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Have u seen that one video where this guy tries lying on his side in bed but can't rest his head on the pillow because his shoulders are too big LMAOOO. Something like that w beefy Bucky and reader absolutely losing it behind him đđđđ
You donât mean to laugh.
You really, truly donât.
It starts as a quiet little snort behind your handâbarely anything, just a slip of amusement you think you can swallow down before Bucky notices. Heâs already half-settled on the bed, turned onto his side with his back to you, broad shoulders rising and falling as he exhales like heâs finally ready to sleep after a long day.
Except⊠heâs not moving anymore.
He just freezes there.
You squint at him from your spot against the headboard, trying to figure out whatâs wrong. The room is dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp catching on the planes of his backâon muscle thatâs frankly unfair, carved and wide andâ
Oh.
Oh no.
Your lips press together so hard they hurt.
Because Bucky isnât resting.
Heâs trying to.
Very carefully.
His head hovers just slightly above the pillow, neck bent at an awkward angle like heâs attempting to lower himself down inch by inch. You can practically see the calculation happening in real timeâhis brow furrowing, jaw tightening as he shifts his shoulder a fraction.
The pillow dips.
His shoulder does not.
Your breath hitches.
He tries again.
A subtle wiggle this time, like maybe if he angles himself just right, gravity will cooperate. His metal arm adjusts under the blanket with a soft whir, his flesh hand coming up to tug the pillow closer.
He lowers his head. Stops. Lifts it again.
Thereâs a beat of silence.
ââŠyou good?â you manage, voice already wobbling.
âYeah,â he mutters, a little too quickly. âMâfine.â
You bite the inside of your cheek.
He is not fine.
Because he tries again, this time with more determination. He shifts his entire torso, rolling his shoulder forward like thatâll fix it, like maybe he can outmaneuver his own body.
It doesnât work.
His shoulder hits the mattress first, propping him up like a damn incline, and his head just⊠hovers there again, refusing to reach the pillow without bending his neck at a truly cursed angle.
You make a sound.
A small one.
Like a dying squeak.
Bucky goes still.
ââŠdonât,â he warns, voice low.
Thatâs it.
You lose it.
The laugh bursts out of you, loud and bright and completely uncontrollable, your whole body folding forward as you clutch your stomach. âIâ Iâm sorryâ Iâm so sorryââ you gasp between breaths, even as it only makes it worse. âI justâ you look likeâ like a malfunctioning action figureââ
âDoll.â
He doesnât turn around.
He just says your name like a threat.
Which only makes you laugh harder.
âI didnât evenâ I didnât realizeââ you wheeze, kicking your feet against the mattress as tears prick your eyes. âYour shoulders are too big for the pillowâ oh my godââ
âThey are not too big,â he grumbles, finally rolling onto his back with a frustrated huff. The mattress dips under his weight, the movement making the bed creak softly. âThe pillowâs too small.â
You immediately grab it and hold it up. âThis is a normal pillow, James.â
He narrows his eyes at you.
âItâs not my fault,â he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest like that settles it. Whichâunfairlyâonly makes him look even bigger. âYou bought cheap ones.â
âI did notââ you start, but you canât even finish the sentence because another wave of laughter hits you. âYou literally canât lay on your sideââ
âI can lay on my side.â
âThen do it,â you challenge, already grinning.
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
And you see the exact moment he realizes heâs been caught.
Still, stubborn as ever, he rolls back over with a determined huff, shoulders squaring like heâs about to win a fight. He adjusts the pillow again, this time fluffing it aggressively before lowering himself down.
Same result.
His head hovers.
Your laugh comes out as a high-pitched, broken noise.
âStop laughing,â he snaps, though thereâs no real heat behind it.
âI canâtâ I physically canâtââ you gasp, collapsing sideways onto the bed. âOh my god, Buckyââ
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. âI hate it here.â
âYou live here,â you shoot back immediately.
âNot anymore. Iâm leaving.â
âYouâre not leaving,â you laugh. âYou canât even lay down properly, where are you gonna go?â
He turns his head just enough to glare at you over his shoulder, blue eyes narrowedâbut thereâs a hint of something softer there, something that betrays him.
Because youâre still laughing.
At him.
And heâs letting you.
With a dramatic sigh, he finally gives up, rolling back onto his back and staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended him. âThis is ridiculous.â
âItâs a little ridiculous,â you admit, wiping at your eyes as you scoot closer. âCâmere.â
He eyes you suspiciously. âWhat?â
âJustâ come here, big guy.â
He huffs but shifts anyway, letting you tug him down until his head rests against your chest instead. His weight is heavy and warm, solid in a way thatâs grounding, his hair tickling your chin as he settles.
âThere,â you murmur, still smiling. âProblem solved.â
He grumbles something under his breath, but he doesnât move away. If anything, he sinks further into you, one arm wrapping loosely around your waist.
ââŠstill think itâs the pillowâs fault,â he mutters.
âMmhm,â you hum, pressing a kiss to his hair. âWhatever helps you sleep, beefcake.â
He snortsâquiet, reluctant.
And a second later, his grip tightens just a little.
(part of the Mr. Barnes Goes to Washington series)
It's Independence Day, and Congressman Barnes would rather be fighting aliens than following his Chief of Staff's itinerary.
Unfortunately for him, there's no inter-planetary threat on the horizon - just political engagements.
âOkay, so what do we have here,â she clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she perched one ass cheek on the edge of her desk and scanned the itinerary properly. âParade, childrenâs library event, barbecue, interview, another interview, wow - a third interview, constituents, picnic and fireworks. Good news for those of us with an appetite.â
She shot Barnes a grin, and he had the good grace to blush slightly in return, even as he stood in front of her finishing off the other croissant.Â
âGuess itâs running for the Presidency by lunchtime, huh?â
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You risked a glance back. Natasha was still behind the dumpster, but one of the SUVs had pulled up to the mouth of the alley, and armed figures were piling out, advancing on her position.
You were supposed to keep runningâthat was the plan. But you couldn't leave her behind to die.
Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Super Soldier!Reader
Warnings: Minors DNI; Explicit Sexual Content, Stalking, Kidnapping, Captivity, Torture (physical & psychological), Trauma, Codependency, Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Sexual Harassment/Sexual Assault (against reader; not between MCs, not explicitly depicted!), Suicidal Ideation/Attempt (by reader; aftermath only), Self-Harm (by reader; aftermath only), Medical Horror, Human Experimentation, Identity Crises, Canon-Typical Violence, HYDRA (trash party-ish?)
Additional Tags: No Y/N, Cis Female!Reader, Midsized!Reader, Russian!Winter Soldier, European!Reader (implied German), (slightly) Bodyguard!Winter Soldier, Protective!Winter Soldier, Pre-CA:TWS AU Divergence, Horror & Dark Romance Adjacent, Reader Is Johann Schmidt's Relative, Winter Soldier Can't Remember Bucky :(, Eventual HEA, Loads Of Angst Before Then!
Author's Note: girls trip with natasha, what can go wrong? đ pt. 2
Tag List: @shirukitsune @erina00 @timebomb1101
All Fics Tag List: @herejustforbuckybarnes
my fic masterlist!
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Chapter Thirty-Two (4.8k) â Road Rage
The Subject
"Shit," Natasha muttered, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "S.T.R.I.K.E. found us faster than I thought."
The three black SUVs were gaining, their engines roaring as they bulled their way through traffic. They weren't exactly subtle.
Now, you didn't know a whole lot about car chases, but you'd seen enough action movies to know that in these sorts of situations, the physics typically meant that the smaller car was going to get steamrolled.
And the two of you were practically crammed into a clown car.
Not exactly how you pictured your first Avengers mission going.
Natasha's expression tightened, all traces of wry humour gone. Her jaw set, her eyes went flat and calculating. She stomped on the gas, the little car lurching forward. "Hold on," she said, her voice oddly calm.
She drove like she foughtâefficient, brutal, and without a single wasted movement. She didn't just turn the wheel; she threw the car into a hard right, tires screaming as she cut across two lanes of traffic with millimetres to spare. Angry horns blared from every direction, but Natasha didn't even blink. The SUVs followed, their heavier frames plowing through the gap she'd created, crushing fenders and shattering glass with significantly less finesse.
You gripped the door handle, your knuckles white. "They're not trying to stop us. They're trying to run us off the road."
"Or box us in," Natasha agreed, her eyes scanning the road ahead. She took another sharp turn, this time down a narrower side street. "They want us alive. Or at least, they want you alive. You're too valuable to HYDRA. I might be more negotiable."
The side street was a dead end, blocked by a delivery truck unloading crates. Natasha didn't slow down.
"What are you doing?" you yelled.
"I'm making a new exit." She wrenched the wheel hard left, aiming the sedan straight for a set of metal garage doors set into the brick wall of a warehouse.
You bit back a scream as the poor sedan crunched through the thin metal doors and careened through theâthank God, emptyâwarehouse. It nearly ripped the hood off the car, but Natasha managed not to blow the airbags as she swerved, exiting through the cargo doors and sending the car skidding out onto the opposite side of the building.
"It won't take them long to figure out which street we're on," you cautioned, your knuckles white as you gripped the dashboard.
"Tell me something I don't know." Natasha muttered, stepping on the gas again. "We can lose them on the overpass. Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"S.T.R.I.K.E. used to work with Rogersâthey're as annoyingly persistent as he is." The Widow growled, before she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The sedan shot forward, its engine screaming in protest. She swerved onto an on-ramp, accelerating up onto a high overpass that cut through the heart of the city. The three SUVs followed, their larger engines giving them a terrifying advantage.
"They're gaining!" you shouted, watching in the side mirror as the lead SUV pulled up alongside.
A gunshot rang out. The passenger window of the SUV shattered, and a S.T.R.I.K.E. operative leaned out, rifle in hand.
Natasha swore, yanking the wheel hard to the right. Your car slammed into the side of the SUV, metal grinding against metal in a shower of sparks. The operative was thrown off balance, his shot going wide.
But the other two SUVs were boxing you in now, one on the left and one behind. The lead SUV recovered, pressing in again. You were trapped.
"Hold the wheel!" Natasha barked.
You grabbed the steering wheel, your heart in your throat, as she let go and reached into the back seat for her rifle.
"Just keep us straight!" she ordered, rolling down her window. The wind roared into the car.
She leaned out, bracing the rifle against the door frame. A single, sharp crack echoed over the rush of wind and engines. The front tire of the SUV on your left exploded. The vehicle swerved violently, careening across two lanes and crashing through the concrete barrier of the overpass. It plummeted toward the street below.
But the distraction cost you. The lead SUV saw its chance and rammed you from the side. Your car skidded, tires screeching, heading straight for the edge of the overpass.
You screamed, yanking the wheel back with all your strength. Gravity lurched, and the car teetered on the brink, two wheels spinning over a several-story drop, the abyss yawning open beneath you. For one suspended breath, you were weightlessâthen the sedan slammed back onto the road with bone-jarring force.
The remaining two SUVs were closing in, black steel monsters filling your rearview mirror.
"Brace!" Natasha shouted.
She didn't hesitate. She slammed on the brakes.
The world dissolved into violence. The SUV behind you couldn't react in time. Its front grille crumpled into your rear bumper with a deafening CRUNCH. The impact threw you forward against the restraints, the seatbelt locking and cutting into your healing shoulder. Glass exploded. Metal screamed.
But the collision had done something else. It had slowed them down just enough. Natasha floored the gas again. The damaged engine coughed and sputtered, but it held. She wrenched the wheel to the right, taking a tight exit ramp at a speed that threatened to roll the car.
The SUVs tried to follow, but their larger bulk made the manoeuvre clumsy. One clipped the guardrail, sending up a shower of sparks and forcing them to brake. You were freeâfor the moment.
"We need to ditch this car," Natasha said, her breathing ragged.
She steered the battered vehicle into a narrow alleyway, slamming to a halt behind a dumpster. "Out. Now." She barked, reaching back to grab the rifle.
You scrambled out of the car, your legs trembling. The alley smelled of rot and wet pavement.
"Did we lose them?" you demanded.
"We slowed them down. There's a difference," Natasha replied, grabbing your forearm and hauling you forward as the two of you slinked down the alleyway towards the street. But she didn't get more than five feet before a hail of bullets rained down from the overpass, and you had to grab her and shove her behind a nearby dumpster for cover.
"Pretty sure they know we're here," the Black Widow growled. She unslung the rifle, bracing the barrel on the corner of the dumpster, finger on the trigger. "I'll cover you. Ready?"
"Ready for what?" you asked, your voice tight as bullets chipped away at the brick wall behind you.
"To run. On my count, you sprint to that fire escape," she said, nodding toward a rusty ladder dangling two buildings down. "I'll keep them pinned."
You shook your head, your heart pounding against your ribs. "No. We go together."
"This isn't a debate," she snapped, her eyes never leaving the overpass. "They're not trying to kill you. They'll capture you. They will kill me. I'm the better shot. It's the only way."
Another volley of gunfire forced you both to duck lower behind the dumpster. The metallic ping of rounds ricocheting off the metal was deafening. She was right. It was the only logical play. But the idea of leaving her behind made your stomach clench, your breath coming shallow and too fast.
"One..."
You tensed, your muscles coiling. But every instinct screamed against this. Do not take risks, the Soldier had rasped. I will be here. Leaving a teammate behind felt like a betrayal of the code he had drilled into you, the code you had built together in the dark.
"...two..."
You met her eyes. There was no fear in themâonly a terrifying competence. She was giving you an order, and she expected you to follow it. Not because you were weak, but because the mission required it.
She gave you a sharp, imperceptible nod. Trust me.
"Three!"
Natasha rose from behind the dumpster, the rifle cracking with precise, punishing shots. You didn't waitâyou shoved off the ground and ran, boots pounding against the cracked asphalt, the world narrowing to the rusty ladder ahead.
Bullets kicked up sparks at your heels. Natasha's rifle fired again and again, a steady, covering rhythm. Your fingers closed around the cold, rough iron of the ladder as you leaped for it, scrambling up despite your injured shoulder screaming in protest, not stopping until you reached the first-floor landing.
You risked a glance back. Natasha was still behind the dumpster, but one of the SUVs had pulled up to the mouth of the alley, and armed figures were piling out, advancing on her position.
You were supposed to keep runningâthat was the plan. But you couldn't leave her behind to die.
You still had the pistol you'd taken from Voss's driver. You raised it, bracing your arms against the rusty railing of the fire escape. Your enhanced senses narrowed your focus. The lead S.T.R.I.K.E. operative, moving with a confident, aggressive stride. Your finger tightened on the trigger.
The shot was loud, echoing in the confined alley. The operative stumbled, a bloom of red appearing on his thigh. He went down with a cry, his rifle clattering to the ground. The advance faltered, the other operatives scrambling for cover.
Natasha looked up, her eyes finding you on the landing. Her expression was a mixture of fury and something elseâsurprise, maybe. She didn't waste the opening. She rose from behind the dumpster and fired two more shots, dropping another operative, before sprinting toward the fire escape.
You laid down covering fire as best you could, the pistol bucking in your hands. The S.T.R.I.K.E. team was disciplined, returning fire and forcing you to duck behind the metal grating of the landing.
Natasha reached the ladder and climbed with a speed that was almost inhuman. She hauled herself onto the landing beside you, her chest heaving.
"I told you to run," she gasped, but there was no real heat in it.
"I don't listen very well," you replied. "The Soldier could have told you that."
A sharp huff of exasperation escaped Natasha's lips. "Yeah, I'm getting that impression." She slammed a fresh magazine into her rifle. "He must be a terrible influence."
Below, the S.T.R.I.K.E. team was regrouping, shouting into comms. Reinforcements would be coming. They had to keep moving.
"Up," Natasha commanded, already climbing to the next level. "We need to get off this street."
You followed, your boots clanging on the metal steps. At the roof access door, Natasha didn't bother picking the lock. She simply raised her boot and kicked it hard, right next to the handle. The metal around the lock splintered, and the door flew inward with a crash.
The rooftop was a flat, gravel-covered expanse, offering a panoramic, and terrifying, view of the city. In the distance, the gleaming towers of the Triskelion dominated the skyline.
Natasha ran to the opposite edge, looking down at the next building overâa four-foot drop to a lower, adjacent rooftop. "This way."
She dropped down with a soft thud, rolling to her feet, and you followed.
It was a twelve-foot drop. For a normal human, it would be a broken ankle. For you, it was just an impact. Your boots hit the gravel with a heavy, solid thud, the shockwave travelling up your shins. Your knees bent, absorbing the force with a groan of protest from your healing joints, but you didn't roll. You didn't need to. You just landed, stabilized, and were already moving before the dust settled. You both sprinted across the new rooftop, leaping a narrow gap to a third building.
The thrum of a helicopter cut through the air, growing rapidly closer. A sleek, black bird crested the skyline, its side door open. A figure in tactical gear was visible, manning a mounted machine gun.
"Shit," Natasha hissed, skidding to a halt. "They're not playing around."
The helicopter swung toward you, its rotors whipping up a furious wind. The gunner took aim. Natasha shoved you hard, sending you sprawling behind a large ventilation unit, just as the gunner opened fire. Bullets tore across the gravel where you'd been standing, sending sharp fragments flying.
You huddled behind the metal housing, your pulse hammering in your ears, your ribs aching with each too-fast breath. Natasha was pinned behind a low parapet a few feet away, unable to return fire without exposing herself to the withering barrage.
The helicopter banked, trying to get a better angle on your position. The wind from its rotors was deafening. You looked around desperately. A service hatch for the building's HVAC system was set into the roof a short distance awayâa long shot, but the only option.
"The hatch!" you shouted to Natasha over the roar.
Her eyes followed your gaze, narrowing. She gave a sharp nod.
You took a deep breath, timing the rhythm of the gunfire. As the helicopter swung wide for another pass, you made your moveâbursting from behind the vent and sprinting for the hatch.
The gunner saw you immediately. The chatter of the machine gun started again, bullets kicking up gravel at your heels.
The hatch's latch was rusted shut when you reached it. Throwing your weight against it sent pain screaming through your injured shoulder, and though the metal groaned, it didn't give. Your fingers slipped on the corroded surface just as a bullet ricocheted off the door inches from your head.
Then Natasha was there. She slammed the butt of her rifle against the rusted latch once, twice. On the third blow, it snapped. She wrenched the hatch open, revealing a dark, narrow shaft with a ladder descending into the building's depths.
"Go!" she yelled, shoving you toward the opening.
You scrambled into the shaft, boots finding the rungs so fast you almost slipped. Natasha followed right behind, pulling the hatch closed just as another volley of bullets peppered its surface. The sound was muffled but terrifyingly close.
The descent into near-total darkness was quick, the helicopter sounds fading above. The air was thick with the smell of dust and machinery. Dropping the last few feet onto concrete, you landed with Natasha silent beside you.
The vast, dimly lit maintenance level stretched around you. Pipes snaked along the ceiling, and the distant hum of generators filled the air. Safe, for the moment.
Natasha leaned against a wall, catching her breath. She looked at you, her face illuminated by a single emergency light. "Remind me never to get on your bad side," she said, her voice a dry rasp.
A ghost of a smile touched your lips. "Noted."
"Come on, then. Let's go."
The stairwell was like a concrete throat, descending into the building's old guts. Emergency lighting cast everything in sickly yellow, and the air tasted like rust and old paint. Three floors down, Natasha paused, raising a fist. You froze mid-step.
Voices. Muffled, and coming from below. S.T.R.I.K.E. had sent a ground team to cut you off.
Natasha's jaw tightened. She gestured upward with two fingersâback upâbut before you could move, the stairwell door two flights below you banged open. Footstepsâascending fast.
You were being boxed in.
Natasha grabbed your wrist and hauled you through the nearest door, which opened into a maintenance corridor. Pipes lined the ceiling like metal veins, dripping condensation that pooled on the concrete floor. The corridor stretched into darkness, lit only by the occasional bare bulb.
"This way." Her voice was barely a whisper.
You followed, moving as quietly as you could, but your shoulder throbbed with every step, and your lungs burned from the chase. The adrenaline was starting to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Behind you, the stairwell door crashed open. Shouts echoed down the corridorâthey'd picked up your trail.
Natasha broke into a run, and you forced your legs to keep up. The corridor branched and split, opening into a boiler room thick with heat and the rumble of machinery. She navigated it with practiced ease.
An exit sign glowed green aheadâa service door that led outside.
Natasha hit the push bar hard, and the door flew open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the smell of rain and asphalt.
The emergency exit spat you both into a narrow back alley that reeked of spoiled food and stagnant water. Dumpsters lined one side, and the wet pavement reflected the distant glow of streetlights. You could still hear the distant thrum of the helicopter, but it was searching the rooftops now, not the streets.
For a single heartbeat, you thought you might have made it.
Natasha pulled you close to the wall, both of you catching your breath in the relative safety of shadow. "We need to get to the street," she said. "Blend into the crowds. They're looking for two women running. Not two friends out walking."
It was a good plan. You nodded, and the two of you started moving, keeping close to the walls, Natasha's rifle hidden under her jacket. The mouth of the alley opened onto a busier streetâcars passing, a few late-night pedestrians. Safety in numbers.
You were maybe twenty feet from the sidewalk when you heard it.
The low rumble of a heavy engine. Close. Too close.
Natasha's hand shot out, stopping you. Her eyes were locked on something past the alley's edge.
A black S.T.R.I.K.E. transport truck rolled into view, moving slowly, deliberately. It stopped at the mouth of the alleyâblocking your exit.
Your stomach dropped.
"Back," Natasha hissed, already turning.
But when you spun around, two more S.T.R.I.K.E. operatives were emerging from the shadows at the opposite end of the alley, rifles raised. They'd been waiting. Herding you.
You were trapped.
The truck's rear doors flew open, and armed operatives poured out, boots hitting pavement in a synchronized rhythm. Eight. Ten. More. They fanned out in a practiced formation, weapons trained on you and Natasha, cutting off any angle of escape.
And then Brock Rumlow stepped down from the truck's passenger side, his face tight with barely controlled rage. His eyes swept over Natasha with pure contempt before landing on youâand there, his expression shifted. Satisfaction. Victory.
"End of the line, Romanoff," Rumlow called out, his voice cutting through the alley.
He walked forward with the confidence of a man who knew he'd won. His tactical vest was pristine, his weapon holsteredâhe didn't even need it. Not with ten rifles already trained on you.
His eyes swept over Natasha first, cold and contemptuous. Then they landed on you, and his expression changed. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. Satisfaction. Like a hunter who'd finally cornered his prey.
"And the prize," he said, his voice almost soft. "Pierce will be very happy to see you."
You curled your lip at the man. Natasha raised her hands slowly, the rifle hanging loose from one hand, and you mirrored the gesture. "All this for little old me, Brock?" The Widow crooned. "I'm flattered."
Rumlow's eyes never left you. "Don't be," he said, flatly. Then he gestured with his chin, a casual, dismissive movement. "Kill her and take the girl. We need her alive."
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
The operatives' fingers tightened on their triggers. You could see itâthe minute shift in posture, the subtle lean forward. They were going to fire. They were going to execute Natasha right here, right now, in this filthy alley that smelled like garbage and wet concrete.
You tensed up. The cold part of your brain that the Soldier had honed to a razor's edge calculated the distance. The angle. You could reach her. You could take the bullets meant for her. You'd heal; Natasha would not.
Your weight shifted forward, your legs preparing to lungeâ
âbut then, the blare of a police siren cut through the tension. Two D.C. squad cars skidded to a halt behind the S.T.R.I.K.E. truck, their red and blue lights painting the brick walls. A second helicopter's rotors whooshed above.
"You really going to shoot an Avenger in front of D.C.'s finest, Brock?" Natasha taunted.
Rumlow's jaw tightened. He glanced from the advancing police cars to Natasha's defiant smirk. Shooting a publicly celebrated Avenger in cold blood, with multiple civilian witnesses and a police helicopter now hovering overhead, was a line even they couldn't cross without catastrophic exposure.
You could hardly comprehend the unbelievable stroke of luck the two of you had just fumbled into. Neither, apparently, could Rumlow. He made a sharp, slashing gesture with his hand, and the operatives lowered their weapons.
"Cuff them," he barked, and two operatives moved forward.
The one who grabbed Natasha was rough, slamming her face-first against the brick wall hard. Her cheek scraped against the rough surface as he wrenched her arms behind her back, and the plastic zip-tie ratcheted tight with a series of sharp clicks, biting into her wrists. She didn't make a sound.
The operative who approached you was no gentler. His gloved hand clamped around your bicep like a vise, fingers digging into the muscle as he spun you around and shoved you against the wall beside Natasha, zip-tied in a similar manner.
"You're making a mistake, officer," Natasha said, her voice remarkably calm despite the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. She was addressing one of the D.C. cops who was cautiously approaching, hand on his holstered weapon, confusion written across his face. "These men are not S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Save it," Rumlow snapped, stepping between Natasha and the cop with the ease of a man used to authority. He pulled out a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge, the eagle emblem gleaming under the streetlights. "These women are wanted for treason and conspiracy. This is a classified detainment under federal authority."
The cop hesitated, looking between Rumlow's badge and Natasha's bloodied face. "Sir, Iâ"
"âyou can file a complaint with S.H.I.E.L.D. if you have concerns," Rumlow said, his tone brooking no argument. "Until then, back off. This is above your clearance."
The cop stepped back, uncertain, but certainly outranked.
Rumlow nodded to his men. "Load them up."
Rough hands grabbed you, hauling you upright and shoving you toward the open rear doors of the transport truck. Your boots scraped against the asphalt as you tried to keep your balance with your hands bound behind you.
The truck's interior was a dark, windowless metal boxâreinforced walls, no seats, just a cold steel floor. A cargo hold designed for prisoners, not passengers.
You were pushed inside first, stumbling as your boots hit the ribbed metal floor. Natasha was shoved in right behind you, landing more gracefully despite her bound hands. The impact sent a jolt through your shoulder, and you bit back a grunt of pain.
One of the operativesâmasked and anonymousâclimbed in after you, taking up position against the far wall. Then the heavy doors slammed shut with a metallic clang that echoed in the confined space.
Darkness swallowed everything.
For a moment, the only sound was your own breathing, too loud in your ears, and Natasha's steady, controlled breaths beside you. Then the engine roared to life, a deep rumble that vibrated through the metal floor, and the truck lurched forward.
You were thrown sideways, your bound hands making it impossible to catch yourself. Your shoulder slammed into the wall, and you bit down hard on a gasp of pain. The truck swayed as it took a corner, and you had to brace your boots against the floor to keep from sliding.
Your eyes were adjusting slowly to the darkness. Not completeâthere was a faint strip of light seeping in from somewhere, maybe a gap in the door seal. Enough to make out vague shapes. Natasha, sitting with her back against the wall, legs bent, her posture deceptively relaxed. And across from you both, the third occupantâthe S.T.R.I.K.E. operative in full tactical gear. Helmet, vest, and rifle resting across their lap.
The zip-tie around your wrists was cutting off circulation. Your hands were starting to go numb, fingers tingling. The plastic bit into your skin with every small movement, and you could feel the warm trickle of blood where the edges had worn through.
The truck rumbled on, taking turns that threw you against the walls. Minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Time felt elastic in the dark.
You tried to focus on your breathing and tried to slow your heart rate, but panic was a living thing clawing up your throat. You were being delivered to Pierce. To HYDRA. And this time, there was no Soldier to come for you. He was already at the Triskelion, probably fighting for his life. Or worseâcaptured. Wiped again. Reset.
You might never see him again.
"Where are they taking us?" you asked Natasha, your voice betraying your panic.
She, meanwhile, looked surprisingly calm. "Most likely the Triskelion, which, ironically, is where we need to be," Natasha replied, her voice low enough that only you could hear over the engine noise. "Except they'll probably shoot me before we get there, so..."
Her gaze drifted to the operative sitting across from you both. Silent. Unmoving except for the slight sway with the truck's movement.
Natasha went very still.
You'd spent enough time with the Soldier to recognize that particular quality of stillnessâthe kind that came right before violence. Every muscle in Natasha's body had tensed, her focus laser-sharp on the figure across from you.
Your pulse kicked up. Was the operative going to shoot you both right here, right now, in the dark? Dump your bodies somewhere between here and the Triskelion, where you might never be found?
"Natasha?" you whispered, barely audible. But she didn't respond. Just kept staring at the operative with an intensity that made your skin crawl.
The operative's helmet turned slightly, the visor reflecting the thin strip of light. Acknowledging Natasha's scrutiny.
Then, slowly, the operative's hands movedânot to the rifle, but to their helmet.
The helmet came off with a soft hiss of released pressure, and a woman's face emerged from the shadows. Short, dark hair slightly mussed from the helmet. Sharp features. Hard eyes that had seen too much.
"God, it was stuffy in there," she muttered, setting the helmet down beside her.
She looked at Natasha first, and there was something in her expressionârecognition, maybe respect. "Romanoff."
Then her eyes shifted to you, and you saw calculation there. Assessment. The same way the Soldier looked at tactical situations.
"And you must be Schmidt's granddaughter," she said, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind. "Maria Hill. Fury called me in."
For a moment, you couldn't even begin to process the words. Your brain was still stuck on HYDRA operative and execution, and this is how it ends. But Natasha's posture had changedâthe coiled tension bleeding out into something much closer to exasperation.
"Looks like I'm not getting shot after all," Natasha said dryly.
Hill's mouth quirked. "No, not by me. I can't speak for everyone else at the Triskelion, though."
The relief that slammed into you was so potent, so sudden, that it left you feeling dizzy. Your vision swam, and you had to focus on breathingâin, out, in, outâto keep from passing out.
She was one of you. An ally. Fury's inside agent.
You weren't being delivered to Pierce like a lamb to slaughter. You had a chance.
"Fury figured Pierce would try to intercept any loose ends," Hill explained, her voice low and efficient. She reached into a compartment on her tactical vest and produced a small, ceramic blade. "Let's get you out of those." She quickly sawed through the plastic ties binding Natasha's wrists, then yours.
The feeling of blood rushing back into your hands was a sharp, prickling pain. You rubbed your wrists, the raw skin already starting to heal.
"What's the situation?" Natasha asked.
"The Triskelion is locked down," Hill replied, grimly. "Pierce is in the command centre with the World Security Council. The Insight launch is imminent." Hill's eyes were hard. "Rogers, Wilson, and the Soldier are already inside with Fury. They'll be raising hell any minute now."
The truck rumbled on, the vibrations thrumming through the metal floor. You were still a prisoner, but now you had an ally on the inside. The game had changed.
"How do we play this?" you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.
Hill gave a grim smile. "We let them deliver us right where we need to go. So when those doors open... be ready."
Summary: Despite the safety that the bunker offers Bucky and Joanne, they are still vulnerable to unexpected events, and realize they may have to leave at momentâs notice.
Length: 4.6 K
Characters: Bucky, Joanne
Warnings and other notes: Ignoring physical symptoms, denial issues, fear of discovery. The date of Brock Rumlow's awakening from his coma was found on a Marvel wiki. There is no indicator that he tried to track Bucky but I think he would consider it, seeing the recapture of the Asset as a priority, regardless of whether he still considered himself HYDRA or not. The discussion of RFID technology and similar forms of tracking is to be taken with a grain of salt. It has been simplified to its most basic and the technology predates the type of tracking found in GPS tags used to track luggage by years (2021 when Apple AirTags came out). The black and white image on the title panel of this chapter is a photo-edit by Instagram / tumblr artist @nixakimbo, who creates some incredible Bucky-themed edits (as well as other MCU characters).
<<Chapter 20
The first week at the River wasn't the best for Joanne. Her nausea lingered, and with the persistent headache she also suffered, she had little inclination to do anything other than lie on top of the couch in the lounge, under a blanket and watch television. She read the insert again that came in the morning after pill box, especially the warning about throwing up within three hours of taking it. Certain that the first instance happened later than that, she attributed her nausea to the usual side effects of the medication. Her period wasn't due for several weeks so she rationalized that if it didn't happen by then, she would deal with it later.
Bucky took good care of her while she was under the weather, bringing her tea and crackers, then sitting at the end of the couch and gently massaging her feet. Sometimes, he would slide onto the couch behind her, warming her with his body while watching television together. It became a habit to watch TV like this, as much for the opportunity to be close as it was to relax and be entertained while River kept watch over their location.
The choice of programming was impressive, and they found themselves almost spoiled with options for television shows, movies and sports. With increased access to the news, including international feeds, they also learned about more arrests of suspected HYDRA supporters, as it seemed they were still being flushed out of the shadows every day.
After that first week, the newest reports about SHIELD took on troubling tones, as the government was now interrogating all known members to determine their loyalty. It was reported that some members had gone underground, just as they were doing. River did acknowledge that a significant number were refusing to report for interrogation, feeling they could not trust the ones who were questioning their loyalty. It brought thoughts of McCarthyism to Joanne's mind, and she explained that episode of American history to Bucky. A news story about Captain America drew his interest, as it appeared that Steve Rogers publicly quitting SHIELD had disturbed many in both government and the public. His immediate whereabouts were unknown. There was an undercurrent of suspicion over why he left the security agency, and some of the louder voices who questioned his loyalty were getting airtime. Bucky huffed a little when they watched a panel debate that very issue, insulting to the super soldier considering Steve's work in bringing HYDRA down.
"Does it bother you that they're questioning his loyalty?" asked Joanne, as they laid together, watching the panel.
"Yes." He frowned. "My memories of him are still incomplete, but would a disloyal man keep on trying to enlist for World War II, going to different recruitment offices and giving false names, just to get enlisted so he could fight Nazis? I do remember that he didn't take "no" very well. If he had, he probably wouldn't have rescued me and the others from Austria. Just because he followed his own code about things doesn't make him disloyal." He squeezed her a little. "You're like him, you know."
"I don't think so."
"You helped me, when the authorities would have gunned me down. You believed in me; so did Steve."
Joanne cleared her throat. "River, do you have up to date information about Steve Rogers?"
"Captain Rogers and Sam Wilson, code name Falcon, have been tracking sightings of the HYDRA operative known as the Winter Soldier." His body tensed behind her at this piece of information. "Are you alright, Sergeant? I detect an increase in your heart rate."
"Are you aware of my full history?"Â he asked.
"Yes, Sergeant, I am," said River. "You do not have to worry about being found here. Your presence at this site is known only to Director Fury. Only Agent Coulson and Agent Mackenzie were aware that you were at your last two safe house locations and were under strict orders not to reveal those locations to anyone else. Neither are aware of this River location."
Joanne put her hand on Bucky's. "What sightings of the Winter Soldier were reported?"Â
"A sighting at a Walmart parking lot near Alexandria, Virginia, a sighting at the Howling Commandos exhibit at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in Washington, and a sighting at a farmer's market near Arlington. All three reports were received by the police after an image was leaked to the press by an unknown source. Director Fury was of the opinion that leak was generated by a HYDRA source that is still being sought. He requested Captain Rogers, and the Falcon locate the source of that leak, intending to keep them occupied with that search. He may have insinuated that it would help in their search for Sergeant Barnes."
It seemed that Nick Fury was doing what he could to keep Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson from finding him. Joanne had a thought then.
"River, do you know if Captain Rogers and Falcon have accessed any original security footage of those sightings? Was there even security footage?"
There was silence for several long moments. "There is no known footage of the Walmart parking lot sighting, as it was reported by a customer without a cell phone. There is a poor-quality image from a cell phone of you and Sergeant Barnes in the background from the farmer's market near Arlington. Your face is not visible, his side profile is. The Smithsonian does have internal security cameras. Director Fury attempted to get the footage of you deleted from those. Although he eventually succeeded, subsequent postings on social media by patrons that day show clear images of both you and Sergeant Barnes. Those postings were forwarded to the authorities and were unable to be deleted without drawing attention to the effort. The original security footage was accessed by Captain Rogers and Samuel Wilson, using technology provided by a third party."
She thought about that for a moment, wondering if Tony Stark was the third party. Certainly, he would have the knowledge and likely the technological resources to do it, as he was a pioneer in the artificial intelligence community. River might even be a Stark product, but Joanne didn't want to open that can of worms.
"Have I been recognized by the government?" she asked, wondering if HYDRA found out about her that way.
"Officially to the public, you are a mystery woman. Unofficially, your identity is known to the authorities."
River stopped speaking, seemingly aware that Joanne was troubled by the existence of the images and by her identity being known by security agencies. She lifted Bucky's arm from where it was draped over her and sat up. He sat upright behind her, watching, unsure of what to say or do.
"Is it possible to make a real time call from here using the satellite phone?" she asked out loud, suddenly feeling a need to talk to her parents.
"It is not advisable to take part in real time communication," answered River. "Although this location is shielded, there is a strong possibility that the authorities could trace any phone or video call, no matter what means are made to reroute the call through other locations. Email is a safer option, with the chances of it being traced unlikely as I can encrypt its origin."
"River, are my parents under surveillance?"
There was no hesitation in the response. "Yes." If a highly responsive AI interface could ever sound regretful, River certainly did. "They have been ever since before the Smithsonian images were posted on social media. Multiple authorities are looking for you, on suspicion of harbouring a fugitive. It is certain that HYDRA is also searching for you, to use you in recapturing Sergeant Barnes."
Why didn't Fury say anything? The answer came immediately. He repeatedly asked her if she wanted out. Each time she said no; each time she declined the offer it was because it would mean abandoning Bucky and she couldn't do that. Even though Fury never actually specified that she was in danger it was always implied. The touch of Bucky's hand on her back distracted her, and she looked back over her shoulder. God, he was so beautiful, with his blue eyes full of concern, and that little crease between his brows that always indicated when he was troubled.
"Tell me what's really bothering you."
"I keep getting further and further away from my old life," she sighed. "My job, my home, my family ... they're all slipping away from me. There won't be anything for me to go back to when you leave." She leaned back into him, nestling into his body as he settled against the couch. "I'll be arrested, questioned, probably charged for helping you, maybe even sentenced to prison. That's if HYDRA don't get to me first."
"I would never let that happen," he said firmly. "Why would they charge you and put you in prison? I'm the one they want."
"Because if they don't get you, they will want a scapegoat, and I don't think that Nick Fury will be able to protect me." Bucky frowned and started to protest but she shook her head. "Officially, he's still dead. It looks like the government is considering anyone who was with SHIELD to be disloyal. You'll have to go to keep yourself safe and I'll be on my own. I don't think any lawyer could defend me well enough against the American government."
Turning her so that she faced him, Bucky searched her face, then cupped it in his hands, gently kissing her.
"Then come with me," he murmured. "I won't go without you."
"You said ...."
"I know what I said but if you're afraid of being on your own and you think that you'll be at risk, then of course I'll take you with me. I won't leave you on your own."
He kissed her again, softly, then once more, not so softly. Slowly, he slid down onto the couch so that he was on his back, pulling her on top of his body. Sliding his hands under her shirt, he splayed them over her back then down over the curves of her butt. With his eyes focused on her he ground his hips up into her, bringing a small whimper out of her throat. As a knowing smile appeared on his face, he slid a hand back up under her shirt and undid her bra. Raising herself, Joanne sat on top of him and removed both, then pulled at his shirt, tugging it over his head. Placing her palms on his chest, she hovered over him.
"We should get a condom," she whispered.
"We should."
Neither of them moved, then he pulled her down hard onto him, kissing her fiercely. With their bodies tangled together, amidst an almost urgent hunger for physical touch, it was obvious that their lovemaking had become more desperate since they got to this safe house. Maybe it was the isolation, as they hadn't left the grounds since they got there. Even when they did go outside, they kept to the trees, worried about spy satellites spotting them, despite what River said. It was paranoia fed by their isolation; Joanne was aware of that, but it was hard not to be worried about being discovered. That it had made them reckless in intimate situations was contradictory, but human. Once more, like what had happened at the farmhouse they found themselves at the point where one of them had to go in search of a condom.
"Bucky," she gasped. "We shouldn't."
"I know," he answered, breathlessly, then he pushed her away, noticing her flushed skin and tousled hair. "Wait."
Sliding out from under her, he stumbled to their bedroom, opening the box of condoms, and grabbing one. On the way back, as he passed a row of security monitors, he stopped when he saw something, at the exact same moment that River spoke up.
"We have a breach," said the AI. "Two hikers have climbed over the fence and are on the path."
He watched as the hidden security cams showed a young man and woman, both wearing shorts, and hiking boots, and carrying a backpack were heading away from the fence, following the gravel path towards the building, while talking animatedly.
"River, can you give me sound?"
"Affirmative."Â The camera nearest them relayed the couple's conversation as they approached.
"We won't get into trouble, will we?" asked the woman. "It said trespassers would be prosecuted."
"That's just for legal reasons," he replied. "There's no one here. Who's going to know?"
Another camera showed them nearing the incline that would take them down towards the building. Joanne, who heard the alert, came to the monitors, wearing her clothes and carrying Bucky's. She watched the screen intently as he took his things and put them on.
"Who are they?" she asked, her voice low then she answered herself. "I think they're just kids, exploring a forbidden area."
Bucky kept watching their progress. "River, I don't want to confront them, but do you have any other defensive measures that might scare them away?"
With no answer from the AI, both Bucky and Joanne held their breath when the couple stopped at the top of the incline, then looked over the edge, seeing the river below.
"Look at that!" said the man, excitedly. "We could bring tubes here and let the river take us downstream."
The woman looked the other way, seeing the building and tugged on his hand.
"Look! It must be an old power station. Cool!"
They both hurried down the incline then pulled out their cell phones to take pictures. Bucky became agitated.
"River!"
"Attention trespassers, this is the National Security Service of the United States Government. You are in a restricted area."
The couple looked at each other, then up at the building, looking for the source of the announcement.
"It's just a recording," said the man, laughing. "They don't know we're here. It must be motion activated or something."
Just as Bucky was about to go outside River spoke to the pair.
"You have been identified by facial recognition technology as Jason Walsh and Maddy Ford. You are both students at the University of Maryland. Please stay where you are and wait for a response team to arrive to take you into custody."
The young couple looked at each other with alarm, then took off, running as fast as they could back the way they came. Different security cameras followed their path back to where they climbed the fence, as Jason helped Maddy up, then followed her over. There were several cameras outside the perimeter that showed them approaching a small car. Fumbling with the keys and dropping them, Jason picked them up, unlocked the car and they both got in. Within seconds the car was gone, driven at high speed away from the grounds.
Bucky and Joanne let their breaths out, relieved that River's actions seemed to have chased them away.
"Did you really identify them?" she asked. "Can they be checked out to make sure they're not HYDRA?"
"Yes, those were their identities and I alerted Director Fury to their incursion. There is an individual who will make a visit to them and ... what is the expression? Scare the shit out of them."
"I thought you said no one else knows about this place," commented Bucky.
"He doesn't but he will not need to know in order to intimidate the two individuals. He will also inspect their phones to make sure there were no photographs taken." There was a pause. "It will be alright, Sergeant Barnes. That couple will not return, nor will they admit to anyone that they were here. The agent who will visit them will not question where this location is. He is loyal to SHIELD and to Director Fury."
It concerned them both that even with the assurance that this location was known only to one person, Fury, that no one could predict if and when someone would stumble upon them accidentally. With their activities disrupted Bucky made a decision to prepare to leave on a moment's notice. He didn't hide it from the AI, either. In fact, River voiced the "opinion" that it was a good idea. If there was any successful incursion by hostile intruders, it was prudent to have something ready to pick up and go.Â
Over the next few days, the two of them prepared smaller bags to be kept in the vehicle at all times. They also prepared a backpack each that could be slung over their shoulder in the event they had to leave via the river. The strangest thing about the AI approving of Bucky's preparations was that it felt it should make suggestions on what to include in their "go" bags. Bucky had never heard the term before, but Joanne assured him it was a valid concept to have something ready to grab in an emergency. Each go bag carried a change of clothes, money, toiletries, weapons, and a small first aid kit that Bucky assembled from the supplies at the bunker. He put his journals in the backpack he intended to carry at all times, not wanting to leave them behind. When the preparations were complete, and the ones to be kept in the car were placed in the trunk, they hoped it would be some time before they were needed.
In fact, it would be a month almost to the day after that incursion. Joanne, whose period didn't come, a fact she didn't share with Bucky, was feeling queasy again. When he noticed and commented on it, she attributed it to the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables as they didn't leave the grounds to buy more, feeling it was too risky. Instead, they used the food supplies on hand, mainly frozen or freeze-dried products and packaged kits. Then on June 30, a Monday, Joanne got up before sunrise, feeling nauseated enough to vomit in the bathroom. After flushing the toilet and sitting on it, accepting that their actions had finally caught up to them, she was called to the room where the television was, joining Bucky who was already there. The display had been changed to show four different feeds.
One of them was an image of Brock Rumlow. Even now, his appearance made Joanne uncomfortable, as it was obviously from the same time as he first appeared at the tv station. There was a security camera image from a hospital room, then a parking lot, and finally another location that appeared to be a crime scene as there were emergency vehicles all over the place. While the split-up display was familiar to Joanne, having worked in a newsroom, Bucky frowned as he looked from screen to screen.
"What's going on?" he asked. "Why do you have him on the screen?"
"Former STRIKE team field commander Brock Rumlow was in a coma from his injuries suffered at the Battle of Triskelion until early Saturday morning," said River, sounding more machine like in its report. "Since his arrival at the hospital, he received treatment for his injuries with the expectation that if he did regain consciousness that he would require months of rehabilitation in order to walk again."
The hospital room image showed the man in his bed, with full intubation and hooked up to monitors. His visible injuries were severe, with gruesome facial and body burns, his hands still heavily bandaged.Â
"After his intubation was removed, Rumlow tested his abilities and late last night he assaulted the guard assigned outside his room."
They watched as Rumlow got out of the bed, went to the door, opened it and dragged the guard inside, beating him mercilessly. Bucky's jaw clenched as he watched, a slight tick in the muscle above the jaw the only other outward sign of distress. Then the HYDRA agent pulled the man's clothing off and dressed himself in them. Finding a pair of gloves in the tactical cargo pants he pulled them on without reaction.
"Go back," said Joanne, to River, as the replay stopped and went back to Rumlow getting dressed. "With his burns still healing he shouldn't be able to withstand that process of pulling the gloves on. Burn patients are usually in extreme pain but look at him. He's not reacting at all."
Bucky didn't say anything, but he now looked like he was going to be sick. As Rumlow exited the hospital room, they watched as the internal security cams in the corridors caught him travelling through the darkened spaces heading to the exit. A few people who actually looked at his face, reacted with shock, but no one tried to stop him. The parking lot cam showed him pressing the remote for the car, then following the sound of a car horn until he got to the guard's vehicle. Getting inside he drove off.Â
The final screen, filled with the blue and red lights of police and emergency vehicles was at a warehouse in an unidentified area. The view, from the vantage point of a tall light pole, showed a number of covered bodies being wheeled out of the warehouse and loaded into waiting transport vehicles.
"The warehouse site has been identified as a HYDRA property," said River. "It will take some time to access the internal security features to determine what happened but if you look at the parking lot, the vehicle that Rumlow stole is parked there. It's believed he went in several hours ago and killed those who were inside, then stole a different vehicle to escape. So far, there are no witnesses, but it is possible some left before the others were killed, or they joined him."
"We have to go," said Bucky, decisively.
"Why? We're safe here," answered Joanne. "He doesn't know about this place."
"He'll find out." He swallowed, then stood upright, fidgeting with his hands. "He can track me."
"What do you mean?" Joanne looked at him, seeing the fear in Bucky's eyes. "Explain it to me."
"I recognize that place," he said. "It's a supply depot; weapons, money, clothing, and equipment to track me. It's a muster point for others, which is why I didn't even consider going there." His mouth twisted in a grimace of anxiety, then he looked at her. "I escaped before, several times. They placed trackers inside me but only Rumlow had access to the codes to find me. It was to prevent an underling from finding and using me to take control."
"You're telling me this now?" He looked down at his hands, then up at her, his expression haunted. She looked up at the ceiling. "River, can you detect anything in Sergeant Barnes that can be used to track him?"
"What exactly am I looking for?" it asked. "GPS tracking chips for use in a human are theoretically possible but unlikely as the technology is still unable to be small enough."
"They didn't exactly advertise it," said Bucky sarcastically. "Sometimes I would set off the systems at a store, when I was tracking a target through the exit. They would send someone to inquire if I was carrying an un-purchased item." He breathed out, trying to calm himself. "As long as Rumlow was in his coma, I wasn't going to worry about it but now that he's out ... he'll try to find me. He'll use the words and then ...."
Heavily, he sat down in an office chair and leaned over to cover his face with his hands. Kneeling in front of him, Joanne covered his hands with hers, searching for eye contact to reassure him. He was trembling, enough to prove that he was afraid.Â
"If I may," interrupted River. "If Sergeant Barnes set off the security systems at a store, then it is likely he has been inserted with RFID trackers. Normally, those type of trackers can be detected anywhere from a few centimetres away to about 100 meters, depending on whether they are passive or active in nature. Considering the level of technology that was invented by HYDRA, it is possible they developed something that can be tracked over long distances. However, all RFID systems currently in use are affected by the proximity of metal. They could not use one in Sergeant Barnes prosthetic arm, and it would affect the function of any in his body. It's possible it could be located in other parts of the body if they used one with an ultra high frequency. I can reconfigure my sensors to detect a UHF signal, but it will take some time to do so. A scan with a portable RFID reader could help determine exactly where they have been implanted." River paused then seemed to sigh as if it didn't like what it was going to say next. "It is more likely that the tracker being used is a combination of ultra wide band and RFID technology. The first can be detected by the Bluetooth function used in cell phones, while the latter would narrow down the location. The tracking equipment could be used to hack into the Bluetooth network, hopping from device to device to locate the general location of the target, then the RFID sensor could be used to detect a location within that 100-meter radius."
"How do we counteract it?" asked Joanne.
"If it was just RFID then it would be a process of turning off the functionality, much like a retail outlet does to an item that has been purchased so that the buyer can leave the store without setting off the security system. The other would be more difficult to disable as I suspect that HYDRA likely encrypted it. If we at least disable the RFID function, then the tracker would be unable to pinpoint the more precise location. It could give you the time to get away although any pursuers would still be able to follow you. I may be able to reconfigure my systems to perform the functions, but it will take time, and we will have to test it. Do you have a standard cell phone?"
"We have a couple of burners and a satellite phone," said Joanne. "I would rather not use the satellite phone as it is a direct link to Nick Fury, and I don't want to disrupt that."
"Understood. If you could bring out the burner phones and open their backs, I will scan them to use their Bluetooth functions. In the meantime, Sergeant Barnes, try to remain calm. If Brock Rumlow, or anyone else who was identified as being HYDRA show up on my systems, I will implement an active defence of this facility."
Swallowing his anxiety, Bucky agreed but stayed in front of the big screen, as River promised to provide real time footage of the warehouse, certain that at some point it would get access to the internal security and find out what happened inside that facility. Knowing the fighting abilities of Brock Rumlow, and his own conditioning to obey the man, that would be difficult to resist, Bucky wanted to prepare for as many scenarios as possible. He wanted to think that he wouldn't go down without a fight but there was enough doubt in him that he feared what would happen to not just him but Joanne, if he failed. Their lives depended on it.
Chapter 22>>
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"Bucky?" Steve asked, his voice quiet and groggy from sleep, his hair was going all over the place and his shirt was damp from sleep sweat.Â
Bucky was standing at the counter, a cup of coffee set to one side and a cake in front of him, it was slightly lopsided and maybe a little over baked, but smelled amazing all the same. Alpine, their cat, was snuggled into Bucky's shoulder.Â
"Hey Doll," Bucky said, looking up at Steve with a big grin, he turned the cake around, written in messy blue frosting was "Happy Birthday, Steve."
"I love it, Buck," Steve muttered.
"It's your Ma's recipe, but I don't think I did it right," Bucky explained sheepishly, one hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.Â
"You did great," Steve replied, "I love you." he added.
Sacred Band of Avengers - RatedE, Stucky, Historical/Modern AU, Immortals, AKA Let's Kill Musk
"Happy Birthday to me," says Steve quietly so that Sam is the only one who hears, which is stupid, because they're the only two people standing at the end of a dock on a northern Minnesota lake.
"I remembered," Sam hisses back. "Got a present for you in New York."
Steve shakes his head once. "Only present I need, Buddy, is you at my back."
He can practically hear Wilson rolling his eyes. "Man, are you ever a pain in the ass."
They both watch as the sleek black speed boat streams past, cutting through blue water the same color as the cloudless sky, pulling a large man on water skis behind it. This man is tall, taller than Steve and stronger, too, which he needs in order to stay upright. He seems to be struggling quite a bit.
The boat driver makes a churning, swooping turn, then picks up speed, kicking off in the opposite direction and bumping right over the wake he just made. The boat lifts slightly into the air, slams with a horrible crunching sound of the hull as it drops onto the water, and as it passes again, there is no longer a water skier.
"Dickhead," snorts Sam, and Steve holds in his own laugh.
It takes the man driving the boat a good distance before he glances back to notice he's lost someone, and when he does, he drops the engine to a low growl, and the waves nearly swamp over the back of the boat. He spins out of it nicely, though, doing a one-eighty and starting off more slowly this time to pick up his passenger.
The man in the water waves his arms, climbing nimbly back into the boat when it stops to pick him up, tossing his skis inside. Then they make their way at a more normal speed back to the dock.
Both Sam and Steve step back to let the craft float in on its own momentum, riding the soft waves until the skier grabs hold of the dock pole and leaps gracefully out of the boat.
He helps the other man tie off to the cleats, then gives the driver a fist bump and exchanges a quick back and forth. When he turns to Steve and Sam, he wears a smile almost too big for his face, which is saying something, because Thor is a very, very large man.
"Hey! You're here!" he shouts, arms to the sides and approaching rapidly. His golden skin is glistening with water droplets, the bright overhead sun catching in his glossy, wet blond hair. Ignoring Sam's wave off, he wraps his arms around and lifts Wilson off his feet, leaving his dark green shirt wet both back and front.
"Thanks, thanks a lot. Yeah. Thanks," Sam says, grimacing.
And then Thor comes for Steve.
"Rogers!" He's like an oversized lapdog, a gold retriever with wet hair and lolling tongue, ready to spread his drooling wet love all over Steve, too. He tries to sidestep Thor's greeting, but is caught around the neck and given a very firm, very aggressive noogie.
"Ugh."
Sam is wiping lake water away from his face and shaking out his shirt with pinched fingers, scowling and complaining, but not exactly angry. Steve feels as if he were swimming, too, and he's not angry either. Again, it feels as if he's a little less out of place and a little more a part of a family.
"Didn't you bring a towel?" asks Sam, gazing around the empty dock as if he can find one there.
"Nah," Thor beams. "The water's great! Very refreshing. You two should come swimming later!"
It's ten in the morning, and the temperature is already eighty-five. Steve feels as if he is swimming.
"Where's Banner?" Steve asks, enduring a series of overly eager backslaps.
Thor laughs heartily, and Steve revels in that laugh. "In the house, working on some thought experiment. You know how he is, trying to solve all the world's problems all at once."
"Yeah," Sam says, resigned. "Aren't we all."
He shoots a look at Steve. How ironic that this is the reason they're here.
Steve doesn't know how to start that conversation, hadn't even known how to contact anyone other than Sam, and even that was lucky. If he hadn't used his real name to start a flight school â?
"Coffee?" Sam asks, steering them more focused, more sociable. He's kept in contact with all the old couples, truly the best second in command.
"Oh, yes! Yes! Come with me!"
They follow Thor's still dripping, still intimidating form up the dock and toward the gigantic house. It's mostly windows on the lake side, probably costs more money than Steve can even imagine. It's secluded and surrounded by tall trees that are probably the oldest things nearby. Other than the immortals, of course.
Inside, it's bright and airy, with dozens of hanging plants adorning the windows, soaking up the sun from the south. There are signs of both of the people who live here: a pair of forgotten glasses sitting on a windowsill, a set of dumbbells left haphazardly next to an overstuffed bean bag chair, and a single photograph on the fireplace mantle of Thor kissing Bruce's cheek, and Banner looking embarrassed.
"I'll be right back," Thor announces, leaving wet footprints across the ceramic tile kitchen floor. "Coffee is ready, cream in the fridge. Help yourself!"
He disappears down the only hallway, opening and closing a door, leaving Sam and Steve to gawk at the interior design.
"Wow." Steve is speechless.
"Yeah. Thor makes a lot of money selling hair care products, apparently."
They laugh.
"I can't believe he's just so â "
"Out there?" Sam chuckles. "I know. He's like the complete opposite of Banner."
"Speak of the devil," says a deep voice, and a man saunters into the kitchen from a screen door off the back.
"Bruce."
Steve shakes Banner's hand. He looks exactly as Steve remembers him, tired and gray and sad.
"Steve. Sam," he says, nodding at Sam, a little vague, a little distracted. "Thor told me why you're here, and the answer is 'no.'"
Sam and Steve share a quick glance before Steve steps sideways and allows the expert to speak.
"We're not asking for an answer right away," he soothes, voice calm, intending to reassure. "We just want you to listen. No pressure. No expectations."
"Yeah," Steve adds. "I understand your hesitation. I myself have reservations, especially with Bucky in the state he's in. And â it's maddening that humankind hasn't figured out that peace is the only way forward."
Banner eyes Steve warily, jaw clenched. "I said I would never join another cause again after â"
Sam cuts in before Bruce can bring up the torture he went through during World War I, captured and forced to research, to create weapons that would kill thousands in one go. "I know, I hear you. But we're just here to talk. OK?"
This is when Thor bursts from the hallway, dressed in a too-tight t-shirt and long board shorts, wrapping Bruce in a one-armed hug and shouting, boisterous: "Hey Babe! Hope you got some work done with a quiet house."
Banner grumbles, visibly uncomfortable. "You better wipe up the water on the floor."
"Of course!" Thor grips and massages the back of Bruce's neck. "I am all over it."
He gives his partner a hearty shake, making Banner's head bobble, and then sets about wiping up the footprints with a kitchen hand towel. All three of them watch, and it's so awkward that Steve wants to go back to the car.
Instead, they have coffee, and they sit around a glass kitchen table while Thor brings them up to speed on his beauty care business, and about Bruce's research into eradicating parasites that make people sick, make children sick. Sam makes small, agreeable noises, asks intelligent questions, while Steve stares at his folded hands and knows this is a lost cause.
Eventually, they come around to the topic at hand, and Thor expresses, in his overeager, sickenly positive way, that he is 'all in' for killing Elon Musk.
"Wait," Steve says, panicked. "We never said we were going to kill him!"
Thor laughs. "Of course we are! How else are we going to succeed? There are a few others I'd like to smack down as well. Our so-called 'president,'" he makes air quotes, "and several of his henchmen." He grins confidently. "It'll be easy, no problem."
Bruce grunts at this. "And then we have to go into hiding for a hundred years, until humans forget and the whole horrible process of genocide and bigotry and hatred starts all over again."
Silence falls, heavy, prickling. Everyone knows Banner is right. Whatever they do, no matter how many times they fight, take out fascists and crumble corrupt governments, the cycle always continues.
"History repeats itself," agrees Sam, breaking the silence. "But I, for one, can't sit by and not do anything about it."
"Here, here," shouts Thor.
Bruce is staring at Steve, those hollow eyes shrouded with wrinkles and worry, and angry. "I'm not sitting by and doing nothing. My research is going to save thousands of children."
"For them to be obliterated when Dumbass Drump decides they're illegal aliens and ships them to a warehouse to starve to death."
Everyone looks at Sam, whose shoulders are thrown back and chin set high. "We messed up with Hitler the first time, and look what happened. How many people died, horribly, were experimented on and tortured, because we hesitated and didn't take him out?"
Nobody answers. Nobody speaks for a long, uncomfortable time.
Finally, Banner pushes up from his chair and nods at Steve. "Come with me."
So Steve does. He follows Bruce through the back door and out into what is most decidedly his workshop. It's filled with books and papers, computer monitors and keyboards, and a lot of other electronic equipment that completely baffles Steve.
Banner sits on a stool and presses rapid fingers to one of the keyboards, and an image comes up on a screen.
"See that?" he points, hand steady. "That's a virus." He clicks a mouse, and a different image appears. "That's a worm, and this," another click, another picture. "Is a nasty bacterium that causes the body to eat its own cells."
He spins the stool to face Steve, somber and severe. "There are millions of these, attacking our bodies every day. These are the enemy I've chosen to fight. This, right here, is my life."
Steve understands, he really does. "I know, and it's great. But I've been asked to fight a different battle. Bucky is â Bucky isn't doing well, and this organization has technology even you couldn't dream of. They're working with Sam's Riley to figure out why his body isn't regenerating like it has for centuries, what the nazis did to him to mess him up. And I've agreed, in exchange, to help them."
Bruce's forehead wrinkles even more deeply. "They're blackmailing you."
"No!"
Crap.
"OK, but not in a bad way. What bad could come out of fixing Bucky? Maybe it could even be used to help other sick people."
This causes Banner to stop and think. His mouth closes and his eyebrows tremble, and his eyes flit rapidly between Steve's. Steve can see the thoughts racing, synapses firing and connections forming, and eventually he comes to a decision, and he says, "I'm sorry. The answer is still the same."
Steve sighs. "What about Thor? He seems excited about it."
Bruce rolls his eyes, and Steve recognizes the affection there, subtle, but real. "That idiot is always excited. But he's another reason I can't do this. I can't put him in danger's way. You know how reckless he can be."
Steve does know, and he also knows that Banner's mind is made up, and they're wasting their time here.
"OK. But think about it, please? Promise me you'll think about it?"
Bruce starts to shake his head, then stops. "I'll think about it. But no promises."
Sam and Steve leave an hour later, and once they're tucked into their rental car, with Sam behind the wheel, it clicks into place for Steve just how much they are asking of their friends.
"I dunno if I can do this," he whispers. "Asking them to give so much?"
But Sam shakes his head, just as confident as ever. "We can't give up. We'll find someone who wants to join us."
They do, find someone, not two days later, in San Francisco, where the temperature is shockingly cool, and the air is heavy with salt and smog.
Luis invites them in with bear hugs and blistering smiles, squeezing their hands tightly and giving them a tour of the old, historic home he and Scott run as a bed and breakfast. He's wearing an apron with a kitten holding a mixer, and the house smells of warmth and cinnamon and food.
When the tour is complete, he takes them into the large industrial-sized kitchen. He seats them on stools and an island and starts pulling ingredients out of cupboards, out of the fridge, smiling and talking a hundred words a minute.
Scott, apparently, is shopping for supplies, including a stop at the hardware store for materials to fix their porch. Steve smiles at the domesticity of it all; Luis in the kitchen, Scott, the handyman, both greeting their guests with gigantic smiles. And he feels it again, the sense of wrongness. How can he, in good conscience, ask them to put this aside and fight?
Eventually, in the midst of Luis' off-topic rant about his sister's cousin's friend who knows this guy who works for Musk, he stops talking and asks a very, very important question.
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âHappy birthday Stevie,â Bucky whispered as they watched the fireworks together from their window.
Steve smiled back at him.
Steve crouched alone in his apartment with his face in his hands. The curtains were shut, but he could still see the flashes. Every boom sent him back to a different shelling, every crackle, a different firefight.
âHappy fucking birthday to me,â he mumbled.
Bucky watched the fireworks alone from his Brooklyn apartment. He'd been trained not to flinch, but the sound still reminded him of death and destruction.
He raised his glass and whispered, âHappy birthday, Stevie,â into the air.
~~~~~~~~
This was inspired by @leihaddockâs The Fourth of July. His is much happier.
Bucky's unconventional meeting with the kid down the block who's always sick and barely shows up for school.
Cw: '20s kids stucky, fluff, first meetings, non-detailed mentions of Steve's usual sicknesses, school crush, classmates to friends, crack, crack taken lowkey seriously, not beta read and barely edited because I rushed it for Steve's birthday. Happy birthday to the precious boi!!
A/N: this is from that one time @lavender-luminarie and I were laughing over a stucky text post. She's written her own interpretation, and this is mine!!! This took me way too long Zara I'm sorry I forgot for a long while, then couldn't stop writing when I did start it :( anyways check out her version. Oh and also @unstableomni-the-sequel also asked to be tagged when I posted it. I don't know you but here you go!
Bucky's been doing a lot of observing lately. Omnipotent, one (himself) might even say.
It all started when school did, where there was always a kid that never there for the roll call, even if it was the first week of the third grade. Steve Rogers, that's what the name was. Bucky wondered what the guy's problem was, not showing to school for two whole weeks. Did he think he was somehow above it or something? Bucky hated those kinda guys.
Though, Bucky's guesses are proven to be wrong when the guy finally did show after two weeks and a half. Apparently he was just sick, like, very sick. Bucky felt like an ass for making assumptions about a guy he hadn't even met before. What would his Ma say? She didn't raise him like that.
Bucky found out he actually knows the guy. Well, not really, but he lives two blocks over from his home. He's seen the blond kid before, with whom he assumed was his Ma, hand in hand, a few times. He also knows he's supposed to be really sick or something, and he also walks weird with a weird back angle. And he's really, really tiny. That's about as much as much he knows about the Rogers. And being in the same class as him now doesn't really change much about that.
Steve, Bucky was on first-name basis with the guy in his had now, barely showed up for school the first month, no matter how crucial of a time it was for the education. There were kids around saying this Rogers kid was lucky, not showing up at school because he's sick, that they also wanted go be sick so they could ditch a few days. Every time he heard the others kids whining like that, Bucky felt the rightious fury flare in his hard. Wanting to silence the kids because they didn't know anything about Steve. But it would be hypocritical of Bucky, since he also didn't really know much about Steve.
He's asked his Ma about the Rogers family, and learned that Steve's Ma was a nurse. Bucky wasn't sure what to think of that, but he supposed it was a good thing. At least Steve wouldn't be alone in the hospital, and he'd have a parent who'd know how to properly take care of him. It was a small mercy on Steve's part Bucky wasn't sure why he cared, but he did. He was glad such a tiny kid wasn't alone.
The first few months, Bucky saw Steve a handful of weeks at most, and never really approached him. Which was fine, Steve never really looked like he was craving human interaction anyway. It was probably a good thing Bucky wasn't pushing him. But he still watched from afar, his cheek squished against his fist during the class as he watched the blond kid with enough attention to make the teacher scold him for it. Only a few times.
Okay, maybe it was more than a few times. But it's okay, it's worth it. As much as Bucky wanted to go talk to him, it was fine watching him from a few seats over, too.
It was just a day after another scolding he got that Bucky saw Steve outside of the school for the first time since the term had started. It's been snowing for a few days, so he was glad it was weekend, when he and Becca could huddle up under a blanket to warm each other up. Bucky was just out of the couch cuddle pile to take a leak when he saw it, just out the window on the big empty plot of land next to the apartment he lived in. A patch of golden hair peeking from under a beanie that's definitely too thin for the weather, reddened nose, cheeks and ears, hands uncovered and shaky as they held snow and threw it upwards, and the unmistakably tiny frame of Steve Rogers, playing in the snow.
Bucky halted his steps, pausing in place as he watched out the window. It was an odd sight, seeing the always-frowny guy play with the snow, smiling like an actual kid for the first time Bucky has ever laid his eyes on him. He was undoubtly freezing out there, but he looked so joyful grabbing handfuls of snow and throwing it in the air, watch it quickly land back on the ground and Steve's head and shoulders as make-shift snowing. Steve was covered in the snow he repeatedly kept tossing up in the air, looking like a tiny snowman. It made Bucky smile, until the realization dawned on him.
Didn't that guy had asthma? He heard his teacher say it, advising Steve to be extra careful during PE and sometimes even benching him because he was too stubborn to take it easy. The cold was bad, nay, horrible for the guy. He was gonna die!
Bucky quickly threw the window open, ignoring Becca's protests and complaints about the cold, and yelled down to the plot.
"Hey, dipshit! You're gonna get sick, go inside!"
Bucky didn't expect the guy to startle, looking around in panic before casting his gaze upwards to the cloudy sky.
"GOD???" He yelled, hands thrown up in the air.
"I don't believe in ya, so ya better shut yer trap!"
Bucky stood there, frozen, watching the blond kid challenge what he thought was god calling down to him so he didn't kill himself with an asthma attack. It was only when Bucky's loud cackles reached his ears that Steve turned around and spotted the brunette peeking his head out the window laughing like a madman. Bucky noticed the red on the unbelievably pale cheeks weren't just from the biting cold anymore.
"God?" Bucky asked, way too amused for Steve's liking, "So you'd answer him if he called on ya, even if ya don't believe in 'im?"
Steve's jaw clenched, tiny shoulders squaring like he was getting ready for a fight. He dusted the snow off his shoulders and ran as quickly as the snow crunching under his feet and going up to his knees would allow him to. Bucky felt a bit bad for laughing, he didn't mean to embarrass or annoy Steve. But he figured it'd be better than dying because of the cold.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh, no no. No. Bad thoughts. Shoo. Bucky never wanted to think of Steve dying ever again. Instead of dwelling on the flashing idea that left a bitter taste in his mouth, Bucky finally landed an ear to Becca's consistent complaints to finally close the window and get back inside. He was clenching his teeth as he sat back down. And it was in that moment that he remembered he was originally up to go piss anyway, so he got back up with a huff and ran to the loo.
Much to absolutely nobody's surprise, Steve was stuck back at bed rest not long after what Bucky, in the privacy of his own mind, called the "Snowman Incident". Bucky still chuckled to himself remembering Steve's face as he called to the heavens. It was even funnier to think about Steve though God would use the word "dipshit" to refer to him. How little faith did he have in God? Or was it the lack of faith he had in himself? That was a sad thought. Bucky didn't want any more sad thoughts associated with Steve. The boy had enough.
It was after four days of school without Steve that Bucky learned, from his Ma, that Steve was out of bed and was going to be back at school tomorrow. Because, apparently, his Ma was friends with Ms. Rogers now? Huh. Bucky didn't know how did that happen, but only thought good for them, good for them indeed. And also good for Steve, for getting better. Fella was stronger than a stallion, standing up with all those sicknesses kicking his backside everyday. He needed a little rest every once in a while.
But he asked Ma if he could bring snacks to school as a welcome back gift to Steve the next day. Winnifred, bless her heart, squeezed an extra orange and a muffin to Bucky's satchel, making him promise to split the treat with Steve, before sending him off the next morning.
When Bucky showed up at school that morning and found Steve on the seat at the back of the class no one really wanted, and wow, he thought, I didn't know anyone could look that sick. He shook his head, internally reprimanding himself for being judgemental. Bucky took a few steps and then stopped in his tracks. What was he doing? The guy didn't even know him! Best case, he remembered Bucky making fun of him like an ass from the comfort of his house window, from a week back. And he probably wanted nothing to do with anyone right now, right after getting a bit better and being forced to go to school, especially not with Bucky if he remembered him. He was just gonna be annoying the guy even more. He didn't want that. What to do, what to do, what to do---
"Can I help you?"
The irritable voice of the tiny kid snapped Bucky out of the trance he didn't even notice falling into, making him aware of the fact that he was now hovering just two feet away from Steve's seat. When did he get here? He was just at the classroom door...
"Uh..."
It was all Bucky could get out, feeling the lamest he's ever felt in his entire lifespan of 9 years. He tentatively took another step, this time closing the gap between them consciously until he was in front of the blond's seat. The the pure annoyance and irritation he saw in those big blue eyes made Bucky blink. Wow, he really had beautiful eyes.
Focus, Barnes.
"I brought you a muffin."
Very smooth. Charming. Good job, dumbass.
"Muffin?"
"My ma," Yes, that was a good place to start off of. Smart Bucky. "She's friends with yours. She heard you was sick, and, uh,"
The sharp furrow of brows made Bucky pause. The guy was gonna get wrinkles by the time he was 15 if he was scowling like this all the time. But the implication of "so what of it?" was obvious in the smaller kid's gaze.
"She told me to give it to ya, as a get well soon gift. Since you're, ya'know, out now. Outta bed, I mean. "
Bucky placed the muffin on the desk at the same time be noticed the softening on Steve's face. He couldn't help but think it was a better look on him than that nasty scowl. He seemed to hesitate, which made Bucky hesitate, too. Was it too weird? Did he not like muffins? Did he think Bucky was a creep for bringing a pastry to someone he didn't even know?
"I have diabetes, so, I can't really eat that."
Oh. That's a much sadder conclusion than anything else Bucky's sweaty brain came up with in the last 4 seconds.
"She also gave me an orange."
Bucky found himself wanting to console the boy, fishing the spare orange out of his bag. He didn't like the way Steve admitted to the confession like somehow having diabetes was his fault. He handed, more like shoved the fruit in Steve's hands and gave the top of it an awkward pat before retracting his hands. He wiggled his fingers like he could physically shake the awkwardness off. It didn't work.
Steve looked down at the orange, and Bucky could swear he saw a little smile there. Pretty, he thought. Bucky should really stop thinking.
"So, guess I'll be going then. Glad you're here. Like--- because you're better, you're not so sick anymore. Not that I'm not happy you're here but, you know, it's so you won't miss any more classes and---"
Bucky is cut off but a little giggle, a straight out giggle. High pitched, sounding truly child-like, contained in a way that made Steve's shoulders curl in on themselves as a tiny snort slipped out of his troath. Oh hell. Bucky's thoughts are so out of his control today. Last time he found someone this beautiful was when his Ma and Becca were dressed match each other's dresses, as a gift for Becca's birthday. But that was a different kinda pretty. He felt proud seeing them, warm, seeing them happy and his little sister laughing so gleefully. This was... Squeezy. It made his heart flutter. The kind of pretty he wanted to see every day. Since when fellas were this pretty?
There was a lot more things than his undeveloped brain could process in Bucky's head in that moment, so he only focused on Steve instead. Not even minding the fact that the guy was laughing at his rambling. He found himself smiling as well, scratching back of his neck as he, himself, let out an embarrassed little chuckle as well.
"I'll take it." Steve said, nodding, after he was seemingly done laughing at Bucky, though they were both still smiling. Bucky's brain unpromptedly decide he liked the smile wrinkles better than the frown wrinkles on Steve.
Bucky nodded as well, stepping back to go to his own seat, thinking the conversation was over.
"I'm Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers." Instead he was pleasantly surprised when he heard Steve offer his name like Bucky didn't already know it.
"I know," he blurted out before his brain could catch up, then immediately backtracked as to not seem like creep upon noticing the frown of confusion on Steve face. He held his hands up instead, explaining, "my ma told me! She heard from your ma, ya'know, since they're friends."
Steve seemed satisfied with the answer as the nod indicated, and Bucky sighed a discreet breath of relief, giving himself an internal pat on the shoulder for saving it. He didn't want to screw up their friendship before it even started.
Oh. Did Bucky see them as friends? He guessed they would be. Could be, now. He also noticed he'd love that.
"So do they not introduce themselves where you're from, or?"
Steve's quip made Bucky snap out a second time in the last ten minutes, shaking his head quickly.
"Barnes. James Barnes. My family calls me Bucky."
"Bucky?"
"My, uh, middle name. It's Buchanan."
"Oh. Then nice to meet you, Buck."
Bucky has a nickname already? It was truly his lucky day.
"You, too, Stevie." he said instead of gaping lamely at the guy.
"Tell your Ma I said thanks for the orange. And the muffin, I'm sure i'was delicious, even if I can't have it."
Bucky nodded quickly, taking another step back, this time 70% sure the conversation was truly over. The teacher was about to come anyway. But he was proven wrong a second time when Steve called for him again with a hint of hesitation in his voice this time.
"Do you wanna, I dunno... Play this week? Together, with me?"
Bucky screeched to a halt like his dad's old, faulty record player. This was escalating way too quickly, not that Bucky was complaining. Like, at all. He considered yelling out a yes and dropping to his knees dramatically, but decided against it for several reasons. Instead, he tried for a little grin and tilted his head.
"You wanna play mate making a snowman outta yourself this time?"
The shift on Steve's face was immediate. Going from shyly hesitant to furiously blushing in the matter of a second.
"That was you?!" he exclaimed in pure American rage, face turning red in a way that made Bucky want to poke at the bony cheeks. He wondered if Steve would squeak if he did that.
"What, you didn't recognize me from the window?" Bucky didn't know where this sudden confidence was coming from, but he wasn't backtracking after seeing Steve react so animatedly with his whole body.
"I'm part-blind, I can't see that far away!" Steve admitted, making Bucky hesitate for a second. He didn't want to seem like he was making fun of his disability. But after noticing Steve wasn't offended, but simply embarrassed, he continued more comfortably.
"Well, maybe make sure it's actually God talking to you the next time you start to scream up at heavens."
Steve sputtered in a way that made Bucky laugh aloud and ran back to his seat, using the fact that the teacher was coming as an excuse to run.
"You jerk!" Steve yelled over rumble of the classroom, making Bucky laugh even louder as he settled on his seat. He shot Steve one last look over his shoulder to see the guy still scowling, but also fighting back a smile threathing to tug his lips up. Bucky grinned so wide it made his cheeks hurt.
He was going to best friend the hell out of this guy.
Chapter Eight - Part 1
Authors Note: HERE WE GO! IT'STIME.
Rome, Italy
The tuxedo fit perfectly and Bucky hated it.
He stood in front of the hotel mirror, fingers working mechanically at the expensive cuffs while his reflection stared back at him.
He wore a black jacket, pressed trousers and a white shirt.
Black tie. Everything tailored; everything expensive. Everything completely at odds with the way he felt.
Three weeks ago, he'd buried his wife. But tonight, he was attending a gala. The thought alone made something inside him twist.
A knock sounded against the adjoining door.
"You decent?â Sam.
Bucky doesnât even make eye contact with himself in the mirror. "Yeah."
The door opened with a soft creak.
Sam stepped inside already dressed, adjusting the sleeve of his own jacket before giving Bucky a once-over. âDamn." Bucky didn't answer, âYou clean up pretty well.â Nothing. Sam sighed. "I figured.â He walked over to the minibar, unscrewing a bottle of sparkling water instead, âYou sleep at all?"
"Couple hours.â His voice was rough and short. "You?"
"Enough."
It wasn't enough. Neither of them bothered pretending otherwise.
Bucky reached for the black jacket hanging neatly across the chair and slid it over his shoulders. The movement pulled awkwardly against the healed scar tissue near his left shoulder.
He barely noticed anymore. Sam watched him button the front. "You okay?"
âNo." The answer came so quickly it almost caught Sam off guard. Bucky looked back toward the mirror, âBut I'm here."
Silence settled between them.
Outside the tall hotel windows, Rome glowed beneath the fading evening light. Church bells drifted faintly through the city.
Tourists wandered narrow streets below. The room fell quiet again and Sam didn't argue.
Another knock interrupted them and then three other short knocks.
Bucky opened the door.
The FBI analyst from Washington stood outside, a slim black folder tucked beneath one arm. Her expression remained composed.
"We're approaching the transfer point.â She says. She glanced between them, âI have one final briefing before arrival."
"Come in.â Sam says, stepping aside.
She entered without ceremony, placing the folder carefully onto the small dining table before opening it. There were several photographs, satellite imagery, architectural layouts, and financial records.
The top page carried one name.
Alessandro Moretti.
"The gala begins at nineteen hundred," she said, turning another page in the folder. "Approximately four hundred guests are expected to attend. Most have perfectly legitimate reasons for being there. Others have spent years moving through circles where stolen antiquities, forged provenance, and private collections overlap. Bellini has always attracted both.â She paused only long enough to let the page settle before continuing. "For tonight, however, none of them are your priority."
Bucky looked up. âH-17." He says.
She nodded once.
"Our working assessment is that if H-17 survived Guanajuato, and every indication suggests they did, theyâll continue following the same trail we are. Bellini's gala is the first credible opportunity we've had to intercept them."
Sam leaned forward slightly. "You're assuming they know Bellini."
She opened a second folder.
"Six hours ago, the Bureau completed a comparative analysis on trace evidence recovered from the Guanajuato chamber."
Bucky's attention sharpened immediately. His stomach dropped instantly. âDid you identify them?"
She placed two photographs on the polished table between them. The first showed a section of scorched stone recovered from the collapsed chamber. The second was older. Much older.
At first glance, the damage looked almost identical.
Thin, impossibly precise lines cut through reinforced steel as though it had offered no resistance at all. "Both surfaces were exposed to the same type of directed-energy cutting system," she explained. "The signatures are nearly indistinguishable.â
âRight. We remember them mentioning this in the briefing.â Sam says.
She turned one final page. "The designation attached to that investigation was H-17.â The name settled heavily over the table. It wasn't a person. Not yet. Just a letter and two numbers. The analyst let the silence settle before reaching into the folder once more. "This next photograph wasn't recovered in Mexico.â She slid a small evidence print across the table.Â
The image was poor and grainy. Taken from a considerable distance.
At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than someone's arm disappearing beneath the sleeve of a dark jacket.
Only one detail stood out.
A scar.
It ran along the inside of the forearm, beginning just below the wrist before disappearing beneath the cuff. Old and jagged. Impossible to mistake once you'd seen it.
"This was recovered from surveillance footage during an unrelated operation years ago," she explained. "At the time, the image was catalogued and archived. There was nothing linking it to any active investigation.â She glanced toward the photographs of the laser residue still lying on the table. "There is now."
Sam picked up the photograph, studying it for several seconds before passing it to Bucky.
"That's all we've got?â Sam asks.
"I'm afraid so.â She says.
"No face?â Sam.
âNo." Her.
âFingerprints?" Sam.
She shook her head.
"DNA?"
"Nothing usable."
Bucky continued staring at the photograph, still not saying anything. After countless days and sleepless nights, it came down to this; a scar.
It wasn't much. But after Guanajuato, it was more than they'd had yesterday.
"The individual was careful," the analyst continued. "Very careful. They avoided cameras whenever possible. They left almost no forensic evidence inside the chamber. Every decision suggests extensive operational training."
âMilitary or intelligence?" Sam asked.
"We can't say.â She folded her hands on top of the folder, âAt this point, we don't know if H-17 is acting independently or under someone else's direction. We don't know whether they're a contractor, former military, intelligence, organized crime, or something else entirely. But we do know heâs Hydra.â
The words lingered between them.
Bucky finally looked up from the photograph.
"So this..." He held it slightly above the table. "This is what we're building an operation around."
"It's what we're building identification around.â she corrected.
He frowned.
She leaned forward just enough to indicate the map of Bellini's estate.
"If H-17 appears tonight, they won't know we're looking for them."
Sam nodded slowly.
"They're looking for something else."
"Exactly."
"Our advantage is that we don't have to predict what they'll do," she said. "We simply have to recognize them before they recognize us."
Bucky lowered his eyes to the scar once more. Something about it bothered him. Not because of the mark itself.
Because it was human.
Up until now, H-17 had existed only as a report. A designation. A collection of impossible decisions made beneath a mountain halfway across the world.
Now, there was an arm. Scar tissue.
Skin.
Proof that somewhere beyond the paperwork, there was an actual person responsible for Asa's death. His jaw tightened.
He slipped the photograph back across the table.
"I won't miss it."
The analyst held his gaze for a moment before quietly gathering the remaining files.
"I know.â She closed the folder with a soft click. "Which is precisely why I'm asking you to remember something.â Neither Bucky nor Sam spoke. "If H-17 is there tonight,â She chose her next words carefully, âyour first responsibility is confirmation. Not capture. Not yet. Not confrontation. Confirmation. Then, as a team, we go in.â She looked directly at Bucky. "We've waited months for this lead.â Another pause. "We can afford to lose the suspect.â Her voice became quieter. "We cannot afford to lose our only chance of identifying them."
The riverboat drifted beneath another stone bridge, the shadows briefly swallowing the deck before sunlight returned across the water.
Ahead, the first glimpse of Bellini's estate came into view.
"Captain Wilson, your observation post overlooks the central ballroom and both gallery entrances.â She says. Sam nodded. "And Barnes. "You'll remain mobile.â The answer didn't surprise anyone. "Move naturally. Circulate. If H-17 is here,â He glanced briefly toward the crowded ballroom beyond, âthey must never suspect they're being watched."
Bucky slipped the earpiece into place.
The familiar burst of static settled inside his ear before voices gradually filtered through.
"Control, radio check."
"Loud and clear."
"Balcony team online."
"Garden team online."
"North entrance secure."
One by one, every voice joined the network.
"Sargeant BarnesâÂ
Bucky touched the earpiece almost absentmindedly. "Copy."
Bucky said nothing.
His eyes had already drifted toward the ballroom, toward hundreds of strangers moving beneath chandeliers. Somewhere inside, a person existed who had reduced his entire life to before and after.
______________
Warm light spilled from hundreds of crystal chandeliers suspended high above the ballroom, catching against polished marble and gilded moldings that had survived centuries of history. Conversations drifted through the enormous space, blending with the quiet melody of a string quartet positioned beneath the eastern staircase.
The music was loud and sensual, thumping in sync with his heart and veins.
Everywhere Bucky looked, someone important was pretending not to be.
Politicians laughed beside art dealers, diplomats exchanged pleasantries with men whose names never appeared in newspapers, collectors admired paintings they undoubtedly couldn't afford.
A waiter appeared beside him.
"Champagne, sir?"
Bucky shook his head politely and continued walking.
His eyes never stopped moving. He made sure he could make out every possible exit. Every doorway, staircase, balcony, and reflection caught in polished marble.
Sam's voice crackled softly through the earpiece.
"You've circled the ballroom twice."
âMmm."
"You're making me nervous."
"I'm making you nervous?"
âYeah?"
A pause.
"You look like you're casing the place."
"I am."
Sam sighed somewhere above him.
"Try looking like you're enjoying yourself."
Bucky glanced toward a sculpture positioned near the center of the room.
"I'll see what I can do.â His voice was gruff.
Another waiter passed carrying a tray lined with crystal whiskey glasses.
This time, Bucky stopped him. "I'll take one."
The waiter offered a polite nod before disappearing back into the crowd.
Sam noticed immediately.
âWell, didnât expect that."
Bucky rolled the amber liquid slowly around the glass.
He took a sip. Expensive and smooth.
Completely wasted on him.
He barely tasted it. A small smile tugged at Sam's voice.
"How is it?"
Bucky looked down into the glass.
"Tastes like whiskey."
"That's the most depressing review of a thirty-year Scotch I've ever heard."
"It all tastes the same."
"That's because your metabolism's unfair."
Bucky took another small sip.
"I'd need ten of these before I'd feel anything."
Sam laughed quietly.
"Government's not paying for ten."
He rested one hand against the polished wood of the bar, letting his eyes wander across the ballroom once more. Nothing.
No scar. No unusual movement.
No H-17.
Just four hundred beautifully dressed strangers pretending they belonged in one another's lives.
"You look terribly disappointed."
The voice came from beside him.
Beautifully female and completely confident. British.
Bucky turned.
She couldn't have been much younger than him, dressed elegantly in deep emerald silk, a champagne flute balanced effortlessly between her fingers.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The whiskey,â She nodded toward his glass. "You looked as though you'd expected it to solve a personal crisis."
He glanced down at it. "It didn't."
"I'm shocked."
A faint smile touched her lips, âMost people at least pretend to enjoy it."
"I never was much for pretending."
âNo?" She studied him for a moment. "I would've guessed you were."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It depends,â She smiled. Bucky didnât smile. "Have I offended you?"
âNo." His says honestly, but with that same tone heâs used all day.
âGood." She extended a hand, âI don't believe we've met."
Bucky looked at it for only a second before shaking it.
"James."
âPleasure." She released his hand. "You don't strike me as someone who attends many galas, James."
"I don't."
âYou've spent the last ten minutes watching everyone except yourself. You looked lonely."
The word settled awkwardly between them.
Before Bucky could answer, his thumb unconsciously brushed against the gold band resting on his left hand. He hadn't even realized he'd done it.
Her eyes followed the movement. The smile on her face softened almost immediately.
âOh." Silence. "I'm sorry.â Bucky looked down at the ring. She offered a small, genuinely apologetic smile. "I shouldn't have interrupted your evening."
Without another word, she stepped back into the crowd, disappearing almost as quietly as she'd appeared. Bucky watched her go for only a moment before lowering his eyes to the whiskey glass still resting in his hand.
His thumb remained absentmindedly against the ring. He hadn't thought about taking it off. He wasn't sure he ever would.
The woman disappeared into the crowd as quietly as she'd arrived, the emerald silk of her gown vanishing between clusters of collectors and diplomats until there was nothing left to distinguish her from the other three hundred guests drifting through Bellini's palace.
Bucky stayed where he was. The whiskey rested untouched in his hand.
Around him, the evening continued without interruption. Crystal stemware chimed softly against one another.
A burst of laughter erupted somewhere beneath the eastern staircase before dissolving back into the steady hum of conversation. The quartet had abandoned Vivaldi for something slower now, the melody slipping almost unnoticed beneath the voices that filled the ballroom.
No one here knew what had happened beneath a mountain in Mexico. No one here knew Asa Barnes was dead.
He watched a man straighten the collar of his wife's dress before offering her his arm. She smiled without looking up, accepting the gesture with the ease of two people who had been doing the same thing for years.
Bucky looked away. His chest tightened so suddenly he almost mistook it for anger.
It wasnât. It would've been easier if it had been. His thumb found the ring again. He turned it once around his finger. Then once more.
The motion had become unconscious. Something his hands did whenever his mind wandered somewhere it shouldn't.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. He still caught himself thinking about texting her.
Still reached for the other side of the bed some mornings before remembering. Still expected to hear footsteps in the apartment when he came home.
Grief was cruel like that. It didn't arrive all at once.
It waited and then found you in ordinary moments like a grocery store, a quiet kitchen, or a ballroom halfway across the world where everyone else seemed perfectly capable of pretending life had never changed.
He took another sip of the whiskey.
Nothing.
The warmth reached his throat and disappeared before it ever became comfort.
Years ago, before the serum and before Hydra, one glass would've quieted the noise.
Now, it was just another expensive drink.
âBuck?" Sam's voice crackled gently through the earpiece. "You still with me?"
Bucky blinked.
The ballroom came back into focus.
"Yeah."
"You've been standing in the same spot for almost three minutes."
Had he?
He hadn't noticed.
He cleared his throat almost imperceptibly before setting the whiskey glass onto the passing waiter's silver tray.
"I'll keep moving."
âGood." A brief pause. "And try not to look like you're attending a funeral."
Bucky almost laughed.
"Little late for that."
Silence.
Sam didn't apologize.
He hadn't meant it that way.
"I know," he answered quietly. The line went dead again.
Bucky exhaled through his nose before stepping away from the bar. Movement helped. It always had.
For years, missions had become the easiest place to exist. They demanded attention. They left no room for memory, no room for regret. There was only the next hallway. The next rooftop. The next objective.
Tonight, well, tonight his thoughts refused to cooperate.
The ballroom unfolded around him like a painting.
Women drifted past in gowns that caught the chandelier light with every step. Men in perfectly tailored tuxedos laughed into crystal glasses worth more than most people's monthly rent. Somewhere nearby, a waiter shaved paper-thin slices of truffle over porcelain plates while another quietly replenished champagne that had barely been touched.
Old money. Old power, old secrets.
Bucky wandered without appearing to wander.
He paused briefly before a sixteenth-century oil painting, not because he cared about it, but because the polished varnish reflected nearly half the room behind him. He watched conversations unfold in reverse, observing expressions instead of words.
Two security guards near the western staircase.
One museum curator speaking animatedly with a Vatican representative.
A collector quietly slipping away through a side corridor.
Nothing, no scar.
No unusual behavior. No H-17.
His gaze shifted naturally toward the second floor.
Guests leaned against marble balustrades overlooking the ballroom below, glasses balanced loosely in their hands as the quartet transitioned into another piece. From somewhere above came the soft echo of a woman's laughter, followed by the unmistakable sound of Italian being spoken too quickly for him to follow.
Beautiful, every inch of it.
He hated that too.
Not because it lacked beauty. Because beauty had become exhausting. Three weeks ago, he would've wanted Asa to see this. She would've wandered these halls for hours, reading every placard beneath every sculpture before inevitably dragging him toward whichever painting she'd declared her favorite.
He could almost hear it.
"James, come look at this one."
He swallowed.
Don't.
Not here.
His jaw tightened until it ached.
Mission.
Focus.
He forced himself to continue walking. One corridor opened into another.
The crowds thinned slightly as he left the main ballroom behind, replaced by quieter conversations and smaller clusters of guests studying the artwork lining the walls. The music became softer here, muffled by thick stone and heavy velvet drapes that framed towering windows overlooking the gardens.
His footsteps slowed.
Not consciously but by instinct. Somethingâ No, not somethingâ someone.
He couldn't have explained why. There was no movement out of place. No raised voices and no obvious threat. Only the strange, unmistakable feeling that made the hairs at the back of his neck rise.
Years of missions had taught him to trust that feeling before he understood it. His eyes swept the corridor once. An elderly couple stood admiring a marble bust near the far wall.
A server disappeared through a doorway carrying an empty tray. Another guest adjusted his cufflinks before rejoining a conversation behind him.
Normal, entirely normal. And yet, the feeling remained.
Bucky rounded the corner, at that exact same moment, someone else did.
He rounded the corner.
So did you.
The collision was light.
Barely more than the brush of two shoulders meeting where the corridor narrowed between towering marble columns. Enough to stop you both.
âOh." The apology escaped the two of you at precisely the same moment. "I'm sorrâ"
You stopped.
He stopped.
For one suspended heartbeatâŠ
Neither of you moved.
The corridor remained alive around you.
Guests continued drifting between galleries, voices rising and falling beneath the distant music of the quartet. Somewhere farther inside the palace, crystal stemware chimed together, followed by another ripple of laughter that echoed softly beneath the painted ceilings.
Life continued.
Only the two of you had stopped.
Bucky's hand had instinctively reached toward your elbow, steadying you before you could lose your balance.
He realized what he'd done almost immediately. His fingers loosened.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, taking a half-step back. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
His voice surprised you.
Low. Gentle. Nothing like you'd imagined.
You looked up fully for the first time.
Blue eyes, tired eyes. The kind exhaustion couldn't fake.
For a strange, impossible moment, you forgot where you were.
Hydra had spent years teaching you to catalogue people in seconds.
Height.
Build.
Dominant hand.
Possible weapons.
Escape probability.
Threat level.
Instead, your mind offered you nothing.
Only silence.
The man standing in front of you looked familiar.
Not because you'd met him.
You hadn't.
Not like this.
It was something else.
A feeling so faint you almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.
His hand had already fallen back to his side.
Still, you could almost remember the warmth of it against your arm.
"I'm sorry too," you answered softly. Your voice felt far away. "It was just as much my fault.âÂ
Your voice was steady. You made certain of that.
Hydra had taught you many things.
One lesson had never left. Never let anyone know what you're thinking.
Especially when you don't know yourself.
For another brief second, neither of you spoke.
Bucky couldn't explain why he was still standing there.
He should've apologized and kept walking.
He'd done exactly that thousands of times before.
So why, why did it suddenly feel so difficult? His gaze remained on yours a fraction longer than was appropriate. Long enough to notice details that had no business mattering.
The way the chandelier light caught in your eyes.
The faint rise and fall of your breathing.
A strand of hair that had slipped free near your shoulder.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should've rooted him to the floor.
And yet, he couldn't seem to leave.
The guilt arrived almost instantly.
It struck so sharply it nearly stole the breath from his lungs.
Asa.
The thought appeared without warning. Followed immediately by shame.
What are you doing?
Three weeks.
Three weeks since he'd stood beside her grave.
Three weeks since he'd promised himself there would never be anyone else.
His chest tightened.
He looked away first.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, though this time he wasn't entirely sure who the apology was for.
You noticed it. Not the words.
The change.
Something behind his eyes had closed.
As though he'd remembered a pain that had briefly let go of him, only to return with twice the force.
You didn't understand why.
But somehow, you felt sorry for him.
"I'm glad neither of us spilled anything," you said with the smallest hint of a smile, glancing toward his empty hands. "I think Bellini would've thrown us both out."
It wasn't much of a joke.
It wasn't meant to be.
Just enough to soften the strange silence that had settled between you.
For the first time all evening, the corner of Bucky's mouth almost answered with a smile.
Almost. "You might be right."
There it was again.
That feeling.
Small.
Inexplicable.
Like the universe had quietly inhaled.
You nodded once.
âSo,â You took a small step backward, âI should probably let you get back to your evening."
He knew he should say yes.
Instead, he simply watched you. Something about walking away suddenly felt wrong.
You felt it too.
Which made even less sense.
Your training screamed at you to move.
Stay unpredictable.
Never linger.
Never become memorable.
And yet your feet refused to obey.
A server carrying a silver tray excused himself politely as he passed between you, forcing you both to step aside.
The interruption broke whatever invisible thread had settled over the corridor. Reality returned all at once. The music. The conversations. The mission. It was like a tunnel of voice raised its volume all at once.
You offered one last polite smile.
"It was nice not knocking you over. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
You turned first. Professional and measured. Never hurried.
Your heels clicked softly against the marble as you disappeared toward the next gallery.
Bucky stayed where he was.
Watching.
Not because he meant to, because his feet hadn't moved.
He frowned at himself.
Get it together.
He finally forced himself to turn in the opposite direction.
One step.
Two.
Three.
...
Something made him stop.
He didn't know what.
He looked back.
Halfway down the gallery...
You had stopped too.
You were already looking at him.
Neither of you smiled.
Neither of you waved.
For the briefest instant...
It felt as though both of you were asking the exact same silent question.
Have we met before?
Then a group of guests drifted between you, filling the corridor with laughter and conversation.
When they passed, the moment was gone.
And so were you.
_____
You disappeared into the crowd.
The black fabric of your gown slipped effortlessly between clusters of guests until the ballroom swallowed you whole.
Bucky stayed exactly where he was.
He knew he should've turned around, he should've continued the sweep and he should've forgotten the entire interaction before he'd taken his next breath.
Instead, he stood there.
"What the hellâŠ" The words never made it past his lips.
He dragged a hand slowly across his jaw, almost irritated with himself.
She was beautiful. That much was obvious. Bellini's gala was filled with beautiful women.
Models. Diplomats. Heiresses.Actresses.
Women who turned heads simply by entering a room.
None of them had managed to stop him, none of them had made him forget where he was, none of them had looked at him the way she just had.
His chest tightened.
Immediately...
His thoughts betrayed him.
Asa.
The name arrived like a knife.
His stomach dropped.
No.
No.
The guilt came so quickly it almost made him physically ill.
Three weeks. Three weeks ago he'd stood beside her grave. Three weeks ago he'd promised himself that whatever part of him had belonged to anyone else had been buried with her.
So why, why had his heart stumbled?
Why had he forgotten everything for those few impossible seconds?
It wasn't just that she was beautiful. He'd seen beautiful people before. There had been something else. Something he couldn't name.
And somehow, yhat unsettled him more than anything else.
"Buck?"
Sam's voice crackled softly through the earpiece. "You still with me?"
Bucky blinked. The ballroom slowly came back into focus.
"Yeah."
"You've been standing still."
Had he?
He hadn't even realized.
Bucky let out a slow breath before beginning to walk again, forcing himself back into the rhythm of the operation. Mission. Observe. Nothing else mattered.
He crossed the ballroom at an unhurried pace, his expression settling back into the familiar neutrality he'd worn on countless assignments before.
The palace unfolded around him in quiet grandeur.
Laughter drifted beneath the chandeliers. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight like scattered stars.
A violin sang somewhere above the conversations, almost disappearing beneath the constant murmur of Italian, French, English, and half a dozen other languages blending together into something strangely comforting.
He hated himself for noticing how beautiful it all was.
Three weeks ago, he would've wanted Asa to see this.
She would've loved every painting.
Every sculpture. She would've spent an hour reading every little plaque while he pretended to be impatient before eventually giving in and following her anyway.
His throat tightened. Don't.
Not now.
Not here.
He looked away from a couple standing together near one of the galleries. The man leaned down, quietly brushing an invisible speck of dust from his wife's shoulder.
She smiled without even looking up. The gesture was so small. So ordinary. It hurt more than it should have.
Bucky's thumb found the wedding band resting against his finger. He turned it once. Then again.
A habit now.
One he rarely noticed anymore.
His eyes lifted instinctively.
Without meaning to, he looked for her.
The realization hit him almost immediately.
Why?
He frowned.
He wasn't looking because of the mission.
Not yet.
He was looking because...
Because he wanted to see her again.
The admission settled heavily in his chest.
He almost laughed at himself.
Christ.
He was losing his mind.
His gaze wandered naturally through the crowd.
Across the ballroom.
Past Bellini.
Past Moretti.
Past a cluster of diplomats gathered beneath the western staircase.
Then, he found you.
You stood near one of the enormous arched windows overlooking the gardens, speaking comfortably with an older gentleman dressed in an impeccably tailored navy tuxedo.
Whatever he was saying seemed mildly entertaining. You smiled politely. Nodded once and completely at ease.
Bucky watched for another second.
Then another.
He couldn't explain why. He just couldn't look away.
You belonged here. There was an effortless confidence about you that couldn't be faked. Nothing theatrical.
Nothing performative. You weren't trying to draw attention. If anything, you seemed intent on avoiding it.
And somehow that only made him notice you more.
Then, almost absentmindedly, your fingers rose to your ear. Not enough to adjust your hair.
Not enough to tuck a strand behind it.
Just, a small, practiced movement.
Bucky's smile disappeared.
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The older gentleman continued speaking.
You answered him. But a fraction of a second later, your lips moved again.
Too subtly.
Too deliberately.
Not to him.
Into something hidden.
Every instinct he'd spent decades sharpening came alive. His hand rose slowly toward the transmitter beneath his lapel. The attraction vanished. Training took its place.
Across the ballroom, you thanked the older gentleman with a polite nod before turning away.
Your eyes swept the room.
Routine.
Professional.
Until they found him.
The change was immediate. The softness disappeared.
Your expression emptied. Not fear.
Recognition.
Bucky felt something tighten low in his chest.
You know me.
The thought hit him before he understood why.
Then you moved.
Not much.
Just enough to turn your body.
The sleeve of your gown shifted.
The chandelier caught the inside of your forearm.
A scar.
His entire body froze.
No.
His stomach dropped so violently it stole the air from his lungs.
His face drained of color.
The photograph.
The scar.
H-17.
His eyes snapped back to yours.Â
For one impossible heartbeat, neither of you moved.
The entire ballroom seemed to disappear.
No music.
No voices.
No Bellini.
No mission.
Only the two of you.
But now for different reason.
Your breathing caught, your chest burned.
His thumb slammed against the transmitter. âControl." His voice was no longer steady. âH-17..." He swallowed hard. His voice cracked, âSheâs a girl."
Your eyes flicked once toward the nearest exit and he knew what was about to happen.
Decision made.
You turned and quickly walked away.
His feet were already moving.
"Bucky, maintain visual!" the analyst shouted through the comm.
He never slowed.
"Barnes, stand down!"
Nothing.
"Bucky!" Sam's voice.
"Wait for backup!"
Too late.
He shoved past the first cluster of guests, nearly knocking a champagne tray to the marble floor as he sprinted after the black dress disappearing through the gallery doors.
The gallery opened onto the rear terrace almost without warning.
Warm candlelight gave way to the cool Roman evening, and the change was immediate. The orchestra softened behind thick stone walls until it became little more than a distant melody drifting through the open doors. Beyond the balustrade, Bellini's gardens stretched toward the river in perfect symmetry, illuminated by carefully placed lanterns that turned marble fountains and ancient statues into pale silhouettes against the night.
Guests lingered outside in small groups, champagne flutes balanced effortlessly between their fingers as they admired the view over the city. Laughter drifted across the terrace. Somewhere nearby, someone lit a cigar. The scent mixed with expensive perfume and freshly cut jasmine carried on the breeze.
To everyone around you, the evening remained perfect.
You resisted every instinct urging you to run. Not here. Not with this many eyes.
The worst thing you could do now was confirm his suspicion by panicking. So you walked.
Measured and unhurried. The same steady pace you'd maintained since entering the palace. Your heartbeat, however, had become impossible to ignore.
You could feel it against your throat. Against your ribs.
Against the pulse in your wrists.
Behind you, he followed. Not close enough to touch, not far enough to lose.
The distance between you never seemed to change. You didn't need to look back to know he was still there.
You simply knew.
Inside his earpiece, voices continued speaking over one another.
"...Barnes, maintain observationâŠâ
"...South surveillance is repositioningâŠâ
Bucky heard every word.
He listened to none of them.
His entire world had narrowed to the woman walking twenty yards ahead of him.
The black gown. The bare stretch of her back disappearing beneath hair.
The scar.
God...
The scar.
His stomach still hadn't recovered from the moment he'd seen it.
Every instinct he possessed insisted he was looking at H-17.
Every other part of him begged for another explanation.
Not her.
Please...
Not her.
He had spent the last several minutes wondering why he couldn't stop looking at her.
Wondering why she had managed, if only for a heartbeat, to quiet the grief that had consumed every waking moment since Asa died. Now all he could think was how cruel the universe truly was.
Out of every woman in Rome, it had been her.
You reached the broad staircase leading into Bellini's gardens.
The terrace ended there, beyond it, the protection of the gala disappeared.
You paused only long enough to rest one hand lightly against the cool marble railing. Your eyes swept the gardens below.
Lanterns, guests, security, stone pathways, three exists, one service gate, and the river beyond.
Your mind mapped everything in seconds.
Hydra had made sure of that. You descended without hesitation. Each step carried you farther from the music. Farther from the witnesses. Farther from the safety of pretending this had all been a misunderstanding.
âBuck." Sam's voice broke through the static. "We're almost to your position.â No answer. âBucky." Another beat. "Just wait for me."
His jaw tightened.
His eyes never left you.
Waiting wasn't an option anymore.
Not after he'd seen the scar.
Not after she'd looked at him the way she had.
She knew.
He was certain of it.
She knew exactly what he'd seen.
Your heel caught briefly against the uneven stone. Barely enough to interrupt your stride. Enough.
You reached down without looking. The buckle released beneath practiced fingers. The first shoe slipped free. You never broke pace.
It disappeared soundlessly into the darkness beside a hedge. Five more steps. The second followed. Cool stone met bare skin.
Immediately, your stride lengthened.
You felt lighter.
Faster. Behind you, Bucky watched both shoes vanish into the shadows.
The gesture lasted no more than two seconds.
It told him everything. She wasn't trying to leave the gala anymore. She was preparing to disappear. Something inside him snapped.
Until that moment, some small part of him had still believed he could follow protocol. That surveillance teams would quietly move into position. That Sam would arrive. That together they would identify H-17 and end the evening exactly as the Bureau had planned.
The abandoned shoes erased that possibility.
She had made her choice.
His body answered before his mind could.
The first stride came almost involuntarily.
The second carried him off the terrace.
By the third, he was running.
The analyst's voice immediately cut across the channel.
"Sergeant Barnes, do not pursue!â
He never slowed.
"Barnes, stand down."
Gravel exploded beneath his shoes as he crossed the final stretch of the garden.
"Bucky!" Sam's voice was sharper now, louder than before. "Wait for backup!"
Still, nothing.
His breathing had already begun to overtake every other sound.
The distance between them began to close. Not because you were slowing. Because he was relentless.
You heard it. Not footsteps. NoâŠmomentum. The unmistakable rhythm of someone who had committed entirely to the pursuit.
You didn't look back. You didn't need to.
The Winter Soldier had stopped following. He was hunting.
And for the first time that evening, you ran.
The gardens disappeared behind you as the wrought-iron gates burst open, and Rome swallowed you both whole.
The moment you crossed beyond Bellini's gates, the city seemed to explode around you.
The quiet elegance of the palace vanished behind the steady roar of Roman nightlife.
Restaurants spilled onto narrow sidewalks beneath strings of warm lights suspended between centuries-old buildings. Conversations drifted through the air in a dozen different languages, punctuated by bursts of laughter, clinking wine glasses, and the distant hum of Vespas weaving effortlessly through evening traffic.
No one looked at you twice.
Not at first.
To everyone else, you were simply another woman leaving an extravagant gala. Until you started running.
You cut sharply around the corner of the first building, narrowly avoiding a waiter emerging from a side entrance with an armful of empty wine crates.
"I'm so sorry," you called instinctively as he stumbled backward in surprise.
The apology had barely left your mouth before you were gone. Seconds later, Bucky reached the same corner.
The crates crashed across the pavement. The waiter instinctively reached down to stop one from rolling into the street.
You knew better than to run in a straight line.
Hydra had taught you that years ago. Straight lines were predictable.
Predictable people got caught. Every intersection became a decision.
Left. Too open. Right. Dead end. Forward. Crowded.
A waiter yanked an entire tray of untouched pasta out of the way just before Bucky vaulted over the edge of the outdoor seating rather than weaving around it.
His polished dress shoes struck the cobblestones with enough force that the sound echoed between the buildings.
He never lost sight of the black dress.
Not once.
âBucky." Sam's breathing was heavier now. He was running too. "Talk to me.â Silence. âBuck." Another pause. "Where are you?"
The analyst cut in before Bucky could answer.
"Captain Wilson, GPS has him crossing Via dei Coronari."
"How far?"
"Closing on Piazza Navona."
Sam muttered something beneath his breath. "Damn it..."
Bucky pushed harder. You burst into the piazza.
The open square stretched before you beneath the glow of street lamps and restaurant terraces packed with tourists lingering over late dinners.
A violinist stood beside Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers, completely absorbed in his music until the sudden movement caught his attention.
Your eyes swept the square.
Too exposed. Too many witnesses. Too few exits.
You changed direction immediately. Not toward the fountain.
Toward the narrow passage disappearing between two ancient buildings on the western side of the square.
Bucky saw the change the instant you made it. He didn't hesitate and neither did you.
Your lungs had begun to burn.
Not from exhaustion but from the constant changes in pace.
Sprint.
Slow.
Turn.
Jump.
Accelerate again.
Every movement demanded a new calculation.
The city itself became part of the equation. A delivery truck blocked one street completely. You ducked beneath the raised loading platform instead of going around it.
Bucky arrived less than three seconds later.
Too broad to follow the same route without losing momentum, he planted one hand against the truck, vaulted cleanly over the rear loading gate, and landed hard enough to rattle the entire vehicle.
The driver stepped out of the cab just in time to watch him disappear.
You risked your first glance behind you.
Immediately regretted it. He was closer. Much closer.
Close enough now that you could see the determination carved across his face.
His tie had come loose somewhere during the pursuit, hanging unevenly against the front of his shirt. The top button had been torn open, dark hair falling across his forehead as he ran.
He wasn't slowing.
He wasn't tiring. He was simply coming for you.
Your stomach tightened.
Impossible.
You'd studied him.
Read every file Hydra had ever kept.
You knew exactly what he was capable of.
Knowing and seeing it with your own eyes were two entirely different things.
You rounded another corner.
Nearly collided with a young boy chasing a soccer ball across the alley. You caught him instinctively before he stumbled into the street, steadying him by both shoulders.
"I'm sorry.â The words came automatically.
The ball rolled away.
The boy looked up at you, startled but unharmed.
You were already running again.
Five seconds later, Bucky reached the same alley.
Ahead, church bells rang across the city.
Nine oâclock. The sound rolled over the rooftops as both of you disappeared deeper into Rome. Neither of you had spoken a single word. Neither of you needed to. The chase had become its own language.
You didn't hesitate. Your eyes were already searching three streets ahead.
A delivery van idled beside the curb while a pair of workers unloaded crates through its rear doors, blocking nearly the entire roadway.
Perfect. You veered toward it.
Not around it.
Through it.
The workers barely had time to react before you slipped between two stacks of wooden crates, ducking beneath the raised lift-gate with practiced ease. One of them shouted something in Italian as you emerged on the opposite side and disappeared into another alley.
The opening behind you narrowed again as one of the crates shifted dangerously out of place.
Bucky reached the truck less than two seconds later.
He didn't even slow.
Your breathing had settled into a rhythm.
In.
Out.
Count the corners. Count the exits. Count the people.
Hydra had drilled it into you until it became instinct.
Never outrun someone stronger. Outthink them.
You cut sharply through a bustling side market, weaving between vendors selling fresh fruit, flowers, and handmade leather goods beneath striped canvas awnings.
An elderly woman carrying two grocery bags stepped directly into your path.
She blinked after you, confused but unharmed.
Only moments later, Bucky burst into the same market.
Ahead, the street narrowed again before opening unexpectedly onto a small stone bridge crossing one of the city's quieter canals.
Moonlight shimmered across the water below, broken only by the slow wake of a passing river taxi drifting beneath the arch.
Your pace faltered for the first time.
Not from exhaustion, but from calculation.
Across the bridge was too exposed. Back the way you'd come was impossible. To the left a staircase descended toward the water.
You made your decision instantly.
Instead of crossing the bridge, you vaulted over the low stone barrier, catching the iron railing as you dropped onto the narrow maintenance walkway running beneath it.
Your shoes would've made that jump dangerous. Bare feet didnât. Your landing was silent.
You never looked back.
Bucky reached the bridge seconds later.
He saw the empty roadway.
Then, movement below.
His eyes dropped just in time to catch the edge of your black gown disappearing beneath the bridge.
A lesser pursuer would've continued straight. He didn't.
Without breaking stride, he planted one foot against the bridge's stone wall and vaulted the barrier, dropping after you. His shoulder clipped the railing on the way down.
Pain shot through him. He ignored it.
His shoes struck the narrow walkway with a heavy crack.
Too loud.
Too heavy.
He'd already lost three seconds.
You heard him land. Closer.
Too close.
Your heartbeat lurched.
You pushed harder.
The canal funneled the sound of his footsteps directly toward you, every impact echoing beneath the ancient stone arches until it became impossible to tell exactly how far behind he really was.
That uncertainty was almost worse. You risked another glance. He was there.
No more than fifteen yards now. Hair falling across his forehead.
Breathing harder than before. His tie hanging loose around his neck. His jacket unbuttoned and whipping behind him with every stride. He looked less like a government agent now...
And more like something relentless. Something that simply wouldn't stop.
The canal eventually emptied into a quieter part of the city.
The restaurants had disappeared behind them, replaced by narrow residential streets where flower boxes hung from wrought-iron balconies and warm lamplight spilled lazily across centuries-old cobblestones. Laundry stirred gently overhead in the evening breeze, suspended between buildings that had watched generations come and go without ever changing themselves.
Your breathing had settled into a rhythm. Not because you were no longer running, but because panic had never made anyone faster.
Hydra had taught you that years ago. Panic narrowed your vision.
It made people predictable. Predictable people got caught.
Think.
Don't run.
Think.
You stole another glance over your shoulder.
He was still there. Closer than before.
His tie had long since come loose, hanging unevenly around his neck. The collar of his white dress shirt had been pulled open somewhere during the chase, dark hair falling across his forehead as he closed the distance with the same relentless pace he'd maintained since Bellini's gardens.
To the right, a narrow alley disappeared between two aging apartment buildings before bending sharply out of sight. You made your decision without slowing.
The alley.
Dark.
Confined.
Invisible from the street.
You disappeared around the corner.
Bucky followed less than two seconds later.
By then, you were gone.
Not because you'd outrun him.
Because you'd stopped.
Halfway down the alley, a recessed doorway sat several feet back from the street, swallowed almost entirely by shadow. You slipped into it without hesitation, pressing your back against the cold stone as your breathing came under immediate control.
One hand rested lightly against the wall.
The other hovered instinctively near the pistol concealed beneath your gown.
You didn't move.
You didn't breathe.
Hydra had taught you that movement attracted the eye long before sound ever did.
So you became part of the wall.
Footsteps thundered toward you.
Closer.
Closer.
Then, silence.
You stayed exactly where you were.
One second. Five. Ten. Twenty.
Hydra had also taught you that the first mistake people made after escaping pursuit was believing the pursuit had ended.
You waited another full minute before finally allowing yourself to exhale. The breath left your lungs slowly, almost painfully. Only then did you step out from the shadows.
Your heart was still racing, though your face revealed none of it. You smoothed the front of your gown almost absently before tucking a loose strand of hair back into place.
To anyone passing by, you were simply another guest walking home from an evening gala.
Nothing more.
You left the alley at an unhurried pace, blending effortlessly back into the quiet rhythm of the city. The hotel stood only a block away.
Its warm lights glowed softly against the street, the doorman chatting idly with a couple climbing out of a taxi as though the night were no different from any other.
___
You found the back entrance to your hotel a minute later.
The service corridor was empty.
The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, their cold glow replacing the warmth and grandeur of Bellini's palace with something altogether more ordinary. Metal shelving lined one wall beside stacks of freshly laundered towels waiting to be distributed throughout the hotel, while somewhere farther down the hall came the faint clatter of dishes being loaded into industrial dishwashers after another busy dinner service.
No alarms.
No shouting.
No footsteps behind you.
You swiped your keycard through a second security door before stepping into the staff elevator. The doors slid shut.
Only then did you allow your shoulders to lower the slightest fraction. The elevator climbed quietly.You leaned your head back against the polished steel wall and closed your eyes for exactly one breath.
Not to rest.
To think.
How had he recognized you?
The question refused to leave.
You replayed the ballroom over and over again.
The conversation. The older collector. The champagne.
The elevator chimed softly.
Seventh floor.
The doors opened onto a quiet corridor lined with thick carpet that swallowed the sound of every footstep. Soft lamps cast warm pools of light across dark wood paneling, the entire floor wrapped in the expensive silence unique to luxury hotels after midnight.
You stepped out.
Everything looked exactly as you'd left it.
Housekeeping carts were gone.
Room service trays had already been collected.
A couple disappeared around the far corner, laughing quietly to themselves before the hallway fell silent once again.
Normal.
You began walking.
Room 714.
Six doors.
Five.
Four.
Your breathing had finally begun to steady.
You'd lost him. You were almost certain of it now.
Hydra had drilled countless escape exercises into you over the years, and tonight had followed the same principles you'd practiced hundreds of times before.
Break visual.Change pace. Disappear.Wait. Never assume.Never celebrate.
Still, relief found its way in anyway.
Small.
Careful.
But there.
You reached your door.
The keycard unlocked it with a familiar green flash.
One hand remained inside your evening bag as you pushed the door inward, fingers brushing the grip of the pistol hidden beneath the fabric more out of habit than genuine concern.
The room was dark. Exactly as you'd left it.
You stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind you.
The lock clicked.
Silence.
For several long seconds, you didn't move.
Your eyes adjusted slowly. Everything appeared untouched.
Only then did you cross the room, slipping the pistol free as naturally as another person might remove their shoes.
The curtains remained partially open.
Rome glittered beyond the glass, thousands of lights stretching across the city beneath the dark Italian sky.
You crossed toward the window and looked down at the street below.
Nothing.
No black SUVs. No agents.
The tension in your chest loosened for the first time all evening.
You let out a slow breath, barely louder than the traffic drifting up from the streets below, and reached toward the curtain, intending to close out the city for the night.
Your hand stopped halfway.
The window.
You frowned.
You had left it closed before Bellini's.
You were absolutely certain of it.
Every muscle in your body tightened at once.
Slowly, your eyes lifted toward the rooftops across the narrow street, instinct replacing relief in the space of a heartbeat. Hydra had devoted entire training modules to one man and one discipline alone. The Winter Soldier didn't need to force his way through doors. He preferred distance. Elevation. Patience. If he'd followed you here, the first place he'd choose was never inside the roomâit was somewhere across from it, hidden behind another window, waiting for you to make one careless mistake.
Your breathing slowed deliberately.
Panic made people careless.
Careless people died.
Without stepping in front of the glass, you shifted sideways until your back rested against the wall beside the window, safely outside the line of sight from anyone watching across the street. Only then did your hand disappear beneath the fabric of your gown, fingers finding the spare magazine secured against your thigh exactly where you'd left it before the gala.
The familiar weight settled comfortably into your palm.
Your pistol remained steady in your other hand as you guided the magazine into place with one smooth, practiced motion.
The metallic click sounded unnaturally loud inside the otherwise silent room.
You closed your eyes.
Not because you were afraid.
Because listening had always been more valuable than seeing.
The city breathed outside.
A car passed somewhere below. Voices drifted faintly from the street.
Then, another click.
Not yours.
To your side.
The sound was unmistakable. Metal.
A safety disengaging.
Your eyes opened instantly.
Every instinct you possessed screamed at you not to look too quickly.
The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity before a voice emerged from somewhere behind you, low enough that it almost disappeared into the darkness.
"Drop the fucking gun."
The warmth you had begun to feel only moments earlier vanished completely.
Slowly, you turned your head.
The room remained almost entirely dark, the only light spilling in from the city beyond the open window, cutting pale lines across the hardwood floor.
At first, you saw nothing.
Then the shadows moved.
He stepped forward just enough for the moonlight to find him.
The tuxedo he'd worn at Bellini's barely resembled one anymore. His jacket had disappeared somewhere during the chase through Rome, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled unevenly toward his forearms, the top buttons hanging open as though he'd stopped caring long ago. His tie rested loosely around his neck, half untied, while damp strands of dark hair clung to his forehead from sweat that had never had the chance to dry.
He looked exhausted.
Not the exhaustion of a man who had run across half of Rome. The exhaustion of someone who hadn't truly slept in weeks.His pistol never wavered.
Neither did his eyes.
Whatever kindness had existed in them less than an hour ago, when he'd apologized after accidentally bumping into you beneath Bellini's chandeliers, had vanished completely.
There was only anger now.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
The kind that didn't belong in a government briefing room or on a mission.
The kind born from grief.
"I said..." His voice came again, rougher this time, each word sounding as though it had been dragged painfully from somewhere deep inside his chest. "...drop the fucking gun."
You held his gaze for another second before slowly lowering your hand. Not surrendering. Simply placing the pistol onto the nearby table where both of you could still see it.
His expression didn't change.
Not even slightly.
He took another slow step into the room, his eyes never leaving yours.
His breathing had become uneven, his composure visibly cracking beneath something far heavier.
Your gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the window.
You weren't planning anything. You were calculating.
Distance. Height. Landing.
His voice cut through the thought before it had finished forming.
âDon't." Quiet. Almost exhausted. "You won't make it."
Your eyes returned to him. "Iâ"
"Shut your damn mouth.â The words weren't shouted. They were cut from stone, âYou don't speak unless I tell you to."
Silence settled over the room once more.
The pistol never wavered.
Neither did his eyes.
He was watching everything. Your breathing. Your shoulders. The minute shifts of your weight across the floor. He knew you were thinking. Calculating.
Looking for a way out. His gaze followed yours to the curtain hanging beside the open window.
For the first time since entering the room, something changed.
Not his expression. His decision.
He looked back at you. Then toward the window again.
âGo." You frowned.
The room fell silent.
Every instinct you possessed screamed that something was wrong. People didn't corner someone at gunpoint, only to let them leave.
He took one deliberate step backward, never lowering the weapon.
You searched his face for something.
Anything. Nothing, no hesitation.
No bluff you could immediately recognize. Just anger raw enough to make your stomach tighten. You didn't trust it.
He noticed. "What?" he asked bitterly, âYou don't want it anymore?â
Another heartbeat passed. Then another. Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. The window remained open. The fire escape beyond it disappeared into darkness.
Every calculation pointed toward the same conclusion.
If there was a chance, this was it.
Without another word, you moved.
Fast.
Your shoulder struck the curtain as you crossed the room in a single burst of motion, one hand catching the windowsill before swinging yourself effortlessly onto the narrow iron fire escape outside.
Cold night air rushed against your face, carrying with it the distant hum of Rome below as you disappeared into the darkness without looking back.
Bucky never moved.
He remained exactly where he'd been standing, the pistol still trained on the open window long after you had vanished from sight, as though some part of him still expected you to reappear.
His breathing refused to steady.
The room suddenly felt impossibly quiet.
Only minutes earlier, he'd been standing beneath Bellini's chandeliers wondering why a stranger had managed to steal his attention for the first time since Asa's funeral. For one reckless, unforgivable moment, he'd forgotten what grief felt like. Forgotten the weight he'd carried every waking hour for the last three weeks.
Then he'd seen the scar.
He couldnât breathe, and all he could see was red.
Thenâ âSergeant Barnes?â He pressed the transmitter without taking his eyes off the darkness outside. A brief pause.
Then Sam's voice answered.
"We've got her."
Silence.
"She's in custody."
Bucky closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
When they opened again, there was no relief; only exhaustion.
summary âș every other weekend, sam hosts a cookout at the docks. every other weekend, bucky pretends he isnât looking for the same girl standing by the water at sunset.
pairing âș bucky x female reader
content warnings âș set during tfatws, soft/nervous bucky, (attempted) flirting, sam being a meddling cutie
word count âș 1.4k
authors note âș a little fluff for summer! if you guys couldnt tell tfatws bucky is my obsession. i love him and need him forever and ever.
Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.
Sam calls them âcasual little cookouts,â which is a lie considering thereâs always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.
Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.
Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like youâre listening to something no one else can hear.
The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.
Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.
Bucky stares too long. Again.
âJesus Christ,â Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. âGo talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.â
Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.
âIâm notââ
âYou are.â
âIâm just standing here.â
âAnd lookinâ at her like she hung the moon.â
Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.
âYou got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.â
âThatâs notââ
âFive.â
Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasnât done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.
Bucky exhales slowly.
Say something to her. Anything.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldnât from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldierâcompletely forgets how conversations work.
âYou uhââ
Brilliant start.
âYouâve been standing there a while.â
The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.
Nice going, Barnes.
But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.
âOh, yeah,â you admit, looking back toward the sunset. âGuess I have been.â
Then your eyes flick back to his.
âI didnât think youâd notice me.â
And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?
I notice you every single time you walk into a room.
I started showing up early hoping youâd be here.
I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.
Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.
âIâd have to be blind not to notice you.â
Your cheeks flush immediately and Buckyâs soul leaves his body.
âI meanââ he starts quickly, panic rising fast, ânot like Iâm staring at you or anythingâI just meant likeââ
You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.
âItâs okay,â you say softly. âI know what you mean.â
The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.
âI notice you too.â
Bucky stares at you, stares like heâs trying to process whether he imagined that.
âYou do?â
Smooth. Very cool.
You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.
âKind of hard not to.â
Something warm unfolds slowly in Buckyâs chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.
This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.
Bucky clears his throat.
âI uhââ
God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?
âI notice,â he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, âyour drink is empty.â
You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.
âWould you maybe wanna get another,â Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, âwith me?â
Thereâs half a second where heâs convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.
âYeah,â you answer softly. âYeah, Iâd like that.â
Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he canât stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.
âITâS ABOUT DAMN TIME.â
Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.
"A setup?"
"You and Sam."
"We've never discussed you."
"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."
The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.
"What are you having?"
"Lemonade."
He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.
The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.
You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.
Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.
You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.
"Don't."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You are."
"I haven't said a word."
"You're thinking things."
That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.
"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"
Your eyebrows lift slightly.
His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.
"I meanânot that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."
Fantastic.
"God."
You laugh again.
Bucky closes his eyes briefly.
"Let me start over."
"Okay."
He's smiling now despite himself.
"So. Next cookout."
"Next cookout."
"Would you wanna come with me?"
The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.
"I'd like that."
Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.
"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."
And for the rest of the night, Bucky can't stop smiling. Not even when Sam catches his eye from across the grill and points both thumbs triumphantly toward the sky. Not even when you laugh at that too. Not even when your head finds his shoulder, or stays there.
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am I tripping or you wrote something like bucky and neighbour? if I remember correctly reader wasnât kidnapped or anything but he had sad thoughts about someone like her being so nice with him??
I know technically itâs not a fully request but if you have it still Iâd like it đ„č (hope you didnât lose it completely)
My sweet neighbour
a/n: hi anon!!! no you're not tripping, i have wrote something like that with a neighbour but unfortunately it was one of the few i lost when i had the problem with my old account. so here we are i wrote it again (that's why it took me some time) hope you like it as you liked the first version. this version contain SMUT.
âWhy do you still live there? Itâs so far from here.â Sam asked Bucky on the jet, coming back from a mission.
âYeah pal,â Steve adjusted his shield. âItâs far and you always have something to do.â
Bucky looked down at his boots.
He liked that place, the cozy condo he found four or five block away from the Avengersâ Tower, but he loved even more his neighbor.
âItâs somewhere I can wind down⊠you know how I amâŠâ Bucky gulped, worried about saying something more than what he wanted. âItâs also cheap and thereâs no Tony Stark pumping heavy metal in the morning.â He smirked.
The billionaire laughed snorting at the cockpit near Nat.
The remaining journey back home was quiet and peaceful, everyone thought about what to do within the next couple of days of rest.
Once the jet landed on the towerâs platform, Bucky packed his bag and headed out.
He always walked from the tower to his condo. He liked the night air and the dark atmosphere around him. He passed in front of a florist, and like every time he did, he thought of coming home to you with a big bouquet of roses. He saw in his mind the happiness on your face, your arms linked to his neck and your body pressed to his.
The reality was way more different.
You were on his floor, your door right in front of his. Some hello every now and then, a wave of hand if you saw him while being on the phone. He would never forget how your eyes widened the first time you saw him.
You recognized him immediately.
Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, on your floor.
Broad shoulders, wide chest, blue eyes and dark brown hair. A cheeky but shy smile when he presented even if that wasnât necessary.
You run into your apartment, not wanting to face him and Bucky immediately got it.
You were scared of him.
Again, the reality was different.
Once you run into your apartment, you rested your back against the door. Chest moving up and down, a hand on your heart trying to calm it down. Your lower lip crushed between your teeth.
Bucky Barnes was by far the most handsome and hottest man youâve ever seen.
Your body reacted immediately, like on autopilot, and you clenched your legs.
In the following days, you took a peek in the peephole trying to figure his routine.
Bucky did the same with you, but you had very different habits.
Bucky at five in the morning always headed out for his morning run. You preferred sleep.
Around nine, you finally woke up. Shower and a light breakfast and then straight to your office. At the same time he usually took his shower after his four hours of cardio and exercises.
Having different habits and routines, and not seeing you both as much, made it even more weird when you both got locked in the elevator.
People were supposed to know your neighbors and the fact he was taking more space with his body made you tremble.
Bucky got that as fear.
He saw you in the corner of the elevator, trapped and scared. He tried to make himself little bit but of course it was impossible.
He was a super soldier, six feet tall and 200+ pounds. His shoulders took all the space and he shuffled in his feet uncomfortably and ashamed of his past.
In your head tho, the reality was the total opposite.
You looked at him, finally not from a peephole. It seemed that his shoulders almost asked you to grab them, to rest your tights on them while he ate you out while grabbing his locks. You took a moment to admire his metal arm. You noticed how he tried to pull down the sleeve, trying to cover even the hand.
You took your sweet time admiring his lips. They seemed so soft and full. Imaging them on your skin made you shiver more.
His eyes were the thing you loved more. They were usually so shiny and bright. A blue so intense you found yourself staring at them in pictures once you found out he was your neighbor.
The great Bucky Barnes. The man turned into a weapon and then finally a hero with all the recognition he deserved.
You suspected he wouldnât like being recognized like the Winter Soldier and so you preferred waving at him from the distance and simply saying hello to him.
âSucks being stuck here, right?â You tried to asked him.
He hummed nodding.
âOkay,â you whispered crossing your arms on your chest. âSo⊠do you like it here?â
âItâs fine.â
This time, you nodded without speaking.
You saw him in the opposite corner of the elevator far from you, as far as the space allowed.
Suddenly the elevator shook and you lost balance, crushing into his arms. His reflexes were on point like you suspected, as he grabbed you in a second. His flesh arm around your waist and your face against his chest. You inhaled his intoxicating smell. You didnât see it but he smelled your hair too as he was way more taller than you.
âOh sorry, Bucky.â
You looked up at him.
He looked down at you.
Bucky.
You said his name, so you of course knew him.
You saw the pain in his eyes. The regret of his past conditioning his present.
He removed the arm immediately from you and licked his lips.
âSorry,â he whispered. âDid it hurt you?â He asked with a low tone.
You were about to reply but the elevatorsâ door opened. You saw two firefighters opening the heavy and metal door.
âAre you alright guys? Hey,â one of the firefighters removed his helmet. âYouâre Bucky Barnes⊠god⊠youâre a hero.â
âYeah⊠thanksâŠâ Bucky replied shyly.
The firefighter who opened the door immediately helped you to get down since you were blocked between two floors. You refused his hand, and looked for Buckyâs hand. He gave his flesh hand to you, helping you balancing.
You looked at him straight in the eyes while thanking him.
It was now two weeks after being locked in the elevator. Bucky was nowhere to be found. He disappeared three days after.
You heard his door opened during the night and you immediately run towards the peephole. You saw him with his tactical gear and a duffle bag.
Almost a week away, you heard the news.
The Avengers were in a country you barely remember the name, fighting for the world. The local anchorman and cameraman filmed them after a fight.
Dirty, bloody and exhausted.
Bucky appeared on the screen.
Your breath got stuck in your throat.
He was suffering, painfully tired and absolutely handsome. His eyes tired and puffy. His chest moving up and down.
You picked the phone up and took a picture of the screen.
You missed him so much even tho you barely interacted with each other.
You got back on the bed and closed your eyes imagining him coming back.
After another week, he was back. You heard the keys in the door and immediately jumped up from your couch. You swung your door opened as he was about to close his.
âBucky,â you whispered.
He turned and looked at you.
He didnât have the same exhausted and dirty look he had on TV the week before, but he had a sad look in his eyes.
âGo back to sleep.â
âNo.â
âWe barely know each other⊠you should stay away from me.â
âNo.â You replied again.
Bucky moved suddenly and you took a step back flinching at the speed not at him.
He froze.
âSee?â He smiled sadly and got inside his apartment.
You run towards the closed door. âBucky, please⊠you donât get it. Open please.â
You kept knocking on his door but he didnât answer.
He stayed near the door, hearing your knocking and looking at you through the peephole.
After some minutes your eyes were red and tears began to stream on your cheeks.
Bucky died inside seeing you like that, but he kept his facade.
As the days passed, you noticed how he avoided you even more. It looked like he was trying to even avoid getting on the floor the same time as you. At least sometimes you used to meet at the elevator.
He kept his five in the morning run cause he knew you would sleep at that time. He began to notice how the curtain of the living room, perfectly on sight from the street, was closed every time you were out and wide opened when you were in as you took all the natural light possible. He started monitoring the curtain as his personal tracker.
Close safe.
Open not safe.
It was inevitable seeing each other again.
It happened one afternoon after a summer storm. You were back from the office, no umbrella and light dress on. The first thunder made you walk a little bit more faster. As the rain began to pour, you found yourself two blocks ways from the condo.
The water wet your dress, making it cling to your body. Sadly that attracted weird looks from a man waiting on the bus.
You passed in front of the stop, one block from home, and he whistled at you. You kept your face down for not getting an eye contact with the man, and also for shielding your eyes from the rain and wind. You were right in front of your door looking for your keys, sensing his presence approaching.
âHey beautiful,â the man began. âWhy donât you let me in your home.â
âGet off!â
âMommy didnât teach you the manners?â He lifted his arm in the air. You didnât know what for, because it got stuck in the air.
Turning, you saw something shiny and metallic grabbing the manâs wrist.
Bucky.
You exhaled calming yourself, while your heart kept beating hard in your chest.
âThink you need to go dude.â Bucky said with a lower tone of voice. His eyes almost closed threatening, teeth gnarling and an evil smirk on his face. A wet wall of muscle, probably coming back from a run.
The man completely shuttered.
He nodded quickly and once Bucky left him, he run in the rain.
âBucky,â you began.
âDid he hurt you?â He asked you worried. âDid he?â
You shook your head, thinking at what could have happened. âThank you. Youâre my hero.â You said opening the door of the hallway.
He looked down, letting you pass in front of him. You noticed he gave a final look at the street before closing the door.
You press the elevatorsâ button and stood near him. His scent, mixed with the rain, was in the air and you found yourself inhaling all.
The elevator hissed and again he let you pass in front of him. He pushed your floorâs button and rest his back against the wall of the elevator.
His henley stuck to his chest, his hair wet and messy. He passed a hand through them and you took a deep breath.
You turned and pressed your chest against his.
âDonât talk.â
You pressed your lips against his, lifting yourself on your tip. Your arms circled his neck as your fingers began to play with his hair.
He growled in the kiss and grabbed your hips. You began to press yourself more against him and you felt definitely something getting harder.
âWait,â Bucky told you. His hands on your shoulders. âWait⊠wait⊠wait.â
Shame and sadness on your face.
Youâve never felt so bad.
Was that meaning he wasnât interested in you?
Was it all in your head?
Were you the only one feeling the attraction?
âSorry Bucky⊠I misjudged apparentlyâŠâ
You slid away from him.
The elevatorsâ door opened and you rushed out. Bucky remained blocked and shocked.
You kissed him.
Hardly and passionately and roughly.
He saw you closed the door of your apartment and disappeared.
Why did he told you to wait?
Wait what?
Something more exciting of this?
His body reacted way too good at you but his brain stopped him.
He got back to his home and didnât let anyone interrupting him.
He moved to the bedroom, cock heavy in his pants. He laid down on the bed while removing pants and underwear. He grabbed his shaft, already hard and leaking. He thought about your face, your hands around his neck and your chest against his.
Your soft and full boobs crushing on his hard pecks. He pressed his metal hand more around the base of his cock, while his mind pictured you in your soaked dress. The fabric clinging to your body like a vision.
He slid his hand up and down more, his thumb gliding on his tip as he felt the pleasure rising in his body.
What he didnât know in that moment, was that you were doing the same in your bedroom.
You didnât even take your time to remove the dress, you simply pulled it up around your hips as you sat on the bed. Legs spread opened and your phone on the dresser.
Buckyâs news picture on the screen.
You looked at him. His eyes looked at you as you were able to capture the moment the starred at the camera.
Your hands began to slid down your body. You fingers rolling your nipples pinching them.
Your chest already moving up and down quickly. You spread your legs more, lifting one on the mattress. Your index began to play with your clit, but it wasnât enough.
Sitting better, you laid down on your elbow and rolled your clit more into your fingers.
âBuckyâŠâ you panted. âYeah⊠pleaseâŠâ
You licked two fingers and slid them in your hole. Already worked up, you didnât need much time.
His picture staring at him was able to let the pleasure rise in you. You grabbed the sheet under you and starred more at the pic. You remembered his chest against yours, how his hands grabbed your hips and his soft and wet hair in your fist.
âPlease let me come BuckyâŠâ
âPlease let me come BuckyâŠâ
Bucky couldnât possibly imagining what was happening on the other side of the wall. He suspected over the weeks that your bedroom was right near his and just a wall was separating you. Now he was sure.
He heard your moans after coming down from his high, already worked up enough.
He stood up, letting his clothes fall on the ground and rest naked against the wall. He pressed his forehead on the wall and grabbed his cock hard again.
Being a super soldier with enhanced senses had some flaws but this one was definitely an advantage.
Metal hand on the wall and flesh around his cock, Bucky began to pant and moan again.
He heard all the wetting sound your fingers made. He heard his name coming out of your lips and that made him shiver more.
âY/N,â he grunted against the wall, punching it as he came again.
It was the first time he said your name out loud.
Everything stopped and he realized it later.
You heard him hearing you.
You stood, unsatisfied, and walked toward the wall. âBucky?â You asked in the silence of a stormy afternoon.
âYeahâŠâ
âCan you hear me?â
âYeah⊠I canâŠâ his hand still around his cock. He pumped himself more as you spoke.
âWant to help me?â Your hand slid down too. âWhy donât you come here? Iâll opened the door just nowâŠâ
Bucky heard your footsteps getting far and even your door unlocking. His sense were so overstimulated that he was aware of everything.
You got back and punch lightly the wall for him. âHere I am⊠Iâm waiting BuckyâŠâ
âIâm ruining you if Iâll comeâŠâ
âIâm counting on itâŠâ you breathed out. Your fingers sliding inside you again and Bucky heard the wetting sound he heard before.
He took his short, no underwear, and put them on. âComing sweetie.â
He didnât think of putting his shirt on, it wasnât necessary.
In a second he was inside your apartment.
You scent reached his nostril in a second and he felt his cock hardening even more.
He removed his shorts and began pumping himself again.
âFollow my voice, BuckyâŠâ you told him.
He gulped and licked his lips and indeed followed your voice.
You kept talking to him until you saw him on the edge of your room, naked and hard. He growled when he saw you. He kept pumping himself as you kept sliding in and out your fingers from your pussy.
âHow⊠how could you⊠po-possibily... hear meâŠoh my godâŠâ
âSweetie,â you saw his knuckles getting white as he pressed more. âSuper hearing⊠you made me weak and on alert all the timeâŠâ
His cock twitched in his hand.
Naked too and legs spreading on the bed. You back anchored to the mattress as you rested on your elbow. Your hand kept playing with your pussy.
âWhy donât you come here?â You asked in a sexy tone.
He moved like a leopard, precise and fast.
He grabbed your knees and spread your legs even more. He took a look at your glistering pussy before diving in you. His tongue licked a long stripe until his teeth grabbed your tiny and pulsing clit.
âFuck⊠Bucky⊠youâre so goodâŠâ
âI know⊠stay thereâŠâ he ordered you.
You tried, really tried, but he was too good and your upper body irreversibly stood a little.
As he felt your core clenching, after began pumping two fingers in you, he stopped.
âWhy?â You whined.
âTold ya to stay there. You have to earn it nowâŠâ
He looked at you with a smirk, you didnât feel any ounce of fear, just excitement.
He slid up, reaching for your lips. He dove his tongue in your mouth as his hand kept your chin steady. He bite your lower lip while his all body crushed yours. You felt his fingers still playing with your pussy.
âBucky⊠pleaseâŠâ you panted against his mouth.
âYou wanna come?â He asked you, kissing your neck.
You nodded.
He looked at you and turned your entire body on the bed.
âAss up,â he said lightly spanking it. âAre you gonna stay there?â
âYES YES YES⊠IâLL DO ITâŠâ
âGood girlâŠâ
He kissed your back, still a little wet from the rain in your hair. He grabbed his fat cock and teasing your entrance with his tip. You tried to wiggle a little but you were remembered what he told you with his hand grabbing a little harder your hip. You stopped when you felt him sliding into you.
It stung a little but it immediately transformed into pleasure. You felt every inches of him, stretching you deliciously.
He grabbed your hips both and began to push harder inside you. âGod you are made for meâŠâ
âBuckyâŠâ you were able only to pant and moan his name.
âYeah⊠thatâs my name⊠scream it loudlyâŠlet everyone hearing itâŠâ
âBUCKY!â You screamed as he pull out and push himself inside hardly.
âSo beautiful with that dress on it⊠wait,â he kept pushing inside you. âIs that my face on your phone?â
You froze while he was still pushing into you. In the rush of adrenaline you completely forgot your phone and his picture.
âCan⊠explainâŠâ you tried to told him in the middle of your moans.
âGod,â he lowered more on you, letting your legs buckled and fell on the bed. He crushed you more as he kept pounding in you. âThatâs the hottest thing even⊠I heard my name from your mouth pretty girlâŠâ
âBucky⊠pleaseâŠâ
âYeah⊠just like thatâŠâ
He grabbed a fist of your hair, pulling yourself up on your not so stable knees. He circled an arm around your waist, then rested his palm on your chest letting you up. Your back pressed more against his chest. His cock kept sliding in and out. He felt clenching your muscles and snacked a hand on your clit. His fingers played with your clit.
âGod Bucky⊠I need to comeâŠâ
âCome pretty girl⊠come on my cockâŠâ
Your body reacted in an aggressive rush of pleasure. He let you fell forward, balancing on your elbows. Your ass pushing more against him as he kept pushing and sliding in you walking you through your orgasm.
âIâm coming sweetieâŠâ he rasped, hands grabbing your hips.
âInside Bucky. I want it inside.â
He let his head fall behind and grunted as he came. Hot spout in you, that he kept inside with his big cock.
He finally slid out of you, resting his forehead on your back. Once he stood, you stopped him.
âLay down.â
âWhat?â He asked you confused.
âDo it.â
He did, and laid down on the bed. You knelt on the bed and turned. Bucky began to understand once you straddled his legs.
You lowered your head near his cock, too close.
âSweetie⊠you donât have toâŠâ
âI want to,â you smiled at him. âI really do.â
You pressed a kiss on his tip as he pushed his head more into the pillow. Grabbing the base of his shaft, you began to bob the head on him. He was very well endowed so you had to really hollowed your mouth. His hips jerked up a little as he felt the tip of his cock in the back of your throat.
His hand immediately flew to you head, grabbing a fist of your hair. He wasnât controlling you, he was guiding you and you wanted to be guided by him.
Already overstimulated, Bucky came again in a few minutes. You let him come into your mouth, greedily swallowing all of him.
You felt on him, arms opened and chest ready to let you sleep on it.
As your skin touched his, he circled you with his arms and caged you against his warm and sweaty body.
He peppered your head of kisses, it was sweet and kind, totally the opposite of what you both did.
âWhy did you avoid me, Bucky?â
âIt was easier. Youâre too pure to be in this with meâŠâ
âBut I want toâŠâ
âNo, you donât,â Bucky slid his hand on your back in a gentle caress. âThe first time you saw you run away⊠I know fear when I see it⊠but itâs not your fault⊠I meanâŠâ
âOH MY GOD!â You laughed hard and loud. âYOU REALLY THINK THAT?â
Bucky looked at you as you stood naked in front of him.
âSweetie itâs normal⊠I get itâŠâ
âWhy the hell would you think that after I let you fuck me?â
âWell-â Bucky stopped.
Now that he was thinking, why letting him in your bed if thereâs only fear from your side?
âYou donât tremble because I scare you?â
âBingo,â you replied sarcastically. You took a look at his sad eyes. âOh god, Bucky Iâm sorry⊠you must sensing fear from people a lotâŠâ
He nodded sitting on the edge of the bed.
âWell,â you said sitting on his tights and circling his neck with your arm. âI am not scarred of you⊠and the first time I saw you I run inside because I was hornyâŠâ
You looked down, right at his cock, and smirked.
âHorny?â
âYes horny. Werenât you horny the first time you saw me?â
âIâm always horny when I look at youâŠâ
You turned, straddling his lap. The warm of your pussy touched his cock, hardening it again. You kissed him deeply and hardly. His tongue fought with yours. You snatched a hand between you, grabbing his half hard cock.
A couple of pumps and it was hard fully again.
Keeping kissing him, you let it slid inside you again.
You didnât move, he didnât just grab your hips.
He remained there, his cock protected in your warm and welcoming pussy. His metal hand, a little cold treat with the warm temperature in your room, resting on your back keeping you caged against him.
Kissing Bucky was good, maybe too good.
You rolled your lap a little and he grunted in your mouth. The sound made your nipple hardening even more.
He circled his flesh arm around you now, he pressed it against your hips.
You began to move a little, adjusting the position.
âDonât move pleaseâŠâ he moaned.
You nodded but clenched your muscles. He moaned more, harder and deeper.
Music for your ears.
You did it again and made him come again.
A couple of pushes from under you as he came, made your orgasm approached too.
Hours later, the storm was already a memory from the past.
You convinced him to take a bath with you.
âHow could I fit in there?â He asked you confused.
âWeâll make you fitâŠâ you voluntary smirked in an allusive way.
You did made it fit in the tub.
His back completely against the end of the tub. His long and big legs spread opened. The right one completely out, resting his calf on the edge of the tub.
You sat in the middle of his legs, grazing his cock on more.
âSweetie, you need to behaveâŠâ
âNo.â
You laid down, back to his chest.
Your torso completely on him.
You took his arm and circled your collarbone with it.
âAre you sure itâs okay for you, sweetie?â
âMore than okay, Bucky.â You said, eyes closed.
His metal fingers grazed your forehead, sliding out of your cheek some wet locks of hair.
âCan I wash your hair?â Bucky asked whispering.
âOf course, Bucky.â
You sat better, feeling already the loss of his chest to your back. You stretched your arm on the other edge of the tub, where some bottles stood there.
âHere,â you said, turning to him slightly. âHereâs the shampoo.â
He took the bottle as it was made of glass, then squeezed out a little amount of shampoo. Lathering between his hands, he makes the foam.
Once his fingers were on your scalp, you moaned.
âGod⊠your so goodâŠâ
You heard him taking a deep breath.
âMmh... Bucky⊠just like thatâŠâ
âSweetie pleaseâŠâ he fought the urge to pull your head toward him and kissing you.
âI love this.â
âYeah,â he snorted. âFiguredâŠâ
As he washed and rinse your hair, and even untangled them, you turned to him.
âYour turnâŠâ
âWhat? HowâŠâ
âDonât worry.â
You took the same little amount of shampoo and lathered it too.
You began washing his hair, and then you pulled his head toward your chest.
âStay there.â
Bucky rested his face on your boobs, the best pillow he could get. They lightly giggled as you move your arm on his head.
He found himself cupping them with his both hands.
âSorry,â
âDonât say sorry. Do it again.â
He did.
Light and soft touch. He took care of them as he took care of you before.
His fingertips rolling your nipples making you deep breathes.
Once you rinsed his hair, he kissed your chest.
âI can get used to this, sweetie.â
âYou have to get used to it.â
You kissed him, he circled your waist and pulled you against him slouching some water out the tub.
Thinking of the question from Steve about how he preferred living there, well⊠now he had a real answer.
Not the heavy, lonely kind that used to settle over the apartment before Bucky learned how to exist in peace, but a soft, fragile quiet. The kind that feels earned. The kind that makes you instinctively hold your breath so you donât disturb it.
Sunlight filters through the curtains in thin golden stripes, stretching across the bed and warming your bare shoulder. For a moment, you let yourself stay there, cocooned in the warmth, in the stillness.
Then you hear it.
A faint, sleepy babble. Followed by a hushed, familiar voice.
You sit up slowly, pushing the covers back, careful not to make the mattress creak. The bedroom door is cracked open, and through it, you can see the hallwayâjust enough to catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair.
Bucky.
Heâs standing just outside the nursery, one large hand braced against the doorframe like he needs the support. The other arm is cradling your daughter against his chest, her tiny body bundled in soft cotton pajamas with little yellow ducks on them.
Sheâs wide awake and it's barely seven in the morning.Â
âSheâs got your timing,â you murmur, voice still thick with sleep as you pad quietly toward them.
Bucky glances up at the sound of your voice, and the look on his faceâGod, it gets you every time.
Soft. A little tired. Completely, utterly in love.
âThere you are,â he says, just above a whisper, like speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. âWas gonna let you sleep.â
You lean into his side, resting your head briefly against his shoulder before peeking down at your daughter. She blinks up at you with wide, curious eyes, her tiny fist tangled in the collar of Buckyâs shirt.
âHi, baby,â you coo, brushing your fingers over her cheek. âYou waking up early again, huh?â
She responds with a delighted little noise, kicking one leg against Buckyâs stomach.
He huffs a quiet laugh, adjusting his hold on her automatically. Effortlessly.
You remember when he was afraid to even touch her.
Now, he moves like he was made for this.
âShe wouldnât settle back down,â he explains softly. âFigured Iâd walk her a bit. Didnât want her cryinâ and wakinâ you.â
You hum, watching the way his thumb strokes absentminded circles along her back. The way his metal arm stays tucked close, careful, controlled, while his flesh hand does all the gentle work.
He still does that. Even now.
âYou can wake me, Buck,â you say gently.
âI know.â He shrugs one shoulder. âJust⊠you do enough. Thought I could take this one.â
Your heart squeezes.
âYou always take more than âone,ââ you tease quietly.
His mouth twitches, almost a smile.
âSheâs got lungs,â he mutters. âDidnât think something that small could be that loud.â
As if on cue, your daughter lets out a happy squeal, waving her arms like sheâs proving his point.
You both freeze.
Then you laughâsoft and breathy, trying not to encourage her too much.
âOkay, maybe she gets that from you,â you whisper.
âMe?â he scoffs, though itâs barely audible. âI was a perfect angel.â
âMm. Sure you were.â
He shifts his weight, glancing back toward the nursery. âYou wanna go back to bed? I got her.â
You hesitate.
Thereâs a part of you that wants to say yesâto curl back up under the covers and steal another hour of sleep. But then you look at him again.
At the way heâs holding her like sheâs the most precious thing in the world.
At the quiet pride in his posture. The carefulness. The awe that still hasnât faded, even months later.
You shake your head.
âNo,â you say softly. âI wanna stay.â
His eyes flick back to yours, something warm settling in them.
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
He nods once, like thatâs all he needs.
You reach out, gently smoothing down a tuft of your daughterâs hair. She grabs your finger instantly, her tiny hand impossibly warm and strong.
âSheâs got you wrapped around her finger already,â you murmur.
Bucky snorts quietly. âHad me the second I heard her cry.â
Your throat tightens.
You remember that moment too.
The way he had stood beside the hospital bed, completely frozen, like he didnât trust himself to move. Like one wrong step might break everything.
And then she cried.
And something in him just shifted.
âI didnât think Iâd be good at this,â he admits suddenly, voice lower now. More vulnerable. âStill donât, some days.â
You look at him, really look at him.
At the man who survived a century of war and pain and came out the other side still capable of this kind of tenderness.
âYouâre kidding, right?â you say softly.
He shakes his head, eyes dropping back to your daughter. âI just⊠I donât wanna mess her up. Donât wannaââ He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
You step closer, pressing your palm gently to his chest.
âHey,â you whisper. âLook at me.â
He does.
âYouâre not him,â you say, firm but soft. âYouâre not your past. Youâre her dad.â
His breath catches.
âAnd youâre the best one she couldâve gotten.â
For a moment, he just stares at you.
Then his shoulders drop, tension easing in a way that tells you he needed to hear that more than heâll ever admit.
âYeah?â he murmurs.
âYeah.â
Your daughter lets out another happy noise, like sheâs agreeing.
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.
âGuess that settles it,â he says.
You lean into him again, the three of you standing there in the soft morning light, wrapped in a kind of peace that feels almost surreal.
âCâmon,â you whisper after a moment. âLetâs get some coffee before she decides weâre done being quiet.â
He grinsâreally grins this time.
âToo late for that, I think.â
As if she understands, your daughter squeals again, louder this time.
