this morning.

He’d let himself head towards the soft surface that seemed to be the only stable thing in the room, and then he’d been still. Sure, his breaths had continued to rip up threw his chest in a violent and terrified rhythm, but Bucky Barnes had found himself, very suddenly, not moving at all.

He’s knows he’s panting again now, as he continues to wrack his brain for the few parts of the journey that are still missing.

Did anyone try and stop him? Did he break something important? Did he hurt someone?

“Bucky” Y/N coos, a palm sliding over his flesh hand, she knows it’s still pressing down on his thigh with enough force to leave a bruise and she feels herself frowning at it unhappily, until he relaxes it a fraction at her touch “Look at me.”

The man hadn’t realised that his eyes had stayed shut, but, he does as she asks, and drags his gaze upwards.

“It’s alright”

She says again, it’s firm but kind.

His head tilts a little as he offers her a disbelieving expression.

Y/N chuckles softly, her fingers curling against his temple.

Bucky has to bite back a pathetic whimper at how nice it feels.

He fights the urge to pull away in an act of self punishment. He doesn’t deserve to feel comforted. He doesn’t even know why he’s upset, but he knows she doesn’t like it when he does that too himself, so he tries to ignore the nagging feeling of unworthiness that’s ever-present in his mind.

“Do you know what spooked you?” She asks earnestly, “So we don’t do it again?”

His back tenses again, shame pulls his blue eyes back to the floor and he forces another dry swallow as he readies himself to speak.

“I-“ Bucky begins, “I don’t like med-bays.”

It sounds terribly childish, when he hears it out-loud, but Y/N nods slowly, an understanding look on her face.

“You’re hurt-” her calm voice murmurs, “- and you’ve been down there before, and you’ve been alright.”

She wasn’t sure if that reminder would be particularly well received, but when she notices the redness creeping up Bucky’s neck to his cheeks, she realises it wasn’t.

“I don’t mean it like that” Y/N corrects quickly, not wanting him to add, ‘I’ve done better before’ to his list of self-deprecating thoughts, “I-“

Bucky Hears her sigh again, but it definitely sounds frustrated this time.

He’s almost worried about the implication of the noise, but then he notices the way that her hands are still soft on his skin- they’re stabilising and kind, and he doesn’t think she’s angry at him, he hopes she’s not, anyway, because he’s really not sure he could take that.

“-I just wanted to know if we did somethin’ different, this time, Buck. Somethin’ that upset you.” Her voice isn’t tight or irritated, that calms him a fraction.

He shakes his head carefully, not wanting her to pull her hand away from his face.

“Just panicked” Bucky confesses, “Rodgers left to grab ya’ and I- I forgot where I was”

His voice is cracking with shame and lingering pain, and Y/N feels her heart strings tighten as she sees how hard on himself he’s being.

“That’s alright” she swears again, “You didn’t hurt anyone, you didn’t do anythin’ other than leave.”

His blue eyes are on hers again. He’s trying to steady himself, she can tell.

Bucky flips his flesh hand over to clutch at hers. He plays with her fingers for a second before inhaling long and slow.

Y/N takes that as her cue to move. She rises to her feet slowly, keeping one hand entwined with his as the other slips round to the nape of his neck.

He knows he should follow her. He knows he should stand and go wherever she wants to lead him. But he can’t, or won’t, or just, god, he realises, he just doesn’t want to move at all.

“Is it sore?” She wonders, eyeing the murky slash that’s still leaking fresh blood in a thin line down his side.

She lets him rest his brow against her stomach as she takes a small step closer towards him.

Bucky shakes his head, he feels the fabric of her t-shirt sticking to his brow and he’s suddenly acutely aware that he’s still half naked.

There’s no shame in that, not with her, but he hates how scarred he must look right now. The white lines of tissue that mare his torso pair well with the shattered remains of his sanity, he thinks grimly that it’s almost fitting that he’s so visibly damaged, it’s like a warning to others that he’s dangerous, that they should stay away-

Y/N hums considerately, the noise is light and nonjudgemental and Bucky makes his shoulders sag in a lame attempt at forced relaxation.

She’s watching him as he does so, she sees his posture droop and lets her gaze continue to sweep over him as she continues to weigh up how urgently he might require medical attention.

“I don’t feel good” he mumbles quietly, “I can’t go back there”

She knows he’s not just talking about the med-bay, she knows he’s terrified.

He doesn’t see her nod, but he does feel her knuckles grazing the deep set scar that’s usually hidden by a tangle of hair at the very base of his skull.

It’s affectionate, it’s gentle and soothing.

“I know.” Y/N replies at last, “You’re not going anywhere”

It’s a promise, Bucky can hear it in her tone, it’s the same tone she has when she tells him she loves him, when she tells him he’s safe and home for good.

Another sob claws at his throat. He tenses again, trying to force it down, but he can’t quite manage to lock his jaw in time, and with a pitiful shiver, it erupts from his lips, leaving him hidden and blushing into the thin cotton veil of Y/N’s top.

He hopes in vain that she’s missed it, but as her arms tighten around him, securing him in her embrace, Bucky Barnes knows he’s caught. He knows he can’t hide from the beautiful woman who’s keeping him safe, and then, in another horrible moment of clarity, he realises that he just can’t hold back anymore.

Y/N slips the hand he’s not holding lower, until it’s flush against the middle of his back. She rubs small circles between his shoulders and she squeezes his flesh palm supportively as he begins to accept the loss of control that she knows is inevitable.

The stinging behind his eyes is overwhelming, now. The pressure is building inside his head, and he can feel his lower lip trembling.

Her voice is telling him that it’s okay to cry, that he’s okay to let go.

Bucky doesn’t want to cry. He’s ashamed enough as it is. He feels weak enough, as it is, but when another sob shakes through him, he doesn’t even try to stop it, he just prays it’s just one more, that he’ll magically regain some self control and be able to pull himself together, but, it’s not, just one, there’s two more, and then three more, and then four, and then before he knows what’s happening he’s weeping.

It’s loud, and wet and painful.

Y/N holds him tighter, murmuring sweet words into his hair as he tries to stifle his wailing.

If Bucky hadn’t been scared before, he’s definitely afraid now; he’s choking on air and it’s making him dizzy, and his vision glazes over before his eyes drop shut, and he realises that it feels like he’s drifting in and out of his own mind as his body betrays him, again.

“Shhhh, now” Y/N purrs, her nails grazing his back, “You’re alright”

Barnes can hear her voice, he can hear her promising him that everything’s okay. But it sounds strangely far away, everything, he thinks, sounds strangely far away. He tries to focus on his own strangled cries, because surely those should seem close, and real and loud, but even they seem like they’re coming from somewhere else.

“Bucky” her voice croons, bubbling over the imagined distance and capturing his attention, “Listen to me-”

Y/N drops to her knees again, she’s cradling his face in her hands, the skin of his cheeks is hot and damp from tears, he lets his head hang low and she feels the weight of it fall into her palms.

“You’re not going anywhere.” she promises, “you’re okay, I’m here, you’re stayin’ with me”

Bucky sniffs, trying to come back to himself.

“Breathe” Y/N instructs, “I’ve got you, Bucky, just breathe for me, it’s okay.”

He obeys as much as he can, dragging a full, cold breath into his lungs, before coughing it out with a whimper.

She nods in approval as he continues to try and correct the way he’d been hyperventilating before.

“Good”

The praise breaks through everything else, and stirs something nice in his chest.

Bucky wants to be good. He want’s to be the best he can be.

He thinks he’s on the right track with that train of thought, until the voices in his head begin to shift towards condescending, and he realises that he can’t alter them to anything else. His head shakes a fraction as he’s overcome with a flash of a long dead handler looming above him, rattling off a long list of commands that he had barely been able to follow, even back then, when obeying had been his sole reason for existing.

A slap hits his cheek in the memory, and he assumes he’s done something wrong, although he has no idea what it could be.

He knows he’s trying his hardest, he was always trying his hardest.

“you want to be the best, don’t you solider?”

The voice is right in his ear. It’s all around him, and he wants to scream. He does scream, but he’s not sure if it’s real, or just in his head.

“Shhhh” Y/N exhales, looking at the man who’s now quaking with a mixture of horror and exertion with nothing but fondness and concern, “you’re with me, remember? Nobodies going to hurt you.”

Bucky knows he’s slipping. He clutches onto her waist like she’s a raft in the middle of a turbulent ocean and it’s all he can do not to get swept away.

At some point, Y/N’s fingers have found there way back up to his hair, she’s caressing the tangled strands by his ears with one hand, as the other cups his jaw to support his unsteady position.

He whines as she tugs at the lengths. It’s a desperate, needy sound, but he doesn’t care. He loves her. He loves the feeling of her skin on his. He loves the way she touches his hair.

“Good” she murmurs again, “You’re doing so good, Buck. It’s going to be okay.”

Bucky feels his chest aching. It’s like his heart is trying to break free from his body and get closer to hers.

He wonders absentmindedly if she knows how utterly devoted to her, he is.

Y/N considers his face again, she brushes his lower lip with her thumb and smiles at his attempts at deep-breathing.

She leans forwards a little, and Bucky feels her lips grazing his brow. He leans into the touch and cries a little less harshly as the heat of her mouth remains on his face.

“I love you” her voice swirls around his skin, her words vibrate against his skull and Bucky wishes that they could chisel themselves into his mind so he could hear them forever, “I love you, so much, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Bucky doesn’t think Y/N has any idea how flattered he is when she calls him that. He doesn’t think she knows how precious her terms of endearment make him feel.

She’s repeating how much she adores him when his chest finally relaxes. The air is expelled from his lungs in a huff, and all the tension from his shoulders despepates, leaving him feeling empty and drained.

Suddenly he realises that he’s not crying anymore. He’s just, shaking and whimpering as he hears her pet name, over and over and over again, looping softly inside his mind like a prayer.

Something must have shown on his face, because when he blinks unsure eyes up to hers, Y/N is gazing at him with a strange expression that seems equal parts protective and proud.

She’s still on his level, there’s adoration pouring out of her in waves.

Bucky feels like he’s made of broken glass, and she’s the only thing holding him together.

“Sweetheart?”

It’s thick with love, it’s dripping in tenderness and fondness and everything good in the world.

“You like that, huh?”

She’s not mocking him, he knows she’s not, she sounds genuinely curious, but when he just blinks slowly, letting cold tears drip from his eyelashes, she decides not to press, she can see from that, that he likes it and that’s enough of a reason for her to call him it forever.

Y/N smiles again, and Bucky can’t believe he’s hers.

He can’t believe that his century of life has lead him to something as good, and pure as her.

“I know you’re scared-” she whispers, as he swipes at his eyes with metal fingers that are still tinted with blood from his wound. “-but you’re okay, everthing’s alright.”

Bucky offers her a shaky nod to convey the faith he wants to have in her statement.

She lessens the hold she has on his face, and strokes his cheeks with tender affection.

He feels the pads of her fingers clearing away tear tracks, and sniffles a little in response to the vulnerability he’s feeling under her gaze.

God, he loves her.

Telling her that seems important, now.

She’s heard him say it before, of course.

They’ve been together a while, and he’s not shy about confessing the depth of his affections for his partner, in fact, the other inhabitants of the tower loved to tease him about the way he clings to Y/N’s side. They say he’s love-sick, and over-protective. He knows that they’re right, so he just shrugs at the comments and tells her that she’s his world.

Usually she laughs, her face lighting up with sheer elation, as she pecks a kiss on his cheek and tells him that they feelings mutual.

He wants to see her looking at him like that now. But he can’t make himself speak. He can’t make the words leave his lips, he supposes he’s holding back because he’s afraid of losing control again, but with the way that Y/N is watching him calmly, her brown eyes shining, he can’t bring himself to feel too badly about his lack of bravery. She seems to think it’s okay for him to be this weak sometimes, and if she thinks that, then maybe he should too.

You were beyond excited, it was finally tonight, the night! You were going out with the Bucky Barnes tonight, you still couldn't believe it. He was the catch of the neighborhood, and yet, he'd asked you out. He was the type of boy who could have anyone, and there were plenty of girls who did want him, but he wanted you.

You felt a flutter in your chest, and you tried to calm down, sitting on the couch in your front room, trying your hardest not to stare out the window. He would come, you were sure of it. This wasn't some prank, he wouldn't do that...would he? Surely not, Bucky wasn't that type of man, right?

A knock on your front door jostled you out of your thoughts and you jumped up immediately, flattening your hands over your skirt, getting rid of any wrinkles before you quickly crossed to the door, not wanting to keep him waiting.

You opened the door, eyes focused on the doorknob until you had it open enough. You looked up to the figure in your doorway, your gaze traveling up a fitted waistcoat, a navy jacket, semi messy tie and that face.

Cut jawline, high cheekbones, straight nose, pink lips, and blue, blue eyes. His hair was slicked back, pressed down against his head and you smiled, thinking how sweet it was that he was so dressed up for you.

Bucky's eyes were focused lower than your face, and you felt your cheeks heat when you realized he was staring at your chest. You laughed lightly but his eyes were dark, making you take a step backwards, your laugh turning awkward.

His eyes snapped up to yours, full of concern and laughter. "Doll, where'd you get that rock? Steal it from your ma's jewelry box?" He gently turned you back into the house, following you in and shutting the door behind him. You frowned, looking down at your chest, lifting a hand to your necklace. It was a small gemstone, your birth month, given to you by an ex. You told him that, looking up at him and there was a flash of that darkness again, but it was so quick you could have imagined it.

“Where’s your dad? I wanted to tell him what time you’ll be home,” Bucky asked, changing the subject as he looked around the front room into the kitchen. 

“Oh, he’s napping. Had a long day at work and said to tell you that I should be home by eleven,” you lied, actually having no idea where your dad was, he’d left a few weeks ago and you and your mother were just barely scraping by right now. 

Bucky nodded slowly, then spoke quietly. “Well, I wouldn’t want to wake him. Shall we go?” 

“Of course! Let me get my purse,” you whispered, bending to grab it off the couch. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, but you knew your skirt was covering everything. Still, you felt unnerved, like he could see through all the layers to the skin underneath.

You shook off the feeling, standing up with your clutch in hand, and walked back to the front door with Bucky, his arm behind your back, not quite touching, but it raised the hair on your arms. 

“Maybe I better grab a jacket,” you murmured, suddenly chilled, but Bucky had already shut the door, and was guiding you down the front steps. 

“Doll, we’re a block from the theater, if you’re that cold you can have mine,” Bucky said easily, sliding the jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, catching it in his hands before he lifted it to your shoulders. He draped it around you, letting you grab the lapels and pull them in close. You breathed in his spicy scent, shivering again, and Bucky chuckled. “Guess you were cold.” 

The two of you walked down the road to the theater, Bucky walking you right up to the ticket taker, already handing over two before you could even read what was showing. You tried to look back at the marquee, but the man was ripping them in half, handing them back to Bucky and saying, “Enjoy the show.” Bucky ushered you inside, getting a popcorn and soda before leading you into the theater, into the second to last row, right in the middle, and though you were confused, you sat down. 

“Are we not sitting closer?” you asked quietly, always feeling awkward talking normally at the movies, even if it hadn’t started yet. 

“Nah, this is the best seat in the house, trust me,” Bucky said, leaning back in his seat and eating some popcorn, offering you some too. You smiled and took a piece, chewing slowly as the lights dimmed, the picture starting. 

You sat back in your seat, engulfed in Bucky’s jacket, keeping you nice and warm as you drank some soda before handing it back to Bucky. He moved around beside you, jostling you gently, and you turned to him, trying to see what he was doing. He sat forwards, blocking your view of most of him, and you were concerned, thinking he had been sick, but he suddenly handed you the soda and popcorn, so you took it and moved to set them down, but he tapped your thigh, just above your knee. 

Leaning over in the seats, Bucky whispered in your ear. “You still cold, doll?” You shook your head, and he continued, “You sure?” as his fingers trailed over your knee. You shivered again, feeling uncomfortable, not sure what he was getting at. His hand swept under your skirt and you moved to push it away, but you were holding the popcorn. You couldn’t reach to set it down on the floor, and you weren’t going to dump it, your other hand holding the soda, so big you could barely hold it one handed. 

You couldn’t do anything but sit there as Bucky’s hand explored under your skirt, massaging your thighs, pushing them further open until he reached your covered sex. He rubbed over your panties, feeling the warmth emanating from you, and he grinned against your ear. 

“That’s why you’re not cold anymore! You’ve got all this heat inside you, keeping you burning up. Share that heat, huh babydoll? Share it with me, won’t you?” Bucky kept rubbing at you, over your clit, making circles with an even pressure, and you couldn’t help the way you felt warmth rising from your toes up to your cheeks. 

Bucky’s fingers suddenly pushed your panties aside and slid in the wetness that he had created, coating themselves in your slick before slipping against your bare cunt. You tried to buck your hips to get him away, but all it did was give him the opportunity to slide his fingers into your pussy, making you gasp just as an explosion happened on screen. You hadn’t realized what kind of movie it was, but a war movie was not what you expected.

You jumped, Bucky moving with you, keeping his fingers inside you, and when you settled, you were practically sitting on his hand, Bucky’s body turned to face you, his knees digging into your thigh. His other arm was wrapped around your shoulders, on top of his own jacket, settled on your breast. 

It was more than anyone had ever touched you before, beyond yourself, and it was getting to you- you were trapped with no way to move, and you were too scared to make a noise, despite the explosions still happening on screen, humiliated at the thought of being found like this. Bucky sucked on your earlobe, making another shiver wrack your body, and he tightened his hold on you. 

“Sorry dollface, forgot, I’m takin’ some of your warmth, I should be givin’ it back to ya,” Bucky whispered, hot breath on the skin behind your ear, nearly making a moan slip out of you, despite yourself. He kissed your neck, sucking on the skin, ragged breaths leaving your lips as he moved along to your collarbones, peeking out of your top. 

“Damn it, I want your tits out,” Bucky muttered darkly, and your cheeks turned hot, his crass language a bit of a shock, despite what he was doing to you. He took the popcorn from your hand, and tossed it into the empty seat next to you. You turned to him, opening your mouth to tell him off, but Bucky kissed you, plunging his tongue into your mouth, stopping your words. 

You tried to protest but every noise you made was swallowed up by Bucky, kissing you messily and deeply, shoving his tongue down your throat as his free hand pulled at your top. You tried to stop him, but he had one of your tits out of your lace bra and through the neckline of your top before you could even get your hand up to his. You tried to swat at him in the small space but only succeeded in further pushing your top down, allowing Bucky the opportunity to pull your other breast out. 

Bucky finally pulled away from your lips and you gasped for air, squeaking when his hand covered one of your breasts, massaging it and rolling your nipple in his fingers, his other still buried between your legs. “See? There’s a girl, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, get on my lap and give me some of that warmth.” 

Your head whipped around to face Bucky’s, leering at you in the dark, eyes shining brightly but darkly. “Get on my lap now before I show this whole theater what a fucking slut you are, begging me to finger you in back of the picture show, tits out for anyone to see.” 

Tears sprang to your eyes, but you couldn’t do anything but nod, finally able to set the soda down as Bucky moved his hands to your waist, letting you bend to put it down before lifting you onto his lap. He pulled you back, lifting you at your thighs and setting you down with his cock slapping up against your pussy. 

You squeaked again, you hadn’t even known his cock was out, and it startled you, feeling it huge between your legs. Bucky hooked his chin over your shoulder and whispered in your ear, “Yeah, that’s it babydoll, I know it’s big, but you’re gonna take it aren’t ya? Now reach down and grab it, easy doll or we both get caught, remember? And you’re the one with her tits out, skirt up, panties drenched,” Bucky reminded you.

You held his cock gently but firmly, guiding it to your entrance, but your panties were still on. “Push them aside, and sit on my cock before I decide to stop bein’ nice and use your other lil’ hole instead,” Bucky ordered darkly, and you whimpered, reaching down and sliding your panties to the side, and pressing his cockhead against you. 

“Bucky…please. I’m- I’m a virgin,” you whispered, and you felt Bucky shudder beneath you. 

“I thought so, but to hear you say it, fuck, babydoll I’m gonna be so good to you, my little virgin,” Bucky crooned against your ear, and spread your thighs wider apart. The tears that filled your eyes before began falling as he lifted you up, making you position his dick below you, then he began to lower you. 

Bucky’s dick split you open as soon as it entered you, and your mouth dropped open on a silent shout as all the air raced out of you. You quickly bit your lip, hard enough to draw blood, desperate to keep quiet, as Bucky pulled your hips down and back until you were sitting in his lap again, his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

You were aching, deep inside, it felt like a gut punch to your insides, but Bucky was swearing up a storm in your ear, telling you, “Babydoll, you feel…fuck, you feel amazing, my sweet little virgin girl. Oh I’m gonna take care of you doll, this cunt is fucking heaven, my dick’s never been so snug, I’m gonna blow in seconds baby. Don’t worry, this is just round one.” 

Before you could even process it, Bucky was bringing one of his hands between your legs and rubbing your exposed clit, his other hand slapping over your mouth, muffling your cry. You tensed on him, tight, not sure if you were coming or not, but he came, you could feel splashes of cum filling you, warming your insides. 

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pulling you to lean back against his chest. Your eyes were drying but there were tear tracks down your face that Bucky kissed. “You were perfect doll, just perfect. Now just sit here and relax, watch the rest of the movie- I need to see these gorgeous tits some more,” he said, raising his hands to your chest, groping your breasts for a while before he just held them in his hands, squeezing every once in a while. 

You couldn’t move, feeling his cock still inside you, softening but not slipping out, still big and keeping you plugged up. You rested your head against Bucky’s shoulder, helpless to do anything but wait for the movie to end, but getting anxious about people seeing you. 

Finally, just before the credits started to roll, Bucky released your breasts, stuffing them back in your top, ignoring your bra. You tried to quickly stand, but the change in angle of his dick inside you made you gasp, sinking back into Bucky. 

“Nice and slow, dollface, told you it was the best seat in the house, don’t go hurtin’ it,” he murmured into your ear, helping you off his dick, his fingers under your skirt, adjusting your panties as you stood in front of him. He tucked his dick away and stood, grabbing his jacket and leaving the trash. You tried to bend to pick it up, but you were aching again, and Bucky was pushing you out of the aisle, so you left it. He placed his jacket over your shoulders again, wrapping his arm around them afterwards, pulling you into his side, turning your face into his chest, hiding your messy face from sight.

“Have a good night!” called the ticket taker, and Bucky responded in kind, with a jaunty, happy tone that you couldn’t believe had sounded so sincere earlier in the night. He walked you home, whistling a cheery tune, keeping you tucked into his side. You tried to walk up the steps and get the front door open without him, but he was glued to you. 

“Now doll, I’m not going without saying somethin’ to your father. I expect he’d want to know you had a good evening and are home safe,” Bucky said, a glint in his eye that you didn’t trust, and you tried to slip inside when you got the door unlocked, but he pushed it open wide, following you in. “Where is he, huh dollface? Where’s your father? Matter of fact, where’s your mother?” 

You were shaking like a leaf as Bucky shut and locked the door, whistling again as he stalked towards you. “They’re not here, are they baby? No, your daddy walked out on you, didn’t he? And your ma’s out there right now hookin’ to make ends meet! I saw her the other night, don’t fucking deny it.” You were backing up, Bucky still preying after you, until your back hit a wall, and he pressed you up against it. 

“My little virgin girl’s all alone, she needs someone to take care of her,” Bucky crooned, nosing at your neck. One of his hands came up to rest on your throat lightly, before pinching the chain around it and yanking hard. Your necklace broke, gemstone scattering on the floor and you gasped, staring at Bucky with wide eyes.

I was reading in my living room when I was interrupted by a knock on the front door. I sighed and placed a bookmark between two pages of the book, stood up and walked to the door through a small hallway, covered in a brow blanket.

Before I opened the door, I got on my toes and looked through the peephole. Surprise shot through my whole body. I quickly unlock the door and open them.

There he stood. Messy brown hair, sharp jawline, bright blue eyes staring right at me, pink lips -I've dreamed about them so many times that it's embarrassing- that are turned into small smile.

"What are you doing here?!"

I asked a little too loudly and threw myself onto him. His strong arms circled around my waist whilst mine were around his neck. I buried my face into his neck, his cologne hitting me right away. He always smells so good.

I haven't seen him in days.

I could feel his smile get bigger against my hair. "Promised you to come see you right after I'm back." He whispered.

"Yeah but you said that you would be back the next Friday." I said and pulled away to look at him, our arms still around each other.

He looked at me and moved his right hand to my face to brush away my hair. My heart skipped a beat and I could feel my cheeks turning into light pink colour.

"The mission just ended sooner than we expected." He was still looking at me. This man is perfect. And my crush on him grows bigger yet again.I nod in understanding.

"So can I come in?" He asked after few seconds.

My eyes widened. I got lost in my thoughts and his eyes and the feeling of being so close to him that I forgot to invite him in."Of course." I nodded sharply and chuckled nervously.

We pulled away from each other, I turned and went inside. Bucky followed me.

Once we were I inside he closed the door behind himself, took his shoes off and followed me to the living room.

"Do you want tea, coffee or beer?" I asked him and watched as he walked to the sofa and sat down.

"Water, please." he smiled. I turned around and made my way to the kitchen. I got out a clean glass and filled it with water. Then I went back and handled him the glass and sat next to him. He thanked me and took sip, after he placed it on the coffee table.

I sat next to him and pulled the blanket tighter around me. "So... how was the mission?" I slightly tilted my head to my right and frowned a little.

"It was good. Everything went smoothly." He said and got more comfortable  by spreading his legs and throwing his head on the sofa. There is something so attractive about men doing this. I had to look away and hold the blanket tighter.

"How have you been?" I hear him say so I look at him again. He is looking at me again and having that soft little smile on his lips.

"Except being stressed from work I was actually good." I say, matching his smile.

He frowned. "That idiot is giving you hard time again?" He really doesn't like my boss.

"Yes, plus do you remember the colleague I told you about like two weeks ago?" I pull my knees to my chest so now I'm sitting with my front turned to him.

"The one that acts like creep?" He straightens up and tilts his head again. He looks like he is ready to track him down and do illegal things to him.

"Yes." Before I can continue he cuts me off.

"Did he do something to you? If I find out that he tried to touch you without your consent then I will find him and-"

"No no, he didn't do anything." I quickly cut him of as well before he can continue and tell me how he would kill him. "He just gave me flowers and chocolate."

He narrowed his eyes and frowned. "I don't like him."

I shook my head at him and chuckled. "Me neither, but you said to tell you everything he does, so."

"I know." He says and after few minutes of a rain being the only thing being heard he placed his legs on the coffee table.

I glared at him even thought he couldn't see me because he was looking out of a window, he could feel me staring at him tho because I could see  smirk growing on his lips.

I took one of many pillows I had on the couch and hit him with it in the face. "Hey!" He exclaimed and glared at me. "Why would you do that?" He asked innocently.

"Put those nasty feet of my table." I narrowed my eyes at him and tried not to laugh.

"Or what?" He licked his lips, my eyes automatically dropped to them for a second and then the smirk was back and even bigger.

"Or I will hit you again." I try to at least sound a little intimidating and confident but fail.

"Oh I'm scared." He said sarcastically and threw his hands in the air beside his head.

I stretched out to hit him again but he caught my wrists and hold them above my head.

"Hey!" I complained and tried to get out of this hold but failed. "You can't do this"

"Why not?" He tilted his head to the side and smirked at me.

"It's against the rules." I raised my brow and say it like it's obvious.

He just laughed at me and shook his head. "Who made this rules?"

"I did" I rolled my eyes and tried to get free again. That made him tighten his hold and raise his eyebrow.

"Stop trying, we both know there is no chance for you to get free."

I rolled my eyes and tried again. This time he moved his flesh hand to my waist and pushed me on the sofa; so now I was laying on my back and he was on top of me still holding my hands above me with his other hand. Well, at least he took his feet off the table.

In the process I accidentally dropped the pillow. "Bucky!" I gasped.

He licked his lips again. His lower body is between my legs and dangerously close to my pussy. I bet I look like a tomato right now. "What will you do now hmm?"

I opened my mouth to say something, anything but nothing came out. My breathing got heavier, my temperature grew higher and my pulse quickened.

"Cat got your tongue, doll?" He moved closer. It wasn't the first time he called me 'doll' but every time I get butterflies. The nickname will be the death of me.

"Hmm?" He tilted his head to a side when I didn't reply. I swallowed hard and his eyes dropped to my throat. I don't know why but they seemed darker. His grip on my waist and hands tightened causing me to bite my bottom lip. A whimper almost came out of me but luckily got stuck in my throat.

He looked into my eyes again and moved closer, our faces just millimetres away from each other and our noses almost touching. "I like it when you blush."

Oh god, this man knows what to say to make girl nervous, and what to do to make her horny.

His hand released my hands and slid to my face. He cupped my left cheek and stroked it.

I opened my mouth to say something but I don't know what. This is the first time we were this close. Him being on top of me, holding me and cupping my cheek. I always dreamed of this and other things that involved Bucky.

He moved again and our noses were touching. "Bucky." I breathlessly said. Are we about to kiss? Am I dreaming, drugged or is this really happening?

He said my name and gave me the look where he was silently asking if it's okay. I nodded and he finally leaned in.

Our lips touched, our eyes closed and butterflies exploded in my belly. We kissed like our lives depend on it. It's full of passion but also hunger.

He pulls away when our lungs burn due to a lack of oxygen. I could still feel the feeling of his lips agains mine.

Now that I know how he kisses I need more of it. I put my hands on his cheeks and pulled him back. This one was even better. Deeper.

I suddenly felt his tongue sliding across my bottom lip which caused me to open my mouth in shock. His warm tongue slid into my mouth and found mine. We fought for dominance but he won. For now.

The Quinjet settles onto the ground, engines winding down into a low hum that fades into the night. Outside, the facility looms like a corpse that’s had its liver pecked out again and again. Windows gape like empty eye sockets, the wind moaning through broken panels and fractured vents, carrying with it the dry smell of dust and old stone.

Your boots hit the ground softly, knees bending to absorb the impact and funneling it in for reserve. The air is colder here, sharp in your lungs, and something about the place makes the faint hum of your power stir under your skin like a restless animal.

Bucky drops beside you with the quiet confidence of someone who has done this a thousand times. Yelena lands on your other side, rolling her shoulders once as she scans the perimeter. John and Ava fan out instinctively, covering the angles while Alexei’s heavier boots thud softly into the gravel.

No one speaks at first.

The building does that to people.

You shake your head to clear it as you start to chase the why of that thought, gaze traveling up the skeletal frame of the structure. Something twists low in your stomach. Not fear exactly. Something closer to recognition.

Its… familiar.

You shove the feeling down again before it can root itself.

“Alright,” you murmur, voice low but steady through the comms. “We go quiet from here.”

Several small clicks answer as safeties disengage and gear shifts into ready positions.

The main entrance hangs crooked on rusted hinges, one half of the heavy metal door blown outward as if something forced its way through long ago. You slip through the opening, light sweeping once across the interior, dust motes filling the beam .

The lobby beyond is cavernous and decayed, floor littered with debris. Old metal desks sit overturned, soot stains splashed across the walls. Fractured tiles crunch softly under your boots as you step forward, the team following in tight formation behind you.

The air inside feels wrong.

Stale.

Too still despite the breeze outside.

Your light slides over the walls and the sensation grows stronger. Long, branching cracks snake across the concrete like spiderwebs. Sections of plaster hang loose, sagging away from the structure beneath. A small cascade of dust drifts down from the ceiling as a gust of wind finds its way through the cracks, sparkling faintly in the beams of your lights before settling across your shoulders.

“Place looks like it’s about to fall over,” John mutters under his breath.

Alexei huffs softly behind him. “Is good sign. Means whoever's inside feels safe hiding here.”

Yelena’s voice cuts in quietly from your right. “Or they want us to think that.”

You don’t answer, a twinge of nausea slicking your throat, mind battling against that sneaking feeling that you have been here before.

The corridor ahead splits almost immediately, branching off into two narrow hallways that twist away from the main chamber like veins. The building’s interior architecture visibly makes no sense, even just from the lobby.

Your jaw tightens.

Mastermind.

Telepaths love their little games.

“Stay close,” you say, keeping your voice even. “If the layout shifts, it’s not real. Trust the formation. Do not leave sightlines.”

Bucky’s presence settles just behind your left shoulder, silent and watchful. Yelena moves opposite him, her steps light as a shadow.

The deeper you go, the more the building seems to deteriorate around you. Paint peels in long curling strips. Pipes jut out from broken sections of wall. The floor slopes slightly in places, warped from years of neglect, more dust trickling from the ceiling every dozen feet.

The corridor twists unexpectedly to the right.

Then again.

Then splits once more.

Ava’s voice murmurs quietly through the comms. “Layout’s not matching the scan.”

“Yeah,” you reply calmly, sweeping your light down the next bend. “I noticed.”

Another crack splinters across the wall beside you with a faint, dry snap. A breath catches in your lungs as the sound echoes down the hallway like a gunshot in the silence.

You pause for half a second, listening as the building creaks around you.Something shifts deep inside the structure. A low groan of stressed metal and ancient concrete send a fresh wave of dust and stale air rolling through the hall like the death rattle of a beast.

The labyrinth begins.

You inhale slowly, taking another step forward. “Eyes up,” you say softly. “He knows we’re here now.”

For a few moments, the only sounds are the soft creak of the building and the steady rhythm of breathing through comms.

Then something changes.

At first it’s so faint you almost miss it.

A whisper.

You stop mid-step, sweeping your light slowly down the corridor.. “Hold.” The hall stretches ahead in the same crooked line of peeling walls and sagging pipes but nothing moves in the dank air.

But the whisper comes again. Not from ahead but seeping in from every angle. It curls through the air like smoke, soft and distant. A murmur of voices overlapping each other, just at the edge of hearing.

John shifts behind you. “Did anyone—”

A small voice cuts through the static.

“Dada!”

John goes completely still.

You don’t have to turn to know the look on his face.

The whisper comes again, clearer now.

“Dada!”

Behind you, Alexei’s heavy boots scrape against the floor as he turns his head toward the sound. “No…” he murmurs under his breath as another voice joins the first.

This one is softer.

“Papa?”

Alexei’s shoulders jerk as if someone struck him.

You turn slightly, just enough to catch the expressions on their faces.

John looks pale, eyes darting toward the empty hallway as if he expects Olivia to appear with Michael in her arms. Alexei’s jaw has gone rigid, his massive hands curling slowly into fists.

And the whispers keep multiplying.

A new sound ripples through the air and Bucky’s breath hitches, the sound harsh. You glance back to find he’s gone rigid behind you, eyes distant, like something just reached into his skull and twisted.

Then the voice comes again, clearer.

Flat.

Mechanical.

Russian.

“Желание.”

Bucky’s hand twitches at his side.

“Ржавый.”

He flinches as if slapped.

“Семнадцать.”

A low growl pulls from his throat.

Your stomach drops.

Trigger words.

Yelena stiffens across the formation from him. Her gaze sweeps the hall sharply, but you see the flicker of something deeper in her expression.

Then you hear it too.

A girls voice.

“Yelena!”

Her breath leaves her in a quiet rush. “Natalia?”

The voice floats down the corridor like a memory carried on the wind.

“Lena! You’re going to be late again!”

This time a pained sound pulls from her throat.

“Come home. Dinner’s getting cold.”

“Ava, you have to run! It’s not stable!”

Ghost’s breathing goes harsh over the comms. “Daddy, I couldn’t leave you.” She chokes out.

The whispers warp, flowing past you like an icy current.

Everyone hears exactly what hurts the most.

And you… Your torture is knowing that they are all here because of you.

Of course this is how Mastermind fights. Division, break the formation, let fear do the rest. You inhale slowly and close your eyes, the energy under your skin answering immediately. It rises like a tide beneath your ribs, humming with quiet power and when you open your eyes again, the world sharpens.

The whispers grow louder, pressing against your skull. A dozen voices now, overlapping accusations and grief.

You failed us.

Why didn’t you save me?

Come back.

You promised.

John takes a half step forward.

“John.”

Your voice slices clean through the noise.

He stops instantly, eyes nearly glazed over even as he turns to you.

“This isn’t real.” The words are heavy and slow from your lips, trying to grind them past the whispers.

Alexei’s breathing is heavy now. His eyes track something that isn’t there.

“Natashenka,” he rumbles softly. “She is calling, she needs her papa-”

“It’s him,” you say firmly. “Telepathic projection.”

Another Russian command cuts through the air and Bucky’s jaw clenches so hard you hear his teeth grind. You step toward him first, the energy around your body hums faintly, like heat radiating off asphalt.

“James, look at me,” you say quietly.

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours and the moment your gaze locks with his, you push. Not hard. Just enough. Your power ripples outward like a steady pulse, brushing against the edges of their minds. Not invading, but providing safe harbor.

The whispers distort immediately like a radio station slipping out of signal.

John flinches as the child’s voice warps into static.

Across the formation, Yelena’s head tilts as Natasha’s voice dissolves mid-sentence.

“…lena—”

Silence crashes back into the hallway. You hold the pulse steady for a few seconds longer, letting your power press against the psychic interference like a shield. The building groans quietly around you, somehow feeling like anger pulsing through mortar and steel.

Finally, Bucky exhales slowly, shoulders loosening by a fraction.

“Son of a bitch,” John mutters under his breath.

You lower the pressure of your power but keep it humming beneath the surface. “He’s probing,” you say quietly. “Looking for cracks.” Your light sweeps the corridor again, the branching labyrinth waits ahead, silent now. “But he doesn’t know this team.” Glancing back, you meet each of their gazes in turn. “Stay in formation. Eyes on me.”

You turn back toward the twisting hallway. “Let’s keep moving,” you murmur.

Somewhere deeper in the building, the faintest whisper stirs again. And this time, it sounds almost… amused.

You don’t let yourself hesitate long enough for that realization to fully form, because if you do, you’re not sure what it might pull loose inside your head. The feeling of familiarity has sharpened into something heavier now, something that presses behind your ribs like a slow bruise. Every cracked wall your light sweeps across, every scorch mark half-hidden beneath soot and dust, keeps trying to tell you something your mind is not ready to hear. So you refuse to slow down.

Your boots carry you deeper into the twisting corridor, the beam of your light cutting forward while your power hums steadily beneath your skin. It feels different now, the way it responds to the building around you. Not just alert. Agitated. Like it recognizes something long buried and doesn’t like being here any more than you do.

Behind you, the team holds formation. You can feel the subtle shift. They’re steadier than they were a few minutes ago, the echoes of those first illusions fading beneath training and stubborn will. Mastermind went for the softest targets first, the old wounds, the family ties that cut the deepest. 

And they didn’t break.

John’s breathing has leveled out again. Alexei’s massive presence looms steady at the rear. Ava’s movements are precise, controlled despite the tremor that had crept into her voice earlier. Bucky and Yelena flank you like opposing blades, sharp and watchful, their attention now turned outward instead of inward.

They passed the first test.

You know it.

Mastermind knows it too.

The faint amusement still lingers in the air, brushing the edge of your mind like a fingertip dragged across glass. The corridor twists again, bending sharply left before opening into a wider hall lined with collapsed doorways and broken piping. Your light sweeps across the space, catching layers of dust and the faint outline of something scorched into the far wall.

Your stomach tightens as that poisonous feeling creeps a little deeper instead.

It’s subtle, the way it works on you. Not loud like the illusions that targeted the others. Not obvious. Just a steady pressure building under your thoughts, like something whispering just beneath the surface of your awareness, waiting for you to look directly at it.

“Keep tight,” you say quietly into the comms. “He’s shifting tactics.”

“Yeah,” Yelena murmurs from your right. “I feel that.”

There’s a faint change in the air. Not sound but… density. The hallway ahead seems to darken in a way that has nothing to do with light, the air feeling thicker. Your power reacts instantly, the hum beneath your skin sharpening, stretching outward in a cautious pulse. And this time, when it meets the illusion…

It doesn’t pass through.

It presses against something solid. You slow just enough to register it, light catching movement at the far end of the hall. It’s not a flicker or a distortion, but something solid as it steps from the murk.

At first it looks like a person, half-formed in the dust and dim light, its shape wavering like heat on a summer sidewalk. But instead of dissolving the way the earlier projections did, this one holds. The edges of it grow denser, sharper, as if the hallucination is condensing into the real world piece by piece.

Behind you, Bucky goes still.

“Tell me you see that,” John mutters.

“Oh,” Alexei rumbles quietly. “We see.”

The figure shifts again, its outline solidifying further, feet hovering slightly above the cracked tile.  Your jaw tightens. Mastermind learned from his first trick, the voices didn’t break them.

You feel the shift ripple through the building around you, like the labyrinth itself is reacting to the change in rules. Somewhere deeper in the structure, metal groans and something heavy slams faintly in the distance. Part of your mind is focused on steadying the slow burn under your skin that keeps trying to creep deeper into your thoughts.

Not now.

Not while they’re watching you.

Your power gathers again, quieter this time but sharper, like a blade sliding into place. “Alright,” you say, voice calm despite the way the air has thickened around the team. “Looks like he’s done playing with voices.”

The figure moves into the glow of your tac lights.

“Bob?”

Yelena’s voice carries down the hallway with a mixture of disbelief and something almost softer beneath it, the name slipping out before she can quite stop herself. Your light remains fixed on the figure stepping slowly into the center of the corridor, the beam catching the details one by one in a way that makes your chest tighten.

He looks wrong.

Not in the flickering, translucent way projections do, but in a way that feels disturbingly solid. Real enough that your eyes instinctively begin cataloging the damage before your mind can argue with what it’s seeing. His shirt is torn along the shoulder and ribs, the fabric darkened where something has soaked through. There’s a bruise spreading across the side of his jaw that looks fresh enough to still be swelling, and a split at his lip where dried blood has pulled the skin tight.

It is Bob.

Or at least, it looks exactly like him.

John exhales under his breath behind you, confusion threading through his voice. “No way. He was back at the tower.”

Alexei shifts slightly at the rear of the formation, his gaze narrowing as he studies the injuries with a soldier’s eye. “He looks like he fought a tank and lost.”

Ava doesn’t speak, but you feel the subtle change in the way she moves, the careful attention she gives the space around him as if she’s already testing whether this is something she can trust.

You don’t lower your weapon.

Something in the back of your mind has started pressing harder now, that slow poisonous feeling sharpening as it curls beneath your thoughts. The building itself still feels wrong around you, too familiar in ways that keep brushing the edges of your memory, and your power has not stopped humming since the moment the figure stepped into view.

“…Hey.”

The voice is right.

Almost perfectly right.

But the lack of surprise in his face sits strangely against the situation, like someone reciting a line they already knew was coming. His eyes drift across the group, moving from one person to the next with a quiet, steady focus that feels less like recognition and more like assessment.

Yelena’s brow furrows as she studies him more closely now, some of that initial disbelief fading into something cautious. “You look like hell,” she says. “And last I checked, you were very much not here.”

Bob glances down at the tear along his ribs, fingers brushing lightly over the darkened fabric as if he’s only just noticing it. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s been a day.”

The hallway remains still around all of you, the quiet stretching just long enough for your instincts to begin tightening further. Your power pulses outward again, subtle and controlled, brushing carefully against the shape standing in front of you.

It meets resistance.

Something constructed. Something dense enough that your mind registers it as real even while the rest of you knows better. You feel the shift in the team at the same time you feel Mastermind watching. They’ve all faced him before and they remember what Bob can do when that other part of him surfaces.

Yelena straightens a fraction, the last bit of uncertainty in her posture tightening into readiness again. “You mind explaining how you got here before we did?”

Bob’s gaze drifts to her, and for the first time a faint smile touches his mouth, but It doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the thing,” he says quietly. “I didn’t.”

The air in the corridor changes.

It happens so subtly at first that your body notices before your mind does, the pressure along your skin shifting in a way that makes your power flare instinctively in response. You feel the illusion begin to thicken around you, the psychic weight of it settling into the space like gravity slowly increasing.

Then Bob lifts one hand.

The movement looks almost casual, like someone about to wave.

The force that follows is anything but.

It hits the hallway in a sudden, crushing wave that slams into the team with the kind of invisible violence that makes the walls groan. Dust shakes loose from the cracked ceiling and bursts outward through the beam of your lights as the pressure ripples through the corridor, knocking into bodies and debris alike.

Your boots scrape against the tile as you brace against it, power flaring instinctively as it pushes back against the illusion trying to convince your mind that a mountain has just dropped into the hall.

Behind you, the formation breaks.

John is thrown backward into one of the collapsed doorways hard enough that broken plaster rains down around him. Alexei manages to plant his feet for half a second before the same force drives him into the wall beside him, the impact echoing through the corridor like distant thunder.

Ava flickers as the pressure hits her, her form phasing partially through the nearest surface before she reappears again a few feet away, visibly struggling to stabilize under the psychic weight pressing down on her senses.

Yelena staggers sideways, catching herself against a broken support beam as the air itself seems to shove at her.

Only Bucky moves forward. He reacts on instinct, body already shifting into motion the moment Bob’s hand comes up, but the second wave arrives before he can close the distance.

The pressure doubles.

It isn’t just force anymore.

It’s the memory of it.

The remembered terror of standing in front of something that strong and realizing how small you are by comparison. Mastermind isn’t just projecting power into the hallway. He’s reaching into what each of them experienced and feeding it back into the illusion until their bodies believe it.

Bucky drops to one knee as the invisible weight slams down harder, the cracked tile beneath him fracturing with a sharp snap.

“Yeah,” Bob says softly, watching them. “That looks familiar.”

Your jaw tightens as the realization settles fully into place. He’s not trying to recreate Bob. He’s recreating what Bob felt like to fight.

Alexei grunts as the pressure forces him lower, one hand braced against the floor while he tries to push himself back up through sheer stubborn strength. Ava flickers again, her outline shuddering as the illusion presses harder against her perception of reality. Somewhere behind you, John swears under his breath while he struggles to move.

Yelena tries to step forward despite it, muscles straining against the force bearing down on her.

That's when Mastermind adjusts. You feel it happen the moment the illusion tightens further, the psychic construct responding like a living thing learning in real time. One by one, the team begins to go down. Pinned. Held in place by a pressure their bodies remember too well to ignore.

Your power surges hotter beneath your skin now, pushing back harder against the lie the hallway is trying to sell you. The poison curling in the back of your mind presses deeper at the same time, the building around you humming with recognition as if it is watching this unfold.

Bob’s gaze settles fully on you at last. Curiosity flickers there, faint but unmistakable. “Well,” he says quietly, almost thoughtfully, as the rest of the team struggles under the weight of the illusion spreading across the corridor. “That’s interesting.”

Behind you, your team is scattered along the cracked hallway floor, pinned or fighting against something that exists only because their minds know exactly how dangerous it could be. And despite the pressure pressing into your skull and the slow unraveling tugging at the edges of your thoughts…

You are still standing.

You don't understand why you're still standing.

The pressure bearing down on the hallway is immense, a psychic weight that should have driven you to your knees alongside the rest of your team. Your power strains against it, humming so fiercely beneath your skin that every nerve in your body feels charged, the familiar warmth rapidly becoming something closer to pain. Sweat beads along your spine beneath your tac vest, your breathing growing heavier with the effort of holding your ground, but somehow you're still upright.

Bob watches you with an expression that doesn't belong on his face.

The gentle awkwardness that usually softens his features is gone, replaced by something coldly curious, like a scientist observing an experiment that has suddenly become far more interesting than expected.

"You're stronger than he said," he muses quietly. "No wonder he wanted you back."

A chill slips through you. Not because of the words, but because of the way he says them.

Wanted back.

Your grip tightens around your weapon as your pulse begins to climb. Behind you, you can still hear John struggling against the invisible pressure, Alexei grunting through clenched teeth as he fights to push himself upright, Yelena cursing under her breath, and Bucky's ragged breathing cutting through the static on your comms. Every instinct screams at you to reach them, to reinforce the psychic barrier you've built around the team before Mastermind finds another crack to exploit.

Instead, Bob simply takes another slow step toward you. He doesn't attack. Doesn't even raise his hands. He only smiles. "I'm done testing your friends." The words settle over the hallway like fresh snow, deceptively gentle.

"I want to see what happens when it's just you."

Your power surges instinctively, a pulse of energy rolling outward from your body as you brace for another crushing wave of force.

Nothing comes.

Instead, the hallway lurches.

You feel it before you see it. The air changes first, carrying with it a smell that has no business existing inside this ruined structure. The stale scent of mildew and ancient dust fades beneath something cleaner, sharper, until your next inhale burns faintly with antiseptic and ozone making your stomach twist.

No...

You force yourself to keep moving, refusing to acknowledge the sensation creeping beneath your skin. Mastermind has already proven that he can manipulate perception. This is another illusion. Another attempt to draw your attention away from the team.

You refuse to give him that satisfaction as your boots carry you another step forward. Somehow the cracked tile beneath your feet feels... smoother. The difference is subtle enough that you almost convince yourself you imagined it, but then your flashlight sweeps across the wall to your left.

The blackened concrete is gone.

For the briefest instant, immaculate white paint gleams beneath the beam, interrupted only by a thick observation window set into reinforced concrete.

You blink.

The ruined hallway snaps back into place.

Dust.

Broken pipe.

Collapsed ceiling.

Your breathing quickens despite yourself.

Keep moving.

Another step.

The fluorescent beam from your flashlight catches a row of rusted conduit running along the ceiling. Only… They're not rusted anymore. Fresh steel gleams overhead before flickering back into decay so quickly that it leaves a ghost image burned into your vision.

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a heartbeat before opening them again. "Not real," you whisper to yourself. Your own voice sounds strangely small inside your head.

The farther you walk, the more difficult it becomes to tell where the illusion ends and reality begins. Every few feet, the corridor seems to heal itself for the space of a heartbeat before falling back into ruin. Fresh paint replaces soot. Intact doors appear where twisted frames should be. Bright overhead lighting hums to life only to dissolve once more into darkness and hanging wires.

Your pulse pounds harder with every step because none of it is random. Every hallway, every intersection, every reinforced door. You've walked these corridors before, years ago.

Despite every conscious effort to keep them moving, your feet slow as a section of wall comes into view ahead, and this time the illusion lingers just a little longer. The dust and soot seem to slide away to reveal yellow hazard stripes emerge beneath your flashlight.

A thick steel blast door fills the corridor, Its surface is pristine.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat. You know that door. You remember leaning against it after another round of testing, your wrists raw beneath inhibitor cuffs while technicians hurried past without so much as looking at your face.

You remember counting the rivets to keep yourself from crying.

You remember...

"No."

The word leaves your mouth before you realize you've spoken. The hallway shudders and for the first time since the illusion began, sound joins the deception. Somewhere deep inside the building, heavy hydraulics groan to life.

Metal slides against metal with a slow, deliberate scrape that freezes every muscle in your body. The sound echoes through the corridor exactly the way it used to, carrying memories your mind has spent years trying to bury beneath newer, happier ones.

A warning buzzer follows, short and sharp in a way that seems to stab into your soul. The same countdown tone that always preceded another experiment.

You stop walking altogether.

The ruined facility has vanished so completely around you that you can no longer tell whether you're standing in the present or the past. White walls stretch in both directions beneath sterile fluorescent lights, the polished floor reflecting back the trembling beam of your flashlight as though the last decade had never happened.

Then the intercom crackles overhead, static hissing through ancient speakers as your blood turns to ice.

"Attention research staff. Experiment Seventeen will begin in 10 minutes."

Every instinct you possess screams at you to run but you stand rooted to the floor, heart hammering so violently it hurts.

"All nonessential personnel clear Testing Wing Three."

Everything within you attempts to recoil, to run to anywhere but this moment. But the speaker just crackles to life again.

“Subject 37, report immediately to testing bay three.”

“No.” The word is more of a broken sound that feels like glass in your throat as the blast door groans open, the yellow warning lights flashing like every single memory you tried to bury of this place.

“You’re late.” The disapproval in Dr. Nikos’ tone is painfully evident as he waves you inside. Your legs move against your will, body forced by his control.

Not this. Not again. Not now.

“I don’t want to do this.” The words are ripped from your throat, somehow sounding younger despite the time that has passed.

“You’re being obstinate, 37,” the doctor sighs. “You know you’re capable of withstanding the blast, so why are you being difficult? It’s just another test.”

Your teeth grind together. You can hear it—the way your own jaw is clenched hard enough to ache. “The last ‘test’ included murdering a building full of people! You said it was empty!”

“Well, you should know better by now. They were bad people, 37. They wanted to detain mutants.” He sounds utterly unbothered as he presses the intercom. “It’s just a small ordnance. Nothing you can’t handle. So get in position so we can detonate and collect your stats.”

You’d been shaking, barely able to breathe, the rage crawling under your skin, but you’d stepped back anyway. Just one more test. One more lie

“There we are,” he said smugly as the blast doors lowered, sealing you inside.

“Three… Two… One…”

There is no flash.

Only impact.

The blast strikes with such overwhelming force that your lungs forget how to breathe. Every muscle locks at once, your spine bowing as heat tears through you from every direction. It isn't fire, not really. Fire burns from the outside in. This begins somewhere beneath your skin, racing through every nerve until your own body becomes the source of the agony. You try to scream, but the air has been ripped from your chest before the sound can ever reach your throat as the world goes white from the pain. It stretches into something timeless, every fraction of a second feeling impossibly long as your power fights to contain forces no living body should ever have to survive.

Your body slams into the far wall with enough force to crater reinforced concrete before crumpling to the floor in a heap that no longer feels connected to you. Your ears ring so violently that every other sound becomes distant, muffled beneath a relentless, high-pitched whine. The smell of scorched fabric fills your lungs as you drag in your first ragged breath, followed by another, each one scraping against smoke as your tongue is coated in ash.

Your arms shake violently beneath you, muscles refusing to obey after absorbing another impossible detonation. The floor beneath your palms is warm, tiny fractures spiderwebbing through the concrete where your fingers press into it. Your vision swims, fluorescent lights above dissolving into blurred halos as black spots crowd the edges of your sight.

The intercom clicks and you hear him before you can focus on the observation window.

"Excellent."

Dr. Nikos sounds pleased. Not relieved that you've survived. Not concerned by the state you're in. Pleased like you just brought home a good report card. "I knew your tolerance threshold was considerably higher than our previous projections."

A quiet chorus of voices answers him beyond the glass.

"Cellular degradation remains within acceptable parameters."

"Energy retention is increasing."

"Recommend repeating with larger ordnance."

You are still crumpled on the floor, every inch of your body screaming, and already they are discussing the next explosion.

The next test.

The next lie.

That's when something inside you gives way.

It isn't dramatic. There is no single moment where rage explodes into existence. Instead, it feels like the final strand of a rope snapping after years of bearing too much weight. Every promise they ever made. Every assurance that cooperation would earn your freedom. Every child you watched disappear down these corridors and never return. Every morning you woke up believing that maybe today would be the last experiment.

The weight of all of it settles into one impossible certainty.

They are never going to stop.

Your breathing steadies. Not because the pain has faded, because something far older than fear has finally burned itself out.

Beyond the shattered haze of the observation glass, Dr. Nikos--Mastermind--finally looks at you directly. He doesn't look frightened or even surprised. If anything, he looks impatient, as though you've taken longer than expected to recover.

"Subject 37," he says through the intercom, his tone carrying that familiar edge of clinical disappointment. "Get up. We still have work to do."

Your fingers curl against the fractured floor but this time, the cracks don't stop beneath your hands. At first they're almost delicate, thin lines chasing each other across blackened concrete faster than the eye can follow. Then the entire room shudders beneath you. Dust drifts from the ceiling. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker wildly as something deep within the building answers the fury you've spent years forcing yourself to swallow.

The technicians stop writing.

Someone takes a step backward.

Dr. Nikos' expression changes for the first time.

Not to fear.

To confusion.

You rise slowly onto unsteady feet, every joint protesting the movement, body trembling from exhaustion and agony alike. Energy spills from you in shimmering waves, distorting the air until the room itself seems to bend around your silhouette. The reinforced observation window begins to sing beneath the pressure, a thin, crystalline whine growing louder by the second as fractures bloom across its surface like frost spreading over winter glass.

You don't remember deciding to fight back.

You only remember deciding that you would never let them touch another child again.

The building seems to realize what is happening a heartbeat before anyone inside it does. The reinforced walls that had held back explosions, contained experiments, and imprisoned you for years begin to groan beneath the pressure rolling off your body. The sound is not unlike the building itself crying out, concrete and twisted steel protesting as the very structure that was built to contain you finally understands that it has failed.

Warning lights flicker overhead, bathing the pristine white corridors in alternating flashes of red and shadow. The alarms that had once meant another experiment, another violation of your body, now become something else entirely. A countdown not for you, but for them.

“Containment breach.”

The words echo through the intercom.

“Containment breach.”

The technicians finally move.

You remember that part more clearly than you wish you did. The sudden panic. The scrambling footsteps behind reinforced glass. The way people who had spent years observing your pain suddenly remembered that you were dangerous.

Not a human, not a person, not a child who through no fault of her own had something that others wanted to exploit.

All you are now is a threat.

Your power surges again, answering every ounce of fear and rage buried beneath your skin. The floor buckles beneath your feet as a wave of force tears outward, concrete shattering under the weight of your rage. The observation window gives way and the sound is deafening as thousands of pieces of glass rain into the control room as the barrier between you and the people who had watched you suffer finally disappears. Technicians stumble backward, shielding their faces as alarms scream louder, voices overlapping through the speakers in a frantic attempt to regain control.

"Someone sedate her!"

"Initiate secondary containment!"

"All units to Testing Wing Three!"

They are afraid now and you wish that realization was satisfying. Because beneath the anger, beneath the overwhelming power tearing through the facility, there is still a part of you that remembers being a child standing in that room, waiting for someone to tell you that you had done enough. Waiting for someone to open the door because you had survived what they asked of you.

No one ever came.

So you made your own exit.

The blast doors that had sealed you inside for countless tests begin to bend. The thick metal groans, bolts snapping one by one as your power wraps around the frame. The same doors that once represented everything you could not escape become nothing more than another obstacle in your path and with a violent wrench of energy, they tear free.

The force sends them hurtling down the corridor, ripping through walls and collapsing support structures as they disappear into the distance. Dust and smoke billow around you, obscuring the hallway ahead, but you keep moving.

Every step through the facility becomes another piece of the nightmare breaking apart. Laboratories that once held restraints and medical equipment collapse into piles of twisted metal. Observation rooms shatter. Containment chambers crack open, their reinforced glass exploding outward beneath the pressure of your power.

Somewhere in the chaos, people are running.

Somewhere, someone is shouting orders.

Somewhere, Dr. Nikos is trying to regain control of a situation he created.

But for the first time in years, he is not the one deciding what happens next.

The corridors that once seemed endless become a path carved by your own fury. Every room you pass carries a memory. Every corner holds another piece of the person you were forced to become. The smell of antiseptic mixes with smoke and burning wires, the sterile environment that once felt impossible to escape now crumbling around you.

Then you see him.

Dr. Nikos stands at the end of the corridor, his white coat streaked with ash, his expression no longer perfectly controlled. The confident certainty he carried through every experiment, every lie, every moment he told you that pain was necessary, has finally cracked. Not because he feels guilty. Because he finally understands.He finally understands that the thing he spent years trying to control was never actually under his control at all.

"37," he says, and somehow the familiar designation hurts more than any explosion ever has. "You need to calm down."

The words almost make you laugh.

Almost.

Your hands shake at your sides as the energy around you intensifies, lights bursting overhead one by one as the corridor trembles. The walls fracture around him, pieces of concrete breaking loose and falling to the ground.

"That's what you always said," you whisper. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears. Older, now. "No matter what you did, that was always what you said. Just calm down."

His expression shifts slightly, calculating. "You don't understand what you're doing."

The old you might have believed him. The old you might have hesitated.But the person standing there now has spent years carrying the weight of that place inside her, and she is finally done allowing him to define what she is.

"I know exactly what I'm doing." you growl.

Support beams buckle deep within the structure. The ceiling fractures, sending chunks of concrete crashing down. Fire spreads through the damaged corridors, swallowing the pristine halls that had once been designed to hide everything that happened inside them.

The last thing you remember is reaching for him.

The last thing you remember is the world becoming white.

And then nothing.

The white light fades slowly, the world returning in pieces, fragments of sound and sensation forcing their way back into existence before your eyes can even focus. The sharp smell of smoke is gone, replaced by something colder. Dank, but still carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and metal.

The corridor around you is no longer the one from your memories. The walls are unfamiliar, the lighting different, the architecture wrong in a way that makes your instincts scream. But the feeling is the same.

Your fingers tighten around your weapon as you force yourself upright, every nerve screaming that this is another trick. Another attempt to trap you inside yourself. “Mastermind,” you whisper.

The only answer is the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Then you hear it. A voice from someone else's past.

“Желание.”

Your blood runs cold as the hallway shifts before your eyes, the walls stretching and reforming like wet paint being dragged across a canvas. The facility around you fractures, pieces of your memory peeling away to reveal something else underneath.

A room.

A chair.

And Bucky.

“Ржавый.”

For a moment, your mind refuses to understand what you are seeing. He is restrained, strapped down beneath harsh white lights, body rigid while every muscle locked with the effort of fighting against something you cannot see. The familiar confidence he carries into every fight is gone, replaced by something raw and exhausted.

“Семнадцать.”

The machine behind him hums and your breath turns acrid in your throat. “No.” The word leaves you quietly, but the room hears it and Bucky’s eyes flick toward you.

Not your Bucky, the man who stands beside you in the field and gives orders with that quiet certainty. Who has shown you that love and family are real things that people can have.

“Рассвет.”

This is the version of him Mastermind wants you to see.

The man who was forced to become a weapon.

The man who spent years trapped inside someone else’s control.

“Печь.”

You have seen him angry. You have seen him hurt. You have seen the walls he keeps around himself, the careful way he tries to make himself smaller despite being one of the strongest people in the room. But this? This is the wound beneath everything.

The chair disappears before you can move toward him as the world shifts again.

A new room, a new memory.

Yelena.

She stands alone in a kitchen that looks almost normal, which somehow makes it worse. There is warmth here. Soft lighting, flowers in the window, the smell of dinner cooking. The kind of place that should feel safe. The kind of place that feels like a trap because you know safety has never come easily for her.

A voice calls from somewhere behind her. “Yelena.”

Her shoulders tense and you watch her turn slowly. Natasha stands there. Not as a memory of the woman Yelena lost, but an impossible thing Mastermind knows she would give anything to have back. Something before it all went wrong. Yelena’s face crumples for half a second before she catches herself.

“Come home,” Natasha says gently.

The words are almost identical to the illusion from before except now, you understand. That was only the surface because here is where her guilt lives. Yelena looks younger here. Not physically, but in the way she carries herself. Like she is waiting for someone to tell her she did enough. That she was loved.

Your hands curl into fists. “Stop.”

The room shudders, but Mastermind does not listen.

The kitchen dissolves.

Alexei.

A battlefield.

His bravado stripped away until there is only a father staring at the people he loves, convinced he has disappointed them.

John.

A house.

A child’s voice calling for him. A reminder of every moment he chose duty over being there.

Ava.

A collapsing room. Her father’s voice begging her not to run.

Every room is different.

Every room is designed with precision.

Mastermind is not showing you their fears.

He is showing you the parts of them they hide.

The shame.

The regret.

The pieces they keep buried because they believe those things make them weak.

Your breathing becomes heavier as you move through the shifting spaces, watching your team be torn apart by ghosts you know are not real. But the pain is real. That’s what makes it all work, every moment of hurt that we all keep buried. He cannot create grief from nothing, he can only take what already exists and press his fingers into the cracks.

Your power flares beneath your skin, pushing against the illusion, trying to break through it but instead, your power falters because for the first time since entering the facility, you realize what he is actually doing.

He is not trying to make you believe these things are happening. He wants you to watch, to carry them. Because that has always been your weakness. You protect. You fix.

You take the pain from everyone else and convince yourself you can survive carrying it.

The walls around you tremble as the rooms flicker faster. Bucky in the chair. Yelena reaching for Natasha. John unable to reach his son. Alexei losing his family. Ava watching her father die. Every single person you care about being reduced to the moment that broke them.

The weight of it all has your knees almost buckling beneath it. Not because you believe it. You know in the logical portion of your brain that this is all constructed for torment. But part of you understands exactly why Mastermind chose this.He knows you. He knows that hurting you directly is not enough. So he is making you watch the people you love hurt instead. A slow, cruel pressure against the weakest part of you.

The lights above you flicker as the illusions begin to overlap until all of them exist at once, a maze of suffering surrounding you. And somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the voices and memories and pain, you hear him.

His voice is calm, almost amused. “You see why I chose you, 37? You always were the easiest one to break.”

Something snaps in the onslaught of pain around you. But it's not him.

“She won’t break.”

The sound of Bucky’s voice cuts through the chaos with a force that the illusions cannot replicate. It is not an echo from the past or a memory twisted into something cruel. It is real, grounded, and painfully familiar.

You turn toward him just as another fracture tears through the false world around you and for a moment, you see both versions of him at once. The man strapped into the chair and the man standing in front of you now. The difference nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

Bucky stumbles forward through the illusion, one hand pressed against the side of his head as if he is physically trying to force the memories out. Blood trails from a cut along his temple, but his eyes remain locked on you, focused despite the nightmare trying to swallow him whole.

“Bucky,” you breathe.

His jaw clenches as the room around him flickers between past and present. “I know what he’s doing,” he says, his voice rough. “He’s trying to make you carry it.”

The words hit harder than they should because he knows. Of course he knows. He has spent years living inside the same kind of cage. But the walls around you shudder violently, and suddenly Bucky is gone again, the chair appearing in his place.

The lights.

The restraints.

The machine humming behind him.

Your stomach twists as the illusion tries to drag you back into helplessness, tries to convince you that this is still happening, that there is nothing you can do but watch.

Then the room explodes outward, the illusion fracturing as Bucky tears through it from the inside. There is still hurt, still fear, still a man carrying every scar that was left behind.

But he's still standing.

“I’m not that man anymore,” he growls. The words ripple through the room and the illusion trembles as Yelena crashes through the wall beside him. Not literally, although for a second it looks like she might have.

She stumbles into existence with a weapon raised, breathing uneven, eyes wild as the kitchen around her collapses into dust. Natasha’s voice still echoes faintly in the air.

“Come home.”

She freezes and the pain crashes over her face. The longing, the part of her that still wants one more moment. One more dinner, one more chance to spend a moment with her sister. But her expression hardens.

“No.”

The word is quiet, but there is something unbreakable underneath it. The illusion tries to rebuild as little Natasha smiles, hand outstretched for her to grab, but Yelena’s fingers tighten around her weapon.

“No,” she repeats, stronger this time. “You do not get to use her against me. She was my family,” Yelena says, her voice trembling despite the strength behind it. “And I love her. But you will not use her.”

The false Natasha flickers.

“She would tell me to stop being stupid.” A tiny, painful smile touches Yelena’s face as her eyes find yours. “She would tell me to stop letting some creepy mind guy play with my feelings.”

The kitchen implodes and one by one, they begin breaking free.

Alexei emerges next, stepping out of the battlefield with a roar that shakes the walls. He looks exhausted, devastated, but alive. The ghosts of his family vanish around him as he lowers his weapon. “They want us to believe our worst moments are all we are,” he rumbles, voice heavy. “But family is something more.” His eyes find yours. “It is what gives us strength to keep fighting.”

John stumbles through next, dropping to one knee as the image of his son fades away. His face is pale, breathing uneven, but his grip on his weapon steadies. “I hate that he knew exactly where to hit,” he mutters.

“That’s why it works,” you manage.

The words barely leave your mouth before another illusion tears open.

Ava.

She appears inside the collapsing room, surrounded by fire and falling debris. Her father’s voice calls for her and for a moment, she looks completely lost. Then she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, there is nothing soft left in her expression. “He wants me to remember that I couldn’t save everyone.” The room shakes as she steps forward. “But I was never supposed to.”

You watch them all.

Your team.

Your family.

Not the broken pieces Mastermind dragged out of their memories, The people standing here now. The people who walked into this place knowing exactly what waited for them. The people who followed you anyway.

The realization settles slowly, like warmth returning to frozen fingers. Mastermind has spent all this time trying to prove that pain makes people weak, that their wounds define them. But he made one mistake.

He showed you all of it, every scar, every regret, every moment they thought they were unworthy of being loved. And they were still here on the other side.

The lights above you flicker violently as Mastermind’s voice cuts through the room, no longer amused but rough with rage and frustration. “You think this changes anything?” The walls twist around you, the illusions surging again in a desperate attempt to regain control. “You are still the one carrying them, 37.”

Your breath falters because that is the truth and that is the part that hurts.

You do carry them. You have always carried those around you to ease their burdens. You carried your mother with you long after she abandoned you to the facility. You carried the other kids trapped in hell like you were.

You carry little Wanda so close in your soul that it aches.

In a rush, power rises beneath your skin. Not like a wildfire that rages out of control but a flood of energy that flows outward, not as a weapon, but a refusal.

Bucky steps closer while Yelena moves to your other side, the rest of the team closing ranks behind you. The same formation you told them to keep from the beginning. The same formation Mastermind tried so desperately to break.

Your eyes lift toward the shifting walls. “You made one mistake.” The facility groans around you as illusions flicker wildly and power lashes through the room. “You thought the worst things that ever happened to us were what made us weak.” Your power surges, gathering everything you have been carrying.

“But they’re the reason we know how to survive.”

For one suspended moment, it almost seems to resist you.

The false walls surrounding you ripple like the surface of a disturbed lake, every illusion fighting to hold itself together as your power pushes against it. The corridors of your memories, the rooms built from everyone’s pain, the carefully constructed nightmares designed to isolate each of you begin to overlap and fracture.

But the white walls from your past bleed into the crumbling concrete of the abandoned facility.

The chair where Bucky was restrained flickers beside broken laboratory equipment.

The kitchen where Yelena heard Natasha’s voice appears for half a second beneath the collapsed ceiling.

The battlefield, the house, the burning room, all of them exist at once in a violent collage of grief and memory.

Mastermind built this place from your wounds.

So you tear it apart from the inside out.

Your power surges outward and the effect is immediate as the rooms begin to peel away. Not disappear, but peel like old wallpaper being stripped, revealing the rot beneath. Sterile corridors from your memories crack first. The fluorescent lights overhead flickering rapidly before bursting into showers of sparks, plunging everything into darkness for a heartbeat before the ruined facility beneath finally pushes through.

The observation rooms collapse back into empty chambers, reinforced doors that once locked you away distort and twist before becoming rusted wreckage again. The false voices scream as they lose their hold, hundreds of whispers collapsing into a single, deafening roar that shakes through your skull before fading into nothing.

For the first time since entering this place, there is silence. Not the unnatural silence Mastermind created but the kind that exists in abandoned places where the world has moved on without them.

The illusion struggles one final time, desperate and furious, rebuilding fragments of itself faster than they can fall apart. The corridor stretches impossibly long, the walls pulling away into darkness, trying to make you believe you are still trapped. You can feel the temptation of it, full of exhaustion and the part of you that wants to stop fighting because fighting has always hurt.

Then you feel Bucky’s hand close around your shoulder.

Real.

Yelena’s fingers find yours.

Real.

Behind you, the steady presence of your team fills the space where the illusions tried to create emptiness.

Real.

You are not that child in the facility anymore.

You are not 37.

You are not alone.

With a final surge, the entire illusion collapses in a catastrophic roar. The ceiling above you tears apart in a cascade of fractured light and shadow as every false structure Mastermind created crumbles at once. The air ripples violently, throwing dust and debris outward as years of carefully constructed psychic manipulation are ripped away in a single breath.

For several seconds, there is nothing but chaos. A frenetic storm of broken memories, grief, pain, hurt, and the illusions of everything Mastermind tried to use against you falling apart around him.

The pressure of it all vanishes so suddenly that your knees nearly buckle. You catch yourself, breathing hard, the energy beneath your skin finally settling from a roar into a quiet hum. When you open your eyes, the world is different.

The clean corridors are gone.

The impossible rooms are gone.

The ghosts are gone.

You are left standing in the remains of the facility. The real remains. The destruction that you yourself wrought on that day.

Dust hangs thick in the air, drifting through the beams of your tactical lights. The walls are cracked and blackened, sections of the ceiling collapsed inward from years of neglect and the force of your own escape. Twisted metal juts from broken concrete. Old wiring hangs from above, sparking faintly as the last remnants of electricity struggle to keep the dead building alive.

The place looks exactly like what it always was.

A grave.

Your grave.

Except you clawed yourself out of it.

Alive.

Around you, the team slowly regains their footing. No one speaks immediately. Not because there isn't anything to say, but because everything has been laid bare from each of you. Because they have seen the parts of you that you buried so deeply you almost convinced yourself they were gone.

Bucky looks around the ruins, his expression unreadable for several seconds before his eyes return to you. Yelena says nothing, but her grip on your hand tightens. Alexei exhales slowly, looking at the destruction around him with a grim understanding. John runs a hand over his face. Ava simply stares.

Because the illusion is gone. The nightmare is gone. And all that remains is the truth.

You destroyed this place once.

You survived it.

The appendicitis had been such a sudden emergency that he still remembered the moment he woke up in the middle of the night, feeling you move over and over again and hearing soft moans. You were doubled over in pain, your hands pressed against your abdomen as you squeezed your eyes shut tightly to try to keep the tears from streaming down your cheeks.

You insisted that dinner must have just sat heavy in your stomach and that a pill should be enough, but Bucky wouldn’t accept that it could be enough, since his mind was racing through various scenarios that wouldn’t let him rest.

Without your permission, he picked you up in his arms to take you to the hospital.

The hours he spent sitting in the waiting room, with his hands clasped and his gaze fixed on the operating room doors, had seemed endless to him. No matter how many dangerous moments he’d lived through, none had caused him such anxiety, since all he could do was wait for the experts to treat you.

That’s why, once the doctors confirmed that the surgery had been a success and allowed you to return to the apartment, Bucky decided that during your recovery, you wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing.

“Don’t get up.”

That was the phrase he repeated most often.

It didn’t matter if you just wanted to reach for a glass of water or the remote control on the nightstand. Before you even stretched out your arm, he was already on his feet to grab whatever you wanted.

“Buck, I can do it myself…” you said with a playful smile.

“I know, sweetheart,” he replied with that calmness that masked immense concern. “But you need to get better.”

Bucky had prepared the couch with almost obsessive care so you could rest when you got tired of staying in bed. He’d arranged several pillows to support your back and sides, a soft blanket folded over the backrest, the remote control, the book you’d started reading the week before, and—inexplicably—even the little bell Alpine rang every time she wanted someone to fill her food bowl.

With one hand around your waist and the other holding yours, he helped you walk the few steps to the living room.

“Slowly…” he murmured.

His movements were so slow and careful that you barely noticed the moment he let you settle onto the sofa. He placed a pillow behind your back, another under your arm, and yet another beneath your legs, watching your face the whole time, alert to the slightest sign of pain or discomfort.

Only when he saw that you were breathing normally did he allow the tension to ease slightly from his shoulders.

You let out a sigh as you settled back, and then your eyes drifted toward the coffee table.

You frowned slightly.

“Seriously, honey? … The bell?”

You picked it up between your fingers and rang the little bell.

The tinkling had barely faded when Bucky replied with complete nonchalance.

“If you need anything, I’ll be able to hear you from the kitchen.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

The vibration sent a slight twinge of discomfort through your abdomen, forcing you to place a hand over the area where you’d had surgery as you tried to catch your breath.

“Don’t make me laugh,” you said in a slightly plaintive tone.

He took a step toward you immediately.

“Did you hurt yourself? Let me check the wound.”

You shook your head with a smile on your lips and then raised the bell again.

“Do you think I’m a queen?”

As if she had perfectly understood the conversation, Alpine appeared from some corner of the apartment.

The white cat walked into the living room with her tail held high, swishing it with the elegance of someone convinced she ruled the place. Upon hearing the word “queen,” she pricked up her ears and let out a soft meow, accustomed to you calling her “Queen Alpine” every time she demanded attention… Although, honestly, she was more of a tyrant.

With a nimble leap, she landed on the coffee table.

Bucky let out a little snort of laughter as he scratched the back of his neck, aware of how ridiculous the whole thing must look.

“I just want to make sure you don’t exert yourself, darling."

Alpine, completely oblivious to the conversation, stretched one of her paws toward the bell.

Ding… Ding… Ding…

She rang it several times in a row while meowing and looking at Bucky.

You pointed at the cat with a smile.

“I think Queen Alpine is starving.”

Bucky let out a short sigh that was half worry and half amusement.

“Ring the bell if you need anything,” he said before kissing your forehead and heading to the kitchen.

☆

While he was making lunch, you’d put on a movie to take your mind off things.

From the living room, you could hear the rhythmic sound of the knife hitting the cutting board as he chopped vegetables with the precision that only Bucky seemed to possess. Then came the gentle bubbling of the pots and, every now and then, the murmur of his voice as he quietly went over the instructions the doctor had given them. It was as if he were studying for an exam on which the entire world depended.

Bucky had always enjoyed cooking for you, surprising you with elaborate dinners after long days at work, but since the operation he seemed to have become an even more meticulous chef. He double-checked every ingredient, verified the portions, and followed the doctor’s recommendations almost to the letter, afraid of making even the slightest mistake.

You had barely started a new movie when Bucky returned with a tray in his hands.

“Time to eat,” he announced as he set the tray on the table.

He had prepared chicken broth with rice, vegetables cut into small cubes, and shredded chicken. Beside it sat a glass of water, your medications, and a couple of perfectly folded napkins.

You tried to sit up on your own, but you couldn’t quite manage it. Bucky’s hands gently wrapped your arms around his neck to help you up, guiding you slowly until you were sitting upright without straining your abdomen at all.

“Buck…” you whispered with a mix of tenderness and resignation. “I’m pretty sure I could’ve done that on my own.”

You slowly untangled the arms he’d placed around you.

“I just hope you’re not planning on feeding me by hand,” you murmured once he turned his back to you to pick up the plate of food.

Bucky remained silent as he turned on his heels and slowly looked down at the spoon he was already holding in one hand, filled with broth and a little rice.

You’d discovered it by accident.

You would have laughed if only your abdomen weren’t so tender from the surgery, so you let a broad smile spread across your face.

“Come on, Bucky,” you said as you held out your arms toward him. “I can feed myself.”

For a few seconds, he looked at you with a furrowed brow and that slight pout he made whenever something didn’t sit right with him, but finally he let out a small sigh of defeat as he carefully handed you the plate.

“Thanks,” you hummed happily.

You picked up the spoon, but before taking a sip of the soup, you looked up at him.

“Eat with me, okay?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate to nod.

And like the obedient boyfriend he was when it came to you, he went back to the kitchen to serve himself a bowl of soup. He returned a few moments later carrying a dining room chair under his arm and sat down next to you.

He refused to sit on the couch, since it had to be all yours for your rest.

Not even five minutes had passed when Alpine appeared, sitting on the floor next to your legs.

Alpine remained completely still, her tail carefully curled around her front paws. Her huge blue eyes darted from Bucky’s bowl to yours with almost admirable patience, as if she were convinced that, sooner or later, one of you would make the mistake of dropping a piece of chicken.

You lowered your spoon slowly.

“Don’t look at me like that…”

The cat responded with a soft meow.

“She’s putting on an act,” Bucky remarked before taking another spoonful of soup into his mouth. “She ate less than an hour ago.”

Alpine meowed again, this time in a slightly more plaintive tone.

“Did you hear that?” you smiled. “She says that’s slander.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“What she’s saying is that she wants chicken.”

The cat, as if to prove him right, lifted a paw and gently rested it on your knee.

“No, miss. The sergeant says you’ve already eaten.”

Alpine withdrew her paw with obvious disappointment and slowly turned her head toward Bucky, but he remained impassive.

“Don’t even look at me.”

Another meow.

“No.”

One more.

“Alpine…”

The cat narrowed her eyes.

“I’m not going to negotiate with you.”

You watched the scene with a smile that hadn’t come so naturally in days. It was strange how an argument with a cat could make the apartment feel light again after the scare you’d both just been through.

Bucky finally got up from his chair and set his plate on the tray.

“I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into the kitchen for a few seconds and returned with a small bag of cat treats.

Alpine sprang to her feet immediately, meowing even louder around him.

“Oh, right…” you murmured, amused. “Soup without salt for me, and treats for her.”

“She didn’t just come out of surgery,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“I’m recovering; I should get treats too,” you complained, feigning sadness.

Bucky let out a quiet laugh as he placed a couple of treats on the floor for the cat to eat. Then he pretended to think about it for a few seconds.

He walked over to where you were sitting and, without warning, leaned in to plant a slow kiss on your forehead, then another on your nose, and one more at the corner of your lips.

“There’s your treat,” he murmured, giving your chin an affectionate stroke.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks and gently bit your lower lip, trying to suppress the silly smile forming on your lips.

“Is that all? No more prizes?” you said with feigned innocence.

“Just that, sweetheart. You’re greedy—you’re going to want more,” he replied with a teasing smile.

Your lips parted dramatically as you took a breath, and then your cheeks flushed a little more. You gave him a gentle, playful punch in the stomach that made him laugh.

“You’d better take my plate before you force a convalescing girl to give you what you deserve,” you joked as you handed him your plate.

He took the plate right away and noticed you’d barely eaten half the soup. That pang of concern and overprotectiveness surfaced again.

“Are you feeling sick? Do you want to go to the hospital?” he asked hurriedly.

You slowly shook your head and raised a hand to give his forearm an affectionate squeeze.

“I’m fine, honey. I feel full,” you replied, trying to reassure him.

He didn’t press the issue. He knew your appetite wasn’t what it used to be and that it might take a few days for it to fully return.

He cleared away the plate, took the dose of pills you needed from the bottle, and handed them to you along with a glass of water.

You took your pills while he rearranged the pillows.

“Are you comfortable?”

“I am, Buck.”

“Don’t you need another pillow?”

You looked around, unable to believe he was offering you another pillow when you were practically surrounded by every pillow in the apartment.

“If you keep piling on pillows, I’m going to disappear among them.”

He looked at the little fort of cushions he’d built around you and let out a soft chuckle.

“...I might have gone a little overboard,” he murmured, embarrassed.

Alpine had already claimed his chair, so he ended up sitting on the floor, right next to your legs.

He let his head rest on your thighs, being just as careful as he had been ever since they returned from the hospital. You ran your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

Bucky finally allowed himself to let his guard down as he sighed and let you show him affection.

“Sorry if I’m being too… intense,” he said, his voice sincere and a little embarrassed. “All of this happened so suddenly, and it was awful not being able to do anything while you were in the operating room.”

Your fingers froze on his hair as you listened to him.

“Bucky…” you whispered.

Before you could say anything, his hand gently squeezed your calf as he pressed his lips against your knee.

“I still can’t believe you wouldn’t let me feed you. Maybe that means you’re getting better.”

You let out a little amused snort before lightly ruffling his dark hair.

“I have to admit that once I’m recovered, I’m going to miss being taken care of so devotedly by you.”

A crooked smile appeared on his face as he settled onto his knees to be at the level of your face.

“Then I’ll find excuses to spoil you,” she murmured as she cradled your face in her hands. “Like this…” she murmured once more before giving you a soft kiss on your cheek. “And like this…” She gave you a soft, chaste kiss on your lips.

Ding… Ding…

They both had to break that sweet kiss to look toward the bell, which Alpine had rung again.

Bucky let out a weary laugh.

“She’s definitely a very untimely cat.”

“Don’t blame her,” you said, stroking his cheek. “She’s just taking advantage of the fact that the handsome nurse of the house doesn’t know how to say no.”

“It takes very little for either of you to manipulate me…”

“Uh—is this a mafia thing?” You asked, glancing at Bucky, who was busy on his phone. He was ordering your favorite food, wanting it to arrive before you did. “I was about to have a date.”

“I was worried about your safety,” he replied after ending the call. “That’s why you are here with me now. Jake didn’t have the time to check on your date’s background. It’s still my job to keep you safe. I don’t care if you broke up with me or not.”

“Hmm…is that a hostage situation?” You wondered while watching Bucky put his phone away. “Bucky, did you kidnap me?”

“You willingly got inside my car. I wouldn’t call this kidnapping,” he said, a smirk coloring his features.

“You said, 'Get in my car,” you defended your decision to enter Bucky’s car. It was an old habit to follow his instructions. Old habits die hard, right? “I only did as you said.” You pursed your lips. “Did you trick me?”

He laughed. “I didn’t think picking my woman up was considered a crime nowadays."

“You did not pick me up, Bucky!” His possessive behavior was one of the reasons you two broke up. “You came to the restaurant, stopped me from getting inside, and told me to get inside your car.”

“Semantics, Y/N. I came here to make sure you are safe and sound,” Bucky acted like a caring boyfriend, not a kidnapper. The problem was that you broke up almost a year ago.

His line of business, his possessiveness over you, and the constant threats from his enemies were too much for you.

He tried to keep you safe but got hurt more than once doing so. You didn’t want Bucky to get killed while protecting you. The only way out was for you to break his heart.

Bucky didn’t take the breakup lightly. He was lurking around every corner, always popping up out of nowhere for weeks until you told him it’s better this way.

You didn’t know he was always there, protecting you from afar. Bucky was following you that night, wanting to make sure you were safe. He didn’t expect you to go on a date with some random guy you met at the grocery store.

Bucky swore to let you go, but he couldn’t watch you date a douchebag, calling you "sugar tits" on the phone. Bucky knew you hated it, and he hated it even more.

No man was allowed to call you anything but a goddess in Bucky’s opinion. Or doll, his favorite pet name for you.

“That guy was no good, doll,” he said with so much confidence you knew that Bucky had someone check your date’s background. “This man wanted to get in your pants.”

He made a face. Only thinking about another man touching you makes Bucky’s blood boil. “I had it handled. Bucky, you can’t keep on doing this.”

“He was a douche,” Bucky insisted, not giving in. “You know that. No man should call a woman he barely knows sugar tits. No. Scratch that. A man should never call her that.”

“What if she likes it?” You leaned closer to look Bucky in the eyes. “You know, some women like pet names.”

“Pet names. Not insults.” Bucky gently cupped your cheek, earning a whine. “I’d find out what a woman likes and give it to her. This man wanted to get laid.”

“James,” you said his name to get his full attention. “What are we doing here? We agreed on never seeing each other again, didn’t we?”

“You said that. I never agreed.” Bucky replied, his eyes glued to the necklace dangling from your neck. The one he gave to you. “You’re still wearing it. This means something. You still love me.”

“Love was never the problem, Buck,” you softly said, taking his hand, squeezing it. “You would’ve got yourself killed for me one day. I couldn’t bear watching you die for me.”

“Then, I won’t die,” he said. “I swear you’ll watch my ass become wrinkly before I die. We are going to grow old together, have an awful lot of kids, and have naughty sex…lots of sex.”

“If you lie, I’ll take you down before your enemies get the chance,” you said, cupping his face to press a soft kiss on his lips. “That’s a promise.”

You reach up, fingers brushing the chain at his neck. “Leave them,” you breathe, because the sound is filthy in its own way, the soft metallic music of him claiming you.

But Bucky’s eyes, stormy blue, pupils blown wide with lust darken further. He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “They’re distracting you from what I want you feeling.”

In one smooth motion, he catches the tags between his teeth. The chain pulls taut against the back of his neck, the metal plates disappearing into his mouth. His jaw flexes, lips parting just enough for you to see the silver edge glinting against his tongue. The sight alone rips a fresh wave of heat through you, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, reduced to biting down on his own history just so he can fuck you without anything getting in the way.

He groans around the tags, the sound muffled and raw. Then he drives into you harder.

No more clinking. Just the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, and the obscene sounds of your body taking him. His metal fingers dig into your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth like he wants to feel how wrecked you are.

“Look at me,” he demands around the metal. His voice is distorted, rougher, sex-drenched. Sweat beads at his temple, dark hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you with punishing precision, long strokes that bottom out and grind against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Every time he bottoms out, his abs flex against your clit, and the tags shift between his teeth with the motion, a constant, visible reminder of how much control he’s exerting just for you.

You moan his name and he bites down harder, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your cunt around his cock. The chain trembles against his throat with each thrust. You can see the way his tongue moves against the tags inside his mouth, the way his lips are shiny with spit, and it’s so fucking filthy you clench around him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, the words barely intelligible but vibrating straight down to your core. “Milk me, doll. Let me feel how much you love this.”

Your hands scramble up his back, nails digging into scarred skin and metal plating alike. He’s relentless, hips snapping faster now, the wet sounds louder, your slick coating his balls as they slap against you. The dog tags stay right where he put them, trapped between those perfect teeth, catching the light every time he pulls back to look at where you’re stretched around him.

You’re close. So fucking close. And Bucky knows it, he always does. He drops his forehead to yours, tags still clenched tight, breath coming in hot pants around the metal. His voice is a broken rasp:

“Come on my cock while I’ve got these between my teeth, baby. Want to feel you fall apart knowing I’d do anything- anything- to keep fucking you right.”

The orgasm slams into you like lightning under your skin, sudden, devastating, unstoppable. Your back arches sharply off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing in relentless waves. Pleasure rips through every nerve ending, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. He keeps fucking you through it with those deep, grinding thrusts, hips rolling relentlessly as he chases his own release, dragging out your climax until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess beneath him.

Only then does he let the tags fall from his mouth, spit-slick and gleaming, dropping heavy and cool against your heaving chest. He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills deep inside you, hips stuttering, metal arm braced beside your head so he doesn’t crush you.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, final clink of the dog tags settling between your sweat-slick bodies.

Bucky kisses the side of your throat, soft and reverent now, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot where his teeth had been clenched moments before.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “I’m putting them between your teeth. See how quiet you can stay while I ruin you.”

You laugh breathlessly, already aching for it.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

You were slumped on that old couch that had seen its share of nights. With your knees pulled up, you were floating in Bucky’s black shirt, which was way too big for you. The sleeves fell over your fingers, the crumpled collar still held the warmth of his skin, and that scent that never left him: cheap soap, city rain, and that faint metallic taste that clung to his skin like a second layer.

Bucky was leaning against the coffee table, with his back to the window. He was fiddling with a gun, taking it apart without really intending to put it back together just yet. His shoulders were all tense under his gray sweater. He wasn’t looking at you. He almost always acted like that when the silence became too heavy.

You tugged at the hem of your shirt, the fabric slipping through your fingers.

“Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there pretending I’m invisible?”

His voice was deep, a little hoarse.

“I know you’re there.”

“Then talk.”

“About what?”

You let out a little laugh, but there was no joy in it.

“Nonsense. The weather. The rain. And the fact that I’m wearing your damn shirt, and you’re acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

Bucky set a part of the gun down on the table. The sound of metal against wood echoed a little too loudly in the silence.

“It looks good on you,” he said.

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

He shrugged, just a tiny gesture.

“What else do you want me to say? That it touches me to see you in it? That I like the idea of you carrying my scent?”

The silence settled again, even heavier than before. You felt your cheeks grow hot despite yourself. Your fingers gripped the fabric on your thighs tighter. The shirt still smelled like him. It was silly, and yet it was exactly what you’d been looking for when you took it from the back of the chair that morning.

“You left it there on purpose,” you say in a lower voice.

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally turned around, his blue eyes were clouded over, as they always were when he was trying not to give anything away.

“Maybe. ”

You stood up. The shirt slid down over your bare thighs. You were wearing only shorts underneath. Your bare feet touched the cold floor. You took three steps toward him. Not enough to touch him. Just enough for him to sense your presence.

“You’re hiding your hands,” you remarked.

Bucky looked down at his own palms as if he were seeing them for the first time. There was a fresh cut at the base of his left thumb, already half-healed. He clenched his fist.

“It’s nothing.”

“You always hide your wounds, except when you have no choice. ”

He didn’t answer. He just watched you put on his shirt—the way the crumpled collar rested against your collarbone, the way you kept tugging at the sleeves that were too long. The cliché was there, silent, between the two of you: that sharing of clothes that said everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

The warehouse door creaked.

Steve walked in, shaking the water off his coat. He still wore that calm, weary expression he’d had for years. His eyes moved from you to Bucky, then back to you. He saw the shirt. He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Am I here at a bad time?” he asked simply.

Bucky shook his head.

“No. What’s going on?”

Steve walked over to the table. He set down a thick envelope.

“The guys from Red Hook talked. They saw some photos. Of the two of you. Not very recent, but recent enough that they’re making the rounds.”

You felt your stomach knot up. Your left hand instinctively gripped your right wrist, where Bucky’s sleeve was slipping.

“Photos of what?”

Steve looked you straight in the eye.

“Of the two of you. Together. Not fighting. Just… living.” He turned to Bucky. “Someone’s starting to connect the dots. And that someone has friends who don’t like connected dots.”

Bucky remained silent for a long moment. You saw his jaw clench. His right hand the one with the cut rested on the edge of the table, his fingers white.

“Who has the photos?” he asked at last.

“Isabella Davis intercepted them before they reached the person you’re thinking of. She’ll be here in five minutes. She wanted to give them to you in person. ”

You felt a chill run up your spine. Isabella Davis. Always in the know. Always with a smile that was too wide and eyes that saw too far. You tugged at Bucky’s shirt again, as if the fabric could protect you from the outside world.

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It was a brief, brotherly gesture.

“Be careful. Both of you.” He took one last look at the shirt you were wearing, then walked out without saying another word.

Silence returned, heavier than before.

You sat on the edge of the table, next to the envelope Steve had left behind. The shirt rode up a little on your thighs. Bucky didn’t look away this time.

“Are you going to open it?” you asked.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because as soon as I open it, it’ll become real.”

You let out a shaky sigh.

“It’s already real, Bucky. I’m wearing your shirt. I sleep in your bed half the time. People are starting to notice. You can’t keep hiding everything.”

He stepped closer. Not quickly. As if he were testing every centimeter. He stopped less than a meter away. Close enough for you to see the raindrop still sliding down his neck.

“I’m hiding it because if I don’t, you’ll end up hurt. Or worse.”

“I’m already hurt,” you said softly. “The emptiness scares me more than bullets.”

His eyes darkened. He raised his hand the one with the cut and lightly brushed the collar of his own shirt on your shoulder. Just a light touch. His fingers lingered there, warm through the fabric.

“You’re wearing this as if it were yours,” he murmured.

“It’s mine now. You gave it to me without saying a word.”

A dry sound escaped his throat. Almost a laugh.

“You’re impossible.”

“So are you.”

The door creaked again.

Isabella Davis walked in just as she always did: without knocking, without apologizing, with a smile that never reached her eyes. She was wearing a long, soaked black coat, boots that clacked on the concrete, and an envelope thinner than Steve’s tucked between two fingers.

She stopped short when she saw you.

“Well,” she said in a hoarse, amused voice. “The boss’s shirt. Wow. I knew you two were sharing things, but I didn’t think it had become public knowledge.”

Bucky stiffened. You didn’t move. You stayed seated on the table, Bucky’s shirt draped over you, your legs bare, your gaze fixed on Isabella.

She set the envelope down next to you.

“The photos. Not pretty. Someone followed you last week. The parking lot behind the club. You were… close. Not kissing, but close enough to raise questions. And the question is: since when does the Big James Barnes let a woman wear his shirt and sleep in his bed without everyone knowing about it?”

You felt Bucky tense up beside you. His free hand rested on your knee, just above the fabric of your shirt. A possessive, protective, involuntary gesture.

Isabella continued, her voice lower now.

“There’s a note with the photos. Unsigned. Just four words: ‘She won’t save you from who you are.’”

The silence that followed was complete.

You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the envelope as if it contained a bomb. His hand on your knee tightened slightly. You placed your own hand over his. Your fingers covered the cut he was trying to hide.

“Who?” Bucky asked.

Isabella shrugged.

“If I knew, I would’ve told you already. But what I do know is that someone’s digging. Someone who knows your past. Not just the mob. The other past. The one you never talk about. And that person has decided that Y/N is the weak link.”

You felt a void open up in your chest. Not the usual void. A colder one. An older one. The kind that told you you were going to lose someone again because you weren’t enough.

Bucky turned his head toward you. His blue eyes were dark, but there was something raw in them. Something real.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. Not a request. A statement.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied.

Isabella looked at them in turn, then smiled that smile of hers that never told the whole truth.

“I’ll leave you two alone. But keep the photos. And keep the shirt. It seems to suit both of you. ”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

The door closed.

All that remained was the rain, the disassembled gun on the table, the envelope, and the two of you.

Bucky didn’t take his hand off your knee. You didn’t take yours off his.

You looked down at the shirt. The collar was wrinkled where he’d touched it. You could still smell him on you. Sharing his clothes had always been just a way of saying: I’m here, even when I can’t say it.

“You’re still hiding some wounds,” you whispered without looking at him.

“I’m trying not to inflict any more on you.”

“You can’t hide everything, Bucky. Not from me. Not when I’m wearing your shirt and the world is starting to notice.”

He remained silent for a long moment. Then he took another step toward you. Close enough that his forehead almost brushed yours. His free hand rose and pinched the collar of the shirt between two fingers.

“It’s yours now,” he said very softly. “Like everything I can offer you without destroying you.”

You closed your eyes. The emptiness was still there, but it seemed a little less vast. Because the shirt smelled like him. Because his hand was resting on your knee. Because, for once, he wasn’t walking away.

The rain kept falling.

Later that evening, the rain hadn’t let up. It was now drumming against the narrow windows of a small apartment above a disused garage, somewhere between Red Hook and the waterfront. The place felt cramped, almost stifling: a single main room, a double bed against the back wall, a tiny table, two chairs, and a kitchenette where the lightbulb above the sink flickered every thirty seconds. The air smelled musty, of cold coffee and the damp leather of the jackets drying on the backs of the chairs.

You were still wearing Bucky’s black shirt. You’d thrown his leather jacket on top because the heat was only working halfway. The leather felt heavy on your shoulders. It smelled of rain, smoke, and him. You were sitting in one of the chairs, your feet propped up on the lower bar, swirling a cup of tea between your palms. The tea was too hot. You weren’t really drinking it.

Bucky was standing at the sink. He had taken off his sweater. He was now wearing only a black tank top that revealed the taut lines of his shoulders and his left arm—the one that had been made of metal for far too long. He was rinsing two plates with slow, almost mechanical movements. The water was running. The metal of his left arm clinked softly against the dishes as he moved.

You’d been watching him in silence for several minutes. The silence wasn’t the same as before. It was denser, more charged. Something had shifted since the warehouse. Since the photos. Since Isabella’s words.

You set the cup down. The sound of the ceramic against the table was faint.

“Do you remember what you told me the first night I slept here?” you asked in a calm, almost innocent voice.

You weren’t trying to provoke him. It was just a thought that had come to you, gently, as you watched the rain on the window.

“You told me that rainy nights like this reminded you of Brooklyn before everything went haywire. Before the missions. Before… everything.”

Bucky stopped rinsing the plate.

Water continued to run from the faucet. He stood motionless. His back was stiff, his neck muscles tense. You saw his fingers clench around the edge of the sink. The metal scraped against the stainless steel.

He didn’t answer right away.

You waited. One second. Two. Five.

Then you saw his shoulders start to tremble. Not much. Just a shiver that ran through his whole body, as if an electric current had passed beneath his skin. He let go of the plate. It fell into the sink with a thud. The water kept running.

Bucky raised his right hand to his forehead. His fingers pressed hard against his temple, as if he were trying to hold back something that was slipping away. His breathing changed: shorter, more ragged. He lowered his head, eyes closed, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth creaked.

You stood up slowly. The leather jacket slipped a little off your shoulders but stayed in place.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t answer you. He was breathing too fast now. You saw the muscles in his back tense beneath his tank top. His left hand, the one with the metal, had clenched the edge of the sink with such force that the knuckles on his right hand turned white. The metal creaked. You could hear the sound of his joints tightening.

He mumbled something. You didn’t understand right away.

“…I don’t… I don’t remember…”

Your chest tightened violently.

You walked around the table in two strides. You stopped right behind him, close enough to feel the heat rising from his skin.

“Bucky. Look at me. ”

He didn’t move. His right hand was now trembling against his forehead. You saw a vein throbbing in his neck, too fast.

“I don’t remember what I told you,” he repeated in a hoarse, broken voice. “I don’t remember. How long ago was that? A week? Two? I… damn it, I don’t know anymore.”

You placed your hands on his shoulder blades. Gently at first. Then more firmly when you sensed he was about to pull away.

“It doesn’t matter. Listen to me.”

“Yes, it does.” His voice rose a notch. Not out of anger. Out of raw panic. “If I start forgetting what I tell you… if I start forgetting the things we share… I’ll end up forgetting you. And then I’ll hurt you without even realizing it. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”

You felt the emptiness opening up in your chest, but you pushed it away. Not now. Not with him drowning.

You slid your hands down his arms to his wrists. You gently pulled them so he would let go of the sink. He resisted for a second, then gave in. You turned him toward you. His face was pale, his eyes wide, his gaze lost somewhere between the past and the present.

You cupped his face in your palms. Your thumbs pressed against his cheekbones.

“Look at me,” you said more firmly. “Look at me, Bucky. I’m here. I’m wearing your shirt. I’m wearing your jacket. You gave it to me this morning. Do you remember that? You put it on my shoulders, saying I was shivering. Do you remember how you turned up the collar so I wouldn’t catch a cold?”

He blinked. Once. Twice. His breathing was still too rapid, but he was trying to look at you.

“I… I remember that,” he whispered.

“Good. So you remember me. You remember us. The rest doesn’t matter. The details, the exact words none of that matters. What matters is that you’re here. That I’m here. That I won’t let you go. ”

You wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close to you. He resisted for another second, then his forehead pressed against your shoulder. You felt his whole body tremble. His arms closed around your waist with desperate strength. The metal in his left arm pressed against your back through your jacket. You felt the pressure. You didn’t move.

“You won’t forget me,” you whispered in his ear. “Because I won’t let you forget me. I’ll remind you every day if I have to. I’ll shout it at you if I have to. Do you hear me?”

He nodded against your shoulder. A tiny movement. You felt his warm breath through the fabric of your shirt.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said in a broken voice.

“You won’t. Not as long as you let me bring you back when you drift too far away in your mind. ”

You stayed like that for a long time. Standing in the middle of the small kitchen, the rain pounding against the window, the water still running from the faucet, him trembling in your arms, you holding his head against your shoulder as if you could physically prevent his memories from fading away.

Then the door opened.

Wanda walked in without knocking. She was wearing a soaked dark red coat, her hair tied back hastily, her face grave. She stopped short when she saw you. Her gaze shifted from Bucky to you, then back to Bucky. She saw the way he was clinging to you. She saw the way you were holding him.

She didn’t say a word.

“We have six hours,” she said bluntly. Her voice was calm but urgent. “The guys with the photos moved up the deadline. They want an answer before dawn. If we don’t give them what they’re asking for, they’ll release everything. Not just the photos. They also have files on you, Bucky. Old ones. Very old ones. The ones you thought you’d made disappear.”

Bucky slowly sat up. He didn’t quite let go of you. One of his hands remained on your hip, over your jacket. You felt his fingers tighten against the leather.

“What do they want?” he asked.

His voice had returned?low and controlled. But you could still feel the tremor in his arm.

Wanda walked over to the table. She set down a cell phone. The screen was lit up, displaying a blurry photo: a man in a suit, half in shadow, talking to someone off-camera.

“They want you to come alone. Tomorrow morning at four o’clock. A warehouse near the docks. They say they have a proposal. But we both know it’s not a proposal. It’s a trap. And they’re using Y/N as leverage.”

You felt Bucky tense up against you. His hand on your hip tightened.

Wanda continued,

“Lucas Garcia is downstairs. He’s watching the street. He said there were two suspicious cars circling the area for the past hour. We’re being watched. We can’t stay here long. ”

You looked at Bucky. He was staring at the phone. His face had gone stone-cold again, but you could see the storm in his eyes. The fear of being forgotten was still there, just beneath the surface. You slipped your hand into his,the flesh-and-blood hand, and squeezed it tightly.

“We’re not going anywhere without thinking it through,” you told Wanda. “Not like this. Not by running away.”

Wanda nodded.

“I know. That’s why I came to warn you. But time is running out. Really running out.”

She took one last look at the way Bucky was holding you, then walked out without saying another word. The door closed softly behind her.

Silence returned.

Bucky looked down at you. His hand was still on your hip. His other hand the metal one hung at his side, his fingers slightly spread.

“You should have left a long time ago,” he said very quietly.

You shook your head. You grabbed the collar of his own shirt that you were wearing and gently pulled him toward you.

“I’m wearing your shirt, Bucky. I’m wearing your jacket. You let me in. You can’t send me away now. ”

He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something had changed. The panic was still there, but it was contained. He looked at you as if he were trying to etch every detail of your face into his memory.

“If I ever forget you…” he began.

You placed a finger on his lips.

“You won’t forget me. Because I won’t let you. And because even if one day you no longer remember my name, you’ll remember this.”

You took his metal hand and placed it on your heart, over your jacket and shirt. He felt it beating. Strong. Steady. Alive.

“You’ll remember this,” you repeated. “And that will be enough.”

Bucky was silent for a long time. Then he tilted his head and rested his forehead against yours. His breathing was still a little uneven, but he was calmer.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Downstairs, Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette under an awning, his eyes fixed on the two cars that were still circling at the end of the street. He didn’t come upstairs. He didn’t say a word. He stood there, a solitary figure in the night, silently reminding you that you weren’t really alone. That the outside world hadn’t disappeared.

In the small room, Bucky squeezed your hand tighter.

Time was running out.

But for now, he had you.

And you had him in return.

The next morning, the rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained low and heavy. They’d had to change their hideout during the night. Wanda had insisted. Lucas Garcia had driven them here, to this old glassblowing studio by the canal, a place no one really went to anymore except for a few fringe artists and people who needed to stay out of sight. The place smelled of warm sand, burnt metal, and something sweet coming from the still-warm furnaces.

The back door was blocked. Not completely locked, but the studio’s security system an old contraption cobbled together by the previous owner had been triggered by a power outage during the night. They were stuck inside until someone came from outside or the backup generator kicked back in. For now, they were alone. Stuck. Together.

You were sitting on a barstool near one of the workbenches. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt, but you’d taken off the jacket. It was warm in the studio because the ovens were still holding some heat. The shirt was open at your collarbone. You could still smell him on you.

Bucky was on the other side of the workbench, about one meter fifty away. Not far enough away to be comfortable. Not close enough to be easy. He’d found an old canvas work shirt in a closet and slipped it on over his tank top. The sleeves were rolled up. You could see the tendons in his forearms when he moved.

He was fiddling with a piece of colored glass without really looking at it. You were looking at him.

“You seem tense,” you finally said.

Bucky shrugged without looking up.

“We’re stuck in a glass studio with a door that won’t open. Do you find that relaxing?”

“I find it… interesting.”

You rested your elbows on the workbench. Your shirt slipped a little off your shoulder.

“We have to stay close. Do you hate it as much as you say you do?”

He finally looked up. There was a defensive glint in his blue eyes.

“I don’t hate it. I’m just trying not to make things harder for you than they already are.”

You smile a little. A wry smile, not quite gentle.

“You know, for someone who spends all their time protecting me, you also spend a lot of time pushing me away. It’s exhausting to watch.”

Bucky set down the piece of glass. He leaned on the workbench, both hands flat against it. The distance between you was still the same, but the atmosphere had changed.

“I’m not pushing you away,” he said. His voice was lower now. “I’m protecting you. It’s not the same thing. ”

“It’s exactly the same thing when you do it by keeping me at a distance.” You tilted your head. “Do you think that if we stay too close for too long, I’ll see how broken you are?”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened slightly on the wood of the workbench.

“Maybe,” he finally admitted.

The word came out as if he’d had to force it out.

“Maybe I don’t want you to see just how much worse it is than you imagine.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. Not the emptiness. Not yet. Just a strange, almost painful warmth.

“I already see a lot, Bucky. I’ve been wearing your shirt since yesterday. I held you while you were shaking. I know you’re hiding injuries. I know you’re afraid of forgetting. I know you think you’re going to hurt me.”

He clenched his jaw.

“And you’re still here.”

“I’m still here. ”

The silence that followed was different. More intimate. More dangerous.

Bucky slowly walked around the workbench. He stopped less than a meter away from you. You could feel the heat rising from his body. You could see the small scar above his left eyebrow, the one you’d never dared to ask about.

“You should be afraid of me,” he said. Not a threat. A statement of fact.

You got up from the stool. The shirt fell back onto your thighs. You took a step toward him.

“I’m afraid,” you admitted.

Your voice was soft but clear.

“But not of you. I’m afraid of the emptiness you leave behind when you walk away. I’m afraid of how it makes me feel when you let me wear your shirt and act like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped.

“It means everything,” he murmured. “That’s why it’s dangerous. ”

You were so close now that you could feel his breath on your cheek. The heat of the studio, the smell of hot glass, the distant sound of cars outside… everything seemed far away. There was nothing left but him, you, and this forced closeness that made every confession both easier and more terrifying at the same time.

You raised your hand and lightly brushed the hem of his new work shirt, right at chest level.

“You’re still hiding something. I can tell.”

He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Nothing ever goes right with you.”

Before he could answer, there was a noise outside. A scream. Then the sound of a door slamming violently. Someone calling for help.

Sophia Miller.

She had arrived earlier that morning with groceries, just as Wanda had asked. A woman in her forties, anxious, with eyes that were always a little too big, and hands that trembled when she was stressed. She sometimes handled small errands for the hideouts. She was reliable, but fragile.

The scream turned into a howl.

Bucky reacted before you even realized what was happening.

He grabbed you around the waist and pinned you against the nearest wall, his body forming a complete barrier between you and the studio’s front door. His left arm the metal one rose to shield your head. His chest pressed against yours. You could feel every tense muscle, every short breath.

The door flew open.

Sophia came running in, her face covered in blood, a gash on her forehead. Behind her, two men in plain clothes were trying to catch up with her. Not cops. Guys sent by the people who had the photos.

Bucky didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, shielding you with his whole body, his metal arm stretched out in front of him like a shield. You could feel his heart beating against your chest. You could also feel something wet against your side blood. Not yours. His.

“Stay behind me,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Sophia stumbled and fell to her knees. The two men stopped dead in their tracks when they saw Bucky. They knew his reputation. They took a step back.

“We just want the girl,” one of them said. “Not you. No trouble.”

Bucky snorted. A cold, dangerous sound.

“Don’t you touch her. Don’t even look at her.”

The two men exchanged a glance. They knew they were no match for him. Not here. They took another step back, then ran out.

The door closed.

Silence fell, broken only by Sophia’s muffled sobs on the floor.

Bucky didn’t move right away. He stayed pressed against you, his body still shielding you, his breathing still rapid. You felt the warmth of his blood seeping through his shirt and staining yours the shirt he was wearing over yours.

You placed a hand on his side. He flinched.

“You’re hurt,” you said.

Not a question.

“It’s nothing.”

“You always hide your injuries unless you have no choice.” Your voice trembled slightly. “Let me see.”

He hesitated. Then he stepped back just enough for you to slip your hand under his shirt. Your fingers found the wound a gash near his ribs, not very deep but bleeding. He’d probably gotten it while protecting you, or maybe earlier, and he’d ignored it.

You felt a sense of emptiness wash over you. Not because he was hurt. Because he’d tried to protect you again without letting you see. Because the forced closeness had just reminded you how much you needed him to let you in completely.

“You’re bleeding on me,” you whispered.

Your voice was low, almost broken.

“And you were going to act like it was nothing. Again.”

Bucky looked down at you. There was guilt in his gaze, but also something rawer. Fear. Not of you. Of what this closeness was doing to him.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Too late.”

You pressed a little harder on the wound. He winced, but he didn’t pull away.

“You protect me. You hide things from me. You let me wear your shirt. And then you’re surprised that I’m afraid of the void you leave behind when you refuse to let me help you. ”

Sophia was still sobbing on the floor, but you weren’t looking at her anymore. The outside world had vanished. All that remained was that sticky heat between the two of you, the blood mingling, the stained shirt, that body pressed against yours that still refused to open up completely.

Bucky raised his hand his flesh-and-blood hand and brushed your cheek. His thumb traced a line beneath your eye.

“I don’t know how else to do this,” he admitted. His voice was hoarse. “I don’t know how to let you in without being afraid of destroying you.”

You rested your forehead against his. The heat of the studio, the smell of blood and glass, the beat of his heart against yours.

“So we’ll learn together,” you say. “Because I’m not going to just stand here and watch you bleed in silence. Not this time. ”

He closed his eyes. His breath mingled with yours.

Outside, the two men were gone. Sophia Miller was still crying. The door was still blocked.

But inside, something had shifted.

Their closeness was no longer just forced.

It had become necessary.

The following night, the glass studio was bathed in semi-darkness. The furnaces had finally cooled down. Only an old oil lamp sitting on the workbench cast a warm, flickering light on the walls. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass hanging here and there danced like eyes that observed without judging.

You were exhausted. Both of you. Bucky’s body was still warm against yours, but there was that heaviness in his limbs that comes after too much adrenaline. Your head rested on his shoulder. His work shirt stained with dried blood was unbuttoned. You’d cleaned and bandaged his wound earlier with what you’d found in the studio’s first-aid kit. Now your hand rested just above the bandage, as if you needed to check that it was still there.

Bucky wasn’t sleeping. Neither were you.

You were unable to pull away. Even when your bodies were crying out for rest, even when your minds were heavy, something kept you glued to each other. Bucky’s metal arm was wrapped around your waist. Your legs were intertwined with his. The shirt you were still wearing his had ridden up over your hips.

The silence lasted a long time. Not the heavy silence of before. A gentler, more worn-out silence. A silence that waited.

You were the one who broke the silence first.

“You once told me you loved quiet spaces,” you murmured against his neck.

Your voice was low, hoarse with fatigue.

“Whispered conversations at dawn. That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it?”

Bucky exhaled slowly. You felt his breath in your hair.

“Yeah,” he replied just as quietly. “That’s what we’re doing.”

You waited. You knew there was more. You could feel it in the way his fingers traced slow circles on your hip, right at the edge of your shirt.

“What else are you hiding?” you asked softly. “Not your wounds. I’ve seen them. Not your fear of forgetting. I know that. Something else. A taste. Something you don’t show anyone.”

He remained silent for a long moment. His hand stopped moving on your hip. You felt his heart beating a little faster against your chest.

“I like… creating fragile things,” he said at last.

His voice was so soft that you had to lean in closer to hear him.

“Things that can break if you’re not careful. Glass. Precision mechanisms. Things that require you to be gentle.”

You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light from the oil lamp cast dancing shadows across his face.

“You? Creating fragile things? After everything you’ve broken?”

A small, sad smile tugged at his lips.

“That’s why I love it. Because I spend my life breaking things. And sometimes… I need to remind myself that I can do the opposite, too. That my hands can still make something beautiful if I control them well enough.”

You pressed your palm against his bare chest, right above his heart.

“Is that why you were looking at the glass earlier as if it were alive?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I’ve spent years destroying things. Cities. People. Lives. And now… I look at a piece of glass and tell myself that if I breathe too hard, it might crack. And that calms me down. It makes me feel like I can still choose not to break everything.”

You remained silent for a moment, letting his words settle between you. Your hand slowly moved up to his jaw. Your fingers traced the line of his stubble.

“You’ve never told me that,” you whispered.

“I’m telling you now. Because you’re here. Because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave even when I’m bleeding on you. Because…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Because for once, I don’t want this to be just another night where we protect ourselves. I want this to be a night where I give you something real.”

You felt your throat tighten. You moved even closer, your forehead against his.

“Then give me more,” you whispered. “Tell me something else. Something no one else knows.”

Bucky closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was even lower, almost a secret whispered directly into your mouth.

“I love the silence just before dawn. Not the silence of the night. The silence of that moment when everyone is still asleep and the world hasn’t woken up yet. I love being awake at that moment. Because it’s the only time I feel… not guilty for existing. When I can just breathe without the past screaming at me. ”

You felt tears welling up, but you didn’t let them fall. You kept them inside, like a secret you shared with him.

“I want to be there the next time you’re awake at dawn,” you said. “Not because you’re afraid. Not because we’re hiding. Just… because.”

He opened his eyes. They shone brightly in the dim light.

“You will be,” he promised. “If you still want me after all this. ”

You were about to answer when Bucky’s phone vibrated on the workbench. An incoming call. The name that appeared on the screen: Loki.

Bucky grunted softly but answered anyway. He put it on speakerphone. Loki Laufeyson’s voice filled the studio, calm, slightly amused, with that accent that always dragged out the vowels a little too long.

“Barnes. I hope I’m not interrupting a… private moment. But I have news that can’t wait. The people who have your photos aren’t acting alone. They’re working with someone who knows your past very well. Not just the soldier. Not just the killer. Someone who knows what you did even before you had that metal arm.”

Bucky stiffened against you. You could feel his muscles tense.

“Who?” he asked.

Loki laughed softly.

“Someone with a name you don’t like to hear. Someone who thinks you’ve owed him a debt for a very long time. I’ll let you guess. But if you want my advice and I know you don’t...don’t go to that meeting tomorrow morning. It’s a trap. And not the kind of trap you walk away from alive.”

Bucky was silent for a long moment. His free hand gripped your hip a little tighter.

“Why are you helping us, Loki?” he asked at last.

“Because I’m bored,” Loki replied casually. “And because watching big James Barnes try to protect someone instead of destroying everything… it’s entertaining. And maybe a little touching. Don’t get used to it.”

The call cut off.

Silence returned. Heavier this time.

You traced your fingertips across Bucky’s chest.

“We’re not going to that meeting,” you said. “Not like this. Not alone.”

“We don’t have a choice,” he murmured. “They have the photos. They have files on me. If we don’t go, they’ll release everything. And then… ”

“Then we’ll find another way. With Wanda. With Loki, if he’s willing to play along. But we’re not running headlong into a trap.”

Bucky turned his head and pressed a slow, weary kiss to your temple.

“You make me weak, you know that? ”

“No,” you replied. “I make you human. That’s different.”

You stayed like that, exhausted, pressed against each other, your whispers still hanging in the air, when the studio door flew open.

Elijah Anderson burst in. Tall, broad-shouldered, his eyes wide with anxiety, his face pale. He was wearing a coat that was too big for him, and he was breathing too heavily.

“They’re out there,” he said in a trembling voice. “The guys from the photos. They’ve found the place. Lucas is trying to hold them off downstairs, but they’re coming up. You have to get out of here. Now.”

The moment snapped to a halt.

Bucky sprang to his feet, his body shifting from exhaustion to alertness in a split second. He pulled you up with him, his arm still around your waist.

“How many?” he asked.

“Three. Maybe four. They’re armed.” Elijah was glancing frantically around him. “Sophia left an hour ago. She said she’d be back with help, but… I don’t know if she’ll come back. ”

You felt the emptiness reopen in your chest. Not as strongly as before. But it was there. Because the truce was over. Because the night of whispered confidences was already over.

Bucky looked at you. His blue eyes were dark but calm.

“We’re going out the back,” he said. “And this time, you’re staying right by my side. No arguments.”

You nodded. You knew this wasn’t the time to argue.

As you prepared to flee, the oil lamp flickered one last time on the workbench. The reflections in the pieces of colored glass danced one last time across your faces.

The night of confidences was over.

Dawn was approaching.

And with it, danger.

Two days later, the Tailor Shop had swallowed them whole.

It was a small, unassuming sewing workshop on the ground floor of an old building, with a display window full of tailor-made suits and a back room filled with fabrics hanging like stage curtains. The place smelled of clean fabric, warm thread, and a faint scent of vetiver wafting from the old dress forms. They had taken refuge there after fleeing the glass studio. Wanda had connections. No one came asking questions here. Not as long as the curtains stayed drawn and the backlight remained off.

But the noose was tightening.

The photos were now making the rounds. Not everywhere yet. Just enough for people to start talking. Enough for Bucky Barnes’s name to be whispered alongside yours in the same sentences. Enough for the past to resurface like an old scar you thought had healed.

You were standing in front of a large oval mirror in the back room, trying on a gray wool jacket that the tailor had left there. You were still wearing Bucky’s shirt underneath, but you’d slipped the jacket on over it. It was too big for you. The shoulders hung loose. You were tugging at the sleeves without really thinking about it.

Bucky was sitting on a cutting table, his legs dangling, a disassembled gun in front of him. He was cleaning it for the third time that morning. His eyes kept darting from the door to you, then back to the door.

The silence between you hadn’t been the same since the night of the confessions. It was sharper. More charged. Because something had changed. Because the word “ex” had been spoken aloud two days earlier by someone who should never have known it. And now it hung between you like a blade.

The door to the back room opened.

Amelia Wilson walked in without knocking. Thirty-six years old, tall, sarcastic to the core, her arms laden with fabric, which she tossed onto a chair. She sometimes worked for the same people as Wanda. She had a mouth that always spoke the truth too soon and too loudly.

She looked at both of you. Her gaze lingered on the jacket you were wearing, then on Bucky’s shirt peeking out from underneath, then on the way Bucky was looking at you as if the world could come crashing down at any moment.

“So it’s true,” she said dryly. “The two of you. Again. I thought it had been over for a long time.” ”

You turned around slowly. The jacket slipped a little off your shoulders.

“What do you mean, ‘again’?” you asked.

Your voice was already sharper than you would have liked.

Amelia raised an eyebrow. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed.

“I mean, everyone knows you were together before. Before Barnes decided his life was too dangerous for a normal girlfriend. Before he dumped you without an explanation. Before he disappeared for six months and you had to pick up the pieces on your own.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

You felt the air grow thin in your lungs. The psychological suffocation came on suddenly, as if the fabric hanging around you were tightening around your throat. You looked at Bucky. He had stopped cleaning the gun. His hands were frozen on the table. His face was set in stone, but you could see the storm in his eyes.

“Amelia,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Shut your mouth.”

She didn’t shut up. She even smiled that bitter smile she saved for moments when she wanted to hurt someone.

“Why? Because it’s awkward to talk about the past when you’re reenacting the exact same scene?” She turned to you. “You know what he did last time, don’t you? He loved you. He touched you. He said things to you. And then one day he decided you deserved better and left without giving you a choice. He treated you like an ex before you even had time to realize you’d become one. ”

You felt your hands trembling. You clenched them on the lapels of your jacket. The wool felt rough beneath your fingers.

“You don’t know anything about what happened between us,” you said.“Nothing at all. ”

“I know what everyone knows,” Amelia replied. “That Bucky Barnes can’t hold on to what he loves. That he’d rather break everything than risk hurting someone. And look at you now. You’re still wearing his shirt. You’re letting him protect you. You’re making exactly the same mistakes all over again.”

A void opened up inside you. Vast. Cold. The suffocation was total. You were struggling to breathe. Amelia’s words pierced your old scars like needles.

Bucky stood up abruptly. The table shifted slightly under his weight. He crossed the two meters separating him from you in three strides. He stood behind you, his body pressed against your back, his left arm wrapped possessively and firmly around your waist. His hand rested on your hip and pulled you against him. You felt his warmth. You also felt the tension in every muscle.

He lowered his head and brought his mouth close to your ear. His voice was low, but loud enough for Amelia to hear.

“She’s not an ex,” he said.

Every word was clear, sharp.

“She’s never been an ex. Because I never really let her go. Because even when I thought I was doing the right thing by walking away, she was still there. In my head. In my heart. In everything I did to try to stop thinking about her. ”

You felt your legs give way. You leaned against him without realizing it. His arm tightened around you.

Amelia looked at them. Her smile had faded a little.

“That’s romantic,” she said sarcastically. “Really. But that doesn’t change the fact that the guys with the photos know all this. They know you’re her weak spot. They know they can get to her through you. And they’re going to do it.”

Bucky looked up. His gaze on Amelia was icy.

“Then they’ll have to get past me first. And I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”

He looked down at you again. His hand on your hip slowly traced its way up your side, possessively, but his fingers were gentle as they brushed your jaw to turn your head toward him.

“Look at me,” he whispered.“You’re not an ex. You never were. You’re…”

He searched for the word.

“You’re the only thing I’ve never been able to let go of completely. And I’m not going to make the mistake of pushing you away again. Not this time.” ”

You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Something rawer. More alive.

Amelia watched them for another moment, then shrugged.

“Do whatever you want. But don’t come crying to me when the noose really tightens. Because it’s tightening. And fast.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

The door closed.

Silence fell again.

Bucky didn’t let go of you. His arm remained around your waist. His hand slowly caressed your hip through your jacket. You could feel his breath in your hair.

“Is it true?” you asked in a low voice. “Everything she said? That you left without an explanation? That you treated me like an ex before I even understood?”

Bucky turned your head toward him. His blue eyes were dark, but there was a raw vulnerability in them.

“It’s true,” he admitted. “And it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. Because I thought I was protecting you. And all I did was break you.”

You placed your hand on his, resting on your hip.

“Then don’t do it again,” you said.

Your voice was sharp, but your fingers were gentle on his.

“Because this time, if you leave, I won’t let you come back.”

He rested his forehead against yours. The wool jacket crinkled between you.

“I won’t leave anymore,” he promised. “Not as long as you’re wearing my shirt. Not as long as you let me hold you like this.”

Outside, the noose continued to tighten.

But in the tailor’s back room, among the fabrics hanging like silent witnesses, something old and broken was beginning to mend itself.

Immediately after the confrontation with Amelia, Bucky said almost nothing.

He took you by the hand not gently, but not roughly either, just with that possessive urgency that left no room for doubt, and led you through the back of the store to a small, secluded room at the far end. It was a former fitting room that had been converted into a storage area. The walls were covered with fabrics that hung like skins. A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The door closed behind you with a metallic click. The outside world vanished.

It was just the two of you.

The vise, the photos, Amelia, the past exploding, the fear of the void, the fear of forgetting… it was all still there, but compressed into this tiny room where the air was hot and heavy with the scent of fabric and Bucky’s leather.

You turned back to him. Your breath was short. The wool jacket was still draped over your shoulders, over his shirt.

“Bucky…”

He didn’t let you finish.

He took a step. Then another. Until your back pressed against the cold wall. His hands rested on either side of your head. He looked at you as if he were finally seeing something he’d spent months refusing to see.

“I treated you like an ex,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And that was a lie. Because you never stopped being mine. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I disappeared. Even when I told you you deserved better. ”

You felt tears welling up. Not the kind you hold back. The kind that come when the masks truly come off.

“You broke me,” you said. “And I let you because I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“That wasn’t what I wanted.”

He rested his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your mouth.

“It was what I thought I had to do to protect you. And all I did was leave you with that emptiness you hate so much. ”

You rested your hands on his chest. You could feel his heart beating too fast.

“So stop protecting me like that,” you whispered. “Stop making decisions for me. And let me in. Really let me in.”

Bucky closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something inside him had snapped. The last barriers. The last lies he was still telling himself.

“I don’t know how to go on without you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “And I’m too afraid of hurting you to keep you. But I can’t push you away anymore. Not after seeing you wear my shirt for days. Not after holding you while I was shaking. Not after seeing you face to face with Amelia and wanting to claim you in front of everyone.”

You ran your fingers through his hair. You gently tugged on it so he’d look at you.

“So claim me,” you say. “Here. Now. No more masks. No more ‘I’m protecting you by keeping you at a distance.’ Just you. And me. And everything we’ve broken and are trying to fix. ”

Bucky’s ragged breath brushed against your neck as his fingers closed around your hips with unexpected gentleness. He pulled you against him, closing the remaining distance in one fluid motion that sent a shiver through Y/N. His lips captured yours, no longer with hesitation, but with the raw urgency of someone who’s waited too long. Y/N’s back met the flat surface of the wall, her hands instinctively finding their way into Bucky’s dark hair to anchor his touch. He intensified the pressure, guiding your body against his with your silhouettes perfectly aligned. The textures of your clothes faded away under the friction of your synchronized movements, each gesture becoming a direct response to the broken whispers you exchanged. Bucky planted his feet firmly, lifting Y/N slightly to steady your embrace as your breaths merged completely in the dim light of the room.

An intense heat spread beneath your skin, instantly erasing the fear of the void that had paralyzed you just moments earlier. In Bucky’s mind, the usual chaos of his fragmented memories faded away, giving way to the absolute clarity of your presence. The scent of leather and light rain emanating from him enveloped your senses, creating a bubble of inviolable intimacy where the rest of the world had no hold. Every point of physical contact resonated like an electric shock, filling the cruel void of touch that had haunted him for months. You felt the erratic beating of his heart against your own chest, living proof of his vulnerability shared only with you. A dizzying sense of completeness washed over you, transforming this physical embrace into a silent pact of survival. The rough texture of his hands contrasted with the softness of your own skin, awakening a sensory receptivity pushed to its peak, where every shiver became a confession.

He lifted you higher against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist without you even thinking about it. The wool jacket slipped off your shoulders and fell to the floor. His button-down, the one you were still wearing, was now open; his fingers had undone it with an urgency that contrasted with the tenderness of his kisses on your neck.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispered against your skin. “Tell me I’m not dreaming that you’re here, that you’re letting me touch you like this, that you won’t disappear when I close my eyes.”

You cupped his face in your hands and forced him to look at you.

“It’s real,” you said. Your voice was broken but firm. “I’m here. I’m still wearing your shirt. And I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not as long as you’re looking at me like that.”

He growled softly a sound that came from deep within his chest and captured your mouth once more. This time the kiss was deeper, more desperate. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them, lifting them higher. You could feel his hardness through the fabric of his pants, pressed against you. Every movement of your hips sent waves of heat racing up your spine.

You slid a hand between you and undid the buckle of his belt. He helped you, impatient, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged.

“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” he said. The words came out between kisses. “Even when I was pushing you away. Even when I was telling you it was over. Even when I was lying to myself, saying you were better off without me. You were always there. In my head. In my body. In everything I refused to feel. ”

You unzipped his jacket. He did the same with yours. The clothes became obstacles that we pushed aside hastily, without grace, with that urgency that comes when you’ve waited too long.

When he entered you, it was in a single fluid, deep motion, and you both let out a broken sound. He paused for a moment, his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe with me. ”

You obeyed. You breathed together, in sync, while the outside world the stranglehold, the photos, the past, the fear,finally faded away.

He began to move. Slowly at first. Then deeper, more urgently. Each thrust of his hips was a confession. Each moan you let escape was a response. His hands on your hips were possessive, but his lips on your neck were gentle. He whispered your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Don’t leave me,” he said at one point. His voice was hoarse. “Even if I get difficult. Even if I tremble. Even if I forget things. Don’t leave me.”

You wrapped your legs around him tighter.

“I’m not leaving you,” you replied. “I’m bringing you back. Always. That’s how it works now.”

The pace quickened. The partition vibrated slightly behind your back. The fabric hanging around you moved in time with your bodies. The bare lightbulb cast shifting shadows on your sweaty skin.

When you came, it was with his name on your lips and his fingers intertwined with yours against the wall. He followed a few seconds later, his body tense as a bow, his face buried in your neck, a low, broken sound escaping from his chest.

You stayed like that for a long time afterward. He was still inside you, your bodies pressed together, your breathing slowing down in unison. The sweat was cooling on your skin. The shirt you were still wearing lay open and crumpled between you. His pants were slumped down on his hips. Your legs were still wrapped around him.

Bucky slowly lifted his head. His eyes were dark, shining, and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.

“The masks have come off,” he said softly.

You stroked his cheek with the backs of your fingers.

“Yes,” you replied. “And we’re still here.”

He pulled out of you gently. He set you back on your feet but didn’t step away. He held you close, his arms around your waist, his face buried in your hair.

Outside, the noose continued to tighten.

But in that small, secluded room, amid the fabrics hanging like protective curtains, you had finally let go of everything that separated you.

The exes had become lovers once more.

The masks were gone.

And for the first time in a very long time, the emptiness didn’t feel quite so vast.

A few hours later, the tailor shop was silent.

The bare lightbulb in the small, secluded room had been turned off. You’d come out of the fitting room that had been turned into a storage area, but you hadn’t gone far. Bucky had guided you to an old leather couch at the back of the shop, between rolls of fabric and headless mannequins. You were lying there now, half-dressed, your bodies still bearing the marks of each other.

Your head rested on his chest. His shirt the one you’d been wearing for days was pulled up over your thighs. His pants were pulled up, but his belt remained undone. His metal arm was draped beneath the nape of your neck. His flesh hand traced slow circles on your bare shoulder, right at the edge of the fabric.

The pace had slowed. Artificially. As if the outside world had decided to grant you a few hours of respite before everything exploded.

You could feel his heart beating against your cheek. Steady now. Calmer. You could also smell the scent of both of you on his skin sweat, sex, leather, and that metallic note that never left him.

“You’re still trembling a little,” he murmured against your hair.

You smiled faintly.

“It’s you who makes me tremble. Not fear.”

He let out a small, joyless laugh.

“This is the first time I’ve heard you say that without it sounding like an accusation.”

You lifted your head slightly to look at him. The light filtering in from the main window was gray, almost blue. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but it was coming.

“Because this time,” you say softly, “I’m trembling because I can feel you. Not because I’m losing you.”

Bucky was silent for a long moment. His fingers continued to trace circles on your shoulder. Then he spoke, his voice low, almost a whisper that echoed in the silence of the store.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “Not really. Not for… a long time. Steve, yes. A little. Wanda, when she’s not playing her games. But you…”

He paused. You waited. You could feel that the words were heavy for him.

“You, I trust you like no one else,” he finally continued. “Not just because you’re wearing my shirt and you refuse to leave. Not just because you held me when I was shaking. I trust you because you see everything. The worst of it. The chaos in my head. The way I can break everything without meaning to. And you stay anyway. You don’t look at me like a monster that needs fixing. You look at me like someone who can still choose.”

You placed your hand on his chest, right above his heart.

“Because you can,” you said. “And because I don’t want to fix you. I just want to be there when you’re ready.”

He turned his head and pressed a slow kiss to your temple.

“You’re the only one I trust completely,” he whispered. “The only one I can tell this to without fearing it will be used against me. The only one I can give everything I usually hide. Even my weaknesses. Even my fear of forgetting. Even the fact that I loved you before and lost you because of my own fault. ”

You felt your throat tighten. You snuggled closer to him. The renewed connection was there, palpable, in every whispered word, in every silence that was no longer empty.

The door to the back room opened softly.

Lucas Garcia slipped in silently. He was still wearing his dark coat, his eyes tired, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He stopped a few meters from the couch, keeping his distance, but his gaze was serious.

“The messenger has arrived,” he said simply. His voice was low, almost a whisper as well. “He has news. Not good news. But precise.”

Behind him, a smaller figure appeared. A witness. A man in his fifties, his hands in his pockets, his face marked by years of silence and observation. He didn’t say anything right away. He merely nodded toward Bucky, a silent sign of respect.

Lucas continued:

“They’ve moved up the meeting. Not at dawn. In three hours. They want you to come alone, Bucky. With the photos and the files. They say that if you don’t come, everything will be released before noon. Not just about you. About her, too.”

He glanced briefly at you, then turned his attention back to Bucky.

The silent witness spoke for the first time. His voice was hoarse, as if he didn’t use it often.

“I’ve seen the files,” he said. “They have everything. Your past. The missions. The names. And they have proof that you tried to protect Y/N by distancing yourself from her months ago. They’re going to use that to break you. To make you choose between your freedom and her.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. You could feel Bucky tense slightly beneath you. You placed your hand on his chest, a calm, grounded gesture.

Bucky looked at Lucas, then at the witness, then lowered his gaze back to you.

“I’m not going alone,” he said. His voice was clear. “And I’m not choosing between my freedom and her. Because she is my freedom now. The only one I want.”

Lucas nodded, as if he’d expected it.

“So let’s come up with a plan. Wanda will be here in an hour. Loki said he could jam their communications if they try to broadcast anything. But you both need to be ready. Both of you. ”

The witness said nothing more. He nodded again, then stepped back into the shadows, as if he’d already said everything he needed to say.

Lucas watched them for a moment longer,you in Bucky’s shirt, him with his arm around your waist,then he walked out without another word.

The door closed.

You were left alone.

The pace was still slow. Artificially calm. As if these few hours were a poisoned gift before the storm really broke.

Bucky pulled you closer to him. His hand slid through your hair.

“Did you hear me?” he whispered. “I trust only you. Completely. Totally. Even if everything blows up in three hours. Even if I have to risk everything. I choose you. Not safety. Not running away. You. ”

You lifted your head and pressed a slow kiss to his jaw.

“Then let’s go together,” you said. “And let’s get this over with. Not by hiding. Not by pushing each other away. Together.”

He closed his eyes. You could feel his breath against your skin.

Time had slipped away.

A few hours later, dawn had broken, gray and cold, and everything had shifted to a place that no longer really belonged to any single universe. The Tailor Shop was behind you. So was the glass studio. What remained was an old warehouse by the water a place that still smelled of metal and rain, as if Mob!Bucky had never really gone away. The three realities had overlapped in that final confrontation.

Wanda was there, wearing a dark red coat, her arms crossed, her face serious but calm. Steve stood a little to the side, hands in his pockets, his eyes never leaving Bucky. Loki was leaning against a pillar, a smirk on his face that promised nothing good and yet everything at once. Lucas Garcia was smoking a cigarette near the door, his gaze watchful. Elijah Anderson was further away, looking anxious, his hands trembling slightly. Amelia Wilson was there too, sarcastic to the end, but silent for once. Sophia Miller had left,she’d done all she could.

And right in the middle, there were the two of you.

Bucky and you.

You were still wearing his shirt. It was wrinkled, stained, and open at your collarbone. He’d slipped a jacket over his tank top. His metal arm was visible. He wasn’t hiding it anymore.

The men with the photos and files were standing across from you. Three figures. Faces no one really recognized. They’d brought a laptop. The screen displayed the photos. The files. Everything.

The tallest of the three spoke first.

“You came alone, Barnes. As agreed.”

Bucky didn’t move. His hand was on your hip. Not possessive this time. Just there.

“She stays,” he said. His voice was clear. “And whatever you have on her, destroy it. Now.”

The man sneered.

“You’re in no position to negotiate.”

Wanda took a step forward.

“Yes, I am,” she said simply. “Because what you have isn’t just in your hands anymore. Loki has already started scrambling the channels. And what you think you have as evidence… isn’t as clean as you think it is.”

Loki smiled even wider.

“Files have a funny way of changing when you tinker with them using the right tools. And I have some very good tools.”

The tension rose. The three men exchanged glances. One of them placed his hand on a gun at his belt.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

You’re the one who spoke.

“You want to break him,” you said. Your voice was calm but sharp. “You want him to choose between his freedom and me. But you don’t understand. There’s no choice left to make. Because I’m already everything he’s chosen. And he’s everything I’ve chosen. Even with the photos. Even with the files. Even with everything you can release.”

The tallest of the three narrowed his eyes.

“You sound like someone who has nothing to lose. ”

“I have everything to lose,” you replied. “And that’s why I’m here. Not to negotiate. To finish this.”

Bucky held you a little tighter against him. He didn’t say anything. But you could sense what he wasn’t saying: his complete trust in you. His decision to stop pushing you away. His choice to keep you, even if it made him vulnerable.

The silence lingered.

Then the smallest of the three, the one who had barely spoken, pulled a USB drive out of his pocket and tossed it on the ground.

“Take it,” he said. “That’s all. The originals. The copies. Everything we had. We have nothing left.” ”

Wanda walked over, picked up the drive, and slipped it into her pocket.

“What about the photos that are already circulating?” Steve asked.

The man shrugged.

“You can’t control everything. But whatever concrete evidence we had… it’s gone. For now.”

They retreated. It wasn’t a complete defeat. Just a strategic retreat. They knew the game had changed. That Bucky wasn’t alone anymore. That the girl he’d tried to protect had become his strength.

Once they were gone, silence fell over the warehouse.Wanda approached the two of you. She placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“You made the right choice,” she said softly. “By not coming alone. By not hiding her.”

Steve nodded.

“We’ll clean up the rest. The photos lying around. The rumors. It’ll take time. But we’ll do it. ”

Loki approached as well, a smirk on his face.

“That was almost entertaining, Barnes. Almost. Don’t do that too often. I hate being bored.”

He vanished into the shadows without waiting for a reply.

Lucas Garcia stubbed out his cigarette.

“I’m staying outside. Just in case.”

Elijah Anderson and Amelia Wilson walked away together, whispering to each other. Sophia had already left. The silent witness was gone.

All that remained were Wanda, Steve, and the two of you.Wanda looked at the shirt you were wearing.

“It looks good on you,” she said with a small smile. “Keep it.”

Then she and Steve left too, leaving you alone in the empty warehouse.

The wind blew in through the broken windows. The rain had started again, light and almost silent.Bucky turned toward you. He cupped your face in his hands the flesh hand and the metal hand, both gentle.

“Is it over?” you asked.

“No,” he replied. “Not completely. There will always be photos lying around. People who know. Threats. But…”

He paused. His thumbs traced your cheekbones.

“But we’re not hiding anymore. We’re not pushing each other away anymore. We’re not pretending you’re an ex anymore. You’re mine. And I’m yours. And no one can take that away from us.”

You placed your hands on his wrists.

“Even if you forget things?”

“Even if I forget. Because you’ll be there to remind me. Because I trust you with that. Completely.”

You felt tears welling up. Not from sadness. Just from an emotion too big to keep inside.

“I love you,” you said. The words came out simple, raw, unvarnished.

Bucky closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were shining.

“I love you too,” he said. “For a long time. Even when I pushed you away. Even when I told you you deserved better. I already loved you. And I still love you. And I’ll love you tomorrow, even if I don’t remember your name. Because my body will remember. Because my skin will remember. Because that shirt on you… it will always remind me.”

You snuggled up against him. He held you close, his metal arm and his flesh-and-blood arm wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair.

The rain was falling harder now.

And in that bittersweet mix the victory that wasn’t complete, the threat that hadn’t been completely dispelled, but the love that was finally unmasked you stood there.

Standing.

Together.

Alive.

The ending wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

And that was enough.

✻✻✻

x

Bucky stares at the ceiling in thought. He’s alone in your bed because he doesn’t want to get up just yet. The light shines in through the sheer curtains, casting an almost iridescent glow on the walls.

For weeks, you two have been stuck inside of this bubble you’ve created. You don’t leave your property unless it’s to go to town to grab things Bucky might need. Everything you need is inside your little greenhouse that is beautifully thriving. You don’t have to hide your true self because Bucky loves seeing you in it. He loves the way your fae form looks.

Bucky gets out of bed and walks to the window, pushing aside the sheer curtains. He can see you move about in the greenhouse, and he smiles.

You walk around the greenhouse, picking things you want for dinner tonight. You and Bucky have very different tastes, but you make it work. You’ve been teaching him how to cook your meals just as he’s been teaching you how to cook his.

For the plants that need a little extra love, you use your magic to bring life back into them. You haven’t needed Shadowbane’s help in getting more seeds for you since you asked for so much last time, but you know you’ll need to restock soon. It sickens you to keep asking for his help, but it’s the small price to pay to stay hidden from your family.

The door to the greenhouse opens, and your wings flutter happily at his presence. He walks over to you and pulls you into his arms. It’s been a few weeks, but your wings and body already know Bucky’s touch.

“How are the plants?” he mumbles against your hair.

“Lively. I’m just gathering ingredients for dinner tonight.”

“Am I able to eat any of this stuff?”

“No. It’s poison to you, just like your food is poison for me. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I’ll trust you on that,” he chuckles.

With the ingredients in your basket, you and Bucky return to the cottage. It’s morning, so you put the ingredients in the fridge for later. Fae food only has a viable window of about ten hours to be considered fresh. It’s why most Fae have gardens. If not picked, food can last months attached to the stem.

As soon as you close the fridge, Bucky pushes you against it and kisses you. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. He slides his hands down your curves, and he grips your thighs. You jump into his arms without breaking the kiss, and he walks back to the bedroom, eager for his breakfast.

You’re truly happy here, and you hope nothing ruins this.

King Elric and Queen Erissa have traveled across the galaxy and arrive on Earth, in Sokovia, with half a dozen trusted guards. King Elric knows he has to handle this himself instead of having to rely on others. If you want something done right, then you have to do it yourself. That’s what he always told you, his beautiful daughter.

Not only is he pissed that you ran, but he’s pissed that you faked your death to stay gone. Why would you do that? He has given you everything you need in order to succeed, and he has shown you nothing but love and respect.

If what Thor told him is true, then you’re somewhere in Sokovia, and he’s not going to stop until he finds you.

King Elric knew Earth was messy, but he never realized just how so. He walks through the broken streets and dilapidated buildings, looking at everything with disdain.

“How do humans do this? This place is disgusting,” King Elric says with a shudder.

“Not everywhere on Earth is like this, darling,” Queen Erissa says. “Though I’m not sure why Y/N decided to choose this place to live in.”

“I bet that Bucky forced her to.” Elric, once he heard about Bucky through Thor, hated him. “I bet he’s the reason she’s gone.”

“How would he have come to Álfheimr? Humans aren’t advanced enough to leave this planet, much less come to ours.”

“I don’t know, but I bet he did. Rizlar.” A guard steps forward, and the king looks at him. “Survey the area. Find any trace of my daughter. Report back in one hour with your findings.”

“Yes, My King.”

Since two guards need to stay with the king and queen, the rest of them leave to do what he says. The King and Queen will do their own hunt, but at least the guards can get more done with the locals. Knowing this planet is aware of the existence of alien life, King Elric knows he can go to Sokovia leaders and ask for their help.

The only way he’s leaving Earth is with you in tow.

Kig Elric and Queen Erissa, after having spoken to the Sokovian government, wait for Rizlar and the other guards to come back. Exactly one hour later, they do.

“My King, we found something. Most of the locals did not recognize Princess Y/N, but one of them did. There is a cottage on the outskirts of this town that most of the locals tend to stay away from. Princess Y/N must have been using glamour whenever she comes to town, but she doesn’t when she’s home. We tested the area and found traces of her magic there.”

“Let’s go,” King Elric declares.

The King and Queen, with guards flanking either side of them, storm over to the cottage. True to Rizlar’s word, the cottage is there, and a greenhouse stands proudly behind it. A few horses graze the area, but King Elric pays them no mind.

King Elric doesn’t knock on the door; he fucking kicks it in. The cottage is small, and even King Elric can see that no one is here. That doesn’t mean anyone hasn’t been here. There is a pot of food on the stove that is still warm, and half-eaten plates of food on the table.

“Elric, look.” Queen Erissa points to the food on the table. “Fae food. Our baby was just here.”

“Rizlar, spread out. Find Y/N.”

“Yes, My King.” He looks at the other guards. “Let’s go!”

They do a sweep of the entire place, but there are no signs of you or Bucky. Even the greenhouse is empty. You were here, but you’re not anymore.

“I don’t understand. Why would she run from us?” Queen Erissa sighs.

King Elric knows Bucky had something to do with this. He feels it in his bones. “Don’t worry, my love. She’ll be back.”

“How do you know?”

“She left everything behind, including her food. You know she can’t survive without it, so she’ll have no choice but to come back.”

“I do hope you’re right.”

“Rizlar, we will be staying here in case she comes back, but take your men and scour the town. She was just here. She could not have gone far, even with magic.”

“Yes, My King.”

King Elric sits down at the table and looks at the food in disdain. The longer you are gone, the angrier he gets. Not angry at you, of course, but at Bucky. To King Elric, Bucky is the bad guy. To King Elric, Bucky will pay for his crimes against Álfheimr.

The second you got wind of your parents being in Sokovia, you and Bucky didn’t waste any time. You two fled without anything but the clothes on your backs. The food was still cooking on the stove when you had to run.

You don’t know what to do now. You can’t go back to Álfheimr. You can’t go back to Sokovia. You don’t know where you can go that your father won’t find you. Right now, you’ve found a motel in a seedy part of town. This place screams danger, so you’re hoping your father won't think to look here for you.

“It’s going to be okay,” Bucky says. “He won’t find you.”

You’re using a large amount of magic to hide yourself from their scanners, and it’s taking a lot out of you. Not to mention the glamour you’re using to conceal your true form.

“I hope he doesn’t,” you whisper.

You grip the curtain and pull it shut, only keeping it open enough to peer out of it. You hate this. You are used to running. It’s not fair to you to ask Bucky to put his life on hold to run with you. You close the curtain with a sigh, unsure of what to do now.

Rizlar and the other guards haven’t found you, probably because of the magic you’re using to hide yourself. King Elric doesn’t want to sit around and wait for you to come back to the cottage, but he also doesn’t want to leave Sokovia because he knows you’re still here.

You don’t have magic to teleport, and you can’t fly fast enough, so you have to be close if he saw that meal on the stove.

King Elric knows he can’t do this alone, so he decides to recruit the very people who failed at finding you the first time.

The Avengers.

It’s not very hard to get in touch with the Avengers since the whole world knows how to do it. Natasha is in the room when Tony gets the call. She pretends not to be involved when she’s listening to every single word King Elric is saying.

“You found her once, you can do it again, can you not?”

“Your Majesty, it’s a lot harder than you would think to find someone like Y/N.”

“Do what you did last time.”

“Sir, it’s not that easy. If she’s not using magic, then we can’t track her,” Steve says.

King Elric looks down in thought, then he nods. “Then track that man. Bucky.” Natasha’s head snaps up when she hears his name. “He stole my daughter, and if you can’t track her, then you can track him.”

“Bucky isn’t a bad person.”

King Elric’s features harden over video chat. “He stole my daughter and refuses to give her up. I’ll decide if he’s good or not. Find him, and you’ll find my daughter.”

“Okay, we’ll be in contact,” Steve says.

King Elric signs off, and the Avengers immediately start debating on what to do. Natasha stands and slips from the room unnoticed with her phone in her hand. She hurriedly dials Bucky’s number, and he answers on the second ring.

“I know, Nat,” he sighs.

“No, you don’t.”

“I know he’s looking for her. We ran before he could find her. They found her cottage.”

“Listen, I think you should bring her back to her parents.”

“What?” Bucky is shocked she would even suggest that. “Weren't you the one who helped me find her? Why would I do that?”

“He told us to track you since they can’t track her. He thinks you stole her. He’s painting you as the enemy.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“This is different, Buck, and you know it. You need to bring her back to her parents before they find you and kill you.”

“No, I’m not going to do that. Thanks for the warning. I gotta go.” Bucky hangs up before Nat can say anything else. You walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your body, hair wet. “We gotta go.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Your dad wants to track me since he can’t track you. I’m very good at hiding, but I’m not that good. Come on.”

As you get dressed, you think of what you can do to stay hidden. There is only one guy who can make you truly disappear, even though you hate the idea of getting his help. This is going to be different than smuggling in some food from Álfheimr.

Bucky is less than thrilled to involve someone he doesn’t know, but he trusts you wholeheartedly. If you say this man is the only way to stay hidden, then he’s the only way.

You wait until long after the sun has gone down before seeking Shadowbane. You’re in an alley with Bucky, pacing nervously.

“If this guy makes you so nervous, why are we seeking his help?”

“Because he’s just that good.”

“I don’t like this.”

“What other choice do we have, Bucky? He’s the only one shady enough to help. We’ll be fine.”

“Princess Y/N.” You and Bucky turn to the deep drawl in the shadows. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He steps out from the shadows, and your breath hitches. He’s just as handsome as before. He keeps his jawline free of any hair, and his green eyes are so bright that they’re mesmerizing. His teeth are so white, they’re striking. It’s all part of his charm. He chose this human form because it reflects the monster inside of him.

He smooths the jacket of his three-piece suit and stands tall, even taller than Bucky.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You know what I want. You know my parents are here.”

“Of course,” he shrugs. “I felt them the second they set foot on Earth.”

“I need your help, Shadowbane. You know they’re after me, but now they’re after Bucky.”

“Can you do it?” Bucky asks.

Shadowbane laughs. “Don’t insult me, boy.”

“Shadowbane, stop,” you sigh. “Can you help us?”

“Of course, I can.”

“Good, I have a vial—”

“Your blood won’t be enough for payment this time.”

This is what you were afraid of. You were hoping he’d take your blood, but he wants something more, and you’re scared to ask what.

“What do you want?” Bucky asks for you.

Shadowbane doesn’t take his eyes off you when he says, “A wish.”

All the blood drains from your face, and if your wings were showing, the tips would turn stormy black. This is bad. This is really, really bad. Shadowbane smirks at seeing the fear on your face. This is what he feeds off of. He might help you smuggle in supplies, but he is in no way a good guy.

“No,” you whisper.

“Yes.”

“What does that mean, a wish?” Bucky asks.

“I can’t do that, Shadowbane. You know I can’t.”

“You very well can, Princess. It’s only a matter of whether you want to, that’s the issue.”

“What does a wish mean?” Bucky asks you.

“No,” you say to Shadowbane. “I won’t do it.”

“Then this conversation is done.” He steps away once and looks at you. “Should you change your mind, you know how to find me.”

In the next second, he is gone, and you nearly crumble to the ground. Bucky catches you and pulls you into the shadows to stay hidden from view.

“Y/N, talk to me. What does a wish mean?”

“It’s Fae law that if we promise a wish, we have to grant it. No matter what.”

“It’s just a wish. I think it’s worth it to stay hidden, don’t you?”

“You don’t understand, Bucky. You don’t know how vile Shadowbane is. If I promise him a wish, I have to grant it. You might see him as this man, but back home, he is a goblin who is sneaky and manipulative. I have no one else to turn to, so I have to use him to get my supplies, but a wish is too much to ask for.” You look down with tears in your eyes. “Maybe I should just go back home. It’ll be easier for everyone.”

“No. Not happening.” You should have known Bucky wouldn’t go for that. He cups your jaw and lifts your face so you have no choice but to stare at him. “We have other options, okay? You’re not the only one who knows people in high places. Let me make some calls, okay? I’ll figure it out.”

You and Bucky head back to the motel so he can figure out the next steps, but your head is still stuck on the heaviness of the situation. Your father will stop at nothing to find you now that he’s on Earth. You have no means of leaving this planet without the help of Shadowbane. You have no means of using your magic because then you’ll be caught. You can’t grant Shadowbane a wish because he truly is wicked.

If your father finds Bucky, he will surely kill him. From what you gather, your father thinks Bucky is the one who kidnapped you. That means Bucky’s life is in danger. You’re not sure if this is love, but you care for him too much to let him die for you.

You’re the Princess of Álfheimr, and your time to play pretend is long over. It’s time to face reality and step out of the bubble you’ve crafted so expertly.

That night, once Bucky has fallen asleep, you pack what little things you were able to take. You write a pathetic note on the motel pad before slipping from the room. You hate doing this to him, but you’d never forgive yourself if he died because of you.

You head back to your little cottage in Sokovia. Your parents are in deep conversation with Rizlar and the other guards about what to do when you walk inside.

“I don’t trust that these humans will do what they say they’re going to do, and I don’t trust that my daughter is just going to come willingly. Bucky must have his claws in deep, and I want him brought to me alive. He will face punishment of the highest order.”

“Don’t hurt him, Daddy.”

Everyone turns toward you, and your father storms over to you. “Where is he? Where is Bucky?”

“No, please, Daddy. Don’t hurt him. He isn’t to blame for this,” you beg.

“Why shouldn’t I blame him? Not only did you flee from Álfheimr, but Bucky kidnapped you and fled here. Of all places, why here?”

“Daddy, it wasn’t him. It was all me. Please don’t hurt him. I’m here. I’ll go back home. Just please leave him alone.”

“Elric,” your mom says as she walks up to you. “Leave the boy alone.”

“Erissa—”

“All we wanted was our daughter home, yes? She’s coming home now, and she looks unharmed. We have no business here anymore.”

“Please, Daddy. Leave him alone. I’ll go back home.”

Your father clenches his jaw, but he relents. He can’t ever say no to his Queen. “As you wish. Rizlar, prepare the journey back home.”

“Yes, My King.”

You hate to leave Bucky behind, but you’re doing this to save his life.

Bucky knows something is wrong the second he wakes up. You’re not next to him, all your things are gone, and there is a little white note on the pillow of the unmade bed.

My darling, I am so sorry that this is the first thing you’re waking up to. I really did try to figure out a way out of this. I’ve neglected my responsibilities for too long, and I realize there is only one thing to do here. I have to go home. You’ll be safe. No one will be coming after you anymore. Please know that I will always care about you, and I’m doing this for you. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. I will never forget you. Y/N

Bucky has to read the note three times before his brain processes the words. He grabs the lamp with his metal arm and throws it against the wall in anger. Fuck! This shouldn’t have happened. He was going to get you two out of this with or without Shadowbane’s help.

He understands why you did this, but this isn’t the end of you and him.

He once promised you that if he found you once, he could do it again, and he’s going to keep doing it until you’re his for good.

He will find his way back to you, no matter what.

x