Bucky Barnes Imagines

Bucky Barnes is a man of few words whose romantic gestures are deeply rooted in his desire for stability, his 1940's upbringing, and his journey toward healing. His love language is typically a blend of Acts of Service and Physical Touch, as he finds comfort in providing the safety and warmth he was deprived of for decades.

The "Silent" Helper: Bucky is pretty much a constant presence in the kitchen. Whether he's doing the dishes so you can rest or simply wrapping his arms around you while you stir a pot, he finds peace in the mundane chores of a shared life.

Overprotective Vigilance: Reflecting his history as a protector, Bucky may be "extra" about safety. This can range from checking the temperature of your coffee to literally lifting you down from a step-stool because he can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt.

1940s Gentleman Habits: Bucky retains his "Brooklyn boy" manners, such as always walking on the street side of the sidewalk, opening doors for you, and never showing up to a date without a single, carefully chosen flower.

Touch-Starved Cuddling: After years of his touch being used only for violence, Bucky needs constant, grounding physical contact. He might rest his head in your lap while you watch TV or keep a firm hand on your waist while you walk.

Low-Pressure Contact: To avoid feeling "crowded" or triggering his own insecurities, Bucky's romantic gestures often start small—like a pinky finger hooked into yours or a soft forehead kiss.

Morning Rituals: Bucky wakes up early to watch you sleep, feeling a sense of disbelief that he’s allowed this much peace, followed by a quiet "good morning" kiss.

Practical Gifts: Bucky isn't one for flashy jewelry; he’s more likely to buy you a high-quality leather jacket or a personalized motorcycle helmet to keep you safe on rides.

Engraved Reminders: Bucky appreciates things that last. A locket or a watch with a short, meaningful engraving—perhaps in his native English or even a phrase in Russian.

Handmade Efforts: Given his patience and tactical skill, Bucky takes up a quiet hobby like woodworking or drawing to make small, handmade trinkets for you.

Bucky's already there, quietly facing away from the entry, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The light cuts across his back, metal reflecting the morning's glow. He looks soft in the light, though his features are sharp.

You don't say anything when you step in. The tile is cool beneath your feet, and the hem of your sweater brushes your thighs as you cross the room. The smell of the coffee hangs thick in the air. He doesn't look at you right away, but his shoulders ease a fraction when he notices your presence. He seems to know when it's you.

"Can't sleep?" you ask quietly, reaching past him for the coffee pot.

He steps aside, making room for you. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid. "Somethin' like that," he murmurs.

You pour your coffee slowly. The light catches the thin line of steam rising between you. You hold the pot toward him, signalling your willingness to refill his mug. He stretches his arm out, fingers curled around the handle.

Across the kitchen table, Sam lowers his spoon with a pointed clink against the bowl. "It's too early for this," he mutters. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm having to do a stupid mission instead of wining and dining my lady."

"Sounds like you're doing plenty of whining," You smirk over the rim of your mug.

Sam points his spoon at you in accusation, but he's smiling. The kitchen feels warmer for a second, lighter, like this is just another morning and not the start of something dangerous. Not the kind of day that gets circled on calendars and wrapped in red hearts and pink lips.

Valentine's Day.

You hadn't meant to think about it all last night. It's easier not to; easier to pretend it's just another square on the calendar, just another mission day, just another early morning with mediocre coffee and tired eyes. Except it feels strange this year, almost... off balance. Because if you could choose where to be tonight, it wouldn't be at a restaurant or on a date.

It would be exactly where you usually are anyway, shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, sharing takeout containers and quiet conversations about everything and nothing. Your knees bumping his when you laugh at something he says. It's comfortable. Easy. Almost dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the missions you go on.

He's your best friend. That's the name you gave it. It's safe that way. The one that lets you keep him around without risking the relationship. But lately the word feels small. You wonder, not for the first time, when "best friend" turned into the person you look for in every room before anyone else. The person whose footsteps you can pick out from the hallway. The one you save the last sip, the last bite, the last story of the night for.

Your gaze drifts to him without meaning to. It always does. You notice he's pretending not to listen to Sam anymore, but he definitely is. His mouth is doing that barely there thing, not quite a smile, but a small curl in the corners. The morning light sits in his hair, softening his appearance, making him look less like a weapon and more like a man who belongs in the kitchen at sunrise. Your chest tightens quickly. If anyone asked, you'd say today didn't matter. But man, it certainly feels like it should.

His eyes lift like he feels it. They land on you with quiet precision. Caught in the act, you forget to look away right off. For half a second, it's just the two of you in the kitchen, city glowing behind him, dust motes turning lazy circles in the light.

There's something unfair about how gentle he looks this early. No armor, no tactical gear, just a dark Henley stretched across his shoulders and sleep clinging to the edges of him.

"What?" he asks softly.

The word is low, private, and meant only for you, despite the fact that Sam is still loudly excavating cereal nearby.

You blink. "What, what?"

"You're starin'," he says, and there's a faint hint of humor in it, tucked into the corners of his mouth. Not a tease or a challenge, just a simple observation offered carefully.

Heat creeps up your neck. "Am not."

He lifts one brow, but he doesn't argue. Somehow, that makes it worse. Your pulse does that annoying stutter; it only ever does around him. You take another sip of your coffee to buy yourself a second. It would be so easy to tell the truth. I like looking at you. I always have.

Instead, you shrug. "You look grumpy. I was just checkin' if the coffee offended you again."

That earns you a real reaction, a soft laugh. "It's terrible," he says. "Think it melted the spoon."

"It's stainless steel, Buck," you reply.

"Still offended."

Sam groans. "I'm surrounded by chaos. Romance is dead."

You laugh, but your attention slides right back to Bucky Barnes, pulled there like it always is. His shoulder brushes yours when he leaves over to grab the coffee pot. It's a small, unconscious lean that he never corrects. Comfort settles in again, familiar and dangerous. It's the kind that makes you forget the lines you're supposed to stay behind.

Somewhere down the hall, the alert chime sounds. It's not too loud from where you are, but it's enough to make you sigh. You hear Sam push his chair back as he stands to bring his bowl to the sink. Bucky's expression shifts. The day is starting whether you like it or not.

Bucky sets his mug in the sink next to the bowl, already shifting into motion. Mission mode never looks dramatic on him. A straightening spine, a quieter face. All focus and no fun.

"You comin'?" he asks.

You nod and set your mug down. Your fingers bump the ceramic, still warm from his hand. The heat lingers for a second against your skin, and you hate how aware you are of it.

The hallway outside the kitchen is cooler, the polished floor reflecting the morning light in long pale stripes. Your footsteps fall into rhythm beside his without effort. They usually do. You've walked like this a thousand times, close enough that your sleeves brush, far enough that no one would think anything of it. Most of them think something of it, though.

Your shoulder knocks his lightly when he slows to let a tech hurry past. His hand comes up automatically, hovering near your back, not fully touching you. You feel it anyway, like he's protecting you.

"You bring your good boots?" you ask quietly.

He glances down at them like he has to check. "I always do."

"Last time you wore the old ones and complained for six hours."

"I did not complain."

"You narrated your suffering?"

"That's different."

You smile. There it is again, that almost smile of his in response, small but real. People sometimes say relationships are built on big moments. But yours is built on this. Shared steps and low voices. Knowing exactly how someone takes their coffee and hovering hands without needing credit for the catch.

Up ahead, the briefing room doors slide open. Screens glow blue against the dim interior. The rest of the team is already filtering in, half-suited, half-caffeinated. The room smells of coffee, still steaming in the single-use cups. A wide holographic display rotates slowly above the central table, throwing blue light across tired faces as everyone settles into place. You take your usual seat without thinking, and like always, Bucky ends up in the chair beside you. Your legs meet briefly under the table, and you smile at him before turning your attention to the front of the room. 

A satellite image sharpens overhead. Industrial buildings, rail lines, and a river cut through the edge of the property line.

"Alright, lovebirds and lonely hearts," Sam says, dropping into his chair and spinning it once before stopping with his boots hooked on the table edge. "Let's ruin the most romantic day of the year."

"I had a whole speech about work-life balance prepared, but then illegal weapons trafficking ruined the mood," Tony says.

A few groans answer him. 

"We intercepted encrypted chatter late last night. A breakaway weapons cell set up temporary operations here, inside an abandoned freight distribution hub just outside the city. They're moving product, and we think it's for something bigger."

"Define product," you say.

"Portable guided munitions," Tony answers. "Shoulder launcher, smart tracking, not very romantic. The kind of stuff that turns crowded places into headlines."

Everyone sighs. Thermal scans layer over the model. Moving heat signatures. Parked trucks. Guard rotations plotted in neat predictive loops.

"Buyer?" Steve asks.

"Still in the wind," Tony replies. "Which means if this shipment rolls, we get to play find the missile later. I hate sequels."

"Got it. So we hit it before it moves." Sam says.

"Gold star," Tony points a finger at him. "Transfer closes before noon. After that, distribution branches and our neat little problem become a messy big one."

Routes appear in colored lines. Entry vectors, blind spots, and jammer zones pulse red. Security notes scroll beside the map: patrol density, signal interference, and interior barricades built from old shipping containers.

"Outer ring is armed and alert," Tony continues. "Inner flor is compartmentalized. They're expecting competition, just not you specifically, which I find insulting."

"Tragic," Bucky deadpans.

"My reservation's at seven," Sam mutters. "Non-refundable."

Tony doesn't look up. "You've generously donated to the restaurant industry."

Sam gestures between you and Bucky. "Meanwhile, these two have zero plans ever and look the most offended."

You keep your eyes on the map. It's safer there. Assignment tags blink across the layout. Advance element, east service corridor. Your name. Bucky Barnes.

Sam makes a soft drumroll on the table. "Predictable and adorable."

Tony points at Sam, "Ariel sweep. No flirting with the hostiles."

"No promises."

The plan builds in layers, contingencies stacking clean and fast. Timing is everything in missions like this. Speed matters more. Every minute of delay increases the odds that those launchers leave the building.

"Go suit up. If we're fast enough, nobody should miss their plans tonight."

Chairs slide back, and you hear the sound of boots down the hall as the mission gravity settles in. You stand at the same time Bucky does. Of course you do. Your sleeves brush as you turn toward the exit. You're not exactly sure when you started noticing every little touch, or look, or breath he takes.

The corridor outside the briefing room is quieter than the main floors, with the lights set low for the early hour. Your footsteps echo in sync, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse in your throat. Pre-mission silence feels stretched tight, every sense tuned sharper. People don't joke as much out here.

Your hand flexes at your side, already thinking through your kit, blade placement, reload time, angles of entry. But there's something else layered beneath today's readiness, something more distracting. Maybe it's the date. Maybe it's him. It's probably the two combined.

"You good?" he asks.

He doesn't look at you when he says it. Eyes forward, scanning corners like you're already midmission.

"Yeah..." you answer. "You?"

"Always."

It's automatic, the reply. You know better. He knows you know better.

A tech team rolls a cart across the intersecting hall, and Bucky reaches up to grab your elbow to pull you back. You just missed the cart. You could live inside these touches. You already do.

"Whoa," you gasp. "Thanks, Buck."

His mouth curves faintly, there and gone.

The armory door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the air smells like oil, cold steel, and polymer. Overhead strip lights reflect off neatly organized racks, labeled drawers, and charging stations blink green. You head over to your station. 

Gear up is its own language. No wasted motions. You lay everything out first, same order every time. Twin knives balanced with familiarity in your palms. Widow bite gauntlets, compact and dark, you snap them open and check the charge indicators. Micro line launcher, shock disks, compact smoke pellets. Each piece of gear gets a touch, a check, and a place on your frame.

Across from you, Bucky works in heavier shapes and darker lines. Field pistols broken down and reassembled with fluid precision. Magazine springs tested, slides racked. He lines up his knives last, more of them than anyone else carries, edges catching the light like thin mirrors. You watch his hands for half a second too long, and he notices.

He spins one blade once, testing the weight, then loops up at you without lifting his head. "You're doin' it again."

"Doin' what?"

"Starin' at me."

"I'm observing craftsmanship, James."

"It's a knife."

"It's your knife."

His eyebrows raise. You feel the warmth creep up your neck. You step closer before you even think about it.

"Hold still," you say.

He does. The leather's twisted near the buckle. You straighten it, fingers working close to his collarbone. You can feel his warmth through the fabric, steady and solid. Your knuckles brush the edge of a scar. His breathing shifts just slightly.

"All set," you murmur.

Your turn comes faster than expected. His flesh hand checks the seal on your gauntlet strap, firm and careful. He always double-checks your restraints and closures.

"Good," he says quietly.

For a second, you're standing close enough that if either of you leaned in, even a little, the line you've protected for so long would disappear.

Boots thud past the armory entrance, voices come and go, and suddenly reality sets in again. Weapons loaded, armor ready, hearts doing things they shouldn't be doing. You push those feelings aside and steady yourself before heading toward the Quinjet.

The ramp hums under your boots as you board. Inside, the cabin lights glow low amber, casting long shadows across harness straps and cargo netting. The familiar shape of the jet feels steadier than the morning has.

Sam drops into the seat across from you and starts strapping in, still talking like the silence might actually kill him. "I just want it noted," he starts, "that if anybody asks, I was ready to be romantic today.

From the cockpit doorway, Nat glances back while running a systems check on her wrist display. "You say that every year."

"I mean it every year."

"It's never true, though."

He presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts."

She doesn't even look up. "You'll live."

Bucky takes the seat beside you, knees almost touching yours in the narrow spacing. He locks his harness with one clean pull, then checks yours without comment. Tug, glance, satisfied nod. Every flight, without fail. Across the aisle, Steve adjusts his gloves with a quiet focus. His posture is straight, even at rest. He looks up and scans the cabin, doing his own head count. He always does.

"Wheels up in thirty seconds. Primary plan still holds." Steve says calmly.

A few nods. Tension is thick, though, it always is before a mission. You lean forward to recheck your gauntlet charge. Green reflections dance across your knuckles. Bucky watches the motion, cataloging it without meaning to. He wonders, not for the first time, how someone built for sharp edges learned to move so carefully. He's supposed to be reviewing entry angles. Instead, he's memorizing the way your mouth presses into a thin line when you concentrate.

The engines deepen in pitch. The cabin vibrates through the soles of his boots. Mission gravity settles in his chest, a familiar weight that he's grown accustomed to. Danger is simple when you're a deadly assassin. Feelings for your best friend aren't. He's risked everything in wars, in prisons, in the blank spaces where his past was taken from him. Yet saying one honest sentence to you feels more terrifying than any of that.

You glance over, catching him looking this time. You lift your eyebrows in a silent question. "You're quiet," you say over the engine.

"Thinkin'," he answers.

"Uh oh."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Uh oh."

The jet lifts. Natasha's voice comes over the cabin channel. "Check comms. Jammers might be active."

Sam groans. "Nothing says Valentine's Day like signal interference and ass-kicking."

Bucky flexes his metal fingers once, then rests his hands on his knees. He's completely gone for you and running out of reasons to pretend otherwise.

The jet settles into descent with a controlled shudder, engines throttling down to a low, predatory hum. The cabin lights shift to red. Outside the small side window, the warehouse district spreads in gray blocks and skeletal remains of buildings that once held life. Morning haze clings to the river. Mission air feels thick and sharp.

Bucky rolls his shoulders once and lets the soldier part of him take the wheel, but it doesn't push everything else out. It never really does when you're within arm's reach. Harnesses click open in staggered snaps. Across the cabin, Steve stands first.

"Final check. Comms are good, keep them clear. We stay quiet unless we need to."

"Copy," comes Nat over the internal channel, already mission-ready near the ramp.

Sam taps his earpiece. "If I whisper any quieter, I'm technically thinking."

"You should try that more often." You say.

Bucky doesn't smile, but he feels the shape of one trying to happen. His attention keeps splitting, half on approach vectors, half on you doing your premission ritual. Adjusting your gloves for the third time, a tell you don't know you have: anxious, nervous, whatever you want to call it.

You stand from your seat and close your eyes. You cross your left arm over your chest, your right hand grabbing that elbow to stretch. You take a deep breath. Then you do the same motion with the opposite arms. You drop your arms and drop your head back, taking another deep breath. You shake your hands out by your sides. Bucky watches you every time. Infactuated? Captivating?

He wants to tell you to be careful. He wants to tell you to stay behind him. He wants to say I'll protect you. Instead, he checks your shoulder seam for a snag that isn't there and pulls his hand back as if nothing happened.

"Another day, another mission." You whisper, smiling at Bucky.

"We'll do fine." He nods, seriously. Stoic soldier fronting.

"That's why I love ya, Buck." You laugh quietly. 

The ramp lowers just enough to slip bodies through. Cold air rushes in, damp and metallic, carrying the smell of wet concrete and old fuel. The jet sets down behind a derelict storage structure two blocks from the target, shielded from line of sight. Boots hit the ground softly with silent nods to the rest of the group. Formations take place instantly.

Tony's voice threads through the comms, filtered and dry. "Nice and warm here in the Tower, folks. Satellite drift in ninety seconds. After that, you're under local for another ninety. That cycle repeats. Try not to do anything cinematic."

"No promises," Sam whispers.

You and Bucky peel off together toward the eastern approach, cutting between stacked cargo containers beaded with condensation. Your movement matches his without signals, without discussion. Years of shared missions turned into instinct. He knows your pace, your angles, and how much distance you like between you and a partner when you're hunting quietly. He knows the sounds you make when you're trying not to be scared.

You're making it now, that almost silent breath through your nose. It's controlled. But he knows it, hears it. He wants to reach for your hand again. The urge is sudden and overwhelming. But it's not smart.

"In position," Steve says into comms. "Status report."

Bucky keys his mic with a minimal press. "East corridor. No visual compromise."

"Copy," Steve says. "We're staged west. Sam, status."

"Nothing above so far."

You crouch at the service door access panel, pulling a slim tool from your belt. Your shoulder brushes Bucky's thigh as you work. He watches your hands instead of the perimeter for half a bear too long, but he trusts his training to cover the gap. He knows the curve of your focused face better than he knows his weapons at this point.

The lock clicks open under your tool with a tiny metallic sigh. You glance up at him, eyes bright.

"Ready?" you mouth.

He nods once. Steady on the outside, but falling straight through the inside.

The door opens, and you slip in first. Smooth and low, Bucky follows close enough to cover your blind side without crowding your movement. Inside, the air changes. Stale dust, cold iron, and old oil soaked into concrete. Light filters through high cracked windows in pale vertical strips, turning floating particles into drifting static. Somewhere deeper in the structure, machinery rattles from the wind. The door eases shut behind Bucky with barely a sound.

Bucky's senses narrow and sharpen. Angles, shadows, and distance to cover fill his mind. The world becomes lines and timing. And you. Always you at the center of his awareness like a fixed star.

"East corridor entry complete," you say quietly over comms, voice steady and low.

"Copy," Steve answers. "West team moving to outer ring."

"Roofline set," Sam adds. "Two patrols above you, catwalk level."

You hold up two fingers, then point left. Your wrist gadget shows a heat signature under the next doorway. Bucky nods once. He shifts and draws a knife. 

The guard steps halfway through the doorway and never gets the chance to finish his next step. Your widow line snaps tight around his ankles and pulls him off balance while Bucky closes the distance. One hand over his mouth, one precise strike.

You look at Bucky, quickly checking on him. He gives you a nod before he turns to continue through the door. Every time you move like this, efficient and alive, something in his chest aches with pride he has no right to claim. You're not his to protect, but he does it anyway.

You advance deeper. The corridor opens onto a loading floor the size of a football field, stacked with crates, hung with chains, and suspended walkways. Voices carry in broken reflections off metal walls. Engines idle near the far bays. Transfer is active, and Tony was right on the mark.

"Visual on cargo," you report calmly. "Multiple crates, launcher-sized."

"Confirmed," Tony says. "Tags match."

A laugh drifts across the floor from a cluster of armed buyers near a truck. They think they're safe. It's almost comical. They're casual and relaxed. Just hoping for the next big payday.

Bucky watches you scan sightlines, mark routes, and count bodies. You watch him when you can, too. How his head drops slightly when he's zoning in on a target. How he flips his knife before sinking into a hostile. How he always seems to be looking at you when you want to look at him.

He loves you. You love him.

The thought lands fully formed this time in Bucky's head, in his chest, in his heart.

It should feel like a crisis. Instead, it feels like the missing piece that he hadn't realized he was missing.

"East side, hold," Steve says over comms. "West is almost in position."

"Copy," Bucky answers.

You both settle behind a stack of wrapped pallets. Close enough that your arms are pressed along his from shoulder to wrist. His breathing is steady, and you count it without meaning to. His metal fingers flex once against the knife handle.

"West side set," says Steve in your ear. "Eyes on three exterior doors and the north catwalk."

"Roofline ready," adds Sam. "I've got overwatch on two trucks and a bored guy picking his teeth."

"Focus," Nat sighs.

"I am focused. On his dental hygiene."

You shift beside Bucky, leaning just enough to sight past the pallet edge. He adjusts with you automatically, your shoulders aligned, fields of fire interlocked. It feels like dancing, if dancing involved knives and suppressed rounds.

"Buck, you're cleared to move to inner cover."

You move together from pallets to crates to forklifts. Each crossing is timed between patrol turns and engine noise. Your wrist gadget flicks once, twice, disabling a camera node with a soft spark that vanishes beneath the echoing machinery.

Bucky tracks threats, but he also tracks you. The way you signal without looking. The way you trust him to be exactly where you expect. And you do. Because he's Bucky, the same guy who has never let you down even one single time. Who you love. Trust is a heavier weight than armor.

A buyer group shifts near the central truck, weapons sling careless. One steps away to smoke. Nat's voice threads in, low and certain. "Isolated target, south stack. I've got him."

Three seconds later, the man is quietly horizontal and out of the story.

"Outer ring is thinning," she reports.

"Timing's good. Tony says over comms. "Thermals show crate loading starting now. You're inside their window."

You pause behind a vertical beam, back almost against his chest as you peek at the angle. He can feel you breathe through layers of gear. He could say it right now, he thinks wildly. After this, he promises himself. After this push, we're home. No more waiting for the perfect moment.

Across the floor, Steve and Nat shift positions among stacked cargo, drawing attention with their subtle, deliberate movement. Guards are redirected over towards them. Lines of sight change. Everyone's watching something and tracking someone, adjusting for obvious threats.

"Let's move in, fast."

The warehouse erupts into motion, controlled and surgical. Steve and Nat make noise, a rolling wave of impact and command presence that pulls attention hard. Shouted orders are heard over the hum of machinery as hostiles make their way over. Eyes turn away from your sector exactly as planned.

"Go," Bucky says, already moving.

You launch with him. There's no hesitation between you, no verbal count. You both break cover on the same breath, splitting angles like mirrored instinct. Your widow line snaps out and yanks a rifle sideways just as its owner tries to shoulder it. Bucky's already there, driving forward, disarming with a brutal twist. He drops the man flat. You pivot off Bucky's momentum, plant a boot on a crate edge, and vault. Midair, you loosen a shock disk that pops up against a second guard's vest in a crackle of blue. He folds with a strangled yelp. Bucky doesn't even need to look to confirm. He knows you hit your shots.

He covers your landing with two suppressed shots, tight grouping, and clean. Your knife flashes past his shoulder a split second later and buries into the strap of a third hostile's weapon, pinning it useless against a post. It's just you and him, years of watching each other move, learning rhythms, building a shared combat language no one ever formally taught.

"Cutting center," Bucky reports.

"Seen," Steve answers. "Keep pushing."

A forklift roars to life near the truck bay as a driver panics. You're already moving toward it. Bucky beats you there by half a stride and shoots the hydraulics. The machine slumps sideways with a groan, blocking the exit.

You grin at him, quick and bright. "Show off."

He almost says only for you. Instead, he tosses your thrown knife back to you without looking. You catch it by the handle. More proof of how locked in you are with each other. Gunfire cracks from the catwalks, misdirected toward Steve's pressure line. Sam's voice cuts in.

"Topside scrambling. I'm herding."

"Copy," says Nat. "Left ladder clear."

Bucky steps into your space to redirect your line of fire by half an inch, his metal arm bracing briefly against your ribs so you don't overexpose yourself beyond cover. The contact is firm, protective, and gone way too fast. His heart is pounding harder from that than from the shooting.

He's dimly aware that if anyone watched you two long enough, they'd see it. Not just the efficiency, but the care threaded through it. The constant adjustments to keep each other safe. You've never fought like this with anyone else.

The last guard in your immediate lane drops. For half a second, it feels like the center is yours. Noise shifts and targets are thinning out.

Nobody calls out the guard on the far mezzanine. Bucky starts to turn toward you to say your name. The rifle cracks. The sound is wrong. Not the scattered echo of crossfire, not the muffled thump of suppressed shots. This one is sharp and clean and close enough that Bucky feels it in his teeth.

He's already turning toward you when it happens. Your body jerks like someone yanked a wire through you. The motion is small, almost confused, and then momentum disappears. The knife slips from your fingers and clatters across the concrete in a lonely metallic spin. For half a heartbeat, his brain refuses to translate what he's seeing. He sees the red bloom on your suit, and the color leaves your face.

"Contact, mezzanine!" Sam barks over comms a fraction too late. "High right!" 

Bucky is moving before the words finish. He fires twice at the man who may have just killed you. Pure instinct, driving the shooter back behind the railing. You hit the ground hard. Everything drops out of focus. Sound narrows to a high rushing ring. The warehouse becomes distant shapes and irrelevant motion. 

Training says to secure the threat, maintain formation, and keep the objective in sight. Bucky drops to his knees beside you instead. Your eyes are open but unfocused, breathing unevenly. Blood is spreading fast through the seam of your suit at your side, darker than the shadows.

"No," he hears himself say, rough and immediate. "No, no, no."

"What's going on?" Steve says through comms.

"We're hit, it looks bad," Bucky responds, no longer mission-focused.

His gloves are already slick as he clamps pressure over the wound, hands shaking despite iron strength.

"Stay with me," he says to you, voice breaking loose from control. "Look at me."

You try to focus on him. The pain comes in waves but never stops. You summon all the strength you have left to reach for his face, trying to cup his cheek. He reaches out to help you bring his hand to his cheek. You move your thumb once before feeling like you're fading away. 

This is the moment he's rehearsed in nightmares, always wordless, always too late. He doesn't want this to be the end. 

"Med evac is almost here," Nat says. "I'm moving to them."

"Shooter confirmed dead. We got 'em all." Sam comms.

Bucky leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, the world reduced to your barely there breath and the heat leaving your skin under his hands.

"I was gonna tell you," he blurts, the words tearing out unfiltered. "I was gonna tell you after this, I swear."

He presses harder on the wound, but the blood doesn't stop coming. You try to speak, but the words can't come out. You form what you think are words for Bucky, but they come out as pained moans.

"You can't," he says, voice fraying. This is the man under the soldier stripped bare.

Steve walks up to Bucky, who's still learning over your body.

"C'mon, Buck, we gotta get her out of her."

Bucky looks up at Steve, two lone tears stream down either side of his face. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.

Bucky whispers in your ear, hoping you can hear him, "I love you. Please stay."

You're on the med jet, strapped to a stabilization board, with med foam packed right against the wound. Your face has gone too pale under the smear of blood and antiseptic. It launches almost the moment your stretcher locks into place. Priority transport. Gone into the morning sky before the rest of the team even finishes loading out.

Bucky watches it disappear through the narrowing edge of the ramp, jaw locked so tightly it aches. He doesn't realize he's taken a step after it until Steve puts a steady hand on his shoulder.

"They'll get her there faster this way." He reminds Bucky quietly.

Bucky nods once. It's not really an agreement, but he knows he can't do anything about it.

There's no banter on their flight home. No post-mission ritual. Just engine thunder and the low vibration through the deck plates. The cabin lights stay dim. 

Bucky sits away from everyone else, his eyes stuck on the floor between his boots. Elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging empty between them.

The other three sit near enough to talk quietly. Nat cleans blood off her gloves with slow strokes. Sam takes worried glances at Bucky every now and then, checking on him silently. His wings are folded neatly, and he removes some gear for an excuse to fidget with something.

Bucky keeps replaying the moment in his head. He can still hear the sound of the gun going off. He can hear the gasp you let out when the bullet entered your skin. He can see the color drain from your face and the glossy look of your eyes before they finally shut. He'll never forgive himself if that's the last time he sees you. The last time he feels your warm skin and listens to you tease him for being a show off. His brain is trying to solve it differently, like there's still time to intercept the bullet.

After a while, Sam clears his throat. "She's stubborn," he says. "That counts for something."

"It counts for a lot."

Bucky swallows hard. He hasn't been able to trust his voice. Steve unstraps and crosses the distance, movements balanced against the jet. He doesn't sit down, just braces a hand on the seat frame beside Bucky.

"You did everything right," Steve says.

Bucky lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a broken laugh. "I didn't, she still got hit."

"That doesn't mean you failed."

"It does to me."

Steve studies him for a moment, not pushing him to say more. "You broke the shooter's line of sight in under a second. You stopped that second round. You kept her alive."

What happened, Bucky thinks, is that he almost lost her. And he should have been the one to take the bullet. His hands curl into fists. Metal fingers whisper against each other.

"I finally said it," he says quietly, like a confession.

Steve knows exactly what he means. "Yeah," he answers. "I heard you."

Heat crawls up the back of Bucky's neck despite the cold cabin air. "Wasn't how I planned it."

"Most real things aren't," Steve says. "But you can tell her again later. She's gonna get through this."

The engine pitch shifts as they change altitude. The sound fills the pause.

"It's Valentine's Day afterall," Steve adds after a moment. "Kind of a perfect day built for saying what matters."

Bucky looks up at him then, eyes red-edged and exhausted. "What if she dies?"

Steve's grip tightens briefly on the frame. "We cross that bridge if we have to. Until then, you make sure you tell her again when she wakes up."

The jet keeps cutting forward through the morning, carrying all of them home without the one person Bucky keeps checking for. No one speaks after that.

The tower feels too normal when they land. Glass catching sunlight now that it's early afternoon. The kind of day that shouldn't exist when someone's life is hanging in the balance a few floors below. 

They move through intake and security on autopilot, putting their gear back where it belongs. Logging weapons and writing signatures. No one lingers or jokes. The absence of your footsteps is felt by everyone on the team.

Debrief happens quickly. The conference room screens glow with mission playback, drone angles, heat maps, and timestamps. Freeze frames of impact points and takedowns. Tony stands at the head of the table, scrolling through data with tight, economical gestures.

"Shipment was secured," he says. "Inventory intact enough that we have full trace. Buyers' network is sweating, so that's a win."

No one reacts. Tony reads the room quickly. He swipes to a Redwing camera playback. The moment of the shot pauses mid-frame, but he doesn't play it.

"Crossfire variables stacked wrong," Tony says. "Early rotation and elevation shadow. That's on their dice, not your skill."

Bucky doesn't answer. He hasn't even sat down.

Steve chimes in, "Status?"

Tony exhales sharply, and there it is, the himan crack in the armor. "Out of surgery. Bullet passed straight through. Missed the worst of the organs by a margin."

Bucky's fingers flex at his sides. "When can we see her?"

"Short version, not yet," Tony explains. "Long version, they'll page you when she is able to have visitors."

Tony looks straight at Bucky now. "She made it to the table alive because of you, Barnes."

Bucky gives a solid nod and turns to leave the room. He needs a hot shower, fresh clothes, and maybe a good cry if he can manage it.

---

The medical floor is too white, too bright, too controlled. Footsteps soften automatically on the polymer flooring. People speak in low tones, as if the volume itself were part of the treatment. Bucky waits through two checkpoints and one firm-handed nurse who makes him sit for exactly four minutes that feel like forty. He doesn't argue with her, although he wishes he could.

Finally, a door slides open down the corridor.

"Okay, Mr. Barnes. She's all yours."

He nods. The room is dimmer than the hallway. Monitors glow in gentle blues and greens. Lines run across one screen, and other machines breathe softly beside the bed. And there you are. Too still and too pale. Bandaging wrapped clean at your side, shoulder exposed above hospital fabric, skin marked with adhesive and sensor leads. Your hair looks wrong against the pillow, like it hasn't been brushed.

For a second, he can't even step forward. Battlefields never did this to him. Hydra never did this to him. You, quiet and hurt in here, almost drops him to his knees.

He moves to the bedside slowly. His metal hand hovers, then settles carefully around your fingers, mindful of the wires. You're warmer now, thank god.

"I'm here now," he whispers.

He studies your face as if he's relearning its map. The crease near your brow and the tiny scar near your chin. Of course, he knew they were there, but he had taken them for granted before.

"You picked one hell of a day to scare me," he murmurs. "I had a whole speech planned. You kinda ruined my timin'."

His thumb strokes once across your knuckles. "I meant it. I don't know if you heard me, but I meant it."

Time stretches in the recovery room until it no longer feels measurable. The monitors keep their steady rhythm. Your chest rises and falls quietly. Each inhale pulls his attention like a thread. Bucky sits forward in the chair, forearms braced on the mattress edge, still holding your hand. He doesn't even know what time it is, only that Sam has left to go have his "wine and dine" dinner date.

He keeps talking because silence feels like surrender.

"Remember that terrible takeout place you like so much?" he quietly smiles to himself. "I would do anything to eat their greasy food with you right now."

His thumb traces a slow line along your fingers.

"I was gonna grab that for us tonight. That was the big plan. Real smooth, right? Greasy food and probably a movie you'd pretend not to cry to." His voice tightens on the last word.

"Steve says timing's never right for the important stuff. Guess he's got a point. Still hate that he's right though."

Footsteps pass in the hallways. A cart rolls by. Life keeps moving outside this room, and it feels offensive. He bows his head a little, bringing his arm up as a makeshift pillow.

"I've jumped out of planes and fallen from trains," he sighs. "None of it comes as close as to how I feel right now."

Time moves by slowly and quickly all at once. It's eight o'clock now. Bucky only knows because a nurse came in to check on you. She wrote down the time on the whiteboard by the door. He's hungry, he's thirsty, and he'd rather die of starvation and dehydration than leave your side. He looks out the window in the room, wishing the two of you could be out in the city, laughing and hanging out. He wishes he could tell you how he feels and hear what you have to say.

There's a faint shift in your hand. So small that someone might miss it. He jerks upright, studying your face carefully. Another small movement. Bucky is frozen in place. Another tiny movement, your fingers trying to curl but not quite getting there yet. Your brows tighten like you're fighting up through deep water.

"Easy there," he whispers. "You're okay."

Your lashes flutter, stop, and flutter again. The monitor ticks a little faster.

"That's it," he encourages. "Come back to me."

Your eyes open a sliver, unfocused, light sensitive. Confusion takes over. Then discomfort. A low groan escapes your throat as you adjust. A throbbing ache at your side. You try to assemble the room piece by piece.

Bucky's the first thing that resolves clearly in your line of sight. Relief hits his face so openly it would scare him if he were capable of self-consciousness right now.

He lets out a breath, "Hey."

Your voice doesn't come out yet, but your lips part like you're trying. Your gaze drops, finds your bandaging, the wires, then climbs back to him with a question and a memory tangled together.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "You got hit. Thought you died."

Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Tears burn his eyes instantly, and he laughs under his breath. He tries not to let them fall, but he can't help it. A shaky breath comes out as he shakes his head.

"Told you not to get shot," he whispers. "You never listen."

Your throat works to get the words out. Your voice is barely there, scraped thin.

"...Gotta keep.. you on your toes."

He huffs a broken, grateful breath. Your gaze locked on his, hazy but sharpening by the second. The room comes to you in layers: sounds first, then light, then pain. But always him.

"I... love you, too." You manage to get out.

Emotion crowds his throat again, but this time he lets it stay.

"I wasn't supposed to say it like that," he continues, voice low and unguarded. "I had this whole night planned.

He glances down at your joined hands, then back up, blue eyes clear and terrified and certain all at once. "I meant it, though, every word."

You smile at him. Bits and pieces of the morning play in your head. You've never seen a man break down quite like Bucky had earlier. And honestly, you had been grateful you were able to hold his face one last time before the darkness took over.

"Thought I was a goner," You mumbled.

He nods, understanding exactly how you feel.

"You know, I've been in love with you for a while now," he says, simple and direct. "Didn't know if we should put a label on it. Was too nervous to ruin the relationship with my favorite person."

His thumb brushes your knuckles, but he keeps his eyes on you. 

"Me too, Buck."

"I kept telling myself I had time," he goes on. "More missions, more mornings in the kitchen. More chances to say it at the right time, exactly how I wanted. But I wasn't sure I was allowed to want more."

Your eyes shine now, fully awake, completely present.

"The days leading up to Valentine's Day felt... complicated?" he admits. "Not because I didn't have someone, but because the someone I wanted was already with me, and I didn't know if we could be anything more."

Your fingers squeeze his with surprising strength. 

He leans in a little, voice softer but steadier than it's been in hours. "I'm telling you right here, right now, I love you. As more than a mission partner, as more than a friend. I love everything about you."

Your eyes fill before he even finishes the last word. Not from pain, not from the meds, but from the way he's looking at you like the truth finally got tired of waiting and chose to come out. You study his face like you're confirming something you've known for a long time but never dared to name. The worry lines, the softness he only shows when he forgets to hide, and the way his grip never loosened.

"I thought..." you murmur. "I guess I thought it would be easier for me to pretend not to notice."

His brows pull together. "Notice what?"

"How it feels when you walk into the room."

He just looks at you, waiting for you to continue.

"I didn't say anything," you go on. "Because I didn't want to lose you. But honestly, best friends isn't enough for me."

Silence folds around you, warm and full instead of empty. His thumb is still moving over your hand, as if he can't stop touching you, as if touch is proof you're still really here.

"You sure this isn't the meds talkin'?"

You manage a faint, crooked smile. "If it were the meds, I'd have told you months ago."

And that does it. The last of his restraint gives way. He rises from the chair and leans in slow enough for you to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady.

"My lips are so dry from this place," you whisper through a giggle.

"I don't care," he smiles.

The kiss is gentle, careful of tubes and soreness, and the fact that you're still healing. Soft, lingering, reverent. Not scared and rushed like a battlefield claim, not desperate to get the words out. This is more like a sweet beginning.

His warm hand cradles your jaw lightly. He kisses you as if he's been holding it back for years, and he plans to keep doing it for the rest of his life. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he whispers.

"Took you long enough, James."

"You're worth the wait, doll."

———

Part Two

Memory crashes back next, sharp and merciless. The battlefield, the sky tearing open. Fear so large it swallowed language. And then... absence. No pain, no darkness, just the sensation of being unstitched from reality thread by thread. You sit up too fast, dizzy, hands searching your own arms, face, and chest as if you expect to find damage. There is none. You're whole, you're breathing, you're here.

The compound looks older. That's the first thing you notice once your vision steadies. It looks worn. Paint faded by the seasons you didn't live through. Grass grew wild at the edges before being cut back unevenly, as if maintenance became something people remembered to do only when they had energy. New structures sit where empty space used to be, temporary buildings that somehow became permanent. The air holds a quiet heaviness, like a house after a funeral where no one has opened the windows.

Voices call your name. Hands reach for you. You're pulled into embraces that feel desperate, disbelieving, grateful. You cling back because the alternative is floating away again. Questions fly, overlapping, impossible to answer. Are you okay? Do you remember? Can you stand? You nod even when you don't know if it's true. Tears blur faces into watercolor shapes. You recognize them by their voices more than their features, older versions of people you left mid-sentence. And then you see him.

Bucky stands a few yards away, perfectly still in the chaos, like the eye of the storm that forgot how to move. For a heartbeat, you think he might not have come closer because he didn't recognize you. Five years is a long time. Maybe you're a ghost to him now, something that looks right but can't possibly be real. His hair is longer, brushing his shoulders, streaked with threads of silver that weren't there before. His face is sharper, carved down by time and something heavier than time. There are lines at the corners of his eyes that don't look like they came from smiling.

When he finally steps forward, he doesn't look excited. It's slow, deliberate, as if sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile miracle is happening right in front of him. His metal hand flexes once at his side, opening and closing, a small mechanical twitch that betrays the nerves he otherwise refuses to show. His gaze never leaves you. Not your face, not your hands, not the rise and fall of your chest. He's watching for proof, for breath, for solidarity.

He steps close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar at his brow, the way his eyes have changed color in the sunlight, more gray than blue now. He doesn't touch you for a moment. His flesh hand lifts halfway, hesitates, drops, lifts again like he's forgotten the choreography of something as simple as reaching out. The space between you hums with all the things you're not saying to each other.

"Hey," he says quietly, voice rough, almost unused.

It's such an ordinary word. It lands between you like something fragile and sacred.

You move first. Your arms wrap around him, and for one terrifying second, he doesn't react at all. Then he's crushing you against his chest with a force that knocks the air from your lungs, metal arm braced across your back, his other hand gripping your shoulder like he's anchoring himself to the planet that is you. His face presses into your hair, breath shuddering out of him in a way that sounds dangerously close to breaking. You can feel his heartbeat through layers of fabric, fast and uneven, like it doesn't trust this moment either.

He smells like gun oil, soap, and something earthy, like cold air and soil. It's unfamiliar and achingly familiar at the same time. You cling tighter, fingers bunching in the back of his jacket just to prove he's solid, that he won't dissolve if you loosen your grip.

"I've got you," he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.

You don't know if he's reassuring you or himself.

When he finally pulls back, his hands linger on your arms as if he needs the continued contact to keep you from vanishing. His eyes search your face with an intensity that feels like being cataloged, memorized, save somewhere permanent. There's relief there, but buried under layers is something much heavier. Exhaustion. Disbelief. A grief that hasn't realized it's allowed to stop.

"You're okay," he says, more statement than question. "You're finally here."

You nod, throat too tight for words. He swallows hard, jaw flexing, composure snapping back into place like armor being sealed. Anyone else might miss the transition. One second, he looks like a man standing on the edge of something bottomless. Next, he looks like the Winter Soldier who learned how to pretend he isn't drowning.

"Knew you'd come back," he adds, almost casually, as if the past five years were a delayed flight instead of an extinction event.

But his hands don't let go of you, not even for a second.

"When I see the devil's eyes, I'll look away and smile wide."

In the days that follow, the world insists on moving forward as if nothing extraordinary has happened. Schedules resume, briefings continue, meals appear at regular hours. You drift through it all in a fog of reacclimation, learning how to exist in a timeline that advanced without you. People keep touching your arm as they pass, as if to check that you're still solid. No one strays too far from you, and nobody says the word blip.

Bucky becomes a constant presence in a way that is both comforting and strange. He isn't always beside you, but he's always close by. At the end of the table during meals, leaning against the wall closest to you during meetings, standing in the doorway like a quiet sentry who forgot he was off duty. Every time you glance up, his eyes are already on you. He never startles when you look back, never pretends he wasn't watching. He just gives a small nod, the ghost of a smile, as if confirming something only he can see.

He doesn't ask questions about what you remember. When you bring it up, he listens with a careful stillness, head slightly tilted, hands clasped loosely between his knees like he's afraid to interrupt. If you falter, he fills the silence with gentle reassurances. You're safe now, and it's over. You don't have to think about it if you don't want to. His voice is always even, almost soothing, but there's a tightness underneath.

When you ask about his five years, he shrugs. "Nothing exciting. Just work and training."

Same stuff. As if the world hadn't collapsed. As if half the population hadn't turned to dust in front of him. As if you hadn't vanished from his arms like smoke.

He smiles when he says it, a small, practiced curve of his mouth that doesn't quite reach his eyes. The expression looks correct from a distance, but up close it feels... fake. 

At night, the illusion thins. Your room has been restored with uncanny precision. Left exactly how you remember, right down to the books on the nightstand and the sweater you left draped over the chair. It smells stale, like a place sealed too long. You lie awake listening to the unfamiliar silence of a world no longer in crisis mode, waiting for sleep that refuses to come.

Sometimes you hear footsteps in the hallway outside your door. Passing by, then stopping, then continuing. The first time, you assume it's a patrol. The second time, you open the door a crack just as the sound fades at the end of the hallway. You don't see anyone there. The third night, you open it more quickly.

Bucky stands halfway down the hall, back to you, shoulders rigid as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. He turns at the faint click, expression smoothing into neutrality before you can read what was there before.

"Sorry," he says immediately. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't."

A pause stretches between you, soft and awkward. The overhead lights paint his face in a pale gold, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. Up close, the exhaustion is impossible to miss. Not the pleasant tiredness of a long day. The bone-deep kind that sleep alone can't fix.

"Everything okay?"

He nods too quickly. "Yep. Just can't sleep."

"Nightmares?"

Another quick shake of his head, a little too emphatic. "I'm good."

The lie isn't cruel, but it's protective. He's trying to spare you something heavy you didn't ask to carry after all you'd been through.

He gestures toward the stairwell. "Gettin' some air."

You glance at the dark windows lining the corridor. Outside, the grounds are silvered by moonlight, still and empty. Not exactly inviting for a midnight stroll.

"Want some company?" you offer.

For a fraction of a second, something raw flashes across his face. Want, sharp and unguarded. Then it's gone, replaced by that same careful smile.

“You should rest,” he says gently. “You’ve been through a lot.”

The words sound kind and final.

You hesitate, unsure why disappointment prickles under your ribs. “Okay.”

He gives a small nod, relief and regret tangled together in the motion. “Night.”

“Night, Buck.”

You close the door, leaning your forehead briefly against the cool wood. When you peek through the crack again a few seconds later, the hallway is empty. No retreating footsteps. No sound at all. Just the lingering feeling that he stood there longer than he admitted, hovering at the edge of your orbit without quite stepping back into it.

In the mornings, he looks freshly composed, hair tied back, clothes immaculate, expression calm. If he didn’t have shadows carved beneath his eyes like bruises, you might believe he slept. Neither of you mentions the hallway.

During training, he positions himself so he can see you without being obvious. If you stumble, he’s there before anyone else, steadying your elbow with a light touch that disappears the moment you’re balanced again. If someone raises their voice too sharply, his posture shifts, attention sharpening in a way that feels almost predatory. Not aggressive, but protective, like a guard dog pretending to nap.

“Still got it,” he tells you after you disarm him during a sparring session, offering that same restrained smile. Pride flickers in his eyes, bright and fleeting as sunlight on water.

You laugh, breathless. “You went easy on me.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, conceding nothing, but the corner of his mouth ticks upward just a little more. For a moment, he looks almost like the man you remember, lighter, younger, less haunted.

Then someone drops a metal weight across the gym, the sharp clang ricocheting through the room like a gunshot. Bucky freezes. Just a brief, total stillness, every muscle locked, eyes unfocused as if he’s somewhere else entirely. It lasts less than a second before he blinks and exhales, shoulders loosening.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, though you didn’t say anything.

“It’s okay,” you reply softly.

He nods, gaze sliding away from yours. “I’m good.”

He says it again. And again. A mantra. A shield. A wall built brick by brick out of two simple words. I’m good. You start to notice how often he says it, and how rarely it sounds true.

"I dug my heels into the gravel."

It happens on a morning so gentle it feels almost apologetic. The sky is pale blue, washed clean by a rain that passed in the night, leaving the air cool and sharp with the scent of wet earth. The compound hums with low, ordinary activity. Distant voices, the whir of machinery, the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen wing. Life, steady and functional, continues its careful march forward.

You wake before anyone comes looking for you, sleep having dissolved into that thin, restless half-state where your body is tired but your mind refuses to settle. The room feels too still, too preserved, like a museum exhibit of a life paused mid-breath. You dress quietly and slip out, drawn by a need you can’t quite name. You're not searching for escape. Maybe curiosity is dragging you somewhere. Or something softer and more instinctive, like a plant bending toward light it can’t see yet.

Outside, the grounds stretch wide and glistening, grass jeweled with droplets that soak the cuffs of your pants as you wander without direction. The usual training fields sit empty at this hour, equipment dark with moisture, footprints from yesterday softened into vague impressions. The air tastes clean, almost sweet, carrying the distant murmur of the river beyond the tree line.

You follow the perimeter path at first, the one meant for patrols and casual walks. It curves gently, predictable, bordered by low fencing and discreet security posts. Everything about it is orderly, intentional, and designed. After a while, though, you drift away from it, stepping through a gap where the grass grows taller and less disciplined. No alarms sound. No one calls after you. It feels strangely easy to slip off the map.

The ground changes under your feet, soft soil giving way to patches of gravel and packed dirt left over from old construction. Small stones crunch faintly with each step, the sound loud in the morning quiet. You slow, noticing how the landscape here looks less maintained, less curated for comfort. Wildflowers tangle with weeds. Young trees lean at odd angles, competing for space and sunlight. It’s not abandoned, exactly, just… forgotten.

A breeze stirs, cool against your skin, carrying the smell of damp leaves and something deeper, earthier. You wrap your arms loosely around yourself, cold and aware of how alone you are out here. The compound feels distant now, its sounds reduced to a faint background murmur, like a memory of noise rather than noise itself.

You notice the ground. At first, it doesn’t register as anything unusual. Just a strip where the grass looks thinner, paler, as if the rain didn’t quite revive it the way it did everything else. You step over it without thinking, continue a few paces, then stop. Something about it tugs at your attention, subtle but insistent, like a word on the tip of your tongue.

You turn back. Up close, the difference is unmistakable. The grass isn’t just thin. It’s flattened, pressed in a narrow line that cuts through the taller growth on either side. In places, the blades are bent permanently sideways, their stems pale where they’ve been denied sunlight. In others, the soil shows through, dark and compacted, with small stones embedded so tightly they look glued in place.

It isn’t wide enough for a vehicle. Not random enough for animal tracks. Too straight to be natural. You crouch, fingers brushing the surface. The ground feels hard, almost polished, the way dirt becomes after being walked on again and again until it loses all softness. Moisture beads on your skin from the damp grass, but the path itself is nearly dry, as if water never quite sinks in. Someone choosing the exact same route so many times that the earth has no choice but to remember.

Your pulse picks up, though you don’t know why. You straighten slowly, eyes following the line as it threads away from you, disappearing into a cluster of trees at the far edge of the grounds. From a distance, it looks almost like a scar, a pale seam stitched across the green. Not obvious enough to draw attention from afar, but impossible to ignore once seen.

No official walkway leads there. No signage. No lights. Just that quiet, deliberate trail.

For a long moment, you consider turning back. This feels private, somehow. Not really dangerous, but not meant for wandering curiosity. Like stumbling across a diary left open on a table. The breeze lifts again, rustling the leaves ahead with a soft whispering sound. The path doesn’t move, doesn’t beckon, doesn’t change at all. It simply exists, patient and undeniable.

You step onto it. The sensation underfoot is immediate. Firmer than the surrounding ground, smoother, almost worn down to a subtle trough where countless footsteps have pressed the center lower than the edges. Your boots leave only the faintest impression before the soil springs back, resistant, accustomed to weight. You take another step. Then another.

The compound disappears behind you, swallowed by trees and distance. Shadows deepen as branches knit overhead, filtering the sunlight into thin, wavering ribbons that stripe the ground. The air grows cooler, quieter, and the sounds of the world outside are dampened to a distant hush.

Somewhere ahead, a bird startles into flight, wings beating hard against the stillness before fading into silence again. You become acutely aware of your own breathing. Of your heartbeat. Of the soft thud of each step landing exactly where someone else’s once did. This wasn’t made by wandering. It was made by returning.

The path curves gently around a stand of older trees, their trunks thick and deeply ridged, roots pushing up through the soil like knuckles. Beyond them, the ground opens into a small clearing where the grass grows shorter, thinner, as if even sunlight hesitates to linger there.

You slow, an uneasy feeling pooling low in your stomach, heavy and cold. Something waits at the center of that clearing. You can’t see what it is yet. Only a shape, vertical and still, silhouetted against the pale morning light. Your steps falter, then continue, drawn forward by a gravity you don’t understand.

"A sad sap laying on the surface."

The clearing feels wrong in a way that has nothing to do with danger. No broken branches. No disturbed soil from a struggle. Just an absence, as if the land itself decided not to grow here anymore. Grass clings in thin, patchy strands, pale and brittle despite the recent rain, exposing wide swaths of bare earth the color of old coffee. The air is still, heavy, carrying a faint mineral smell like damp stone.

You stop at the edge, suddenly reluctant to step fully inside, as though crossing some invisible boundary might confirm something you don’t want confirmed. The shape at the center resolves slowly, details sharpening as your eyes adjust.

It isn’t large. Just a simple marker planted upright in the ground, weathered wood gone gray with exposure. No polished stone, no engraved marble, nothing official or ceremonial. Something made quickly, by hand, from whatever was available when there wasn’t time or energy for more.

Your stomach drops. You force your feet forward, each step sinking slightly into the softer soil of the clearing, leaving impressions that feel too loud, too intrusive. The path feeds directly into this space, ending not in a loop or a crossroads but in a single straight line that stops at the marker like an arrow hitting its target.

Up close, you can see the grain of the wood split by sun and frost, tiny cracks running through it like dried riverbeds. The top edge is uneven, as if it were cut with a tool that wasn’t meant for precision. Someone sanded the front smooth enough to carve into, though the edges remain rough, splintered in places. Carved. Not painted. Not etched by machine. Carved by a hand that pressed too hard, lines deep and imperfect, letters slightly uneven in height as though the person doing it didn’t trust themselves to keep their hands steady.

Your name stares back at you.

For a long moment, your mind refuses to accept it as language. The shapes register only as grooves in wood, meaningless patterns. Then the letters snap into place, and the world tilts. Below your name is a date. The day you vanished. Not an end date. Just the beginning of your absence, frozen in time because no one knew how to mark anything beyond it.

Your knees feel weak, though you don’t remember bending them. Suddenly, you're closer to the ground, the hem of your pants darkening as it soaks up moisture from the soil. Your fingers hover inches from the wood, trembling, unable to decide whether touching it will make this more real or less.

A grave. A grave for you.

The thought arrives fully formed, heavy as a stone. There is no body beneath it. You know that. You have to know that. And yet the space carries the same quiet gravity as any cemetery, the sense of something concluded, sealed away. The ground around the base is slightly sunken, rainwater having settled there over seasons, then dried, then settled again. Time has passed here. A lot of it. Five whole years of time.

Small objects rest at the foot of the marker, arranged with a care that feels almost reverent. Smooth river stones, their surfaces dulled by weather. A strip of faded fabric tied loosely around the base, color leached to something indistinct. The brittle remains of flowers long since dried, stems fragile as paper, petals curled inward like they’re trying to protect whatever beauty they once held.

None of it looks abandoned. Old and weathered, as expected. But tucked among the faded offerings are newer ones. Fresh stones, still damp. A small sprig of greenery not yet wilted. A metal trinket half buried in the soil, polished bright where fingers must have turned it over and over again. Someone comes here often.

Your gaze drifts back to the path behind you, the narrow strip of flattened earth cutting through the trees like a lifeline. From this angle, its purpose is undeniable. It doesn’t wander. It doesn’t branch. It leads directly here and nowhere else. A route worn by grief into permanence. 

Your chest tightens, breath coming shallow and uneven. Memories flicker through your mind with painful clarity. The dust on Bucky’s boots that never quite brushed off. The faint smell of soil clinging to him even indoors. The way he sometimes disappeared early in the morning before anyone else was awake. The way he always seemed to come from outside, never from the direction of the gym or the briefing rooms. The pieces slide together with terrible precision.

“Oh,” you whisper, the sound barely audible even to yourself.

You imagine him here in every kind of weather. Standing in summer heat with sweat darkening his collar. In autumn wind scattering leaves across the clearing. In winter cold, breath fogging the air, snow packing into the same narrow footprints day after day until even the drifts learned the shape of his presence. In rain that soaked him through, turning the ground to mud that clung to his boots and dragged at each step, and still he came.

Your hand finally moves, fingertips brushing the carved letters of your name. The grooves are rough, edges softened slightly by time, but still deep enough to catch on your skin. You trace them slowly, feeling the uneven pressure where the blade must have bitten too hard, slipped, and corrected. The work of someone who needed this to exist and didn’t care how imperfect it looked as long as it was real.

The wood is cool beneath your touch. Solid. Patient. It waited for you longer than you knew.

Your vision blurs, tears gathering without the sharp sting you expect. They slide down quietly, absorbed by the collar of your shirt, by the air, by the earth itself. There is no dramatic sob, no collapse. Just a deep, aching fullness in your chest, too large to express through sound. You weren’t here to see it built. You weren’t here to see the first offering placed, the first step taken down that path. All of that happened in a version of the world you never experienced, a chapter written without you in it. And yet the evidence surrounds you. Proof that you were not forgotten. Proof that someone refused to let you disappear completely.

Your fingers tighten against the marker, forehead dipping forward until it nearly rests against the weathered wood. The scent of damp earth fills your lungs, grounding and raw and painfully alive. Behind you, the clearing remains silent, the trees standing still as witnesses. Deep in your bones, you know with absolute certainty who built this.

"You found me."

You don't hear Bucky. The clearing swallows sound strange, as if the air itself has thickened over years of quiet visits. Leaves don't cunch, branches don't snap. The world remains suspended in that heavy stillness while you kneel in front of your own name, fingertips resting against the carved grooves as if they might shift under your touch and resolve into something else.

It’s the feeling that reaches you before any noise does. A subtle shift, like the pressure in a room changing when someone opens a door. The faint prickle along the back of your neck, instinct older than thought. You go very still, breath caught halfway in your chest, listening without knowing what you’re listening for. Then, behind you, a single step. The sound of weight settling onto compacted soil that has learned the shape of one particular pair of boots.

Your heart stutters. You don’t turn immediately. Part of you is afraid that if you move too fast, whoever stands there might vanish the way everything else did five years ago. Another part is suddenly, painfully certain you already know who it is.

The silence stretches. Slowly, you rise to your feet. When you turn, Bucky stands at the edge of the clearing where the path spills out from the trees, one hand still half lifted as if he forgot what he meant to do with it. For a moment, he looks almost unrecognizable, stripped of the careful composure he’s worn since your return. His eyes are wide, fixed on you with a raw, disbelieving intensity that borders on fear. He looks like a man who just walked into a ghost.

His gaze flicks past you to the marker, then back to your face, then back again, as if his brain can’t reconcile the two images existing in the same frame. Color drains from his skin, leaving him pale beneath the morning light. Even from several yards away, you can see the tight flex of his jaw, the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Buck,” you say softly.

Your voice breaks the spell. He inhales sharply, the sound rough, almost painful, like air scraping past something lodged in his throat. For a heartbeat, he looks like he might turn around and leave, retreat the way wounded animals do when they’re caught in the open. His shoulders shift, weight rocking back on his heel.

Instead, he takes one step forward. Then another. Each one slow, deliberate, as if the ground might give way beneath him. His boots land in the shallow trough worn into the earth, perfectly aligned with the countless steps that came before. The path doesn’t just lead him here. It guides him, carrying him forward even when the rest of him seems frozen.

When he stops a few feet away, his hands hang uselessly at his sides, fingers flexing once, twice, metal joints clicking faintly in the silence. He doesn’t look at the grave now. He can’t seem to look at anything but you, as though if he glances away, you might be gone when he looks back.

“I didn’t...” His voice falters, rough and low. He clears his throat, tries again. “I didn’t think anyone would come out here.”

“I was walking,” you reply, though the explanation feels small, inadequate for the enormity of what stands between you.

His gaze drops briefly to your boots, noting the damp grass clinging to them, the faint dust from the path. Evidence. Proof. Then it lifts again, searching your face with an almost desperate intensity, cataloging every feature as if committing you to memory in real time.

“You shouldn’t have to see this,” he says quietly.

There’s no anger in it, just regret. And something that sounds dangerously close to shame. A breeze stirs at last, threading through the clearing and lifting the ends of his hair, carrying the scent of earth and metal and clean soap. He smells exactly the way he did when he held you in the courtyard, familiar and heartbreakingly new at the same time.

Your eyes flick to the path behind him, then back to his face. “You made it.”

His throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. For a second, he says nothing, as if denial is still an option he’s considering. Then his shoulders slump a fraction, tension bleeding out of him in a slow, defeated exhale.

“Yeah,” he admits.

He shifts his weight, gaze drifting past you at last to the marker. The moment he looks at it, something inside him seems to collapse inward. His posture folds slightly, not enough to be obvious unless you’re watching closely, but enough to reveal how much effort it takes for him to remain upright.

“I just…” He stops, jaw tightening. The rest of the sentence never makes it out.

You follow his line of sight, looking back at the carved letters, the offerings, the worn earth. Seeing it now with him here makes it feel different, heavier, like stepping into a room where grief still lingers in the air.

“You came here,” you say slowly, “every day.”

His eyes close. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His lashes cast thin shadows across his cheeks, hiding whatever expression lies underneath. When he opens them again, the composure is gone, stripped away to reveal something raw and unguarded, an emotion too complex to name cleanly. Loss, relief, fear, love, exhaustion, all tangled together like wires in a storm.

“Yeah,” he repeats, softer this time. The word sounds like it weighs a hundred pounds.

Neither of you moves. The distance between you feels enormous despite being only a few steps, charged with everything he never said, everything you never knew to ask. The path stretches away behind him, a silent testimony to years of mornings and evenings spent walking the same lonely route. Proof etched into the surface of the world that he never stopped coming.

His gaze lifts to yours again, searching, uncertain now in a way you’ve never seen before. The legendary steadiness, the soldier’s certainty, all of it stripped back to something achingly human.

“You weren’t supposed to…” He trails off, voice thinning. “I mean, I didn’t think…”

Didn’t think you’d come back. Didn’t think you’d see. Didn’t think he would have to explain why he kept loving someone who might never return.

The words hang unfinished between you, too heavy to force into shape. And in the silence that follows, the truth settles fully into place. He didn’t build this to let you go. He built it so you would still have somewhere to come back to.

"Can you find me?"

For a while, neither of you speaks. The clearing hums with a soft, living quiet. Leaves whisper overhead. Somewhere far off, a bird calls once and then thinks better of it. The world continues as if this moment isn’t splitting open at the center.

Bucky’s gaze drifts past you again, not quite able to hold your eyes for long. It settles on the marker, on the offerings at its base, on the earth worn bare by his own footsteps. His expression goes distant, not unfocused exactly, just pulled inward, like he’s looking at a version of this place layered over the present one. Five years of memories superimposed on a morning that suddenly contains you alive inside it.

“I talked to you,” he says quietly.

The words are so soft you almost think you imagined them. His mouth tightens, as if he regrets saying it out loud, but he doesn’t take it back. His eyes remain fixed on the wood, on your name carved there in imperfect lines.

“Not... not every time,” he adds after a moment, voice rough. “Sometimes I just stood here.”

You don’t interrupt. The confession feels delicate, like a thread that will snap if pulled too quickly.

“I didn’t know if you could hear,” he continues, a faint shake creeping into his voice. He presses his hands flat against his thighs as if trying to still them. “Probably not. I knew that. But...” He exhales, shoulders rising and falling in a slow, uneven motion. “Didn’t matter.”

His jaw works, teeth catching briefly on his lower lip, a habit you remember from moments when he’s trying to contain something too big to swallow.

“After a while, I couldn’t remember your voice,” he says.

The words land heavy, final, like something he’s been holding behind his teeth for years and finally let slip. His eyes squeeze shut for a heartbeat, lashes trembling, as if even admitting it hurts more than he expected.

“I could remember what you said,” he goes on, forcing the words out one at a time. “Stuff you used to say. Jokes. Stories. But the sound of it...” His throat bobs. “It started getting fuzzy.”

Your chest tightens painfully, breath catching.

“I forgot what your eyes looked like,” he whispers. “It scared me. Just... losing that.”

His metal hand lifts slightly, then drops again, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants as if anchoring himself.

“So I started coming here more,” he says. “Every day. Sometimes twice.” A humorless breath escapes him, not quite a laugh. “Figured if I kept talking, maybe my brain wouldn’t let it disappear.”

He finally looks at you then, really looks, eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with sunlight.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” he says.

The simplicity of it is devastating.

“You were just gone.” His voice fractures on the word, splintering into something raw. “No body. No place to... to put you." He swallows hard, fighting for control he’s clearly losing. “I couldn’t stand the idea of you just... nowhere.”

“So I made somewhere,” he finishes, barely audible.

A breeze moves through the clearing, stirring the faded ribbon tied around the marker, making it flutter weakly against the wood. The motion draws his eyes, and something in his face softens and crumples all at once.

“I kept waiting,” he admits.

“For what?” you ask gently.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His expression goes distant again, haunted.

“For something impossible,” he says at last. “A sign. A miracle. I don’t know.” He shakes his head faintly. “Every time I walked up here, I thought... maybe today the ground would be different. Maybe the marker would be gone. Maybe...” His voice thins to almost nothing. “Maybe you’d be standing here.”

The words unravel him. His composure collapses inward, not explosively, not dramatically, just a quiet implosion. His shoulders cave slightly, breath hitching in a way he can’t quite hide. He drags a hand across his face, rough and quick, as if wiping away sweat instead of tears he refuses to acknowledge.

“I knew it was stupid,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Didn’t matter.”

You step closer without thinking, drawn by the fragile gravity of his grief. The space between you shrinks to almost nothing.

“Buck,” you whisper.

At the sound of your voice up close, his head lifts sharply, eyes locking onto yours with a startled intensity, like he forgot you were actually here, not just a memory wearing your shape.

“I tried to be okay,” he says, the words tumbling out now, unsteady, stripped of the careful control he’s maintained since your return. “Everyone else was hurting too. Didn’t want to make it worse. Didn’t want...” He falters, jaw tightening. “Didn’t want them looking at me like I was broken again.”

You can see it then, plain as daylight. The terror not just of losing you, but of losing himself, of sliding back into that hollow place he fought so hard to escape.

“So I just kept going,” he finishes weakly. “Training. Missions. Whatever they needed.” His mouth twists into something that might be a bitter smile if it had any warmth in it. “And then I’d come here.”

His eyes flick to the path behind him, that narrow scar through the trees.

“Only place it felt quiet,” he says. “Only place it felt like you were still part of the world somehow.”

His voice breaks completely on the last word. Silence rushes in to fill the space, thick and trembling. He stands there, exposed in a way he usually doesn't allow, chest rising and falling unevenly, eyes bright and unguarded. A man who loved someone so much he carved a road through the earth to keep from losing them entirely.

Softly, almost disbelieving, he adds, “And now you’re here.”

"Then I know you're also there."

You don’t remember deciding to move. One moment you’re standing a breath away from him, watching the tremor in his hands, the fragile way he holds himself together as if one wrong shift will send everything spilling out. Next, your arms are around him, closing the last fragile distance that grief built between you. He goes rigid in shock, muscles locking under your touch. For a single, suspended heartbeat, he doesn’t respond at all. 

Then he breaks. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breath shuddering out of him in uneven bursts that warm your skin through the fabric of your shirt. His arms come up fast to hold you against him. You feel it when the first crack finally gives way. A violent tremor runs through his entire body, a shudder he can’t suppress because there’s nothing left to hold it in. His fingers tighten convulsively, pulling you closer, closer, as if proximity alone can guarantee permanence.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur instinctively, the same words he offered you when you returned, soft and steady and meant for both of you.

His grip tightens further at that, almost painfully so, like the reassurance hurts as much as it heals.

For a long time, he doesn’t speak. He just holds on, forehead pressed against your shoulder, breath hitching and stuttering as if he’s relearning how to breathe around something lodged deep in his chest. You can feel the damp heat of tears seeping through the fabric, soaking into your skin. He makes no attempt to hide it.

Gradually, the tension in his body shifts. Not disappearing, not fully relaxing, just changing from brittle to exhausted, like a structure that has finally stopped bracing for impact. His weight settles more heavily against you, trust replacing panic, grief draining out in slow, unstoppable currents.

“You’re warm,” he says hoarsely, voice muffled against your shoulder.

It’s such a strange thing to say that it takes a second to understand what he means. Not temperature. Alive.

You slide one hand up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, grounding him with the simple, undeniable reality of touch. “So are you.”

He lets out a shaky breath that might almost be a laugh if it weren’t so fragile. His hold on you loosens just enough for him to lean back, hands sliding to your arms but not letting go entirely. His eyes search your face again, slower this time, not frantic cataloging but quiet confirmation.

“You’re not...” He stops, jaw tightening as he tries to find words that won’t betray how terrified he still is. “You’re not going anywhere, right?”

The question lands with the weight of a child asking if the light will stay on. Your chest aches for him.

“I’m here,” you say gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in his expression softens, a tension unwinding that you didn’t even realize was there. His breathing eases, eyes closing briefly as if he needs to feel the truth of your words settle inside him. When he opens them again, they’re still red-rimmed, still raw, but clearer. Behind him, the marker stands quiet and unchanged, the offerings at its base stirring faintly in the breeze. The path leading to it looks different now, less like a wound and more like a thread connecting past to present, grief to survival.

You glance at it, then back at him. “You don’t have to come here alone anymore.”

His gaze follows yours, landing on the carved letters. For a moment, uncertainty flickers across his face, as if he isn’t sure what this place is supposed to be now that you’re standing beside him instead of beneath the earth it marks.

“Didn’t know what else to do,” he admits quietly.

He looks back at you, something steadier taking root behind the lingering sorrow. Not joy, not yet. Just the beginning of peace, tentative as new growth pushing through frost.

“Guess I don’t have to talk to a piece of wood anymore,” he adds, a faint, crooked hint of humor threading through the words.

“You can if you want,” you say softly. “But I’d prefer you talk to me.”

That almost-smile deepens, fragile but real. He reaches out, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek as if confirming you’re still solid, still warm, still here. The touch is careful, reverent, like handling something irreplaceable.

You turn together toward the path, moving when you’re ready. His hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers threading through with a firm, grounding pressure. This time, the contact feels different. As you step onto the worn earth, your footprints fall beside his, widening the narrow trail by a fraction. Grass bends under the new pattern, the old groove no longer the only one guiding the way.

Halfway to the trees, he glances back. The marker stands alone in the clearing, small and weathered, no longer the final destination of a solitary pilgrimage but a quiet monument to a chapter that has already begun to close. Sunlight filters through the branches above it, painting the wood in soft gold.

He exhales, long and deep, a breath that sounds like setting something down after carrying it too far. Then he faces forward again, tightening his hold on your hand.

Behind you, the path remains etched into the surface of the world, proof of love that refused to disappear even when hope did. Ahead, the trees part to reveal the distant outline of the compound, alive with sound and motion and all the messy brightness of people who survived.

-----

The bar lights always felt a little too warm this time of night—low amber glow catching on spilled sugar rims, half-melted ice, and the shimmer of body glitter that never really left the counter no matter how hard you scrubbed. You’d been here long enough to know the rhythm of the place, the bass thrumming up through the floorboards, the dancers laughing backstage between sets, the regulars who tipped well and the ones who didn’t but swore they “would next time.”

You were wiping down a row of glasses when the front doors opened—no fanfare, no dramatic gust of neon-soaked air. Just a man walking in like he belonged anywhere he put his boots down.

Tall, broad shoulders beneath a worn henley. Hair tied back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that flicked around the room in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering, not hungry, like most of the men who come through. He moved through the space without brushing against a single drunk patron, as if the crowd parted for him. 

He approached the counter, stepped close enough that you could smell leather and winter on him, and rested one forearm on the bar like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Evenin’,” he said, voice low and warm, with the hint of a rasp that curled around your spine.

You cleared your throat. “What can I get you? And before you ask, no, the ladies aren’t on the menu.”

He lets out a surprised laugh, “No way people have actually said that.”

“Oh, sweetheart, is it your first time at a strip club?” you say, leaning an elbow on the bar like you’re settling in for story time, “Everyone is either here for something on the rocks or the get their rocks off. Usually it’s both.”

His grin goes crooked, flashing for a second before he reins it back in. “Bold of you to assume I’m not here for the drink,” he says, eyes dipping to your mouth for a beat too long to be accidental.

“Well then, what can I get you?” 

He drags a knuckle along the edge of the bar, slow, thoughtful, like he’s actually considering his answer carefully instead of just picking the first liquor he recognizes.

“Something strong. god knows I’ll need it, with the guys I'm waiting for..” He says with a huffed laugh, half a sigh.

“Cheap strong or good strong?” You ask, grabbing a bourbon.

“Good strong,” he says without hesitation. “If I’m gonna suffer tonight, I’d like the drink to be the one part that doesn’t suck.”

You glance up at him as you uncap the bottle, catching the faint tightness in his jaw—annoyance, maybe, but not at you.

“Sounds like you’re expecting trouble,” you say, pouring the bourbon over ice.

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Expecting? No. Already promised it.”

You raise a brow. “Ah. Work friends?”

“Worse,” he says, tapping the bar lightly with two fingers. “Actual friends.”

That startles a snort of laughter out of you. “Poor you.”

“Yeah.” His smile tilts, resigned and warm. “Poor me.”

You slide the glass toward him, and he takes it with a soft “thanks,” swirling it once before taking a slow, appreciative sip. His eyes flutter shut for the briefest second—just enough for you to see the tension ease out of his shoulders.

“Yo Buck, you started without us?” You recognize the voice, how could you not? Everyone knows the black Falcon, the new Captain America, but to you? He's just one of your favorite regulars, Sam. His voice carries across the room—loud, easy, unmistakably pleased with himself—and you watch the man in front of you go still for half a heartbeat, like he’s bracing for something.

He turns just enough to look over his shoulder, his expression already sliding into something irritated but undeniably fond.

“Yeah,” he calls back. “’Cause someone told me eight-thirty and it’s—” He glances at the clock above your head. “—not eight-thirty.”

Sam just grins as he approaches, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though it’s dark as hell in here. He’s got one guy trailing behind him—shorter but broad, his smile already bright and excited as he takes in the room like it’s Disneyland with boobs.

You lean your elbows on the bar as Sam reaches you. “Hey, Sam. Heard you from halfway across the room.”

Sam beams at you. “Good. Means I’m doing my job.”

“Your job is being loud?” you tease.

“Absolutely,” he declares. “It’s my gift to the world.”

Behind him, the shorter guy points at Sam. “Unfortunately.”

Sam ignores him with the practiced skill of someone who’s spent too many years dealing with idiots. You pour his usual without asking.

“He treating you okay?” Sam asks, jerking a thumb at Bucky. “This one gets grumpy when he’s sober too long.”

“I heard that,” Bucky says flatly, finishing the last of his drink.

“Good,” Sam shoots back before looking at you again. “You take good care of my boy?”

You open your mouth, but Bucky beats you to it, turning toward the bar with color rising high on his cheeks—whether from the drink or your attention, you're not sure.

“Stop bein’ a nuisance,” he mutters. “She’s just doing her job.”

Sam lets out an obnoxious “Ooooh,” grinning between the two of you like he’s watching the pilot episode of a romance series. “Should’ve known you’d be flirting with the bartender the second I stopped watching you. And I bet you flirted back, you minx!”

You snort. “I flirt with everyone, Wilson. Don’t get jealous.”

“Oh, I’m jealous,” Sam says dramatically. “But only because Barnes here never looks that pretty when I serve him a drink.”

You roll your eyes, sliding him his regular. “Then maybe you should leave that to me. What can I get your friend?”

The shorter guy hops forward, practically vibrating. “Whiskey sour, please. Heavy on the whiskey, light on the sour, and if you can make it look cool while you do it, I’ll appreciate that.”

Bucky snorts into his empty glass.

“That’s Jaoquin," Sam says with the long-suffering tone of someone who regrets most of his life choices. “We don’t claim him.”

Jaoquin throws both hands up. “Lies. They love me.”

You grin as you reach for the whiskey. “Sure they do, sweet thing.”

He beams like you handed him a winning lottery ticket as you finish the whiskey sour with a flourish.

Sam takes a long sip of his drink, eyes darting between the men and then back to you, brimming with mischief. “Look at you, handling us like a pro.”

“I am a pro,” you shoot back. “Dealing with drunk idiots is my job.”

Jaoquin gasps like you just stabbed him through the heart. “Hey! I’m not even drunk yet.”

“Yet,” Sam echoes, patting him on the back with faux sympathy. “Give it twenty minutes.”

“Ten,” Bucky mutters.

You set Jaoquin’s drink in front of him, sliding it over with a practiced flick of your wrist. He watches the glass like it’s some rare artifact, then looks up at you with genuine awe.

“You’re like… a wizard,” he whispers.

You pick up a bar towel, toss it over your shoulder, and wink. “Don’t tell the others, I charge extra for magic.”

Sam cackles. “Don’t joke about that, that one’ll believe you.”

You ignore him, choosing instead to study the newcomers. Bucky’s staring at his glass, it’s subtle, but you see the way his breathing shifts, the way he pretends to be very interested in the melting ice at the bottom.

He’s not subtle enough.

You lift a brow at him, voice smooth. “You want another, or are you just gonna stare until the glass refills itself?”

Sam chokes on his drink.

Jaoquin does not bother hiding his delighted “Oooooh.”

Bucky’s ears turn pink. “I—uh—yeah. Another’s fine.”

The stammer is delicious. You take your time grabbing the bottle, letting him sit in it.

“Alright,” Sam says, elbows on the bar, chin in hand, watching all of this unfold like it’s exactly the show he came for. “Y’all ready to watch some dancin’ ladies? Shows about to start.”

Bucky groans into his hands. “Can we not—”

“Hey, you were whining about how people don’t dance like they used to” Sam cuts in. “This is where we dance.”

Bucky drags his hands down his face, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer. Or a threat. With him, it’s hard to tell.

“This is not what I meant,” he says, finally lifting his head. “I meant swing dancing. Or a waltz. Something with—y’know—clothes.”

Sam barks out a laugh. “And I told you, Barnes, if you want to waltz, you can waltz your ass back home. We,” he gestures broadly toward the stage, “are here for culture.”

Jaoquin nods solemnly, as if Sam has just announced a lesson in classical literature. “Very important culture.”

You snort under your breath and slide Bucky his fresh bourbon. He takes it like he needs it, fingers curling around the glass just a little too tight. He doesn’t drink right away though—he looks at you again, eyes flicking up beneath thick lashes.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

You lean in just enough to make him swallow. “Anytime.”

Sam kicks Bucky’s boot under the bar. “Man, you’re hopeless.”

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, cheeks still pink.

But he doesn’t look away from you. Not even when the stage lights shift from soft blues to hot pinks, signaling the start of the next set. Not when the DJ announces the performer with an overly dramatic flourish. Not when half the men in the room perk up like dogs hearing a treat bag crinkle

A cascade of laughter erupts from Jaoquin. Bucky, though—Bucky just stares, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

The stage music kicks in—slow beat, deep bass—but no one at your section notices, not immediately.

“Come on,” Sam finally says, tapping the bar. “Let’s get a good table before Buck turns into a puddle.”

Bucky tries to stand, but he’s still looking at you, fingers lingering on his glass like he doesn’t want to leave it—or you—behind.

Sam grabs his arm. “Let’s go, loverboy.”

“Sam—”

“Up. Move. One foot in front of the other, buddy.”

Jaoquin is already halfway to the stage when he turns back and beams at you again. “I like her,” he announces.

Sam calls back, “Hey, she’s my favorite bartender, choose your own.”

You toss Sam a salute with two fingers. “Damn right.”

“That’s cold,” Jaoquin says, but he’s grinning, already scanning the tables to see which ones are closest to the stage. Bucky trails after them, last to move, steps reluctant. 

They melt into the swell of people migrating toward the stage as the music shifts—thicker now, the bass rolling like smoke across the room. You can still spot them from behind the bar, Sam weaving confidently, Jaoquin practically vibrating, Bucky walking like a man being marched to his execution.

They claim a table near the back of the main floor—close enough to see the stage, far enough that Bucky won’t spontaneously combust. Jaoquin plops down instantly, bouncing in his seat. Sam drags his chair out and kicks it back on two legs like he owns the place.

Bucky stands for a second too long, clearly debating whether sitting makes him more or less of a target. He chooses to sit and nurse his drink, almost choking on it when the dancer comes out. It’s almost endearing, the way amongst the howling and hooting men in the room you can see his face go red in the dim light. He’s trying so hard not to look—then trying even harder not to be caught looking—and somehow managing to fail at both.

You catch yourself smiling as you dry another glass, watching from your place behind the bar. Most men in this club are predictable— their reactions are loud, messy, hungry. But Bucky? He sits there like he’s being personally tested by god.

Jaoquin elbows him so violently the chair squeaks. “Dude, relax,” he stage-whispers. “It’s just a girl.”

Bucky shoots him a murderous look. “I am relaxed.”

“You’re sweating,” Sam observes, not even trying to hide his smirk.

“I’m not—” Bucky touches his forehead, frowns, and mutters something into his bourbon.

You shouldn’t be watching—you have tables to check, bottles to refill, drinks to pour—but your eyes keep drifting back to him. The way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tap nervously against the glass. The way he’s pretending the swirling pink lights are the most fascinating thing in the building while doing everything in his power not to look directly at the dancer.

And then he makes a mistake.

He glances toward the bar.

It’s quick—half a second at most—but in that heartbeat, your eyes meet across the distance.

He freezes like he genuinely forgot how to move when confronted with the fact that you were watching him watch the stage.

You raise a brow, purely on instinct.

His response?

Immediate, pure panic.

He tears his gaze away so fast he almost knocks over his drink. 

You set the glass down, shaking your head fondly, and wait for the next wave of customers, but your attention drifts—again—to their table as the dancer finishes her first pole run and moves downstage.

Jaoquin is loving it, leaned forward like he’s front row at a concert. Sam is nodding appreciatively, respectful but still clearly enjoying himself. Bucky looks like he’s trying very hard to merge with the backrest of his chair.

You have two choices.

You could let him be—let him stew in that adorable swirl of fluster and nerves and misplaced chivalry.

Or…

You could have a little fun.

And you’ve never been one to choose the boring option, so you grab your tray.

It’s not your section tonight—you’re strictly bar—but management doesn’t care if a bartender floats for VIP-ish regulars, and Sam always tips well. You abandon the safety of the counter and slip into the crowd, tray tucked under one arm, weaving through sticky floors and pulsing neon. A handful of patrons call your name on instinct; dancers wave as they pass; a few regulars lift empty glasses hopefully. You wave them off.

“Be right back, boys,” you call. “Got a special delivery.”

You weave through the crowd, catching snippets of laughter, catcalls, the thud of heels on stage. Closer, you can actually hear Jaoquin commentating like a sportscaster.

“She’s gonna do the twirl—she’s gonna—OH, SHE DID THE TWIRL—Sam, did you see—”

Sam spots you first. His eyebrows shoot up like he just watched the plot twist of the century.

“Oh HOH-ho-ho,” he says, smacking Jaoquin’s arm. “Look who decided to do table service tonight.”

Jaoquin grins up at you like a golden retriever offered bacon. “Hi!”

You shift your weight to one hip, tray balanced against your palm, giving Jaoquin a gentle pat on the shoulder like he’s just said something extraordinarily brave.

“Hi yourself,” you say, amusement tugging at your mouth. “Heard you boys might be thirsty.”

Sam leans back in his chair—well, “leans” is generous. He more or less sprawls, legs stretched out, hands folded smugly behind his head.

“Mmm,” he hums, eyes flicking from you to Bucky like he’s tracking prey. “Funny. I don’t remember flagging down a bartender.”

“No?” you ask sweetly. “Must’ve been the wind.”

“Mighty helpful wind,” Sam murmurs.

Jaoquin elbows him. “Don’t scare her off!”

“Oh, I’m not scared,” you assure him, setting the tray down on the tiny round table with a practiced flick. “I deal with his brand of idiocracy all the time.”

“Hey Buck,” Sam echoes, grin sharpening. “You gonna ignore her or be polite and say hi?”

Bucky flinches like he’s been struck by a stray spotlight. He’s trying so hard to look normal—back straight, shoulders square, jaw set, but the second you turn your attention toward him, he panics and aborts all that posture entirely, slumping into what must be the world’s least casual lounge.

His hand shoots up in a weird half-wave, half-surrender.

“Uh—hey.”

You look down at him, letting the corners of your lips curl in a slow, deliberate way. His grip tightens around his bourbon, just slightly, so slight you almost miss it. But you don’t.

“Hey yourself,” you respond.

Jaoquin lets out a delighted, “Oh, he’s gone.”

Bucky shoots him a death glare. “Do you want to keep your teeth?”

“Nope!” Jaoquin chirps, absolutely fearless. “They weren’t even that great to begin with.”

“Don’t say that,” You say, patting Jaoquin’s shoulder once again, “You have great teeth.”

Sam’s wheezing laugh practically rattles the table.

You reach across Bucky, plucking his near-empty glass from his hand. His fingers brush yours—just a graze, barely there—but it still hits him like a truck. His breath stutters.

“Gonna top you off,” you say.

“I—yeah—please,” he says, voice an octave lower than before, thick with something that makes Sam raise a knowing brow.

You pour the bourbon slowly—not provocative—just slow enough that Bucky has no choice but to watch your hands.

When you set the glass back in front of him, he looks at it for a second like he forgot why it exists.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, and then—without lifting his gaze from you—adds, “You didn’t have to come over here.”

“Sure I did,” you say, brushing a stray drop from the rim with your thumb. “Would’ve been rude to ignore Sam’s table.”

Sam slams a hand on the table. “AH-HA! See? She loves me.”

“Not even a little,” you say, sliding a tequila shooter in front of him.

Jaoquin beams like you just adopted him. “You get me.”

Sam and Jaoquin start bickering about how many drinks Jaoquin is allowed to have before he tries to dance onstage (Sam says one, Jaoquin claims three, Bucky mutters “zero”), but you’re not listening to them anymore.

You’re watching Bucky.

You tilt your head. “You alright there, sweetheart?”

Sam’s head snaps toward Bucky so fast his sunglasses nearly fall off.

“I’m breathing,” Bucky insists.

You rest a hand on the back of his chair, leaning in just slightly—close enough for him to smell your perfume, close enough that his eyes flick to your lips again.

“You sure?” you ask, soft but pointed. “Because you look a little overwhelmed.”

Jaoquin whispers, stage-loud, “He is SO overwhelmed.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky croaks.

You nod, solemn. “Then you won’t mind if I check on you again later.”

His pupils blow wide. Bucky clears his throat, straightens his back, and tries—god bless him—to pull himself together.

“Yes, ma’am.” he says.

Quiet.

Rough.

Like the word costs him something.

You smile—slow, wicked, sweet.

“Good boy.” You say, squeezing his shoulder lightly.

You pick up your tray, give them a lazy salute, and melt back into the crowd. You don’t have to look back to know he’s still watching you, you can feel it.

A prickle low on your spine, the weight of a gaze that is not leering—not hungry in the greedy way most men get in here—but sharp. Attentive. Pulled. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you meant any of that, or if you’re just doing your job.

Spoiler: you meant every last second of it.

You make it about ten steps before Sam’s voice rises above the music.

“BUCKY. CLOSE YOUR MOUTH.”

Then Jaoquin, scandalized, “Did you just salivate??”

And Bucky—poor, poor Bucky—muttering, “Both of you will die tonight.”

You bite back a grin and keep moving.

A new cluster of customers is already flagging you down, and you settle back behind the bar with ease, sliding into the rhythm of mixing drinks and slinging sarcasm. Even then, your head’s still half-turned toward their table, checking on them without ever looking directly.

They don’t notice you watching, but Bucky? Bucky notices everything.

He tries not to stare—tries really, really hard—but he keeps slipping. Every time he takes a sip, his eyes flick toward the bar. Every time someone cheers at the stage, his gaze jumps instinctively to you instead. When you laugh at something a coworker says, his head snaps up like he’s been called by name.

And every time he catches himself doing it, he looks away like you might set him on fire.

Cute.

The dancer finishes her set to roaring applause, glittering under the spotlights, and the next performer is announced. Sam and Jaoquin dive into another argument about whether the next set will involve “the chair move,” whatever the hell that means.

But Bucky?

He’s back to swirling the ice in his glass like the world’s gentlest threat, eyes drifting to you again.

You decide to test him.

Not much, barely even a glance. Just a slow drag of your gaze across the room until it lands directly—purposefully—on him.

He freezes.

Then straightens.

Then immediately slouches again like he doesn’t know what posture looks like anymore. His grip tightens around his glass, his jaw flexes, and his cheeks are still pink. When you let your lips curl in a soft, knowing smirk he looks down so fast you half-expect his neck to snap.

Yeah, you want him. Normally, customers are off limits— not because of a rule, but because you work at a strip club and the men that come in aren’t exactly your type— but this one? You’ll make an exception for him.

A few minutes pass before Sam wiggles two fingers in your direction from across the floor—an unmistakable “come here” gesture.

You shake your head and mouth, Busy.

Sam dramatically clutches his chest like you just rejected a marriage proposal.

Jaoquin waves both arms frantically like he’s trying to guide a landing plane.

You finally make your way back over—mostly because you’re low on lime wedges, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. When you approach the table again, Sam is mid-sentence.

“—swear to god, if you don’t at least try to talk to her without sounding like you’ve been concussed—”

He stops when he sees you. “Ah. Speak of the devil.”

Jaoquin waves. “HI AGAIN.”

Oh, the poor thing is already drunk off his ass. 

Bucky goes unnervingly still, like maybe if he doesn’t move, you won’t notice him melting into the floor.

You set your tray back on their table. “You boys good over here?”

Sam nods toward Bucky. “He’s does.”

You rest one hand on the back of Bucky’s chair again—just like before. Just a gentle anchor.

“Is that so?” you murmur, “What can I get you? More bourbon?” you offer.

He swallows. “No. I mean—yes. No. I’m good. I’m fine. I’m—”

You lean in, close enough that he has to look at you.

“Sweetheart,” you say softly, “you’re rambling.”

His mouth opens, then closes again—once, twice—like he’s trying to reboot himself. The tips of his ears are already a deep, traitorous red. Joaquin slaps a hand over his own mouth to hide a squeak, and Sam is biting his knuckle like he’s physically holding in a laugh.

Bucky, bless him, is fighting for his life.

“I’m not— I’m not rambling,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

“Sorry, he's old,” Sam says, mocking and delighted. “My man needs some buffering time.”

“Don’t be mean, Sam.” You chastise with a smile, keeping your focus on Bucky, “You should take some buffering time, maybe you won’t say things so stupid.”

You tilt your head, keeping your hand exactly where it is on his chair. Your fingers graze the warm skin at the nape of his neck when you shift—totally accidentally, obviously—and the tiny inhale he gives is embarrassingly loud.

He tries again. “I’m, uh…” He clears his throat. “Good. Really. I don’t need anything.”

His eyes flick up to yours, just for a second, and then down again, like the look alone is too much for him.

“You sure?” you ask, voice dropping to a whisper. “Because you look like a man who needs something.”

Sam kicks the table hard enough that the drinks wobble. “OH MY god.”

Joaquin is gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Bucky glares at them, then looks back up at you—actually looks this time. Slow, painful, deliberate.

“…What do you think I need?” he asks.

It’s quiet, soft, honest enough that it makes the air between you thrum. You just smile.

“I think,” you say lightly, “you need to breathe, first of all.”

He does—sharp and shaky and way too obvious.

“And maybe,” you add, brushing your fingers once more along his neck as you straighten, “you need to relax a little.”

Bucky’s hand curls around his glass like it’s the only stable thing in his life.

“I’ll bring you boys some water,” you say, stepping back with a wink aimed directly at Bucky. “You’re starting to look a little dehydrated.”

You pivot away from the table, tray tucked against your hip, and you don’t have to turn around to know they’re all losing their minds behind you. 

You take your time at the service station. Maybe a little more time than necessary. You slice the limes slowly, drop fresh ice into a metal scoop, prep their waters with a bartender’s practiced detachment that absolutely is not detachment right now. Every time you pause, every time your mind drifts, it drifts right back to him—those wide eyes, that pink creeping down his throat, the way he tried so hard to get a sentence out like you were stealing the words right from his tongue.

You grab the tray again—three waters, extra napkins, a few spare lime wedges—then head back.

Before you’re even in earshot, you hear Joaquin whisper harshly,

“You have to say something to her—”

Sam interrupts, louder, “No, he absolutely does not. Let him simmer. Let him marinate.”

Bucky groans. “I hate both of you.”

god, he’s adorable.

You arrive just in time to set the tray down before Sam can respond with something catastrophically unhelpful. Each glass lands with a soft thunk, condensation beading instantly.

“You boys are a mess,” you say cheerfully, placing a water in front of each of them. You save Bucky’s for last—sliding it in front of him slowly, your fingers grazing his.

He jolts like you zapped him.

“Hydrate,” you tell him, leaning in with that same warm, pointed tone.

Sam kicks Joaquin under the table so hard the poor man yelps.

Bucky shuts his eyes, inhales through his nose, and then—finally—manages real words.

“You… do this to every guy who comes in?”

His voice is low. Rough. A little defensive, but more than anything, it’s vulnerable, like he genuinely doesn’t know if he’s imagining all of it.

You let your lips curl. “No.”

A beat of silence.

His eyes snap up.

For the first time tonight, he doesn’t look away. Not for a heartbeat. Not for anything. He just… holds your gaze, like he’s bracing himself, like he’s stepping off some invisible ledge.

“…Oh,” he breathes.

It’s barely a sound. Barely anything at all.

But it hits you like a hand around your wrist, tugging you closer.

You take the empty bourbon glass from him, fingers brushing his again—longer this time, intentionally.

“Let me know if you want another drink, and if you want to stick around,” you say quietly, “I get off at 2.” You let the implication hang like smoke between you.

He nods once, slow and controlled. But the tips of his ears have gone bright red again.

When you start to walk away, you swear—swear—you hear Jaoquin whisper, “Holy shit, he’s cooked.”

Sam snorts so loudly half the table across the room turns to look. “Cooked? My man is burnt to a crisp. He’s a whole ass rotisserie chicken.”

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters, but there’s no heat in it. His voice is too thin, too shaky, too wrecked for anything resembling indignation. He’s still staring at the spot where you’d been standing, like his brain hasn’t caught all the way up to your absence.

Joaquin fans him with a napkin. “Breathe, old man. In through the nose, out through the crippling anxiety.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand over his jaw. His fingers tremble, his knee bounces— he looks like someone unplugged him and plugged him back in wrong.

Sam leans back, folding his arms like he’s witnessing a historic moment. “You good, Barnes?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Just stares down at the water you placed in front of him, like it’s suddenly the most complicated thing in the world.

Then, very softly—barely louder than the bass thrumming through the floor—he says:

“She wants me to stay.”

Sam claps him on the back. “Yeah, bud. That’s what happens when a hot girl says, ‘I get off at 2.’ It’s not code for a tax seminar.”

Bucky glares half-heartedly, cheeks still flushed pink and warm. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, do you?” Sam grins. “Because you look like a Victorian man who just saw her exposed ankle.”

“Both of you are insufferable,” Bucky mutters, voice low, but the tension’s softened somehow, the sharp edges of his embarrassment melting into something warmer.

He picks up the water you gave him, fingers curling around the glass like it’s the only stable thing in the world, and takes a long sip—slow, deliberate, grounding himself. His gaze flicks toward the bar again, searching for you, and when he finds you, it’s like he’s memorizing every movement, every tilt of your head, every glint of light on your hair.

“…I’m staying,” he says quietly, more to himself than anyone else, but loud enough for Sam and Joaquin to hear.

Sam whistles low, shaking his head. “Atta boy. That’s how it’s done.”

Joaquin pumps a fist in the air. “Yes! Look at him, owning it!”

Bucky doesn’t flinch at their cheering. He just sets the glass down, shoulders settling slightly, and leans back like he’s finally allowed himself to exist in the moment. His eyes never leave you.

And you keep working, letting him watch, letting him simmer just enough. Because the look he’s giving you—curious, tentative, utterly undone—is exactly the kind of fun you came here for.

Tonight, he’s yours to play with, and you’re suddenly a musician. You don’t rush. You don’t linger too long. You just conduct.

A new song thrums through the speakers—low, slow, bass that rolls like a heartbeat—and you let it guide you, let it shape the sway of your shoulders, the tilt of your neck as you reach for a bottle on the top shelf. You know exactly what it looks like from a distance. You know exactly what it does to a man already on the edge of unraveling.

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s right where you left him—leaned back, hands braced on his thighs, jaw slack, eyes locked on your shape like he’s afraid to blink.

And god, he looks gone.

Not drunk or sloppy. Gone.

Caught in the orbit you’ve spun around, caught in every little baited hook you’ve laid out, one by one.

You pour a drink for a customer without looking down, letting muscle memory take over, and when you slide it across the bar, you drag your gaze back to Bucky on purpose.

His breath hitches. You see it from across the damn room.

Sam and Joaquin immediately lose their minds—Sam grabbing Bucky’s shoulder to physically force him to stay seated, Joaquin slapping a napkin over his own face like he’s shielding his eyes from the sun.

You give him the smallest smile—tiny, secret, meant for him and him alone—and watch the way it hits him like a punch.

He swallows hard. His hand flexes on his thigh. His entire body shifts forward, just an inch, like every instinct he has wants to stand, walk across the room, and put himself directly in front of you.

You turn back to your work, pulse buzzing with satisfaction.

Sam groans, “She’s playing you like a fiddle, man.”

Joaquin adds, “No—like a whole Stradivarius.”

But Bucky just murmurs, barely audible, eyes still glued to your silhouette:

“…yeah.”

Two in the morning comes quicker than normal. The midnight rush slows, your tips pile up, your smile never fading as you serve drinks. Your gaze flicks over to Bucky every few seconds—just enough to keep him warm, never enough to cool him off.

Sam leaves around midnight, shooting you a knowing grin and slipping a generous tip onto the bar.

“Don’t break him,” he whispers conspiratorially.

You wink. “No promises.”

He cackles and drags a nearly comatose Joaquin out the door by his hood.

When you glance back at Bucky after they leave, it’s almost unfair what you find.

He hasn’t moved.

Not even a little.

Same chair, same posture, same empty glass in front of him. Same hands braced on his thighs like he’s keeping himself from doing something reckless.Except now that his friends aren’t distracting him, he watches you openly—hungry and cautious and reverent all at once. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. Like every second between now and two a.m. is just another step closer to you.

You feel the weight of his attention from across the room. The heat of it.

Every time you move, his eyes track you. Every time you bend to grab something off a lower shelf, he shifts like it physically affects him. Every time you so much as breathe in his direction, his jaw clenches.

By one-thirty, he’s running a hand through his hair over and over again, tousling it into something almost boyish. He keeps adjusting in his seat too—stretching his legs out, crossing them, uncrossing them, tapping his thumb on his knee. Anything to give himself away.

By one-forty-five, he turns his empty bourbon glass in slow circles on the table, watching the way the dim lights catch the edge. Waiting. Debating. Working himself up over what comes next.

And by one-fifty-eight—just as you’re wiping down the bar and counting the last of your cash—he finally stands.

Not fast or confident.

Slow. Like approaching a wild animal. Like any sudden movement might spook him or you or both.

You don’t look up immediately, you hear his footsteps first—heavy, steady, dragging slightly from nerves. Then the way he pauses just shy of the bar, breath catching like he might turn back.

The way he gathers what courage he has left.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You look up.

He’s a mess in the prettiest way— mussed from his own hands, cheeks still flushed warm from earlier, blue eyes bright under the neon glow. He’s trying so hard to look calm, but his fingers curl on the edge of the bar like he’s grounding himself.

“You, uh… still getting off at two?” he asks.

You glance at the clock behind you. One minute to go.

“Looks like,” you hum.

He swallows hard. “And you still want me to, um, stick around?”

Oh, he’s adorable when he’s brave.

You lean your elbows on the bar, tilting your head.

“Depends,” you murmur. “You planning on behaving?”

His breath stutters.

“…Probably not.”

You smile.

“Good,” you say. “I was hoping you wouldn’t. Wait here, I’ll be right back, m’kay?”

His answering inhale is sharp enough to hear over the speakers. He nods—slow, stunned, like you’ve just handed him something delicate and dangerous.

“O-okay,” he manages, voice barely holding itself together. “Yeah. I’ll—I’ll wait.”

Of course he will. You could tell him to wait all night and he would, happily, reverently, flushed right down to the collar of that worn henley.

You slip into the back hallway, pushing through the staff door with a soft click. The noise of the club dampens instantly—bass turning muted, lights dimming to bare bulbs humming above lockers.

You toss your apron aside, shake out your hair, swipe a bit of shimmer off your cheek where someone from the floor must’ve brushed past you earlier. Your pulse is still thrumming from the way he said “probably not,” warm and sweet and more honest than anything he’s managed all night.

You take a deep breath, then another. Because you’re not nervous, but something about the way he looks at you curls just right under your skin.

When you come back out, it’s like the whole club has shifted around him.

Most of the lights are up now, the last stragglers trickling out, chairs getting stacked on tables, but Bucky?

Still hasn’t moved.

He’s still standing at the bar, hands shoved in his pockets now like he’s trying to look casual—completely failing, but god love him for trying. His head snaps up the moment he hears the door, eyes dragging over you in a slow sweep that he never would’ve dared two hours ago.

It hits him visibly— his posture straightens instinctively, breath catches, and for a second he seemingly forgets how to blink.

“Hey,” you say softly as you walk toward him, bag slung over your shoulder.

He swallows like he’s clearing space for the word before he lets it out.

“Hi.” It’s raspier than before, lower and warm. “You, um, ready?”

You stop in front of him, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to keep eye contact.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You?”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest all night.

“…God, yeah.”

His voice has finally caught up to the way he’s been looking at you.

You have him take you to his place, because cute as he is and as much as you like him, he’s still a man and you’re better safe than sorry. Not that he seems to mind in the slightest, the entire drive he was practically vibrating in your passenger seat—from nerves or excitement you aren’t sure. Probably both. Unable to stop yourself, you let your hand move to rest on his thigh, relishing in the way his breath hitches instantly, the muscle pulling taught under your finger tips. You squeeze slightly, running your hand up and down in a soothing motion.

“Relax. Do I make you that nervous, Buck?”

You glance over to see him gulp, to enjoy the way pink flushes up his neck to the tips of his ears just from the sound of you saying his name for the first time. You drag your fingertips a little higher, just to see what it does to him, and oh, does it do exactly what you hoped.

Bucky’s hand flexes against his jeans, fingers splaying like he’s trying to find something to hold onto that isn’t you. His knee twitches, breath leaving in a half-choked exhale that he tries—fails—to disguise as a cough. Another quick glance lets you see the tent beginning to form even under the stiff jeans he’s wearing.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice embarrassingly thin. “Yeah, you— you kinda do.”

You smile to yourself, eyes back on the road, but your hand stays right where it is.

“Good nervous or bad nervous?” you ask lightly, thumb brushing the inside seam of his thigh.

“Good,” he says immediately— too immediately. “Really good. Like—fuck, I don’t know—the stupid kind.”

You bite back a grin. “Stupid kind?”

He groans softly, head thunking back against the seat. “The kind where my brain’s all scrambled and I keep saying dumb shit because you—”

He stops, realizing what he’s about to admit.

You squeeze his thigh again. “Because I what?”

Silence stretches for a beat. Then, in a small, wrecked, painfully honest voice, “Because you’re… kinda perfect, and I’m trying so hard not to screw this up. God, I sound like a fucking loser.”

That pulls your gaze from the road. He’s staring out the window like the passing streetlights might rescue him, jaw tight, lashes low, cheeks pink like he’s confessing a secret he didn’t mean to let slip.

You soften.

“Bucky,” you murmur, running your thumb soothingly across tense muscle, “you’re doing great. Promise. You’re a very cute loser.”

His eyes flick to you—quick, startled, hopeful. You give his thigh another quick squeeze before turning back to the road. You can’t help the small giggle that escapes you when a startled noise leaves him.

“Fuck, you’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

You hum like you’re thinking about it, even though you absolutely are.

“Maybe,” you admit. “Hard to resist when you react like that.”

“Like what?” he demands—except it’s not demanding at all. It’s breathless, shaky, too soft around the edges to be anything but pleading.

“Like you’re two seconds from falling apart just ’cause I touched your leg.”

He makes another sound—half whine, half exhale—and drags a hand down his face.

“Jesus,” he mutters, sinking lower into the passenger seat like that’ll hide him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Mm, don’t think so,” you tease. “Just having a little fun.”

He turns his head, finally looking at you fully again. Neon from a passing sign washes over his face in a soft pink glow, catching on the messy strands of his hair and the flush high on his cheekbones. He looks undone, and beautiful. And so very, very gone for you.

“You’re evil,” he says weakly.

You smile. “You like it.”

His throat bobs, so you do the only thing you can think of. You let your fingers slide just a fraction higher on his thigh, moving over the fabric stretched taught over the bulge. You press down, just barely letting the heel of your palm apply slight pressure.

The reaction is instant—violent, helpless, gorgeous. His hips jerk like he didn’t mean to move, like his body betrayed him before his brain could catch up. A strangled noise punches out of his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea, and his hand clamps down on the seat like he’s holding on for dear life.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut for one long, agonizing second.

When they open again, he’s looking at you like you’ve just flipped the world upside down.

You keep your eyes on the road, but your hand stays exactly where it is, palm warm over him, thumb brushing a slow circle like it’s nothing.

“You okay over there?” you ask, tone deliberately gentle and sweet.

“Y-yeah. Fine.” His voice cracks.

You hum innocently. “Want me to keep going?”

“Please.” he breathes, sounding ruined already.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you murmur, dragging the words out like silk, “you really are sensitive, aren’t you?”

He shudders a breath that starts in his chest and gets stuck somewhere in his throat. He nods—tiny, desperate—and the sight alone nearly makes you moan.

You slow your hand but don’t stop, letting the heel of your palm glide over him again, just enough to keep him barely thinking. Barely breathing. Barely holding on.

“Good boy,” you whisper.

He makes a sound he definitely didn’t mean to make—sharp and soft all at once, something that shoots straight to your core and curls your smile at the edges.

“Holy shit,” he whispers back, visibly trembling now. “You— you can’t just say stuff like that while I’m— fuck—”

“While you’re what?” you press, voice low. You drag your palm over him one more time, slow and deliberate. “Hard? Squirming in your seat? Doing everything you can not to fall apart before we even get to your building?”

He grips the seat again, knuckles white.

“I— yeah— that,” he stammers, breathless and shaking. “All of that. You’re— fuck.”

You don’t let him finish, fingers deftly undoing the button on his jeans and slipping beneath the fabric to cup him over his boxers. You feel the heat of him through the thin cotton—nothing more than a warm, aching outline beneath your palm—but it’s enough to make him gasp like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

His hips jolt, his breath stutters, and his hand shoots out blindly until it finds your knee, fingers clutching hard like he needs the anchor.

“Hey,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft despite the wicked curl in your smile, “eyes on me.”

He tries—god, he tries—but he can only manage a flicker of a glance before his lashes drop again, his whole body leaning forward like the pull between you has its own gravity.

“Too much?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head fast, hair brushing his jaw, breath coming out in short, uneven bursts. “No. No—just— you’re—” He swallows, struggling for words. “You’re messing me up.”

“Mm.” You let your fingers press just a little more firmly, still over the fabric, still barely giving him anything real. “I know.”

His entire body shudders.

The city lights flash across his face as you make a turn—cool blues, sharp whites—catching the way his jaw tenses, the way he bites down on a sound he doesn’t want to make in the quiet car.

“Bucky?” you murmur, dragging his name out just enough.

He looks at you again, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“You still with me?”

He nods, tiny, helpless.

You trace a slow, lazy line with your thumb just over where you feel his head leaking precum already. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” you say, gentle but devastating.

He sucks in a breath—sharp, high, helpless. His hips twitch up like the movement has been building in him for minutes, like your words alone pull the string tight inside him.

His fingers dig into your knee, not painful, just desperate. Pleading.

“Oh my god…” he whispers, voice cracking right down the middle. 

“Shh.” You soften your tone, brushing your thumb again, slow and deliberate. “I’ve got you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, breath shaking out of him. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you murmur, leaning back just a little to watch him squirm in the seat. “Look at you. Taking every little thing I give you.”

His eyes flutter open—barely—but it’s enough. Enough for you to see how undone he is. How close. How much he wants to be good for you even when his body is betraying every attempt at composure.

“Say it,” you coax softly. “Tell me you’re still with me.”

He nods, too fast, like he’s afraid he’ll lose the ability if he waits a second longer. “With you. I’m— I’m with you, I promise.”

“Good boy,” you breathe.

The reaction is instant—his whole body tenses like a chord pulled tight, breath catching in his throat, something raw and needy flashing across his face.

He’s not even aware he’s leaning closer to you, like your voice is the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“You like that?” you ask quietly. Not mocking or teasing, just curious. Intent.

He nods again—small, jerky. “Yeah. Too much. It’s—god—it’s too much.”

You smile, hand never leaving him. “But you don’t want me to stop.”

He shakes his head, helpless, barely holding himself together. “No. Please— please don’t.”

Your thumb traces that same slow, devastating circle. “Then breathe for me, Bucky.”

He drags in a breath—shaky, uneven, a half-whimper caught in his chest.

“And keep your eyes open,” you add, soft but firm.

His lashes lift. Barely. But they lift. Blue eyes blown wide, glassy with need and trust and something deeper that he probably hasn’t even realized he’s giving you.

“There you go,” you murmur. “Just like that.”

He swallows hard. “Drive faster.”

You laugh—quiet and delighted. “You want me to take you apart that badly?”

He makes a noise that could be a yes, could be a plea, could be both, and you decide to be nice. You slip your hand beneath the fabric of his boxers, letting your fingers curl around the warm, sensitive curve of him, skin to skin for the first time. He’s already rock hard in your hand, precum leaking down his trapped length. You slide your hand up and down once, just to spread it, and the sound he makes is immediate and wrecked—half inhale, half sob, half disbelief. 

“Easy,” you murmur, though your voice is anything but innocent. “I’ve got you.”

His head falls back against the seat, jaw clenched, throat working around a breath he can’t quite catch. His knees spread a little wider without him even realizing he’s doing it, like his body is offering itself up to you out of pure instinct.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice shot to hell, “I’m— I can’t— I’m not gonna last.”

“You don’t have to,” you say gently, your hand stroking again—slow, warm, devastating. Not even a real rhythm, just enough for him to feel every second of it.

His entire body jolts.

“Holy—fuck—” He reaches blindly for you with his other hand, fingers barely brushing your wrist before he snatches it back like he’s afraid touching you might actually break him. “No—wait—I don’t wanna— not yet—”

You soften instantly, easing the pressure but not letting go.

“Hey.” Your voice quiets, warm and steady. “You okay?”

He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again—completely undone. “I— I don’t wanna finish in your car.”

A soft laugh escapes you. “Sweetheart. I’m not gonna make you.” You give him one slow stroke, just enough to keep him dizzy. “Not unless you ask.”

His breath catches on the word ask.

You see it. The way his hips twitch. The way a sound slips past his lips before he can swallow it. The way a blush creeps all the way down his throat.

You ease your hand back to a gentler hold beneath his waistband—still teasing, but slightly more reassuring.

“Almost there,” you murmur. “Couple more minutes and we’ll be parked. Then I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

Bucky nods again, this time slower, more controlled, though every muscle in his body is trembling.

“You’re doing so good,” you tell him softly.

His eyes squeeze shut for a beat, and when he opens them, they’re shining.

“Please don’t stop touching me,” he whispers, barely audible.

Your heart pulls tight at the sound of it—soft, wrecked, so honest it punches straight through your chest.

“I’m not stopping,” you promise, thumb brushing slow circles over the edge of his waistband, your fingers cupping him in a way that’s more comfort than torture now. “I’ve got you.”

He exhales shakily, like those three words alone are enough to hold him together. His hand finally settles on your wrist—not gripping, just resting there, warm and tentative, like he needs the anchor. Like he needs you.

“That’s it,” you breathe, leaning just a little closer, letting your shoulder brush his. “Let me take care of you.”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut again as his body slowly unwinds from that razor-wire tension. Not completely—never completely—he’s still trembling under your touch, still fighting every instinct telling him to fall apart right here, right now. But he’s listening. He’s trying.

You keep your voice low, steady, something he can follow out of his own head. “Good. Just breathe. We’re almost there.”

The city lights slip across his face as you turn onto his street, painting him in gold, then shadow, then gold again. He slowly starts grinding against your palm and you can’t help the smile on your lips. His lashes flutter with every shift, his mouth parting on these tiny, helpless breaths he can’t seem to swallow down.

“You’re really good at this,” he manages, though it sounds more like a confession than a sentence.

“Good at taking care of you?” you murmur.

He nods, embarrassed but honest. “Yeah. That.”

You stroke your thumb up the line of his hip, slow and soothing. “Then let me.”

He shudders—full-body, involuntary—like that permission alone nearly undoes him.

You pull into his building’s parking lot, engine idling as you slip the gear into park.

“Hey,” you say softly, turning toward him fully, your hand still warm beneath the denim of his jeans. “Look at me.”

He tries—god, he really tries—but his eyes open only halfway, heavy and dazed and already surrendering.

“There you go,” you whisper. “Still with me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice trembling. “Just really, really need you.”

Your chest tightens again—fondness, heat, something dangerously close to affection. You lean in, brushing your nose against the edge of his jaw, slow and sweet.

“Good,” you murmur. “Because I’m about to take you inside.”

His breath stutters.

“And once we’re alone?” Your hand slides just a bit deeper into his boxers, the gentlest brush of your fingers against hot skin. Enough to make him gasp, to make his hips jerk helplessly.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” you whisper. “Make you fall apart exactly how you wanted to.”

He makes a sound that’s nothing but need.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” you say softly, easing your hand free and reaching for his. “You inviting me up?”

His reaction is almost instant, hands shakily fixing his pants as he opens the door, nodding. He stumbles out first, like he can’t get upright fast enough, one hand braced on the car door, the other fumbling with yours cutely. His legs are unsteady—too warm, too shaky, too wound up—and when you close your own door and come around to him, he’s standing there blinking at you like you’ve knocked the breath right out of him.

“Hey,” you murmur, sliding your fingers through his. “You ready?”

He tries—god, he really tries—but the moment your hands lace together, his grip tightens with barely-contained urgency. He starts walking toward the entrance with you at his side, but every few steps he wavers, breath catching like the memory of your touch is still ricocheting through him.

Inside the lobby’s dim lighting, he’s even more undone. His cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like he’s been running instead of just trying desperately to keep himself together.

He swipes his key fob over the elevator panel, and his hand is shaking so badly he has to do it twice.

You catch his wrist gently. “Bucky.”

He looks up at you, startled, like he forgot people could still see him.

“You sure?” you ask—soft, not teasing this time. “You want me up there with you?”

He swallows, throat bobbing hard. “I—yeah. Yes. Of course I do.” His voice cracks, heat blooming across his face. “I just… I can’t think straight when you’re touching me.”

You step closer—not crowding him, just enough that he can lean, if he wants to. Suddenly clarity flashes through your mind.  “You had a lot to drink, I don’t know if—”

“I can’t get drunk.”

At that, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “I know you’re a big guy, but everyone can get drunk.”

He just shakes his head, pulling you inside the elevator as the doors open and pressing the button quickly, “No, like I can’t get drunk. Super soldier stuff. Test me, I’m sober. Nervous as fuck, but very sober. This would be a hell of a lot easier if I could get drunk, trust me.”

You blink at him, the elevator doors sliding shut behind you with a soft thud. For a moment you just… stare. Because he looks wrecked, trembling, flushed, eyes blown wide—not drunk, but something else entirely.

“So,” you say slowly, brow lifting. “You’re telling me you’re like… biologically incapable of getting drunk.”

He nods quickly, almost offended you don’t believe him. “Yeah. Metabolism’s too fast. It sucks. Can’t get tipsy, can’t get buzzed. Can barely even get caffeine to hit me.” Then, with a helpless gesture toward his whole entire body, “This? This is just you.”

Your stomach does a dangerous little flip.

You lean in a fraction, voice dropping. “So you’re saying all of this—” Your fingers ghost down the front of his shirt, not even touching, just hovering close enough to feel the warmth of him. “—is because of me?”

A sound escapes him—quiet, rough, like he’s trying not to whine. His head knocks lightly back against the elevator wall.

“Yeah,” he says, the word almost whispered. “You’re messing me up, doll.”

“Well,” you murmur, stepping close enough that your bodies almost touch, “I’m flattered.”

He huffs out a breathless laugh that dissolves into a soft, shaky exhale when you lay your palm flat against his chest.

“And you’re okay with this?” you ask, softer now. “Really okay?”

His hand comes up—hesitant, trembling—fingers curling around your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear if he holds any tighter.

“I’m way more than okay,” he says, voice low and honest and cracked open. “I just—” His eyes drag down your body, back up to your mouth. “God, I want you so bad I can’t think straight.”

You slide your hand up, brushing your knuckles along the edge of his jaw. “Then breathe, sweetheart.”

He sucks in a breath—sharp, needy.

“And when those doors open,” you add, stepping even closer, lips brushing the corner of his mouth without touching, “you’re going to show me exactly where your apartment is.”

He nods instantly, desperate, already lifting his chin like he wants to meet your mouth.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open.

And Bucky is already reaching for your hand, voice barely steady as he murmurs. “Come with me.”

He pulls you to a door, fumbles slightly with his keys, and immediately is on you. The moment you step inside, he pushes the door closed and you against it. His mouth doesn’t quite find yours—he’s too frantic for that—but his hands do, one splayed over your hip, the other braced beside your head like he’s trying to cage in everything he’s been holding back.

“Jesus—” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours for a second, his breath hot, uneven. “I’ve been trying to be good. I swear. I was trying so hard in the car.”

Your lips curl. “You did so well.”

The praise hits him like a physical touch—his fingers tighten on your waist, his hips pressing forward before he even realizes he’s doing it.

“Don’t—” His voice breaks, a little desperate. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

You reach up, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. “I always mean it. You did so good for me, baby.”

He lets out a shuddering exhale, eyes squeezing shut for a moment like that alone unravels something in him. When he opens them again, they’re darker—clearer, somehow, but wrecked in a way that says you’ve completely undone him.

“Can I—” He stops, swallows, tries again. “Please tell me I can touch you.”

You take his wrist gently and guide his hand to your waist, then higher, sliding it up your ribcage slow enough that you feel every tremble roll through him.

“You can touch me,” you whisper. “Anywhere you want.”

His breath leaves him in a soft, wrecked sound—relief, hunger, awe tangled together.

His hand curves around your side, fingers tentative but desperate, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible. “God—thank you.”

You tilt his chin up with two fingers, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

“Bucky,” you say softly, deliberately, “you don’t have to ask for permission to want me.”

His lips part—slow, stunned, like the words knock the air right out of him. He leans in again without thinking, his nose brushing your cheek, his mouth hovering over yours.

“Then kiss me,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Please.”

The moment your lips touch his, Bucky breaks. Not with sound, not with intensity—but with need so palpable you can feel it in the way his body melts against yours. His mouth is warm and desperate, kissing you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s trying to breathe you in.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts the low, hungry sound he makes into your mouth. The other wraps around your waist, pulling you flush to him, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip for even a second.

You nip his bottom lip lightly—just enough pressure to make him gasp.

“God—” he whispers against your mouth, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know. I’ve been—” He cuts himself off with another kiss, deeper this time, like he can’t stand the space between syllables. “—thinking about you all night.”

Your hand slides down his chest, slow, and teasing as you smile into the kiss. “Yeah? How much?”

He swallows, breathing ragged as he leans his forehead to yours again. “Enough that the second you touched me tonight, I nearly—” He lets out a shaky laugh, embarrassed and turned on all at once. “You felt what almost happened.”

Your smile softens. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly, grip tightening around your waist. “I just— I didn’t want it to be… over before we even got here.”

Your fingers trail down his torso, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. “Sweetheart. I wasn’t planning on letting you off that easy.”

His breath stutters again.

Then—slowly, carefully—you push off the door and guide him backward into the apartment. He follows instantly, hands never leaving you, eyes glued to your mouth like he’s under some kind of spell.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, brushing a kiss along his jaw.

He nods, breath catching. “Down the hall. Left.”

You lace your fingers with his again, tugging gently.

“Show me.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t falter.

Doesn’t even look away.

He just leads you down the hall, shoulders tense with anticipation, pulse fluttering beneath his skin—every step bringing him closer to exactly what he’s been unraveling for in your passenger seat, your hands, your voice.

He kisses you deeper, pushing you into the room and to the bed, desperate and messy as you fall onto the comforter and—

Meow

You both freeze. There’s a beat of absolute, bewildered silence.

Then—

Meow.

It’s small, indignant, offended, even.

Bucky closes his eyes like he’s just been shot.

“...no,” he whispers to himself.

You blink, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Was that—?”

Before you can finish, a blur of white fur hops onto the bed with all the confidence of a creature who pays rent.

A very round, very fluffy, very unimpressed cat waddles across the blankets, stops right at Bucky’s hip, and meows again—louder this time—like it’s scolding him for bringing a guest home without prior approval.

Bucky rubs both hands over his face and groans into his palms. “Alpine…”

You bite back a smile. “Alpine?”

Bucky drops his hands and glares at the cat like a betrayed parent. “Yeah. She’s— she’s usually asleep by now.”

Alpine meows again, this time shorter, sharper. Very judgmental.

“Is she… mad?” you ask.

“She’s always mad,” Bucky mutters.

Alpine ignores him completely and climbs onto his thigh, plopping herself down like a soft, angry sentinel. Her tail flicks at you once—analyzing, assessing—before she lifts a paw and places it squarely on Bucky’s stomach.

Another meow.

You cover your mouth to keep from laughing. “She’s policing us.”

“She’s policing me,” Bucky corrects miserably. “I swear to god she—”

Alpine slowly turns her head, locking eyes with him.

Bucky stops talking.

You raise your brows. “She doesn’t like sharing?”

“She doesn’t like—” He gestures vaguely at her. “—surprises.”

Alpine then pads forward, plants herself between the two of you with a heavy flop that jostles the mattress, and stares up at you with large blue eyes like she’s waiting for you to justify your existence.

You smile softly and reach out your hand, palm up. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Alpine leans in, sniffs…

…then immediately bumps her head into your fingers.

Bucky sits up straighter, stunned. “Are you kidding me?”

Alpine purrs, loudly and dramatically, like she’s decided she loves you more than life.

You stroke behind her ears, and she melts further, rolling onto her back and exposing her fluffy belly.

Bucky looks personally attacked. “She doesn’t even do that for me.”

You smirk. “Guess she’s got good taste.”

He scoffs—but his cheeks are pink, eyes soft, pride bruised but heart obviously melted.

“She likes you,” he admits, voice dropping. “Which is… honestly kinda rare.”

Alpine rolls over and kicks at his hip, like move over and let her pet me more.

You laugh quietly and lean in closer to him. “So… what now?”

Bucky glances at Alpine. Then at you. Then at Alpine again.

“Alright, you little cockblock. That's it.” He picks her up and you laugh as she meows indignantly. “Shoo.” He places her gently outside the room and shuts the door, moving back to the bed and sitting down. He leans against the headboard with a defeated sigh.

You have to bite your lip to hold back your grin. “You really just kicked your own cat out.”

“She deserved it,” Bucky mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m just reclaiming my space.”

You crawl closer on the mattress, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes track every shift of your body like he physically can’t look anywhere else. He relaxes a little as you settle in front of him, knees brushing his.

“You okay?” you ask, soft and teasing at the same time.

He lets out a humorless laugh. “I was about to combust in the elevator, then my cat judged me to death, and now I’m sitting here trying not to look as pathetic as I feel.”

“Pathetic?” you echo, tilting your head.

He nods, rolling his lips together. “Yes, pathetic. I have the most stunning girl ever in my bed, I’m so hard for you it hurts, and I’m five seconds away from losing it.”

Your chest tightens—warmth, heat, something fond that you don’t want to look at too closely.

“Bucky,” you murmur, sliding a hand up his thigh, slow and reassuring, “that’s not pathetic.”

He huffs, still trying to breathe steady. “Feels like it.”

“Feels like honesty,” you counter. “And last I checked, I like that.”

His eyes flick up to yours, searching.

“You do?”

You smile. “Yeah. I do.”

Something in him eases. His shoulders drop, his jaw unclenches, and that overwhelmed, glassy look comes back—only softer this time. More open.

You shift forward, swinging one leg over to straddle his lap. His breath catches instantly, hands hovering like he’s not sure where to touch.

“Relax,” you tease gently, guiding his hands to your hips. “She’s not here anymore.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, fingers settling in, gripping like he’s been dying to.

“Thank god,” he murmurs, voice low. 

You lean in, brushing your lips just against his—close enough for heat, not enough for contact.

“Then lose it,” you whisper.

His breath shudders, hands tightening on your waist.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, forehead resting against yours.

“Mm, baby,” you breathe, lips ghosting his again, “I’m gonna take care of you.”

His eyes flutter shut, his exhale breaking into the tiniest whimper as you grind down over him, pressing your lips back to his. Bucky’s whole body jolts—like every nerve lights up at once—and the sound he makes into your mouth is low, wrecked, grateful.

His hands slide up your back, strong and trembling, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep touching you. You can feel how tightly he’s holding himself together, how close he is to just giving in and letting that composure shatter.

You kiss him slow, deep, coaxing, until his head falls back against the headboard with a broken sigh. His fingers flex on your hips, dragging you down again, helping you move over in time with his bucking hips.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown. “You’re gonna—God, doll, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile against his lips, trailing a kiss across his cheek, then his jaw, then lower, feeling the way his breath stutters with every inch you descend.

“That’s the idea,” you murmur against his throat before sucking gently at the pulse there.

His grip spasms and he lets out a breathy moan.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His hair is falling over his forehead, his cheeks flushed, his chest rising fast. He looks overwhelmed, needy, perfect.

You rock against him again, letting your teeth scrape lightly at his collarbone as another sound rips from his throat. You pull away just to take off his shirt and toss it off the bed before attaching your lips to him again, sucking marks across the expanse of his chest, reveling in each shiver and tremble of him beneath you.

Bucky’s head drops back against the wall with a thud the second your mouth touches his chest.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice cracking in the middle, hands flying to your hips like he needs the anchor. His fingers dig in, half-desperate, half-pleading, guiding your slow grind like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

You drag your tongue up the line of his sternum, feeling the way his breath stutters, how his whole body arches—instinctive, involuntary, like he’s trying to give you more. You kiss across his pec, then lower, letting your teeth scrape just enough to make him gasp.

“Please,” he groans, voice a wrecked whisper, “Oh fuck, please.”

You smile against his skin, warm and wicked, mouthing at a spot just under his collarbone until he sucks in a sharp breath, chest jerking. His hand slides up your spine and into your hair, fingers threading through like he’s afraid you’ll stop if he doesn’t hold on.

“I told you,” you murmur, lips brushing over his warm skin, “I’m taking care of you.”

His breath shudders again—his whole body shudders—his hips lifting under you like he can’t help it. His free hand splays across your lower back, broad and firm, pulling you in closer, closer, like he physically needs you there.

“You… fuck, you feel unreal,” he pants, voice breaking on the last word.

You kiss down the center of his chest again, slower this time, savoring the way his muscles go tight, then soft, then tight again beneath your mouth. He’s trembling, actually trembling, like every kiss steals a little more of his ability to think.

You pause, hovering just above the waistband of his jeans, breath ghosting over his skin. He twitches like the anticipation alone is going to ruin him.

“Baby,” he begs under his breath, a sound so unsteady, so raw, you feel it all the way down your spine. His metal hand cups the back of your neck, gentle despite the tremor in it. “Please, don’t tease.”

You look up at him through your lashes.

“Oh, Bucky,” you purr, slow and sweet, hands sliding up his torso, “I’m not teasing.”

You finally tug his waistband down, and he makes quick work of his jeans and boxers, cock slapping against his abs in the process. You take a moment to just sit back, admire the man in front of you. He’s stunned, chest heaving, pupils blown wide, every inch of him glowing under the dim bedroom light. His skin is flushed, fine lines of heat spreading across his chest and neck, hair mussed in a halo around his head. Each ridge of his body is defined, the planes marked with your lipstick, nipples hard peaks. And his cock, god, you can’t even breathe. It’s pretty in a way that feels illegal, standing tall and proud and heavy between his thick thighs. Curved up, tip red and angry and weeping for you, he’s absolutely perfect.

You trail a hand down his side, letting your fingers brush over him lightly, teasing at the way his muscles twitch under your touch. He shudders instantly, hips tilting up without thinking, cock twitching as his eyes lock onto yours with a mix of need and awe that’s almost unbearable.

He watches you with a kind of helpless reverence, like you’re a vision he’s afraid he might have imagined. His breath hitches as your fingers trail lower, skimming the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and his whole body tenses in anticipation.

“Please,” he whispers again, the word barely audible, ragged with need. “Don’t just look.”

You smile, a slow, wicked curve of your lips, and finally wrap your hand around the base of his cock. The sound he makes is a choked-off gasp, his head falling back against the headboard, eyes squeezing shut. His hips jerk forward, a desperate, instinctive thrust into your palm.

He’s hot and heavy in your hand, silky skin over steel, and the way he trembles at your slightest touch is intoxicating. You give him one slow, deliberate stroke, from base to tip, and his whole body arches off the bed.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, his metal hand flying to your thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Oh, god, please—”

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his hip, your thumb smearing the bead of precum already leaking from his tip. “Please what, sweetheart?” you murmur, your voice a low hum against his skin. “Tell me what you want.”

His eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing holding him together. “You,” he breathes, the word a raw, broken thing. “Anything, everything, please.”

You reward him with another slow, tight stroke, twisting your wrist just enough to make him cry out. His hips buck wildly, chasing the friction, and you can feel the frantic rhythm of his pulse hammering through his cock. He’s already so close, so wound up, every nerve ending frayed and exposed.

“Easy,” you soothe, your free hand coming up to rest on his heaving chest. “Breathe for me, Bucky.”

He tries, he really does, sucking in a ragged breath that does nothing to calm the frantic race of his heart. “Can’t,” he pants, shaking his head. “Can’t breathe when you’re—oh, fuck—when you’re touching me like that.”

You shift, settling between his thighs, and lower your head until your lips are just a breath away from his flushed, weeping tip. His whole body goes rigid, his breath catching in his throat as he watches you, mesmerized.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, and then you take him into your mouth.

The sound he makes is half-sob, half-groan, a raw, guttural noise of pure, unadulterated relief. His hands fly to your hair, one tangling in the strands, the other cupping the back of your neck, holding on like you’re his only anchor in a storm. You take him deep, your tongue flattening against the underside of his cock, and his hips lift off the bed, a desperate, helpless thrust that you meet with a slow, deliberate swallow.

“Jesus—Christ—” he chokes out, his voice cracking, his thighs trembling on either side of you. “Oh, god, doll, your mouth—”

You pull back slowly, letting him feel every inch of your lips and tongue, then sink down again, taking him even deeper. The taste of him is salty and clean, and the way he falls apart beneath you is the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever felt. His grip on your hair tightens, not to guide you, but just to hold on, to ground himself as you slowly, methodically ruin him.

You look up at him, at the wrecked, beautiful man falling apart under your hands and mouth. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and dark and full of a desperate, pleading awe.

“Don’t stop,” he begs, his voice a ragged whisper. “Please, god, don’t stop.”

You have no intention of stopping. You set a rhythm, slow and deep, your hand working in tandem with your mouth, stroking what you can’t take. His hips begin to move, a slow, rolling thrust that matches your pace, and the sounds he’s making now are constant, a litany of choked-off moans and broken whispers of your name.

He’s close, you can feel it in the way his body tightens, in the frantic, uneven rhythm of his breathing, in the way his cock pulses against your tongue. His grip on your hair becomes almost painful, his whole body bowing off the bed as he teeters on the edge.

“Gonna—” he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna—”

You pull off and his eyes fly open, wide and wild with disbelief. A raw, wounded sound escapes his throat, a desperate, confused whimper that makes your stomach clench. His hips jerk forward, chasing the warmth that’s suddenly gone, a frantic, mindless search for the release you just denied him.

“Wh—” he chokes out, his voice cracking, his hands tightening in your hair almost painfully. “Why—? Don’t—”

“Shhh,” you soothe, your voice a low, calming murmur as you press a soft kiss to his trembling hip. You can feel his frantic, racing pulse against your lips. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

He’s panting, his chest heaving, his whole body strung tight with a need so sharp it looks like pain, his tip a furious red, cock twitching desperately. He stares down at you, his expression a shattered mix of desperation and confusion, like he can’t process anything beyond the sudden, agonizing emptiness.

“Please,” he begs, the word a ragged, broken sob. “Please, doll, don’t… I can’t—”

You trail your fingers up his inner thigh, a slow, gentle caress that makes him shudder violently. “I know, baby,” you whisper, your breath ghosting over his slick, flushed skin. “I know. But I don’t want it to be over yet.”

His breath hitches, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth, a dawning, terrifying understanding slowly replacing the confusion.

You smile, a slow, wicked curve of your lips, and lean in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock. He jolts, a sharp, choked gasp tearing from his throat as his hips buck helplessly.

“Just for a second,” you murmur, tracing a vein with the tip of your tongue. “Wanted to feel you shake.”

And shake he does. A full-body tremor racks him, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he struggles to hold himself together. He’s so close, so painfully, achingly close, that the slightest touch is almost too much to bear.

“God,” he whimpers, his head falling back against the headboard with a dull thud. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You chuckle, a low, throaty sound that vibrates against him. “Not kill you, sweetheart. Just… take you apart.” You shift, moving to hover over him again, your lips just inches from his. “Wanna see how long I can make you last.”

His eyes are dark, almost black with need, his pupils blown so wide they swallow the blue. He looks utterly wrecked, completely at your mercy, and the power of it is a heady, intoxicating rush.

“Please,” he whispers again, but this time it’s different. Not a plea for release, but a plea for you. For whatever you’re willing to give him. “Anything.”

You lean in, capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He kisses you back with a desperate, hungry fervor, his hands releasing your hair to cup your face, holding you like you’re the only real thing in his world.

When you finally pull back, he’s breathing hard, his lips swollen and slick, his eyes glazed with a mixture of lust and adoration that makes your heart ache.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and the praise hits him like a physical blow. He lets out a shuddering moan, his whole body melting into the mattress, his surrender complete.

You smile, and then you sink back down, taking him into your mouth once more. This time, there’s no teasing, no slow build-up. You take him deep, your movements sure and deliberate, and the sound he makes is one of pure, unadulterated bliss. His hands fly back to your hair, his hips lifting to meet you, and you let him set the pace, let him fuck your mouth with a desperate, frantic rhythm that speaks of a need so profound it borders on worship.

It doesn’t take long. He was already right there, hovering on the edge, and the denial, the praise, the overwhelming sensation of your mouth on him again is all it takes to push him over.

He comes with a hoarse, broken cry, his body arching taut as a bowstring, his hips jerking as he spills down your throat. You swallow, taking everything he gives you, your hand stroking him through it, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from his trembling body.

He collapses back against the headboard, boneless and spent, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut. You release him slowly, pressing a soft, final kiss to his sensitive tip before crawling back up his body to press your lips to his.

“You did so good for me, baby.” You whisper softly, running your hands through his hair as he shivers. You pull back, but his hands grab your waist, thumbs slipping under your shirt with a soft whine. “Wait… just gimme a second to breath, I’ll take care of you too. Promise.” He says. The cold metal against your hot skin makes you shiver slightly, kissing his cheek.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the word a low, earnest rumble against your lips. His eyes, still hazy with bliss, are suddenly sharp with a new kind of intensity. It’s the look of a man with a mission. “I wanna make you feel good. Wanna make you fall apart like you just did for me.”

The sincerity in his voice, the raw need to reciprocate, is more potent than any touch. You smile, a slow, genuine curve of your lips, and lean in to kiss him again, deeper this time. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath, and you can feel the shift in him. The boneless, spent man is still there, but now he’s overlaid with a renewed focus, a determined energy that makes your own pulse quicken. “James. Call me James.”

With that, his hands, which had been resting on your waist, start to move. They slide up your sides, his flesh and metal thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs with a reverence that makes your breath catch.

“Can I…?” he asks, his voice still a little rough, his eyes asking for permission to undress you.

You answer by lifting your arms over your head, a silent invitation. He takes it, his movements slow and deliberate as he gathers the hem of your shirt. He pulls it up and over, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending a trail of fire in their wake. The cool air of the room hits your heated skin, and you shiver again.

His gaze drops, and the way he looks at you—like you’re a masterpiece he’s only just been allowed to see—makes your heart stutter. He reaches out, his metal hand hovering for a second before his fingers gently trace the line of your bra strap. Plain ugly cotton, one of your favorite comfortable bras because you weren’t expecting this absolute specimen of a man to walk into work today, but he does seem to care in the slightest. The cool touch is a delicious contrast to the heat blooming under your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the words a quiet, worshipful breath. He leans in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast above the cotton. “So fucking beautiful.”

His hands move to your back, his fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp.You reach back to help him, but he shakes his head.

“No, I got it. Just… been a while.” he insists, his brow furrowed in concentration. A moment later, the hooks give way, and he lets out a soft, triumphant breath. He slides the straps down your arms, his eyes never leaving yours, and tosses the bra aside.

His hands are on you then, warm and cool, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already-hard nipples. The touch is gentle, exploratory, and you arch into him, a soft sigh escaping your lips. He takes that as encouragement, leaning down to take one peak into his mouth.

The wet heat of his tongue is a shock, a jolt of pure pleasure that goes straight to your core. He sucks gently, his teeth scraping lightly, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair to hold him close. He groans against your skin, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you.

He switches to the other side, giving it the same devoted attention, his hands roaming your body, mapping every curve and dip like he’s trying to memorize you. He’s learning you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you shiver, what makes you moan his name.

“James,” you breathe, your voice tight with need. “Please.”

He pulls back, his lips swollen and his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors your own. “I know, doll,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to your hips, hooking into the waistband of your pants. “I know.”

He makes quick work of your remaining clothes, his movements sure now, driven by a singular purpose. When you’re finally bare before him, he just looks for a moment, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.

“Lie back for me,” he says, his voice soft. “Please.”

You do, settling against the pillows, your heart pounding with anticipation. He kneels between your thighs, his hands resting on your knees, and just looks at you, his expression a mixture of awe and adoration.

“So fucking wet, doll.” He says, fingertips sliding through your folds softly, making you clench in anticipation. He pulls them up, coated in your arousal, and brings them to his lips. He groans like you’re a delicacy.

Finally, he leans down, and the world dissolves. The first touch of his mouth against your core is hesitant, a soft, exploring press of his lips. It’s a question, and you answer with a soft sigh, your hips tilting up to meet him. That’s all the encouragement he needs. He groans, a low, guttural sound of pure relief, and then he’s tasting you.

His tongue is a revelation. It’s not clumsy or unsure; it’s deliberate, curious, and devastatingly thorough. He starts with long, slow licks, savoring you, learning your taste, your texture. The cool metal of his hand rests on your lower belly, a grounding point, a stark, thrilling contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His other hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, his fingers pressing into your flesh with a possessive gentleness that makes your head spin.

“James,” you gasp, your hands tangling in the sheets, your back arching off the bed.

He hums against you, the vibration a jolt of pure electricity that shoots straight through you. He’s found a rhythm now, a slow, maddening circle of his tongue around your clit that has you seeing stars. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, locked on your face as he learns what makes you gasp, what makes you shudder, what makes you cry out his name.

And he’s a fast learner.

He shifts, changing the angle, and his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance before sliding inside you just a little. The new sensation makes you whimper, your hips bucking wildly. He takes the hint, his tongue fucking you in shallow, teasing thrusts while his thumb comes up to circle your clit.

“Oh, god—right there,” you choke out, your hands flying to his hair, holding him in place. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

He doubles down, his movements becoming more confident, more demanding. He’s devouring you with a single-minded focus, the metal hand on your belly sliding down, his fingers joining his tongue. You cry out as two thick, cool fingers slide inside you, curling instantly to find that spot that makes your whole body light up.

“Jamie!” you scream, your vision whiting out as pleasure, sharp and overwhelming, crashes over you.

He groans at the nickname, working you even harder than before. He’s relentless, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect, devastating harmony, pushing you higher and higher, until you’re a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him. The coil in your belly tightens to an almost painful degree, and you know you’re right there, hovering on the edge of a precipice.

“Come on, doll,” he murmurs against you, his voice a low, rough command. “Please, you’re doing so good. Give it to me. Please, lemme see you, pretty.”

With one final, perfect curl of his fingers and a hard suck on your clit, you shatter.

Your orgasm rips through you with the force of a tidal wave, a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that leaves you gasping and trembling. Your body bows off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head as you ride out the waves, his name a broken chant on your lips.

He doesn’t stop until you’re completely spent, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling as you slowly come back down to earth. He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, his hands stroking your trembling body, coaxing you back to him.

When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking up at you from between your thighs, his face glistening with your arousal, his expression one of pure, unadulterated awe. He looks like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

You reach down, your hand trembling slightly, and cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

“Come here,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

He moves up your body, settling his weight over you, and captures your lips in a deep, slow kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, intimate reminder of what he just did to you.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, his eyes searching yours.

You let out a breathless laugh, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Okay?” you echo, a wide, satisfied smile spreading across your face. “More than okay. You did such a good job for me.”

He grins, a real, genuine, breathtakingly handsome grin that makes your heart do a dangerous little flip. “Thank you.” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours.

He kisses you again, your taste on his tongue almost dizzying. It’s soft, slow, almost sweet. Then you feel his cock against your thigh and can’t help but grin.

“Already, baby? You liked eating me out that much?”

A deep, dark flush spreads across his cheeks, a stark contrast to the confident grin he was wearing just a second ago. He ducks his head, burying it in the crook of your neck for a moment as he lets out a shaky, breathless laugh.

“Don’t tease,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. But the way his hips press forward, the hard, insistent length of him digging into your thigh, betrays him completely. “You have no idea. The sounds you make, the way you taste, fuck, doll. I could do that all night.”

You slide your hands down his back, your nails scraping lightly over his skin, making him shudder. “Yeah?” you purr, arching your hips up to meet his. “What else could you do all night, Jamie?”

He whimpers and lifts his head to look at you. The awe is still there, but now it’s mixed with a raw, hungry need that makes your own arousal flare back to life, hot and demanding.

“I could fuck you,” he says, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. He rocks his hips against you, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you. “I could stay right here, buried inside you, and never leave.”

You giggle lightly, flipping him over so you lay on top of him. “Yeah, baby? Want me to cockwarm you all night? Want a reward for being a good boy?”

The surprise on his face is comical, his eyes widening as you effortlessly reverse your positions, landing back on top of him with a soft thump. For a second, he’s just stunned, his hands coming up to rest on your hips as if to steady himself. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, the word a whimper that vibrates through his chest and into yours. He bucks his hips up, a slow, deliberate grind that reminds you just how hard he is, how ready. “Yes please, fuck. Please? I was good, right?”

You laugh, a low, throaty sound as you rock your hips against him, teasing him with the promise of friction without giving him what he really wants. “You did,” you purr, leaning down to brush your lips against his ear. “You were so good for me, Jamie. A very good boy.”

He groans, the sound raw and broken, and his hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. You reach down between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his thick, hard cock. He hisses, his head falling back against the pillows, his whole body tensing in anticipation. You guide him to your entrance, teasing him, letting him feel the wet heat of you without letting him inside.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice ragged, his hips jerking up in a desperate, instinctual search for more. “Please, doll.”

You smile, a slow, wicked curve of your lips, and then you sink down on him, taking him in one slow, deliberate movement.

The sound he makes is half-sob, half-groan, a raw, guttural noise of pure, unadulterated relief. He’s so deep like this, filling you completely, and the feeling of him inside you, hot and hard and pulsing, is intoxicating. You stay still for a moment, just savoring the sensation, letting him feel you wrapped around him, hot and tight and perfect.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, his hands flying to your waist, his grip almost painful. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He whispers repeatedly, eyes squeezing shut, “God, you’re so tight, fuck—”

His whispered gratitude is a broken, beautiful thing, a raw testament to how undone he is. You let him adjust, let him feel the weight of you, the heat of you, the sheer, overwhelming reality of being buried deep inside you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration, like he’s trying to commit every single sensation to memory.

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and start to move. It’s a slow, lazy rhythm, a gentle rocking of your hips that’s less about chasing release and more about drawing out the pleasure. You’re making good on your promise, letting him feel you, letting him stay buried inside you, a warm, welcome home for his cock.

He lets out a shuddering breath, his hands loosening their grip on your waist, instead roaming up your back, tracing the curve of your spine. He’s pliant beneath you, more that glad to have you lead, to let you use him for your own languid pleasure.

“Look at me, James,” you murmur, your voice a soft command.

His eyes flutter open, and they’re hazy, unfocused, swimming with a dizzying mix of lust and adoration. He looks completely wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“You’re so good,” you whisper, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate circle that makes him gasp. “So patient. Just letting me take what I need.”

“Anything,” he breathes, his voice hoarse. “Anything for you.”

You smile, leaning down to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his lips. It’s a slow, sweet kiss, a stark contrast to the desperate, hungry kisses from before. 

You break the kiss, resting your forehead against his, your hips still moving in that slow, steady rhythm. “Is this what you wanted, baby?” you whisper, your voice a low, seductive hum. “To be inside me all night? To be my good boy and let me use you like a 

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice a ragged, broken whisper. “Yes, please.” 

The raw, desperate plea in his voice sends a thrill straight through you. He’s so beautifully, completely undone, willing to give you anything, to be anything you need him to be. 

“Good boy,” you purr, the praise a low, intimate hum against his lips. You reward him by clenching your inner muscles around him, a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes him cry out, his hips bucking up involuntarily. 

“Ah—fuck,” he gasps, his eyes flying open, wide and wild. “Don’t… don’t do that. Please, doll, I can’t—” 

“Can’t what?” you ask, your voice dangerously soft as you do it again, a slow, milking grip that has his whole body trembling. “Can’t take it? But you’re my good boy. You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you?” 

He whimpers, a high, desperate sound, and his head thrashes against the pillows. “Yes,” he chokes out, the word torn from his throat. “Yes, I’ll take it. I’ll be good. I promise.” 

“I know you will,” you murmur, and then you start to move in earnest.

 It’s not a fast rhythm, but it’s deep and punishing, each roll of your hips designed to hit him as deep as possible. You’re not just riding him; you’re using him, grinding down onto him, taking your pleasure from his body without any regard for his fraying control. His hands are useless on your hips, gripping and releasing like he can’t decide whether to hold on or let go. He’s completely at your mercy, a beautiful, writhing mess beneath you. 

“Please,” he begs, his voice a ragged, broken whisper. “Please, doll, let me… let me move. Let me—” 

“No,” you cut him off, your voice sharp, firm. You still your hips, pinning him to the bed with your weight. “You don’t move. You don’t do anything. You just lie there and take it. Understand?” 

He stares up at you, his eyes wide with utter, desperate surrender. He nods, a jerky, almost frantic movement. “Yes,” he breathes. “I understand.”

“Good,” you purr, and then you resume your rhythm, slow and deep and utterly maddening. 

You can feel the tension coiling in him, the desperate, frantic need for release that he’s fighting to hold back. You speed up, riding him harder, your body moving in a fluid, primal rhythm, your breasts bouncing with each thrust. The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure—his ragged groans, your breathless cries, the slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.

You can feel your own release building, a familiar, delicious pressure coiling in your belly. You reach down, your fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, hard circles in time with your thrusts.

“Gonna come, Jamie,” you gasp, your voice tight with need. “Gonna come all over your cock. You’re gonna feel me, aren’t you? Gonna feel me squeezing you so tight.” He whimpers, his whole body arching off the bed, a desperate, helpless plea for release. 

“Please,” he begs, tears welling in his eyes. “Please, let me come with you. I’ll be so good, I swear, I’ll—” 

“Come with me, Jamie,” you gasp, your voice tight with need. “Come with me. Now.”

The world whites out for a moment, a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that leaves you gasping and trembling. Your body convulses around him, milking his cock for all it’s worth as you cry out his name. Beneath you, he sobs, a raw, broken sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure as his own orgasm tears through him with a hoarse, broken cry. You feel a flood of warmth spill into you, his hips jerking erratically as he shudders under you, his grip on your hips bruising in its intensity.

For a long moment, you just stay there, collapsed against his chest, both of you boneless and spent. His heart hammers against your ear, a frantic, wild rhythm that slowly, gradually, evens out into a deep, steady beat. His body is still trembling, the aftershocks of his release wracking his frame.

You finally muster the strength to lift your head, looking down at him. His eyes are closed, his face slack with a blissful exhaustion, his lips parted as he breathes in ragged, shallow gasps. A single tear tracks a path through the sweat on his temple.

You lean down, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. He responds sluggishly, a faint, tired murmur against your mouth.

“You okay?” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering open. They’re hazy, unfocused, but they’re soft, filled with a dizzying mix of adoration and utter, bone-deep satisfaction.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice a low, contented rumble. “Yeah, I’m… wow.”

You let out a breathless laugh, snuggling closer. “Yeah,” you agree, a wide, satisfied smile spreading across your face. “Wow.”

His arms tighten around you, holding you close, his metal hand a cool, comforting weight on your back. He presses a soft, lazy kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment.

“I… uh…” He hesitates a moment, looking down at you in his arms, “Really like you, in case that wasn’t clear.”

You raise an eyebrow, tracing shapes absentmindedly on his chest. “Like me? You don’t even know me.”

He gently tilts your chin up. His gaze is soft, but nervous. Vulnerable. “I know. But I’d like to get to know you, if you’ll let me.”

Your heart does a funny little flip, a confusing mix of surprise and warmth. This is new territory. The power dynamic has shifted so completely, leaving you both raw and exposed in the aftermath. You expected him to be cocky, or maybe just ready to pass out. You didn’t expect this quiet, sincere confession.

You study his face, searching for any hint of a line, but all you find is that same open, hopeful vulnerability. It’s disarming. You, who had been so completely in control just moments ago, suddenly feel a flutter of uncertainty.

You walk in to find Bucky in mid-stretch, your jaw dropping like it just discovered the force of gravity. His shirt is missing, his sweatpants hung low. The handsome bastard flexes, legitimately flexes, when he reaches for something on the top shelf. Don’t ask what the color or content of the object in his hand is because you have no idea. And he just looks at you with a knowing smirk, like he was waiting for you to catch him.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

That was new.

He doesn't say it like it's a joke. Doesn't toss the endearment out casually. He says it like it means something. And you aren't sure what to do with that. 

“You’re talking to me?” you ask, looking around. You, the newest member of the team. The one who had to earn his trust.

“Who else would I be talking to?” he asks in return, tossing the object between his hands and drawing attention to how long and thick his fingers are. “Yeah, but… Sweetheart?”

“Yeah. That's what you are. Sweet,” he says like it’s obvious. “And you have a heart.”

You blink. Is the grump flirting with you? To be fair, it isn't fair to think of him as a grump. After everything he went through, he has the right to feel jaded, over it, however he wants to feel.

And it isn't like he was grumpy when you moved into the tower. He was… curious. Watchful. Almost like a cat trying to assess if you were a threat or not. Didn't stop you from being nice to him, and he was never rude in return while he warmed up to you. But he was never like this.

Until now.

“Would you prefer I call you something else?” He brushes by when you don’t respond, deliberately getting in your space. He’s huge, and you nearly tremble from the attention he’s giving you. “If not, I’ll just keep calling you sweetheart… sweetheart,” he adds right in your ear before leaving the room. 

Your heart pounds. You have to brace yourself against the counter. Did you imagine that? Did he get hit with some weird pollen, or did you wake up in an alternate universe?

Sweetheart. 

The word lingers in the air, thick and sweet, like his presence did. He doesn't call Yelena or Ava by any terms of endearment. He’s polite with them. Friendly now and then. Not that soft or intimate. 

So, why you?

And you can't stop thinking about the way he used to watch you from across the room, silent and still. How his blue eyes would follow you like he was just to figure out a puzzle he didn't know if he wanted to finish. Now he brushes past you like he put the last piece in place. 

Bob walks in and gives you a small nod and a shy smile. “Morning.”

You calm your racing heart. “Bucky called me ‘sweetheart',” you blurt out. 

“Oh.” He’s silent for a moment before his smile widens. “Well, he did finally say you earned your spot here.”

You nod, smiling to yourself. He did say that, and it felt good. There was trust and respect now when he looked at you. “Still doesn't explain why he called me that.”

Or why he was preening like a peacock in his half-naked glory. 

“Maybe he was being nice,” Bob muses, but there's happiness in his eyes that you don't see often. 

Maybe he is. It’s harmless. Or maybe he’s just messing with you. Then again, maybe he isn't. 

It escalates from there.

Bucky and Alexei are chatting after a mission when you walk by and give them a nod. The handsome super soldier waves you over with a bit of mischief in his eyes. You raise an eyebrow when he stands up and slowly unzips his leather jacket. Your throat goes dry and you’d swear the show is just for you, if not for Alexei sitting close by.

You don’t back up when he tosses the jacket away and gets in your personal space bubble, your thighs pressing together. Removing a single garment shouldn’t be as sexy as he made it out to be. It’s not fair.

“What’s up?” you ask, your voice high.

“We were talking about undercover missions.” He slips an arm around your waist and pulls you against him, letting you feel his hard body through his black clothes. “We’d make a good couple for one, right?” he asks Alexei. 

“The best couple!” The Red Guardian shouts it so loud you wince. “You two? So good together. Beautiful babies in your future.”

Your eyes widen to the size of saucers. “Beautiful babies?” you repeat very slowly. 

“Yes! A beautiful new generation!”

“What do you think?” You dare to sneak a look at Bucky when his grip tightens, his eyes dark. “You wanna practice making babies?” he asks so seriously that you sputter. 

Because how does he go from casually stretching shirtless to asking you that?

He wants to practice “breeding” you? He wants to take you to bed? He wants-

John chooses that exact moment to make his presence known, complaining about one of the reports he has to do. It effectively ends the conversation and puts a sour look back on Bucky’s face when he lets you go. Your brain tries to catch up when you leave, feeling his eyes on you until you’re out of sight. You don't even remember why you’re going to the hall to begin with since all you can think of is him.

“What the hell?” you utter. 

What is happening?

Bucky starts leaving blankets in every room so you don’t get cold, and they smell just like his cologne. He has snacks and water for you, too, so you don’t forget to eat or drink when you get wrapped up in tasks. No one else looks out for you like that.

He’s suddenly everywhere, too. Leaning in doorframes that you need to pass through, making sure to touch you when you walk by. Standing too close when you’re cooking something in the kitchen, letting his warmth envelope you. Yelena and Ava exchange looks and subtle smiles whenever he hovers. 

“You going to taste test her cuisine?” Ava asks. 

“I’d like to taste test something of yours,” he says low enough for you to hear, touching your waist when you inhale. He wants to taste you, too? “I’m happy to test anything she wants,” he tells Ava. 

“I’ll bet you are,” Yelena mutters. 

And he insists on sitting beside you, always. Debriefings, on the jet, everywhere. He tosses John out of a spot just so he can sit next to you. He turns his chair or body toward you, making sure you know he's paying attention whether you're speaking or not. And he hangs on your every word to the point where you squirm under his heated gaze. 

The man seriously went from a cat who wasn’t sure if he could trust you to claiming you as his person.

“You know,” he begins, licking his lips, “I could listen to you read the phone book, and I’d never get bored.”

“Do… Do those even exist anymore?” you ask because you don't know what else to say. 

His eyes crinkle when he laughs, and he places a hand on your arm, like he has to touch you. “You're funny, sweetheart.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, and you don't know what to do. It's not just the nickname and the teasing. It's the way he doesn’t break, appearing cool and confident. It’s the way he looks at you like you’re anchoring him to the present, like every word that comes out of your mouth is a lifeline. 

And the hand on your arm, gentle and grounding but creating sparks like static under your skin. He doesn't touch most people. Not casually. Not like this. But he touches you. 

You glance at his hand and back up at him. “You’re looking at me like I'm a game you're trying to win.”

“You’re not a game.” He tilts his head. “But I do feel like I'm winning when you're close by.”

It doesn't end there. 

He starts lifting things that don’t need lifting. With one hand. Your chair instead of sliding it across the room. Your desk when you decide to move it to another corner. And you. Yeah, you. He tosses you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, chuckling as you shriek and protest. 

“What?” he asks with amusement when you squirm. “Thought you needed help getting to the gym.”

Oh, the gym. You aren’t sure what kind of sounds he made before you showed up, but his grunts and groans when he lifts weights are nothing short of pornographic when you’re close by. And he doesn't look at his reflection when he exercises, barely breaking a sweat. Oh, no. He looks right at you.

And it doesn't go unnoticed by you that the others aren't there when you and Bucky exercise, which wasn’t the case when you first showed up. 

“I can go for hours,” he casually states one day, and you almost trip over your own feet. “Can help you with your stretches, too… so you feel it nice and deep.”

You just about short-circuit. “Nice and deep, huh?”

“Nice. And. Deep.”

Sparring with him ends with you wet and frustrated. There is no reason for his hips to press against yours, letting you feel that he really is big all over. No explanation for why he pins your arms above your head and looks at you like he wants to devour you when you pant beneath him. And why the hell does he always smirk and leave you laying there wanting more?

It’s because Bucky Barnes is a fucking tease. 

A fucking menace.

“I should shower.” He brushes his ridiculously gorgeous hair back and smirks. “You know, you could shower with me and save some water.”

Your legs almost give out. “Is that the only reason why you want me there? To save on a precious bill that you don't even pay?”

You want to hear him say the reason. 

His eyes sweep over you. “Oh, I think you know why, sweetheart,” he answers, leaving you hot and bothered while he gets his bag. Like the fucking tease he is. “Maybe we can practice making those babies.”

Tease. Menace. Fucker.

“You’re about as subtle as a brick to the face!” you call after him.

“I’ve had a brick to the face before. Don't recommend it!” he calls back. 

You huff and lay out on the mat, high and dry. You laugh a little. What is he doing to you? What are you to him? 

And tonight, the team is once again making themselves sparse while he sits beside you on the couch in the common room, his massive thigh pressed against yours, his arm casually tossed behind you like he owns the space and you. And, well, maybe he does. Maybe you want him to.

“Did you realize we’re wearing the same shade of blue today?” You glance at his shirt and then yours. “We’re in sync. A perfect fit.”

In sync, but he hadn't kissed you. A perfect fit, but he hadn't asked you out. This man was put here to test your resolve. 

“What?” he asks when you shift toward him, his arm tightening around you. 

“You drive me crazy, Bucky Barnes,” you finally say, narrowing your eyes at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “I drive you crazy? I’m just existing,” he replies, feigning innocence. “And right now, you’re staring at me.”

Maybe you are. Maybe you’re always staring. Because he makes you look. Because he started all this. And he better finish it.

“Don't you dare act innocent when you know what you're doing,” you hiss when he smiles. “Calling me ‘sweetheart’ and marching around shirtless like a harlot and the showing off with your muscles-”

“You noticed my muscles?”

“Talking about making babies with me.”

“Alexei made the first comment about that, but our babies would be adorable,” he says, and your heart swells. 

“And the blankets and the snacks?” you question.

“As much as I want to be the one to keep you warm, I thought it might be weird if I held you all the time, so I left you blankets. And you need to eat and stay hydrated. I need you to take care of yourself while also letting me take care of you” he answers.

“You got me there.” It’s enough to make you swoon. He has to be an amazing dom. “But what about the dirty noises you make when you exercise and-”

“If you think that's dirty, you should hear me when I-”

You put a hand over his mouth, your cheeks hot.  “And you talk about me staring at you, but you always stare at me.”

“Because you're pretty. You're so fucking pretty,” he whispers when your hand drops, bringing his hand to your cheek. “And you’re so smart. That's a reason I love listening to you.”

“Even if I just read the phone book?” you question. 

“Even then,” he promises, his thumb moving along your skin. “And you're so capable. That’s a reason I love sparring with you.”

You giggle. “That's a reason?”

“That, and it’s hot as hell when you're underneath me,” he answers truthfully, making you feel like you're about to catch on fire. “But most importantly.” He takes a breath. “I trust you.”

Your eyes burn. You know he does, but hearing him say it reinforces it. “I trust you, too,” you whisper. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I'm so out of practice when it comes to wooing a dame. I’m not who I was before, but I’m somehow okay with that.”

You melt. “I think you’re great just as you are,” you tell him, making him softly smile. You’re happy that he’s okay with himself. He has every right to be. “So, you're trying to woo me? At the very least, you were certainly trying to get my attention.”

It hits you that maybe all of this is his version of a confession. Not grand gestures. Just… proximity. Attention. Flirting. Affection. Openings offered for you to follow him or maybe meet him halfway. 

He nods. 

“And the team knows?” you ask. 

Another nod. “Yeah.” For the first time he almost looks sheepish. “We’ll have their support if we move forward.”

It means the world that they want him to be happy. Well, both of you. “Is that what you want? To move forward together?” you ask above a whisper, almost like you’ll jinx it if you say it too loud.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he breathes, slowly leaning in. Your breath hitches. Your heart pounds. This is it. He’s finally going to kiss you. 

And you move back before his lips touch yours. 

“Wooing involves flowers. I think I deserve them,” you tell him, ducking out of his grasp and watching as his jaw drops. “Then maybe we can talk about moving forward.”

He recovers quickly, and you see a flash of respect in his eyes. “You do,” he agrees, reaching for your hand before you can get up and walk away. “Can I take you out tomorrow night? Please? I’ll get you flowers.”

You want to do a happy dance because he finally asked, and you wonder if the team took bets on when this would happen. “Only if you wear those gray sweatpants,” you smirk. 

He smirks back at you. “Knew you liked those,” he says, his forehead crinkling. “What will you wear?”

“I’ll surprise you.”

And for once, you’ll tease him. 

Aww. I wonder what the date will be. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

“If this is about her,” Bucky muttered, reaching for his water bottle, “you can drop it.”

“Oh, I could. But you know I won’t.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, unscrewed the cap, and took a long sip. Maybe it was the cold water or just the way Steve wouldn’t let things go that made him crack.

“There’s no point,” he said, gesturing vaguely to himself with a dry, humorless chuckle. “She’s not interested.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Did she say that?”

“No,” Bucky admitted, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “But c’mon, Steve. Look at me.” He motioned again, sharper this time, metal fingers curling into a loose fist. “I’m all trauma and a metal arm. Not exactly Prince Charming.”

There it was, Bucky’s truth laid bare in the space between them. 

Steve didn’t flinch. Instead, he laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound that caught Bucky off guard.

“What?” Bucky snapped, defensive.

“You’ve got old-school charm,” Steve said, walking over to clap him on the shoulder. “You’re like… Cary Grant with a six-pack. Women love that tortured, brooding thing you’ve got going on. Especially when it comes with decent hair and actual manners.”

Bucky snorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

“I’ve known you my whole life, Buck. You think she doesn’t see the good in you?” Steve’s voice softened as he leaned in. “You’re loyal. You’re protective. You’ve got that quiet thing—the ‘I’ll walk you home in the rain and remember how you take your coffee’ vibe. That kind of thing matters.”

Bucky shook his head, but the fight was starting to drain from his posture. He wasn’t convinced, not really. But Steve’s words pressed against some tender hope inside him that had gone untouched for too long.

“Just talk to her,” Steve said, more gently now. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She says no.”

“Or,” Steve countered, grinning again, “she says yes. And then you owe me a coke for playing matchmaker.”

Bucky let out a slow breath. He looked away, eyes tracking the motion of the punching bag still swaying from earlier hits.

“You really think she’d be interested?” he asked, and there was something raw in the way he said it, like he wanted to believe it but didn’t know how.

“I know she would,” Steve said, and for a second, Bucky let himself consider the possibility.

*****

The kitchen was blissfully quiet, bathed in soft mid-morning light. You stood at the counter in your warmest hoodie, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The rich, familiar scent filled the air as you reached for a mug, still blinking sleep from your eyes.

“Morning!” came a voice, bright, energetic, and entirely too cheerful for the hour.

You turned, stifling a sigh, and saw Steve breezing into the kitchen, already showered in daylight and post-run endorphins. The light sheen of sweat on his brow gave him away, but he still moved with that effortless ease, like someone who enjoyed waking up at sunrise and conquering the world before breakfast.

“Hey,” you greeted, offering a faint, sleepy smile. “Coffee’s almost done.”

“Perfect,” he said, sliding in beside you and leaning casually against the counter, his presence familiar and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.

You turned back toward the coffee maker, expecting the moment to settle into a comfortable silence, but then Steve spoke again, the words too light, too carefully casual.

“Y’know… Bucky makes a mean omelet.”

Your hand froze midway to the cabinet, fingers hovering over the mugs.

“…Okay?” you said slowly, glancing at him over your shoulder, your voice wary but even.

“Mmm-hmm.” Steve’s tone was all innocent mischief, the kind that immediately made you suspicious. “Spinach, feta, the works. Like, Michelin-star level stuff. And have you smelled him lately?”

You blinked, utterly thrown. “What?”

“He smells like cedarwood,” Steve said with complete sincerity. “And righteousness.”

You nearly dropped the mug, laughter bubbling out in a choked sound as you poured your coffee with hands that were suddenly less steady than they had been a moment ago. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, wide-eyed and somehow managing not to smile. “You know I don’t lie. And Bucky? Great guy. So loyal. Thoughtful. Deep. And that whole broody, mysterious charm? I mean, come on.”

You tried to hide the way your breath caught, or the way the warmth in your face wasn’t just from the steam rising from your coffee, but Steve’s eyes didn’t miss a thing. You dropped your gaze, busying yourself with creamer you didn’t even need, as if caramel vanilla could somehow drown out the flurry of thoughts suddenly rushing through your brain.

Why was he saying this?

Why now?

And Bucky, of all people? Bucky Barnes, the one person in this tower you couldn’t look at too long without your pulse doing something embarrassing. He wasn’t the kind of man who noticed someone like you. He was… intense and quiet, shadowed and sincere. He carried too much history in his bones and wore guilt like a second skin. And you? You were just you, normal and steady, barely on his radar, let alone in his thoughts.

Still, you didn’t want to admit to the disappointment curling in your chest. You’d long since made peace with the fact that whatever feelings you had for Bucky were yours alone to carry, tucked away in quiet corners and harmless daydreams.

“Steve…” you started, but the words caught somewhere between disbelief and denial. You weren’t sure what you were trying to say anyway.

He just gave you that maddeningly perceptive half-smile and shrugged. “All I’m saying is—maybe give him a shot. He’s a good guy.”

You stared into your mug as if it held all the answers, your heart doing anxious little somersaults beneath your ribs.

God help me, you thought, I’d say yes in half a heartbeat if he asked me absolutely anything.

*****

The late afternoon sun hung low on the horizon, painting the terrace in a warm, honeyed glow. Autumn air drifted in soft and cool, carrying the quiet rustle of city noise far below and the occasional gust that sent dry leaves skittering across the floor. You leaned on the railing, hands wrapped around a fresh mug of coffee, your third cup of the day, nursing it more for comfort than caffeine.

The tower behind you buzzed faintly with life, but up here, it felt distant and peaceful. Which was why you jumped a little when the sliding door creaked open.

You turned as Bucky stepped out into the light, like he wasn’t sure he belonged in it. His hair was still damp from a shower, pushed back behind his ears, and he wore a simple henley and jeans, civilian softness over a soldier’s frame. His hands were in his pockets, metal fingers twitching just once before stilling. He looked at you, then away, then back again.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than usual, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile calm had settled around you both.

“Hey,” you replied, your mouth curving into a small smile. “Didn’t think anyone else would come out here.”

He nodded, coming to lean beside you on the railing, but not too close. There was a careful distance in how he moved, like he didn’t want to invade your space, even if he wanted to be in it.

“I like the quiet,” he said after a beat, eyes fixed somewhere on the skyline. “Sometimes it’s easier to think when the world slows down.”

You hummed in agreement, sipping your coffee to ground yourself. There was something different in the air between you, tense and charged in a way that didn’t feel like nerves alone. He wasn’t looking at you, but his presence was more focused than usual, like he’d made a decision and was still working up the courage to follow through.

He cleared his throat, shifted his weight. “So… I’ve been thinking about something for a while now,” he continued slowly. “And I figured I’d just… stop thinking so much and say it.”

That got your attention. You turned slightly to face him, brows lifting in question.

Bucky met your eyes, and for a second, he looked as nervous as you felt, like someone standing at the edge of something they weren’t sure they’d survive jumping into.

“I was wondering if maybe…” He exhaled, scratched the back of his neck. “Would you wanna have dinner with me? Sometime? Just… you and me.”

Your brain stuttered.

For the briefest moment, you just stared at him, wide-eyed and blinking like you hadn’t heard him right, like your mind couldn’t reconcile the words he’d just said with the fact that Bucky Barnes was actually standing in front of you, asking you out.

But then it clicked that he was serious.

“Yeah,” you blurted, breath catching with the force of your answer. “I mean—yes. I’d love to. Really.”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, his shoulders dropping a little, the tension eased in a quiet, almost invisible way. 

“Okay,” he said. His lips curved into the smallest, softest smile, almost as though your yes had caught him off guard, like he believed you’d turn him down.

You smiled back, heart still thudding in your chest, mind still trying to process the fact that this was real.

*****

Bucky stared at his reflection like it might swing first. The mirror offered a version of himself he barely recognized: not the soldier, not the asset, not the ghost he usually avoided looking at for too long.

A navy button-down, clean, pressed, fitted just enough to hint at his frame without screaming effort. The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, a detail Natasha had insisted on. “So you don’t look like you’re trying too hard,” she’d said, smirking like she could already read his nerves. His hair was tied back, neat, but not slicked or overly styled, and he’d shaved enough to lose the scruff, though the jawline remained, for whatever that was worth.

He looked fine.

And that was the problem.

Because “fine” didn’t feel like enough when he was about to go on a date with you.

He didn’t know what kind of guys you usually went for, though they were normal, probably. Guys who hadn’t woken up screaming more nights than not, who didn’t have decades of blood in their rearview. 

“You look like you’re going to war,” Sam’s voice drawled from behind him.

Bucky turned, deadpan. “Feels like it.”

Sam sauntered in, arms crossed, wearing that too-easy grin that made Bucky want to punch him half the time and thank him the other half. He leaned on the doorframe like he had front-row tickets to a show.

“It’s a date, Barnes. Not a hostage negotiation.”

Bucky looked back at the mirror, adjusted his collar for the third time, frowned, undid the adjustment, then repeated the cycle all over again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’ll be fine.” Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got that tortured ex-assassin thing going for you. Women eat that shit up.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not joking. You’ve got the whole brooding, soulful eyes, ‘I’ve seen too much and need love to heal me’ vibe.” He wiggled his eyebrows, smug. 

Bucky groaned and looked down at his shoes, simple black lace-ups, freshly cleaned and more civilian than anything he’d worn in months. They looked fine, too. Still, he wasn’t convinced they didn’t look stupid.

“She said yes,” Sam added, more seriously now.

Bucky gave a small shrug, eyes still locked on the floor. “Probably just being polite.”

Sam rolled his eyes so hard Bucky could hear it. “Right. Because people love agreeing to awkward dinners with guys they have zero interest in. You know—just for the fun of it.”

Before Bucky could argue back, Natasha breezed into the room like a gust of lethal wind. She held a small bottle of something in one hand, likely cologne, and gave him a once-over that felt more like a weapons scan than a fashion check.

“Sit,” she commanded.

“I’m good,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“You’re not, but thanks for trying.” She circled him once. “Let me fix your collar. And for God’s sake, please tell me you’re not wearing combat boots tonight.”

“I didn’t plan on it,” Bucky muttered, but he glanced down anyway, just to be sure the shoes hadn’t changed when he wan’t looking.

“Good,” Natasha said without missing a beat. “Because if I saw you walk out of here looking like you were about to storm a HYDRA base, I’d have thrown them—and you—off the balcony.”

She was already smoothing the collar, stepping into his space without hesitation, her hands brisk and practiced. He let her, even though his stomach felt like it had tied itself into about six different knots.

Bucky sighed and glanced at the mirror one more time. The man staring back still didn’t look like someone you’d say yes to. But he was trying. 

*****

Across the tower, you stood frozen in front of your closet like it was deliberately withholding the one outfit that might make tonight go smoothly. The hangers swayed slightly, mocking in their silence, every dress suddenly too plain or too detailed, too structured or too soft. Nothing felt right. 

“Wear the green one,” Wanda called from behind you, stretched out comfortably on your bed with a magazine in hand and not a single ounce of urgency in her tone. “You know the one.”

You glanced back at her, uncertainty etched across your features. “Isn’t it… too much?”

Wanda looked up over the glossy pages, arching a brow like she couldn’t believe you were actually asking that. “You’re going on a date, not negotiating a peace treaty. And he’s not blind.”

You sighed, pulling the forest green dress from the hanger with more hesitation than necessary. The fabric was soft beneath your fingers, fitted at the waist, fluttery at the sleeves, the neckline dipping just enough to make you second-guess whether it was too much skin or not enough confidence. It had always been one of your favorites, but tonight it felt like a gamble. 

“I just… I don’t want him to think I’m trying too hard,” you murmured, holding the dress up to yourself and frowning at your reflection like it might offer advice.

Wanda’s gaze softened. She set the magazine aside and sat up, her voice quieter now. “You like him.”

You couldn’t respond right away, with the truth of it lodged in your chest like a pebble under skin. You ran your fingers down the fabric’s seam, willing yourself to breathe normally.

“Yeah,” you said eventually, barely above a whisper. “I do. A lot.” You swallowed hard, then added, “But what if he only asked because Steve talked him into it and he didn’t want to say no?”

Wanda rose and crossed the room to you, her expression equal parts gentle and exasperated. She took the dress from your hands, set it aside, and reached for your fingers instead.

“Then let tonight prove otherwise,” she said simply. “But for the record? He wouldn’t have asked unless he wanted to. Bucky doesn’t do pity. And he sure as hell doesn’t do favors, not even for Steve, unless his heart’s in it.”

You met her eyes, searching for even a flicker of doubt and finding none.

So you nodded, quietly, and turned back to the mirror. Your heart was pounding now, not a gentle flutter, but a deep, echoing thrum that seemed to shake your ribs. You stepped into the dress slowly, like the motion alone might summon courage. The fabric slipped over your shoulders, settled against your waist, and for a moment, you just stood there, staring at your reflection.

You smoothed the front of the dress with trembling fingers, adjusting a sleeve that didn’t need adjusting, your breath catching somewhere between nerves and hope.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t be perfect. Maybe you’d stumble over your words or laugh too loud or say the wrong thing entirely.

But maybe he’d look at you and think for one moment you were beautiful.

You hoped that would be enough to get to a second date.

*****

The little Italian place Steve recommended was tucked away on a quiet Brooklyn side street, with string lights in the windows and mismatched chairs that somehow worked. You arrived first, nervous, but composed, smoothing the skirt of your forest green dress as you glanced at the door for the tenth time in three minutes.

Then he walked in.

Bucky Barnes, dressed in a navy button-down (sleeves rolled, showing off those contrasting forearms that made you swoon), with his hair pulled back in a low tie and the faintest nervous energy in his walk. He looked unsure in the doorway, hesitating for the briefest second before spotting you, and then gave you the smallest smile, tentative, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were actually here, waiting for him.

“You look…” he started, and then cleared his throat, voice roughened by nerves. “Wow. You look beautiful.”

You flushed instantly, heat blooming beneath your skin as you glanced down, heart pounding far too loudly for something as simple as a compliment. “Thank you. You, uh… you clean up pretty well yourself.”

And then a silence stretched, where neither of you quite knew what to do with your hands or your breath. The hostess lead you to a quiet table, tucked near the back.

“So…” Bucky said as he eased into the chair across from you, his smile a little crooked now, “how long do we pretend this isn’t awkward before admitting it is?”

You let out a laugh, nervous, but real, relieved that at least one of you was willing to say it. “Maybe three more minutes?”

He grinned. “Deal.”

The server came and went, and somehow you still hadn’t made eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time. Two glasses of water sat untouched between you, condensation slipping down the sides, while you toyed with the edge of your napkin and Bucky adjusted his sleeves with no real purpose, like maybe he could fidget his way out of this awkwardness.

“Steve,” you both said at once, voices overlapping.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He chuckled, his shoulders loosening a little. “Did he give you a speech too?”

“Oh, absolutely. Something about how you make the world’s best omelet and smell like cedarwood and righteousness?”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ. He told me I’m basically ‘Cary Grant with a six-pack.’ I almost canceled just from the secondhand embarrassment.”

That pulled a fuller laugh from you, the kind that lived in your chest instead of your throat. “Okay, that’s hilarious. I knew he was laying it on thick with me, but Cary Grant?”

“He meant well,” Bucky said, dropping his hand and giving you a more relaxed smile now, one that creased at the edges. “He always does. Just… doesn’t know how to dial it back.”

He looked down at his glass, fingers brushing the base.

“Still, I guess I should thank him,” he added, a little quieter. “Never would’ve had the courage to ask you otherwise.”

Your breath hitched just a little at that, the sincerity in his voice cutting through every anxious thought still clinging to you.

“I’m really glad you did,” you said, and you meant every word.

And after that, the ice cracked. The conversation began to flow, slow at first, then easier and smoother. You talked about movies you both liked, swapped stories about life in the Tower, laughed over Sam’s unholy playlist choices during team morning runs (“‘Smooth Criminal’ at 5AM,” Bucky muttered, still traumatized), and how Natasha had threatened to throw him and his combat boots off the balcony if he wore them tonight. You laughed until your ribs ached and dessert menus appeared, your cheeks warm, now from something sweeter than embarrassment.

Then, as the laughter faded, a softer, more expectant quiet settled in.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, thumb tracing the rim of his glass again. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, heartbeat picking up again. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Before all this…” he hesitated, then met your eyes. “Did you ever think about us? I mean—being something more?”

Your stomach flipped. For half a second, you just looked at him, unsure if you’d misheard or if he was really asking that. And then you nodded, slower this time. “Yeah. I did. For a while, actually.”

His brows lifted, surprise flickering across his features. “Seriously?”

You laughed softly, but it was because of nerves, and vulnerability, not to brush it off. “Of course. But I figured… you weren’t into this.”

You gestured vaguely to yourself, your curves, your softness, your very non-Black-Widow self, and looked down, suddenly unsure if you’d said more than you should have. You weren’t embarrassed, just exposed. And afraid of the silence that followed.

It wasn’t awkward, but it lent a heaviness to the conversation.

Then, from across the table, Bucky’s voice came low and sure, “Wait—you thought I wasn’t attracted to you?”

You shrugged one shoulder, unsure how to answer.

And then he leaned forward, his tone steady but thick with something unspoken. “I thought you figured I was too broken to be boyfriend material.”

That pulled your gaze back up, fast.

“I never once thought that,” you said, firm, no hesitation this time. “Not for a second.”

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to decide whether to believe you.

“And I never once looked at you and saw anything but someone I wanted,” he said, soft but certain. “Still do, in fact.”

The words sunk into your soul, quiet and deep, like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through every doubt you’d carried into the evening.

“Really?” you whispered, the disbelief cracking around the edges of your voice.

Bucky’s smile was small, honest, and just a little stunned himself. “You’re exactly what I want.”

Your throat tightened from the ache of finally, finally getting something you hadn’t let yourself hope for.

“Well,” you said, blinking quickly, cheeks flushed and warm as you fought the sting in your eyes, “that makes two of us.”

And when his hand reached across the table for yours, you didn’t hesitate to hold on.

*****

The elevator ride up to your floor was quiet. Neither of you quite knew what to say now that the hard part was over, that the laughter and conversation of dinner had faded. 

You stood side by side, close enough to feel the ambient warmth of him, and even though your arms weren’t touching, there was something about the way his body angled just slightly toward yours that made it feel like he wanted to. Like maybe he didn’t want this night to end either.

Bucky’s metal hand stayed tucked inside his jacket pocket, but you noticed his other hand gently brushing the edge of the handrail, restless, unsure, like his nerves had settled into the smallest movements. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere ahead, but you could feel his focus was still on you. 

When the doors finally slid open onto your floor, he glanced at you, voice low but full of sincerity.

“I had a good time,” he said, warmly.

You smiled as you stepped out, heart fluttering. “Yeah. Me too.”

You reached your door and paused there, key in hand but not moving to use it yet, your fingers curling slightly around the metal. Your pulse was steady but fast, now the nerves of two people standing just close enough to want more but still not knowing how to ask for it.

Bucky lingered a step behind you.

“I, uh…” he began, rubbing the back of his neck with that same sheepishness that made your heart ache in the best way. “I’m not great at this part.”

You turned to face him fully, amused, but touched by his honesty. “The goodbye?”

His mouth tilted in a wry half-smile. “The part where I want to kiss you, but I don’t want to make it weird in case you don’t.”

Your breath hitched, and the key slipped slightly in your grip as you swallowed down the shock of hearing him say exactly what you’d been hoping for since halfway through the entrée.

“It wouldn’t be weird,” you said softly, the words coming easier than you expected, but your voice still trembled at the edges with anticipation.

His brows lifted, betraying the faint wonder in his expression, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard you right. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, more sure of that than anything. “I’m sure.”

He stepped in, slow and deliberate, as if checking with every breath whether you’d change your mind. You didn’t. You wouldn’t. Your back pressed gently against the door as he moved closer, and your body hummed with the intensity of wanting this so much it almost hurt.

His hand came up, warm and steady, fingers brushing softly along your cheek as he cupped your face, gentle and reverent, like he was afraid of rushing you. His thumb skimmed your skin, and just that single point of contact had your breath catching in your throat.

And then his lips met yours. They were soft, slightly dry, just barely parted, pressing into yours with a careful tenderness. 

You wondered idly if he had imagined this moment and, like you, still didn’t believe it was real. The kiss wasn’t deep or demanding, wasn’t full of fire or claim. It was quiet, measured, and sweet. His mouth slid softly over yours, tentative but full of emotion, like he was pouring months of unsaid feelings into that single connection.

You placed your hand against his chest, right over the soft cotton of his shirt, and felt it immediately, his heart, thudding fast beneath your palm, matching your own in its uneven, breathless rhythm. Your fingertips curled slightly, just to revel in the truth of him standing here, kissing you.

He pulled back just a fraction, lips lingering near yours, breath shallow and warm against your skin. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and low, still close enough that you could feel the vibration of it through his chest and along your palm.

“Sorry,” he murmured, almost shy. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

You blinked, still caught in the haze of him, your lips tingling, your heart weightless and full all at once.

“Don’t be sorry,” you whispered, smiling through the soft daze, completely smitten and not even trying to hide it. “I have, too”

He smiled back, boyish and a little unsteady, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Then he slowly let his hand fall away, stepping back with a kind of reluctance that told you plainly he hadn’t wanted to let go yet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked, voice still soft, still hopeful.

“Yeah,” you said, feeling the weight of that word settle somewhere deep and warm. “Definitely.”

He gave you one last look, a mix of wonder and affection, and then turned, walking down the hall with shoulders still squared, but lighter than before.

You watched him go, your hand resting over your heart, your lips still tingling, and your soul at ease in the most beautiful way.

*****

Just around the corner, tucked into a patch of shadow like a kid hiding from Santa, Steve leaned against the cool wall, listening with an unrepentant nosiness that came from genuine hope. He wasn’t spying, exactly, just making sure that the two people he cared about most were finally seeing what he’d seen all along.

He caught the sound of quiet laughter, the low murmur of Bucky’s voice, and then slow reluctant footsteps. A beat later, Bucky rounded the corner, his expression dazed in the best way, lips curved in a soft, almost stunned smile.

Steve barely had time to duck back before he was spotted, flattening himself against the wall with all the grace of someone twice his size and half his stealth. But he didn’t care.

As soon as he heard Bucky’s footsteps fade down the hall, he let out a quiet, victorious breath, fist clenched in silent celebration.

“Yes,” he whispered to himself, grinning like an idiot.

he nodded slowly, looking at the screen as if it were a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet. “okay. and... the emojis?” he asked after a pause, his tone unsure.

“they’re just little pictures to add to what you’re saying. makes it more fun, i guess.” you flashed him a quick smile before adding, “and, if you’re talking to me, you’re gonna use them, or else i’ll think you’re mad at me.”

bucky’s lips curved upward just a fraction at the playful challenge. “right,” he muttered, glancing back at the emojis, his expression turning serious again. “this one - ” he tapped an image of a smiley face, “ - this is good, right?”

you nodded with enthusiasm. “perfect. now try sending it to me.”

bucky hesitated for a moment before carefully typing out a message: “Hey. 🙂” 

he looked at you for approval, his blue eyes searching yours.

“well done,” you said softly, holding back a giggle. “you did it, buck.”

he grinned, a little relieved but still unsure. “guess ‘m getting the hang of this.”

“you are,” you replied, your voice filled with genuine encouragement. you could see him trying, and that was enough to make you proud.

“now,” you began, leaning in closer, “I’m going to teach you how to send a selfie. It’s easy.” you grabbed your phone and showed him how to take a picture, flipping the camera to face him. “like this.”

“a selfie?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, you’re going to love it,” you said, snapping a quick picture of him as he looked confused but willing to give it a try. “okay, now you do it. just - ” you stopped yourself, realising something. “don’t look so grumpy, though. smile a little.”

bucky rolled his eyes but played along, pulling a reluctant smirk before he tapped the button to take the picture. “this feels weird,” he muttered, but his gaze softened when he saw the result. he stared at the picture of himself for a moment, before looking at you. “it’s not bad.”

“not bad at all,” you said with a smile, grabbing your phone and sending the photo to him.

you watched him check his phone, his brow furrowing once more as he took in the photo, then back at the screen as you sent a quick text: “that smile is great, by the way.”

he read it, then quickly typed back: “you’re making fun of me.”

“no, i’m not,” you teased, tapping the keys with your fingers. “i think it’s cute.”

before he could respond, you leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw. his body went still at the contact, the soft touch of your lips drawing his attention away from the phone. without saying a word, he kissed you fully, his lips warm and steady against yours.

“you talk too much,” bucky murmured when he finally pulled away, his voice gruff but affectionate.

you couldn’t help but giggle, looking up at him. “sorry,” you said, smiling in that way that made his chest tighten. “but i’m trying to teach you how to use a phone.”

“teach me less,” he replied, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. before you could answer, he kissed you again, this time slower, his lips lingering on yours longer than before. it was like he couldn’t help himself, needing to pull you close and forget about everything else. 

when he pulled back, there was a softness in his eyes that was so different from the gruff exterior he usually put on. “you’re a distraction,” he admitted, though he didn’t sound bothered in the least. 

“only when i’m teaching you how to text?” you asked, your smile still wide.

“always,” he said with a grin, kissing you again, this time more gently, as if savouring the moment before pulling away and reaching for his phone. 

he looked at the screen again, tapping at it thoughtfully. “okay, what about this one?” he asked, tapping a face with hearts for eyes. “it seems like... the right one.”

you grinned, unable to resist the warmth that filled you at how cute he was, trying so hard to understand all this. “perfect,” you whispered. “now, send it.”

bucky hesitated for a beat, then pressed send. he turned to look at you, like he was asking for your approval.

“you did it,” you said softly, heart swelling with affection. “now, you’re a pro.”

he raised his eyebrows. “am i allowed to text you good morning now?”

“whenever you want,” you said with a grin, your hand finding his and squeezing it gently. “and i’ll send you emojis all day.”

bucky looked at his phone again, glancing up at you with a fond smile. “then i’m gonna need to figure out a lot more emojis.”

“take your time,” you teased, before your lips met his once more, this time without interruption.

the apartment was dimly lit, the only light coming from the tv screen where the office was playing. you had insisted that bucky give the show a try, promising him that it was the perfect mix of awkward humour and heartwarming moments. at first, he had grumbled about it, saying something about not needing to watch “a bunch of idiots in an office.” but here you were, four episodes deep, and you could see that little spark of amusement in his eyes.

bucky had his arm draped around your shoulders, his large frame practically swallowing you up as you nestled into his side. you were curled up against him, legs tucked under you, head resting on his chest. every now and then, you could feel the rumble of his low chuckle vibrating against you whenever something on-screen caught him off guard.

“i still don’t get how that jim guy hasn’t been fired yet,” he muttered, shaking his head as jim played yet another prank on dwight. “guy’s got a death wish or somethin’.”

you smiled, turning your face up to look at him. there was a light in his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he tried to hide how much he was actually enjoying the show. “maybe he reminds you of someone?” you teased, poking his side.

he shot you a look, all mock seriousness. “you callin’ me a troublemaker?” 

“if the shoe fits,” you replied with a grin, turning back to the screen.

as the episode continued, you found yourself more focused on him than the tv. you loved seeing bucky like this, relaxed, at ease, his defences down for once. there was something so endearing about the way he’d get lost in the episodes, brows furrowing when michael said something ridiculous, or the rare moments when he’d throw his head back and laugh - a real, deep laugh that you couldn’t help but adore.

during one of those moments, as pam and jim exchanged a look, you felt his chest rumble with laughter, and it was so infectious that you couldn’t help but giggle, too. he glanced down at you, catching you staring, and for a second, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.

“what?” he asked, his voice softening.

“nothing,” you said, a little shy under his gaze. “you’re just... cute when you laugh.”

his eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across his face before it softened into a shy smile. “yeah? well, don’t go tellin’ everyone.” 

you laughed, but before you could tease him more, he suddenly shifted, tugging you closer until you were practically in his lap. your breath hitched as he wrapped both arms around you, enveloping you in his warmth. 

you fit so easily against him, his hands splaying over your waist, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. the show kept playing in the background, but you were completely lost in the moment, the way he held you so gently despite his strength.

“you’re missing the best part,” you whispered, but your voice was soft, almost hesitant, like you didn’t really want to break the spell.

“nah,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “this is the best part.”

your cheeks warmed, and you couldn’t resist tilting your head back to steal a quick kiss. he met you halfway, his lips warm and surprisingly soft, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. 

“hmm, you taste better than jim’s pranks,” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips when he pulled away.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “careful, barnes, you might start liking sitcoms.”

“only if you’re watchin’ them with me,” he said, squeezing your waist gently. 

you settled back into his chest, letting the familiar sounds of dunder mifflin fill the room. with one hand idly playing with the hem of your shirt, bucky seemed content, occasionally making little comments about the show under his breath that made you giggle. 

as the theme song played for the next episode, you reached for your phone to check the time, but bucky’s hand covered yours, stopping you. “stay,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading. 

you glanced up at him, surprised by the hint of vulnerability in his eyes. it wasn’t often that he asked for things so openly, but when he did, it always tugged at your heart. 

“okay,” you whispered, setting your phone aside and snuggling closer, the two of you wrapped up in each other as the episodes played on, the world outside forgotten for just a little while.

the air was filled with the sounds of laughter, the occasional scream from the roller coasters, and the smell of funnel cakes and popcorn drifting through the breeze. the theme park was bustling with life, a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds that made your heart race with excitement. you could hardly contain your giddiness as you pulled bucky along by the hand, weaving through the crowd.

bucky, on the other hand, looked a little overwhelmed. his brows were furrowed as he glanced around, taking in everything like he was preparing for an ambush. it was endearing, really - the way his grip on your hand tightened every time someone bumped into you, his protective instincts kicking in.

“relax, buck, it’s just a theme park,” you teased, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

he grunted, still looking suspiciously at a guy in a giant mascot costume waving at children. “yeah, well, not sure i trust a place where people scream for fun.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, tugging him closer. “that’s the whole point! come on, let’s try a ride.”

you led him to the line for one of the tamer rides - a classic spinning teacup attraction. bucky eyed it warily, but he didn’t protest, letting you drag him into one of the pastel-coloured cups. once you were seated, you watched with a grin as he tried to figure out how the ride worked, his large hands gripping the metal wheel in the centre.

the ride started to spin, slowly at first, then picking up speed. you were laughing uncontrollably, the wind whipping through your hair, and when you glanced over at bucky, he had this look of pure concentration, like he was trying to out-spin everyone else.

“bucky, it’s not a competition!” you managed to gasp out between giggles.

he shot you a playful glare, a rare smile breaking through his usually stern expression. “everything’s a competition, doll.”

when the ride finally slowed to a stop, you were both a little dizzy, but you couldn’t stop smiling. you staggered out of the teacup, and bucky’s arm was instantly around your waist, steadying you. “you good?” he asked, his voice low and a little rough.

“never better,” you replied, leaning into his side.

next up was the game booths, where bucky’s competitive side really came out. you challenged him to one of those rigged carnival games where you had to knock down bottles with a baseball. he rolled his eyes at the way the game operator explained the rules, clearly unimpressed, but when it was his turn, he hit every target dead-on, not even breaking a sweat.

“show-off,” you teased, but you couldn’t hide the admiration in your voice.

“what can i say? i’m good with my hands,” he shot back with a wink, handing you the giant stuffed bear he won as a prize. your cheeks warmed, but before you could retort, he leaned down to steal a quick kiss, effectively shutting you up.

with your new teddy bear in tow, you wandered through the park, trying different snacks and taking in the sights. at one point, you insisted on getting a picture in one of those cheesy photo booths. bucky tried to protest, saying he wasn’t “photogenic,” but you dragged him in anyway.

the two of you squeezed into the tiny booth, your legs tangled together because of how little space there was. as the camera flashed, you made silly faces while bucky looked a little bewildered, but by the last frame, you managed to coax a smile out of him - a real one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

you couldn’t stop staring at the printed photos as they rolled out, your heart swelling at how happy he looked. he glanced over your shoulder, shaking his head with a chuckle. “gonna frame that, aren’t you?”

“damn right i am,” you said with a grin, tucking the strip of photos safely into your bag.

the sun was starting to set, the sky painted in hues of pink and orange, when you finally made your way to the roller coasters. bucky was skeptical at first, muttering something about not trusting “rusty death traps,” but you could see the way his eyes lit up with a mix of curiosity and adrenaline.

“just one ride,” you pleaded, giving him your best puppy eyes.

he sighed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “fine, but if we die, i’m haunting you.”

you laughed, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the line. as the coaster climbed higher and higher, you could feel the tension in bucky’s shoulders. you reached over, lacing your fingers with his. “it’s gonna be fun, trust me.”

the drop was sudden and exhilarating, your screams mixing with the rush of wind, and when you dared to peek at bucky, he had this look of pure, wild joy on his face. it was rare to see him so carefree, and it took your breath away more than the ride itself.

when you finally stumbled off the coaster, legs like jelly, bucky was grinning like a little kid, his hair windswept. “okay, that wasn’t so bad,” he admitted, looking almost bashful.

“see? i told you,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning up to kiss his cheek. he pulled you into a proper kiss instead, right there in the middle of the bustling crowd, not caring who was watching.

“thanks for dragging me out here,” he murmured against your lips, his voice soft in a way that made your heart flutter. 

“anytime, sarge,” you teased, smiling up at him.

he just shook his head, a fond look in his eyes as he pulled you closer. “you’re trouble, you know that?”

“yeah,” you said, resting your head against his chest, “but you love it.”

he just chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head, and you knew he wouldn’t trade this day for anything.

🌀 bucky barnes : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid

@yvespecially

🌀 one time tags : @pvndomi

You should’ve felt accomplished. Proud. Instead, you felt like a ghost in your own home.

No one had said anything, not directly. But they didn’t have to. The looks, the nods you didn’t get in the hallway, the way everyone seemed to talk around you instead of to you. It all added up. They were Avengers. Legends. Gods. And you were… what? Just the analyst who happened to be dating one of them. An ordinary woman in love with an extraordinary man.

And somehow, no matter how often Bucky looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, the thought kept crawling back up your throat like bile: You’re not good enough for him.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus, tried to chase away the fog settling over your mind. But it was no use. The feeling had been a quiet whisper in the dark for months now, and lately… it was starting to scream.

You had seen the way people looked at Bucky- like he was a living monument to strength and survival. A relic of history wrapped in modern muscle and trauma, wearing his past like armour. People admired him. Revered him. And yet, he came home to you. You, who shuffled files and ran analyses. Who flinched when the training team sparred too close to your desk. Who once got winded jogging down the corridor when your badge lanyard snagged on a doorknob.

What could he possibly see in you that someone like Sharon, like Natasha, couldn’t offer in a more fitting package?

Footsteps echoed lightly down the corridor, the sharp click of designer boots hitting the polished floor like a countdown. You didn’t even need to lift your eyes. That cadence was familiar, the kind that always made your stomach twist with a mixture of dread and forced politeness.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Sweet. Laced with superiority.

“Still here?” Sharon Carter stepped into view, her tone dipped in passive-aggressive honey. She was perfectly made-up, of course, with not a single hair out of place, her sleek suit hugging her figure in all the ways that made people notice when she walked into a room.

She looked you up and down like you were something out of place, something small, insignificant. “Thought they kept the admin staff in the basement.”

It was a joke, probably. One of those faux-friendly jabs that everyone was supposed to laugh at. Except she wasn’t smiling. Not really.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, fingers tightening slightly around the tablet in your lap. You weren’t going to let her see how deep that cut went, not when she was already poised to twist the knife.

You gave her a polite nod, trying not to let your discomfort show. “Just going over the post-mission data. They’re due back in an hour.”

"Must be hard. Being with someone like Bucky." Sharon's smile was the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“What do you mean?” You stiffened, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the tablet.

She stepped closer, arms folded casually like this was just idle chatter.

"I mean- he’s one of us. Field-ready. Weapon-trained. A living legend. And you… well, you make great coffee."

You swallowed hard. "I do more than-"

"I know," she said quickly, with that same dismissive tilt of her head. "You’re smart. Very behind-the-scenes. Essential in your own way, I suppose. But let’s be honest…Bucky’s built for war. He needs someone who understands that. Who can keep up. Who can be more than just a comfort waiting at home."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each word driving in like a nail. It was everything you'd feared, laid out in someone else’s voice. Someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"He probably misses someone who can actually stand beside him out there," Sharon added with a shrug. "You know… someone who belongs."

The tablet in your hands blurred as tears threatened. You blinked hard and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or sob.

So you just stood, quickly and quietly, and walked away- shoulders stiff, throat tight, eyes stinging. You had to get out of there before someone saw you fall apart.

You left the compound entirely, slipping out the back entrance and taking the long way home. Your mind ran in circles the whole walk. What if Sharon was right? What if everyone had just been too polite to say it out loud? What if the only reason Bucky was with you was because you were safe? Easy? A soft landing after years of running and pain?

~#~#~#~#~#~

Bucky came back two hours later, bruised and sweaty but grinning. The mission had been long, much longer than expected. But successful at least. He was covered in dirt and grime, dried blood flecked across one temple, the strap of his weapons bag cutting into his shoulder. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had long since worn off, but one thing kept him upright, kept him moving: you. The thought of you waiting at the compound, probably curled up with your tablet and a warm drink, maybe looking up every time the door slid open- yeah, that thought had gotten him through worse days than this.

He slung his weapons bag over one shoulder, still covered in dirt and dust from the mission, and scanned the lounge immediately.

“Hey, Sam,” he called. “She around?”

Sam looked up from his protein bar, brow furrowing slightly. “She left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Looked kinda off, though.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “Off how?”

Sam stood, tossing the wrapper aside. “I dunno, man. Quiet. Real quiet. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Thought maybe she was just tired, but now…” He trailed off, reading the worry blooming on Bucky’s face.

“You think something happened?” Bucky asked.

Sam gave a slow nod. “Could be nothing. But you know her better than anyone. If it’s not nothing- you’ll fix it.”

Bucky’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. You always met him after missions. Always.

Without another word, he turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, hand still a little bloodied. ~#~#~#~#~#~

You pulled your car over to the side of the road, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking through your spiralling thoughts. You hadn’t made it home. It felt too far. Too final. The space inside your car was tight, suffocating, but it was still safer than walking through the front door like nothing was wrong.

The phone vibrated in your hand again, lighting up with his name.

You stared down at the caller ID like it was a bomb about to go off. You didn’t answer right away. How could you? How could you speak to him when all you wanted to do was disappear?

You were a coward. That much was clear. Running off like that, not even saying goodbye. You should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced her. But the words Sharon had said... they hadn’t been new. They were just the same cruel thoughts you’d had about yourself, dressed up in someone else’s voice.

You weren’t right for someone like Bucky.

You were just an analyst. A desk jockey. A tagalong to the world of gods and heroes.

And he was... everything.

He was strength and legend and pain and hope, all wrapped up in that scarred, steady way he looked at you like you were worth the whole damn universe. And you? You couldn’t even look yourself in the mirror right now.

The phone buzzed again.

Guilt stabbed through your chest.

He’d just come off a mission. He was probably still aching, tired, maybe even hurt—and here you were, making it all about you. Selfish. So unlike him. He always made you feel like the only girl in the room. One look from him and the world melted away.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes, and finally picked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice too quiet.

“Doll, where are you?” he asked, voice already softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… needed some air.”

There was a pause.

“You lying to me, sweetheart?” he said gently.

You closed your eyes. He knew you.

“No.”

Another pause. “Come back to the compound. Please. I need to see you. You're scaring me.”

Your chest cracked open. He sounded so… real. So Bucky. You found yourself nodding, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

~#~#~#~#~#~

He was already waiting by the elevator when you arrived, walking slow, tense loops with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than usual. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the entrance, like he couldn’t help but check again, hoping- needing- you to appear.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped dead. Everything in him just stilled. Relief hit him like a wave, shoulders dropping, hands unclenching—but his expression didn’t ease completely. No, his eyes stayed cautious, flickering across your face like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running. Like you were something breakable he didn’t dare press too hard.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

You tried to fake a smile, to smooth the cracks in your mask. But it was shaky, barely there, and he saw right through it. You saw the flicker of sadness in his eyes at the attempt.

You stepped into his embrace slowly, almost shyly, as if uncertain you still deserved it. The moment your body met his, the dam inside you cracked.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath since you left the compound.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with emotion. “There’s my girl.”

You clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish, afraid this was all a dream that would dissolve when you let go.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, drawing back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he wanted to catch the remnants of that broken smile.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and aching. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re an Avenger. A war hero. And I… I sit at a desk.”

“Stop,” he said instantly, thumb now tracing your cheekbone like he could wipe the pain away.

“I don’t fight aliens. I don’t have powers. I’m just… support staff.” Your voice wavered, trembling like your heart might break in two right there in front of him. “Sharon said you’d get bored of me. That you’ll want someone who can stand beside you in the field.”

His jaw tensed like he’d been struck. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his expression, steel sharp and silent. His entire body went still.

“She said what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but even as the fury gathered behind his eyes, he didn’t let it take hold. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Because right now, you were what mattered.

You looked down, ashamed. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not wrong.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just the space of a heartbeat and then the weight of metal settled into your palm with a soft metallic clink.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.

“You see these?”

You nodded.

“These?” he said again, his voice thick with meaning as the tags clinked quietly between you. “These don’t just mean soldier. They mean survivor. They mean second chances. They mean you, okay? I don’t give these to anyone. I want you to have them.”

You stared at them, too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe. They were warm from his skin. Heavy with meaning.

He cupped your face gently, both hands trembling slightly now.

“You’re not support staff. You’re the person I come home to. My person. You keep me grounded. You’re the one thing that’s real.”

Your lips trembled, voice caught in your throat. “Bucky…”

He leaned down, voice husky and sure. “Put them on. Right now.”

You slipped the dog tags around your neck, hands shaking, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

“There,” he said, eyes gleaming- not with pride, but with something softer. Fierce, unyielding love. “Now everyone knows. You’re mine. Forever.”

~#~#~#~#~#~

In the hallway, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms. Not rushed. Just worshipful, like you were something sacred he’d been aching to hold all day. You wrapped your arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he carried you, his footsteps steady and full of purpose, all the way to his room. Every step was careful, intentional, his hold firm but gentle, like he wanted to shield you from everything that had hurt you today.

He kissed your forehead as he laid you back on the bed, then your cheeks, your jaw, each press of his lips like a vow.

“So beautiful… so smart…” he murmured with each kiss. “Couldn’t do any of this without you.”

His soft kisses pressing into your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. 

“You’re everything to me,” he said, pulling your shirt over your head. “Every breath, every second.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, your chest, trailing down your stomach , while his hand eased you out of your pants. 

“You think I don’t need you?” he said between kisses, each one a soft promise against your skin. “Baby, I fall apart without you.”

His mouth moved lower, worshipful and unhurried, kissing every inch of you like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred. By the time his tongue slid between your thighs, you were already trembling.

He groaned when you gasped, the sound low and reverent. Not just desire but devotion. His tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision, savouring every soft, slick response he pulled from you. He licked a long, teasing stripe up your centre, then circled your clit with a maddening tenderness, his hands gripping your thighs just firm enough to keep you open and trembling beneath him.

He moaned into you, like the taste of you was salvation, like he’d starved for this and finally had permission to feast. One hand slid up your stomach, grounding you as your hips bucked gently, chasing every press of his mouth.

“So sweet,” he murmured against you, voice thick with love, his lips brushing your most sensitive skin. “Taste like heaven. My heaven.”

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when you were trembling so perfectly for him. His tongue moved in slow circles, each pass deliberate and precise, coaxing you higher with gentle persistence. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly as your breath caught, his mouth parting you with reverence.

He flicked his tongue softly, then flattened it, letting the heat of him soak into every nerve ending, every gasp. He alternated pressure and pace, reading every twitch of your body like scripture. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned, the vibration made your entire body arch into him.

“You’re not allowed to think you’re not wanted,” he rasped between strokes, his voice wrecked with affection and need. “Not when I love you.”

You cupped his face as he kissed up your body again, pausing to nuzzle the dog tags now lying warm between your breasts. “You feel like home,” you whispered, eyes glassy, voice raw with truth.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t fast or greedy. It was achingly slow, like he was trying to carve a place for himself inside you, not just in body but deeper. He let out a low, unsteady breath as he sank in, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand tightening around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He didn’t thrust. Not right away. He stayed there for a beat, deep and still, forehead resting against yours as his breath caught in his throat. His hand stayed tangled in yours, his vibranium one anchored at your hip, grounding you both. “I need this,” he whispered. “Need you. Like this. Just us. You make everything quiet.” Bucky needed you to feel every inch, every part of him that belonged to you.

And then he moved like a tide rolling in to soothe what had been broken, to wash away everything that hurt. His hips rolled back with unhurried grace, then pressed forward again in a smooth, reverent stroke, making sure to drag himself along your velvet walls with each motion, slow and devastatingly deep. The way he filled you, the way he moved inside you. Like he was writing his name into your soul with every breathless thrust, imprinting himself where no one else had ever reached. Every motion was a promise: that he was here, that he was yours, that you were loved in the most complete, carnal, and emotional sense of the word.

Every slow push and pull was deliberate, reverent, the kind of lovemaking that felt like a conversation without words. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring softly between each breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking as you trembled beneath him. “So damn much it hurts. You make me feel like a man. You see me.”

You cupped his cheek, tears sliding down your temples. “You see me.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath and kissed you again, Bucky pouring everything he had into it.

His rhythm stayed slow but insistent, hips pressing into yours with aching tenderness, like he wanted to be memorized, like he never wanted to be forgotten. The friction, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel whole—it all built into something consuming, something soft and sacred.

When you came, your soft cries muffled into the curve of his neck, he held you tighter, like anchoring himself to you, like if he let go, the whole world would tilt. He whispered your name over and over again like a prayer, like a lifeline, like a vow, following close behind you with a quiet, broken groan into your skin.

And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just sex.

It was coming home.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Afterward, he wrapped the blanket around you both, tucking you into his chest like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world. His metal fingers traced soft, soothing circles against your spine, grounding you in the silence that settled warmly between you.

“You ever doubt your place again,” he murmured, lips pressed to your hair, voice rough with sleep and sincerity, “I want you to remember tonight. Remember how I touched you. How I looked at you. Remember this.”

You nodded against his chest, overwhelmed, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the dog tags still resting over your heart, the weight of them a quiet promise.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words small but certain.

He smiled, eyes closed as his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

The metal walls around you are sweating condensation from the cold outside. The air is astringent, reeking faintly of antiseptic, like adrenaline that hasn’t finished leaving the bloodstream.

You feel the constant noise of the quinjet in your teeth more than your ears. You can taste metal on your tongue, like pennies thrown into your mouth, and every inhale chatters against the soreness layering behind your ribs.

Sam is cracking some joke in the corner and Natasha’s smirk is sharp enough to slice the tension in half, but no one laughs too loud. Everyone’s voice is dipped in that tired kind of calm, the one you only wear after the gunfire stops but before the bruises bloom.

You shift in your seat. The fabric of your suit still smells faintly of smoke, of something burnt. There’s a line of fire along your side where the bullet carved skin but not life, a neat little warning branded into you. The medkit says it’s fine. You say it’s fine.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

He is sitting across from you, three feet away. Or maybe it’s three miles. Hard to tell with the emotional distance between you that just continues to stretch.

He is hunched over with an elbow braced on his knee, flesh hand covering his mouth as if he’s holding his jaw in place. His steely eyes are fixed on the floor as though there are answers written in the rivets. You want to tell him you’re fine, really fine, better than fine because you’re alive and so is he, but the words get blocked in your throat, too clumsy, too simple for what happened.

His head does not once lift off the floor. Not even to glance at you.

And maybe you should be grateful. Because if he looked at you, if he head-on looked at you, you’re not sure if he’d scream or shatter.

Natasha eyes you from across the cabin, quickly, as though she is measuring the damage and cataloguing your foolishness all in one glance. It makes you sit up straighter even when your body tries to collapse in exhaustion. Her gaze snaps once toward the man in front of you, the one who hasn’t said a single thing since you boarded.

He is sitting so still. His jaw is locked, rigid, a muscle ticking like the echo of gunfire he can’t outrun. He doesn’t even move when a turbulence shivers through the jet. He is galaxies away, orbiting his own fury.

Tony tosses a protein bar at you. It lands in your lap. “Eat. You look like a corpse cosplaying as a superhero,” he says.

You roll your eyes, peel back the wrapper. The sugar tastes too sweet. Too human. Your tongue rebels, but you chew anyway.

“It’s just a scratch,” you state, casual, careless.

A chorus of scoffs follows. Familiar. Frustrated. Almost affectionate.

But not him.

Not Bucky.

He is still silent. Still folded into himself, hands clasped tightly, flesh knuckles white. There is a tremor running up his arm. The sound of leather groans under the strain of his grip.

You know he isn’t ignoring you. He is holding himself together with threads that are fraying by the second.

“A scratch is a papercut,” Sam pipes up, scoff in his voice. “That was a bullet, sugar.”

“She’s walking. That’s a win,” Clint muses, throwing you an encouraging smile you try your best to reciprocate. But you can’t force your gaze away from Bucky for too long.

He doesn’t flinch when Sam talks, doesn’t respond to Clint, doesn’t rise to Tony’s jab. He sits there with his hands curled too tight, a silent sermon of outrage and fear. You watch as he presses his trembling fingers hard into his thigh as if to ground himself here, now, instead of where his mind is replaying the scene.

You want to reach for him. You want to link your hand with his, take him into your arms, and tell him that you would do it again, ten times over, a hundred, because the thought of him falling while you stood still is unbearable. But the words feel heavy in your chest, and his silence is heavier still.

Steve’s gaze switches between you and Bucky. It lingers on him a fraction longer. Like he knows. Like he always knows. But he doesn’t say anything either.

You can feel Bucky growing roots in the corner. The air between you is threaded too tight, pulling every breath thinner. He’s trapped inside his head, and you’re the one who put him there.

Not the bullet. Not the shooter. You.

You think about the moment again - how fast you moved, how instinct overtook thought, how your body was already in front of his before you even realized what you were doing. The sting. The heat. His face, right after. The kind of pale dread that makes time stop.

And now this.

Natasha leans back in her seat, eyes half-closed, but she’s watching. Always watching. “The scar will look hot on you,” she says casually, like she’s talking about what food you’re going to order when you’re back.

Someone chuckles. Maybe Clint. Maybe Sam. You don’t catch it.

Because Bucky finally looks up.

Just for a second.

And he is not fixed on the others, but finally, finally on you.

And it’s too much. The devastation. The terror. The rage building dark and boiling behind his pupils.

His eyes are not gentle. They are not soft. They are not melting the way they usually do when he looks at you. They are wild and desperate and hurt. A thousand words bitten down to silence.

And you know.

You know the fight is already waiting for you on the other side of the quinjet door.

Because it‘s all there. The way he is replaying the moment in his mind, the way he saw you step in front of him, the way you flinched when the bullet kissed your side. He is watching it again, again, again. A loop he cannot find his way out of.

And you are left wishing you could reach inside his skull and silence the reel.

But for now, he just sits there, broken and furious and so impossibly quiet.

The quinjet tilts. It lowers almost in a reluctant way, as if it doesn’t want to come back down to earth. There is that gradual drop in your stomach, the kind that says home is near. The kind that says everything dangerous is technically over, but not really.

The engines whine softer, softer still, until the rumble becomes a heartbeat underfoot. The floor vibrates through your boots in a way that feels almost human - like the jet is alive and exhausted and glad the night is nearly over.

The others unbuckle in a choreography you know too well. Tony first, impatient, muttering something about a hot shower and an ice-cold drink. Clint following, stretching like his spine is a bowstring. Sam trailing after him with clipped movements, the kind of gestures people make when they are trying not to look at what actually bothers them. He gives Bucky one last glance, and it’s a glance you feel, something unspoken between them. But Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice. Or care.

Natasha stands too, graceful as always, rolling her shoulders, and she lets her hand brush your shoulder as she passes. You can’t make out the intention behind the move, but you hope it’s meant for comfort, because that’s what you need right now.

Steve lingers. Of course he does. One hand gripping the edge of a seat as though he’s not sure if he should play mediator or ghost. His eyes swap between the two of you again - Bucky’s still form, your restless hands. He looks at you with that kind of concern you never ask for, but he’s been alive long enough to recognize when not to push. So he just sighs, presses his lips together, and finally goes. The sound of his boots fades down the ramp.

And then it’s just you. And him.

The silence with the others gone is too large, a silence with elbows and knees that bruise if you bump into it.

You don’t even hear him breathe, but you see the way his chest heaves unevenly.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. He still sits hunched forward, elbows on his thighs, flesh hand dragging across his jaw. His metal hand stays clenched, the dull silver gleaming under the overhead lights. But they are dimmer now.

You swallow against the knot in your throat. Try his name once, softly. “Bucky.”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch. He’s carved himself into stone across from you, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s the only thing keeping him from spinning off the planet.

You wait. You give him a moment. Two. A whole eternity stretched wide.

Still nothing.

He doesn’t breathe differently, doesn’t blink in your direction. He is an unmoving photograph, locked in grayscale.

The pain in your chest sharpens. You sigh, a sound heavier than you want it to be, and push yourself upright slowly. The motion makes the cabin shift beneath your feet, your body pulling against gravity like it doesn’t quite know not to fight against it. The wound pulls at your side when you straighten, and you wince, but it’s nothing compared to the way he won’t look at you.

You take a step, just one, because you don’t know where you’re supposed to go when the space between you is so wide and so small all at once.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

His voice. Rough. A scrape of gravel across the floor. The question is a demand, a plea, an accusation. All three at once.

It stops you cold.

You turn, and there he is - finally looking at you. Not blank. Not silent. Alive with fury that isn’t really fury at all, that’s shaking, ripping, cracking open. His hands are fists, his chest is rising too fast.

He’s looking at you and it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no railing. His eyes are sharp, wild, too wide, and too wet. And you are the storm he’s trying to survive.

And suddenly the fight you’ve been tiptoeing around is no longer waiting. It’s here.

Bucky leans forward. Blue eyes darker than usual, fractured into pieces you can’t put back together. Not just like that. He stares at you as though you’re both the answer and the problem, as if you have stolen something from him and he doesn’t know how to take it back.

You blink, say his name like it might put the fire out. “Bucky-”

But the match has already struck.

He’s already shaking his head, not giving you room to start, to soften it, to explain. His hand scrapes down his face again, metal fingers clinking against his stubble. He looks wrecked. He looks furious. He looks like someone who just crawled out of a nightmare and hasn’t realized he’s awake.

“No. Don’t” His tone cracks. His voice is hoarse, low and harsh. Ashes in his throat. And he keeps shaking his head as if to shove away the memory. “Don’t even- don’t give me some bullshit answer. Don’t tell me you’re fine. Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter.” His fists are shaking on his thighs. “Do you even get what you did?” His voice is rough, wearing thin. “You just- you jumped in front of me. You took a bullet that was meant for me.” He laughs, but it’s not a sound of joy or anything like it. “Do you even hear how fucking insane that is?”

You straighten your shoulders, though you can feel the sting at your side where the bandage presses too tight. “It barely grazed me.”

He is on his feet before you realize it, breath ragged, chest heaving. The shadows under his eyes are bruised with exhaustion and fear, but his fury is louder than either. “That’s not the point.” His voice cracks, then hardens. “That’s not- Jesus, you don’t get it.”

You cross your arms, defensiveness piercing your chest. Your throat is dry. You try again, softer, but it comes out sharper than you mean. “I didn't think, okay? I-”

“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” The snap in his voice is loud enough to echo against the metal walls, then it collapses into something quieter, more vulnerable. “You didn’t think. You didn’t even give me the chance.”

The quinjet might as well be a cathedral now - all cold metal and echoes and saints made of anguish.

Your pulse is in your ears. Your side is throbbing. Your mouth is full of rust. You meet his eyes, and wish you hadn’t.

Because Bucky isn’t just angry. He’s wrecked.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he grounds out. Quiet now. Barely above a whisper. “That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.”

His voice folds around the words as if they’re used to having a meaning. As if they’re vows etched into his bones.

“You don’t get to just- just take it for me, doll.” The petname is a tremble. Like it hurts to say. He always uses so many pet names when you’re caught in an argument. It’s as if he tries to remind himself every single time that he still gets to call you that. Gets to call you his. That he hasn’t lost you just yet. But a fight between the two of you never escalated the way it seems to be doing now.

And then he moves - too fast - pacing like a storm in a cage.

One hand scrapes through his hair, the other clenches so tight you hear the metal whine.

“You don’t get it,” he says again, voice breaking in the middle. “You don’t get what it did to me- watching you go down. Watching you bleed. Watching you-” He swallows it. Chokes it back. “I couldn’t even move. I couldn’t breathe.”

You’re shaking now. You didn’t mean for this to hurt him. Didn’t mean to tear open every stitch he’s sewn shut. But this fight is different. This one is real. This one cuts somewhere neither of you knows how to bandage.

“You always do this,” he mutters. “You always- throw yourself in front of the fire. God, baby, it drives me up the wall.” His voice climbs higher.

You feel like a child again, being scolded for touching the stove, for chasing puddles, for running into traffic, and saying you were chasing the moon.

You want to be calm. Rational. You want to explain that it wasn’t a choice, that it was instinct. But frustration rises inside you, choking. “What was I supposed to do, Bucky? Just watch you get shot?”

He turns to you, eyes slashed open, burning wild. “Yes! Damn it- yes. You should’ve let me take it. I can take it. I’ve taken worse. A bullet wouldn’t have done a damn thing to me.”

Your throat goes hot. “And if it was worse?” Your words spill too fast, too brittle, louder now. “What if it wasn’t just your arm, or your shoulder, or wherever the hell you think you can take it? What then?”

“You think I can’t handle a gunshot?” His laugh is bitter, hollow, empty. “Do you have any idea how many times- how many times I’ve been shot? I would’ve walked it off. But you-” He gestures at you, wild, helpless. “You can’t. You’re not-”

“I’m not what? Not you? Not indestructible?” You hear the bite in your own voice and hate yourself for it, but you don’t stop. “I know I’m not you. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit back and let you get torn apart in front of me.”

“I can take it,” he snaps, desperate now, his eyes piercing and locking on yours like if he stares hard enough you’ll finally understand. “That’s the difference. I can take it.”

The words hit harder than the bullet did. Heat burns your throat. The anger sparks before the hurt has even settled. “Wow.” Your laugh is bitter, breathless. “So that’s what you think of me? That I’m some fragile little liability on the field?”

He shakes his head instantly, quick, desperate. “That’s not- doll, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” The question tears out of you, hurt and harsh. “Because all I’m hearing is that you’re built to take it and I’m not. That I’m- what- breakable? Fragile? Disposable?”

“No, baby, that’s not-” His voice stumbles, rough edges colliding. “That’s not what I’m saying.” With a groan, he drags his hands down his face, flesh and metal both. “I’m saying I can take it better than you can, and you damn well know it.”

You freeze. The room tilts a little. His words slice in ways he didn’t intend, but the cut is real all the same. You can feel the wound at your side throbbing, sharper under your anger. “Look, I know I’m not some special kind of superhero, okay? I don’t have powers, I don’t have some serum running through my veins, and there is nothing explicitly great about me, but don’t stand there and tell me I can’t handle a goddamn graze, Bucky! I’ve had worse.”

His shoulders tense, his whole frame falling inward.

“God, that’s not-” His voice rasps like something splintering under pressure. Then it hardens again, lashing out in panic disguised as fury. “That’s- I don’t-” It falters mid-breath as though his lungs don’t want to carry the weight of the sentence. He catches himself with a fist clenched too tight and a jaw that looks like it’s been grinding down a scream. When he speaks again, it’s serrated and sharpened anguish. “I know you’re strong, baby.” His voice is worn. Throaty. “Stronger than anyone gives you credit for, hell, stronger than me most days. But this- this isn’t about that.” His breath cuts short, chest shuddering, and he looks at you with eyes that are all storm, no shore. “This is about-” He stops. Stutters. “You could’ve-” The word wilts on his tongue. He swallows profusely, like it burns going down. A tremor rushes through him. He rakes his hand through his hair, breath half-held, whole body trembling like he’s standing barefoot in a blizzard. “You could’ve died, doll.” The words crack like ice. “And you don’t even-”

You step forward, something molten rising up your throat. “But I didn’t.” You throw your arms out, as if to show him the whole inventory of your body, bruises and all. “I’m fine, Bucky. Look at me.”

“Fine?” He spits the word as if it tastes like blood. His voice lifts again, strong with desperation he can’t mask. And then his metal hand slams into the armrest of the seat beside him with a violent clatter, the sound a boom in the belly of the quinjet. The chair jerks sideways, bolts groaning in protest. “You call that fine?” His voice is scraped raw from the inside out. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding under that damn bandage and you almost didn’t-” His words collapse on themselves. He breathes like he’s chasing oxygen that won’t stay in his lungs. He is visibly fighting the tremor in his throat.

Silence. A silence that isn’t really silence, because his breathing is jagged and your pulse is thunder in your ears.

You want to tell him you acted on instinct. You want to tell him that it wasn’t a decision. That your body just moved when it saw him in danger. That fear has a language all its own and yours always spells save him. That the image of him falling, broken, is worse than any pain you could imagine.

But he’s looking at you like you pulled the trigger yourself. Like you opened your chest and aimed the bullet at your own ribs just to punish him. Just to rip the ground out from under him.

You glance down at the torn fabric, the dried blood that crusts around the bandage. “I’m handling it, okay?” you tell him, and your voice is strained, stretching thin against the silence. “It’s not a big deal.”

The sound he releases is a scar, twisted and hollow and painful to hear. “Not a big deal?” he echoes, voice incredulous and so, so wounded. “You could’ve been dead. Do you get that? Do you understand what that means? One inch deeper, one second slower, and I’m holding your body instead of your hand.”

The silence after that feels too big, too swollen to hold.

Your arms wind around yourself, because his words keep finding the softest parts of you and keep pressing down. You exhale and it hurts to let go of the air.

He looks away, hands on his hips, head bowed as though he’s just emptied himself out. His shoulders rise and fall in numbed, uneven lines.

“Can’t you see what it does to me, Bucky?” you whisper, the words hitching in your throat. Splintering with weariness. “Watching you go headfirst into danger every goddamn time? It kills me, Bucky. It kills me to picture you not coming back.”

He scoffs. Rough. Dismantling. The sound of something breaking. His hand flies out, gesturing wide, as though the whole world is a mess he can’t control and he’s trying to hurl it away. “That’s different!”

“No, it’s not!” you shout, heat boiling in your chest, heart hammering. You step closer, refusing the distance he’s trying to put between you. “Why is it different? Because you’ve been through hell? Because you’ve survived it before? That doesn’t mean it should always be you taking the fall. You can’t expect me to always just stand behind you while you get hit.”

“If it keeps you alive,” he says, voice low and lethal, “then yeah. That’s exactly what I want. That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” The words are a blow. But you don’t flinch. You fire back.

Anger tears through the cracks of your ribs. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do when your life’s on the line!” His voice booms, ricocheting off the metal walls as though looking for a way out. His body is shaking. He is pacing again, shoulders rigid, breath stormy. His hands are firecrackers, bursting through the air, erratic. “It’s not noble, throwing yourself in front of me like that. It’s not- it’s reckless. It’s fucking reckless. You don’t get to make that call, not when I-” He stops, swallows audibly, shakes his head as though he is choking on the words. His fists are clenched at his sides.

Your side pains, wound burning hotter, but the fury blinds you to it. You throw his words back at him, icy and fast. “Don’t talk to me about reckless,” you snarl. “You’ve thrown yourself into worse for all of us. You don’t hesitate when it’s your body on the line. But the second it’s mine, suddenly it’s a crime?”

He turns so fast it shakes the air. His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. Searing. Sorrowful. Fury and devastation are wrapped so tight you can’t tell them apart. He takes a step toward you, and then another, until there’s barely air between you.

His voice drops, rough and shaking and dangerous. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it felt like- seeing you drop, seeing blood on you because of me.” He closes the last distance between you in two quick strides. His eyes are oceans mid-tempest. “You were on the ground, and I swear to God, I stopped breathing. I saw you hit the floor and I thought- this is it. This is the moment I lose her. And if that happens- if you’re gone- if I lose you-” He bites down hard. You see the pain stretch across his face like glass cracking under pressure. “I’m done,” he breathes. “You hear me? Done.” His voice is gravel and grief. “There’s no coming back from that.”

Your chest caves in, slowly, painfully. But your voice rises anyway. “And what if I feel the same?”

He freezes.

“What if I can’t survive watching you die? What if I’d rather take that bullet every time than live in a world without you?”

His face breaks, and for a second you think he’s going to fall apart. Say something raw and unfixable.

But then he turns away. Fast. Hands in his hair. His metal fist curls, clenches, presses against his mouth like he’s trying to stifle the sound coming out of him - a noise you’ve never heard before.

It’s not rage. It’s not grief. It’s terror. Strangled and trembling.

The sound makes your wound flare, a hot, twisting pain, but you bite down on it, refuse to wince. Refuse to show him one ounce of weakness.

“It’s not the same,” he grits out through harshly clenched teeth.

“Yes, it is,“ you shoot back, frustrated.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, voice scraping bottom. “Why don’t you get it?”

You step closer. Close enough to feel the quake in his shoulders. “Why don’t you?” you throw back, chest aching. You’re not yelling anymore. You’re just breaking. “I made a choice, Bucky. My choice. And you don’t get to tell me it was wrong just because it scared you.”

He whirls on you with a snarl of disbelief, eyes wild.

“Scared? You think that’s all it is?” He steps forward, and you swear the jet shrinks around you. “It wasn’t just wrong,” he claims, “it was stupid. Suicidal. You gambled your life like it meant nothing.”

“And I’d do it again.” The words rip from your throat, vehemently, tears stinging behind your eyes. “A thousand fucking times, I’d do it again.”

His face crumples as if he’s folding under the strain of every second that’s passed since the bullet tore through you, heartbreak and grief colliding until he looks almost unrecognizable. His hands fall to his sides. His mouth parts, shaking. Silent. His eyes glisten as if he’s seconds from drowning.

“You’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispers, defeated.

And the silence after that feels like it’s been held in the mouths of stars.

The wound in your side pulses again - no, not a pulse. A bite. Teeth, dragging. Sharp. Cruel. Hungry. You press it down like you’ve been taught to do. Like the pain owes you obedience. But it doesn’t. And he’s looking at you as if you’re a stranger in your own skin.

And God, you’re too deep in the fire to pull back now.

Your voice is soft when it finally comes. Paper-thin. A whisper trying not to tremble. “You’re not the only one afraid of losing someone, Bucky.”

He exhales like he’s coughing up a wound. A sound so raw it cleaves the air between you. His chest stutters. Caves. Fights to lift again.

“Then stop putting me in a position where I almost do.” His words are not loud, but they land.

Your hands curl into fists, your nails digging crescents into your palms. Your side is screaming now. Screaming. Not a throb anymore. Not even a burn. It’s a hurricane. A tidal wave. It climbs your spine, presses sweat through your skin, swirls around your lungs and tightens.

You feel lightheaded, but you dig in. Dig deeper. Because anger is easier than fear. And you’re too stubborn to give the pain permission.

“You don’t get to tell me how to love you,” you say, and your voice has a raspy note. But there is a certain confidence in the way you speak to him. “I won’t apologize for saving you from a bullet wound.”

He flinches.

It’s small - almost nothing.

But you see it. You feel it.

For a moment, it is quiet again. The air between you quivers, explosive and tenuous. Everything but peaceful.

Just two people breathing hard enough to unnerve the walls, hearts banging like warning sirens against ribs too shrill and too bruised to carry them.

You don’t even realize your breathing is too shallow until the world shifts. Just a tilt. Just a smear of light. The overheads cloud, lengthening into halos you can’t quite reach.

You blink. Once. Twice. Mouth pressed tight. Trying to glare at him. But your vision is molasses now, slow and honeyed and dangerous. The wound - your whole side at this point - is a furnace. A pulse that spikes, hot and penetrating. Like someone driving a nail under your skin. At first, you think it’s nothing - just your body’s reminder that adrenaline always runs out. But it is expanding. Deepening. A slow burn blooming into fire.

You tell yourself that this is what a graze feels like. But the air doesn’t enter your lungs the way it should anymore and the lights overhead are suddenly a single sting behind your eyes.

You don’t remember when your knees began to give, only that they did. Just a slight buckle. A warning shot you try to keep to yourself.

Bucky doesn’t miss it. Of course, he doesn’t. His eyes snap down, sharp as knives, then back up to your face. His expression changes, sharpens in a different direction. Like a tide pulling out. Like a cliff eroding in fast-forward.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low, croaky, unstable. It sounds as if his throat is lined with sandpaper.

“Nothing,” you bite out too fast. Too curt. You straighten. Or you try to. “I’m fine.”

But the pain is not fine. It’s surging now, like the wound has been waiting for the argument to end before it demanded center stage. As if summoned by your lie. It grabs hold of you now. All at once.

The bandage feels wet. Your side feels like it’s trying to tear off your body. The edges of your vision grow fuzzy for just a moment longer - enough to make you catch your breath, enough to make your body sway.

“Hey-” Bucky’s voice is urgent now, sharp and thick with alarm. And he is there in an instant, too close, too fast. His hands are on you before you even register him moving, one warm, one metal, both steadying you before the ground has the chance to steal you.

“I said I’m fine-” you grit out, trying to shove him away with hands that don’t quite do what you want them to. Your words are clumsy, just like your movements. You try to straighten, but instead your body sags against his grip. Your body doesn’t cooperate. Your muscles slur. Your spine folds. “It’s nothing,” you gasp, “just-”

“Nothing?” The word snags in his mouth. His eyes flash down and he sees the blood. The bandage soaked through. The way the red spills across your side like it’s writing a warning in ink. His face goes slack with horror. Then it tightens. Hard. Like a door slamming shut behind a scream. “Jesus, Y/n-”

“I can handle it,” you exclaim stubbornly. But your voice trembles, shivers, betrays you. You’re trying to stay upright, trying to fight the proof of your body’s collapse. Trying to win, even now. To prove him wrong, to prove yourself right. “I told you, I can handle it.”

His arms shift again, cradling you like you’re already slipping through his hands. His metal arm hooks under your legs without hesitation. He’s trying to hold you without hurting you, panic in every movement.

“Handle it?” His voice pitches up, hoarse and fierce and broken. “You’re bleeding out on me.” His words are a tremor. A truth too loud to ignore. “You’re white as a sheet, you can barely stand - don’t you dare tell me you can handle it.” His voice is pulled straight from the center of him.

You stumble again, and this time there’s no denying it. Your whole body lurches. The pain spikes - bright and feral - and a gasp slips from your mouth before you can stop it.

Your hand flies to your side. Hot. Wet. Sticky. The bandage is gone. Useless. You’re losing too much, too fast.

Your knees crumple, and your body pulls you down despite your mind’s insistence, but his arms are already catching you with a curse under his breath. His body braces around yours with the force of something terrified. You feel his heart pounding where your head presses into his chest. A thunderous rhythm.

“Shit- shit, hold on, I’ve got you,” His voice has no rhythm now, just pieces - pointed, breathless, all jumbled together like falling debris.

He clamps one hand to your wound, hard and fast, like he’s trying to hold the blood in, like if he just presses hard enough, he can undo it.

His breath is coming in stutters. Not clean. Not measured. Just labored little gasps, broken fragments pulled too fast into his lungs.

His arms - one flesh, one metal - tighten. Not gently. Not delicately. Desperately. Scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a second.

You want to tell him to stop. You want to tell him you can walk, that this isn’t necessary, that he’s overreacting and this is excessive. But your tongue feels plushie, your mouth tastes like copper, and the air won’t sit still long enough for your lungs to catch it and shape the words.

He’s moving too fast. Too fast for someone with a heart that’s breaking.

“Hold on,” he utters. Two words. Strained. Snapped in half. Laced with dread and too many maybes.

He shifts you against him, pulls you closer, your weight drawn easily against his chest, one arm under your knees, the other anchoring your back, as though you’re breakable and already broken. His warmth, his solidity - it’s too much. It makes you want to collapse entirely.

You shouldn’t feel this safe. Not when everything hurts. You don’t even notice him taking off, the ramp of the quinjet groaning and moaning under his weight.

Your head lolls against his shoulder as the corridors rush by in a haze. Too heavy. Too hollow. The vibrations of his boots slam into your spine, and travel up, up, up. Too fast, too hard. Each step proof of how close he is to breaking.

You feel him everywhere. The heat of him. The tremor in him. The wild, frantic, unsteady beat of his heart crashing against your ribs, against your ear.

“Bucky-” Your voice is a whisper, a thin wire strung between your teeth.

“Don’t.” One word, but it lands like a plea. Gruff. His breath catches like it's snagged on something sharp. You feel his jaw flex against your temple. Hear the way his voice fractures. “Don’t talk, baby. Don’t waste your strength.”

You almost laugh - because wasting your strength on words is all you know how to do - but pain is a cruel thief, and it steals even the sound of a smile.

You catch the tremor in his hands. Not the metal one. The other one. The human one. The one made of skin and scar tissue. The one that remembers how it felt to hold hope and lose it. Fingers press too tightly at your shoulder.

“I should’ve seen it.” His voice is quieter now, almost to himself. “Should’ve known. I was too- too wrapped up-” The rest dissolves into another language. Russian, maybe. Sharp syllables. Soft fury.

You try again, your voice thinner now. “I told you- it’s not that bad.”

But you’re lying. And he knows it.

He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before - something guttural shredded with disbelief. He jerks his head, eyes burning down at you, and the expression on his face is something you’ll never forget. Not anger. Not this time. Just naked fear. “Don’t you dare say that. Not one more time. You’re bleeding through my shirt, baby.” His voice hitches. Shatters in the middle. You feel the break. Taste it. “That’s bad. That’s fucking bad.”

And you realize he’s right. You can feel it now - the consistent warmth soaking through layers of fabric, the pain sharpening into something blinding. Your skin is clammy, your head spins harder, your breaths grow weak. You feel the way the world spins like it’s on the verge of forgetting you.

“Stay with me,” he grates out, the syllables wrecked. He sounds out of breath. He’s never out of breath. “Don’t close your eyes, baby. Look at me.”

You try. You do. But the world is softening and there is nothing you can do about it. Each step he takes sends another sharp pang through your side, the ache sweltering and radiating.

You gasp, eyes fluttering, and the pain sings its jagged lullaby.

He adjusts his grip, faster now, speeding down the corridor. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you- god- baby-”

You blink, slow and stupid. You swallow as best as you can, words slurring in your mouth. “We were busy.” It sounds like a joke. And maybe it is. A terrible, unforgivable joke.

His face contorts like you’ve struck him. He looks down at you as though you’ve just ripped his heart out. “Busy fighting?” His jaw tightens. His voice drops to a choked whisper. “You should’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I should’ve seen-”

You hum something in return. Maybe agreement, maybe apology. But the world is a merry-go-round now and you’re slipping off the edge. Your eyes close for just a moment. Just one. The dizziness is inviting.

“No. Hey.” His voice spikes, piercing and raw. Loud and terrified. He jostles you lightly, desperate, hysterical. “No, no, no- eyes on me. Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me. Don’t even think about it, baby.”

Your lashes flutter, the hallway tilting again. His grip tightens, trying to hold you inside your own body. His face is a watercolor now, smudged and moving.

“Almost there,” he gasps against your hair, but the earthquake in his voice doesn’t get muffled. “Almost there, baby. Hang on.” He bites down on the next words, his jaw hard enough to crack. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t- please, baby-”

You want to reach for him. To cup his face and tell him he’s being dramatic again because he always gets dramatic when it’s about you and your health. But your hands aren’t working. Your body is sinking. Your bones are tired of holding you up. Your tongue is sluggish and your mouth won’t work the way you want it to.

The med bay doors loom ahead, too far and too close all at once. He shoulders them open without slowing, the slam of metal against metal echoing behind you.

“Somebody-” His voice cracks through the room, loud, panicked. “Somebody get in here!”

You try to tell him to stop yelling. To stop making a scene and that it’s not as bad as it looks and that others might be doing worse. But the ceiling is spinning and your words are gone.

“Stay with me,” he breathes, voice breaking down to almost nothing as he lowers you onto the nearest bed. His hands are everywhere - pressing at your side, brushing hair off your face, shaking, steady, shaking again. “Stay awake,” he pleads again. He’s trying to hold all your pieces together, but they‘re slipping through his fingers. “Stay with me, baby, please. Please, I can’t-”

The fight is gone. The fury is gone.

All that’s left is fear.

Your eyes flutter, heavy, and you whisper his name like it’s the last coin in your pocket.

And the look on his face when you do - the panic engraved so viscerally, the desperation rasping through every line - is enough to keep you tethered, just barely, just enough.

The med bay fills too quickly. Footsteps hammering, voices swinging through the air with urgency. Dr. Cho’s commands come clipped, efficient, the language of someone used to patching up gods and soldiers alike. A tray clatters, gloves snap, lights blaze white above you.

But all you see is him.

Bucky doesn’t move from your side, not even when Cho snaps at him to give space. His hands are sticky with your blood. His eyes are frantic, tearing over your face as though he can will you to stay awake just by looking hard enough. “Easy, doll. I’ve got you. Right here, I’m right here.” His voice is wreckage.

Your fingers twitch, searching. Blind. Weak. They find nothing but air.

Until his hand is there. Big, calloused, trembling. He links your fingers and you grip with what little strength you have, your palm slipping against his. He clutches you with deeply rooted desperation.

His breath catches audibly. He bows his head close, closer, forehead nearly touching yours, his hair falling forward in a curtain that hides you both for a heartbeat.

“I’m here,” he croaks, broken into pieces. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You believe him. You always do. You should. You can.

The medics are talking around you, about pressure and blood loss and IV lines, but their words aren’t registering. You focus only on his voice, the gravel and quake of it, the way it buckles against your skin.

You squeeze his hand. Hardly. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. The words are frail, wobbling things. “Bucky- I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s face crumples. His whole body folds. His reaction is immediate, violent in its tenderness. His hand grips yours tighter. His forehead presses to your temple, his lips moving over your hairline, your cheek, your brow, your knuckles - feverish kisses, despairing, wherever he can reach in the chaos. “No- no, don’t you say that.” His voice shreds as he speaks. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t-”

Another wave of pain sears through you, sharp enough to make your vision go white. You gasp, your body arching, your grip on his hand faltering.

He squeezes tighter. His thumb rubs over your knuckles, rushed and intense. You see the wet shine in his eyes. The tears breaking loose, tracking down his face. And your chest clenches because you’ve seen him bloodied, broken, beaten - but never shattering like this.

“I can’t-” His throat locks, helpless and human. He shakes his head, presses another desperate kiss to your hair. “I can’t lose you. Don’t make me, please- please don’t”

You want to answer. You want to promise him. To tell him again you’re fine, or will be fine, or something that might sew his fear back together. Something that might make him stop crying. But the room is melting into darkness and it is opening its mouth for you. You’re already halfway inside. The sounds around you are dimming into a single hum. Your body feels heavier, every heartbeat slower, slower still. You don’t even know if you’re present anymore.

“Stay awake,” Bucky begs, voice crumbling as his tears hit your skin. He shakes your hand, gentle but miserable. In demise. “Please, sweetheart, stay awake.”

You try to hold on, to give him one more word, one more look. But your body is slipping. Your hand slackens in his.

The last thing you hear is his voice breaking open against your name as your eyes fall shut.

The last thing you feel is the heat of his tears falling into the hollow of your throat as the world disappears.

“We loved with a love that was more than love.”

- Edgar Ellen Poe

And because the universe liked to kick you when you were down, the ache crept up into your nose until you realized one nostril was stuffed. The left one. It was always the left one.

You rolled onto your back, blinking at the ceiling. The room was dark, the red glow of the alarm clock reading 3:08 AM. The air was hot under the comforter, and Bucky’s arm was draped cool and heavy across your belly. He breathed slowly against your neck, twitching once as he sank deeper into whatever dream he was having.

You stayed like that for a few moments, staring up at nothing, debating whether to just suffer silently or do something about it. The dryness in your throat got worse. You could feel how your tongue had dried out too, clinging to your teeth unpleasantly.

Quietly, carefully, you slipped out from under his arm and rolled to the edge of the bed. His hand pawed vaguely at the empty space you left behind, but he didn’t wake.

The hardwood was cold under your feet. You padded across the room to the bathroom door just a few steps away. You reached for the knob and twisted it slowly, holding it in your hand as you opened the door, and then just as carefully closed it behind you without letting it click.

In the bathroom, you flicked on the dim mirror light. It buzzed softly as it came to life, casting a warm glow over the tile. You squinted at your own reflection: tousled hair, creased cheek, a line of dried drool ghosting from the corner of your mouth. Sexy.

You took a sip of water from the sink first, but it didn’t help much. That tacky, raw feeling at the back of your throat clung stubbornly. You made a face, grabbed your toothbrush and the minty toothpaste, and uncapped the tube.

The toothbrush buzzed to life in your hand, low and steady, as you pressed it to your teeth. Mint foam bloomed across your tongue almost immediately, a little too sharp in your dry mouth, but at least it felt clean.

You leaned your hip against the counter, eyes half-lidded, brushing in slow, lazy circles, wishing the mint would reach all the way to the sore spot in your throat.

*****

The bed shifted.

Bucky stirred, just enough to register the weight of your body sliding away, the warmth pulled out from under his arm. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t wake fully yet. 

He reached for you without opening his eyes, hand grazing over empty sheets and the lingering heat of where you’d just been. A soft exhale left his nose as he rolled toward the space you’d vacated, dragging your pillow close and burying his face in it. It smelled like you, your skin, your shampoo, something vaguely sweet and warm.

Then he heard a sound, low and familiar. It buzzed faintly through the wall.

At first, it didn’t click. He lay there in the dark, mind swamped in sleep and the kind of peace that only came when you were next to him. But the sound kept going. Not the faucet. Not the fan. Just a low, constant hum.

And suddenly, his eyes opened.

He blinked at the dark ceiling, squinting toward the light coming from under the bathroom door. His hearing sharpened, the soldier in him always listening, even when the man was groggy.

That sounded too slow. Too deliberate. Too specific.

His jaw tightened slightly.

He thought you only used THAT when he was away. When he was on mission for two weeks and you missed him so bad you’d pull a t-shirt out of the laundry just to bury your face in it. When he wasn’t there to take care of you.

And now you were… what? Slipping off in the middle of the night? With him right here?

He pushed up on one elbow, scowling a little, heart thudding somewhere between confused, hurt, and, if he was honest, the tiniest bit turned on. It wasn’t a fair reaction. You hadn’t done anything wrong. But his possessiveness roused before his reason did.

You were in there… trying not to wake him, while you… took care of yourself?

He scrubbed a hand down his face and muttered, “Unbelievable,” under his breath, already swinging his legs off the side of the bed.

Half-hard and half-annoyed, Bucky stalked toward the bathroom. The floor was cold under his bare feet. His gray sweats hung low on his hips, the elastic worn just enough to slip if he wasn’t careful. His chest was bare, hair mussed, expression dark.

He reached for the doorknob and paused.

What exactly was he going to say? What was the play here?

Hey baby, glad you’re thinking about me but what the actual fuck?

The hum buzzed on. Bucky exhaled slowly and opened the door like he expected to catch you in the act.

Not angry, but already ready with something smug to say, something a little teasing and a little bruised, because damn it, you could’ve just woken him up.

But you weren’t bent over the counter or arching back against the sink. Or breathing out soft little gasps through your teeth the way he imagined.

You were brushing your teeth.

Toothpaste foamed thick in your mouth, your eyes half-lidded with sleep. One hand braced lazily on the counter, the other holding the vibrating toothbrush like it had personally wronged you. You looked up when you heard the door, momentarily startled, foam collecting at the corners of your lips.

Your expression was pure confusion.

Bucky blinked. His brain did a hard reboot.

You paused mid-brush, brow furrowing slightly.

He stared for another second, just a beat too long, before dragging a hand down his face once more and muttering, “Jesus.”

You kept brushing slowly, watching him with the tired wariness of someone who had not, in fact, done anything wrong.

The buzz of the toothbrush filled the silence.

Bucky leaned on the doorframe, folding his arms over his bare chest. He looked you up and down like he still wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t some kind of decoy.

“…You’re brushing your teeth?” he asked flatly.

You gave a single nod, still brushing, still foamy.

He squinted.

You raised your one brow as if to say Obviously, then bent over the sink and spat.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Okay, but. I heard the—” He gestured vaguely toward the toothbrush, like the object had personally betrayed him. “I thought you were in here with… you know.”

You glanced over at him, rinsed your mouth, then turned the tap off. “With what?”

He hesitated. His cheeks flushed faintly, whether from embarrassment or having barged in shirtless and half-hard on a total misread.

“The thing,” he said under his breath.

You blinked.

“Your vibrator,” he clarified, still looking mildly scandalized. “I thought— You didn’t wake me. And then I heard buzzing and I figured—” He stopped himself, then scratched the back of his neck. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”

You laughed. Not a big laugh, because your throat still hurt, but enough that you had to press a hand to your chest to stifle the rasp in it. “You thought I was getting myself off? At three in the morning? With you, like, ten feet away?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “Yes.”

“Well,” you said, still smiling, “you’re not that bad in bed, Buck.”

He raised his eyebrows, mouth twitching. “Yet you brought a whole battery-operated backup plan into our home.”

You shrugged. “You brought a grenade launcher into our home. It’s called preparedness. And you know I get needy when you’re away on missions.” You said unapologetically. 

He grinned, just briefly, then stepped inside the bathroom, the door still open behind him. “You okay?” he asked, voice softening now. “Why are you up?”

You sighed and leaned your hip back against the counter. “My throat hurts. Woke me up. Thought brushing my teeth might help.”

He frowned. “How bad?”

“Not dying. Just dry. And one of my sinuses feels clogged. Might be nothing. Might be the start of something.”

He stepped closer, one hand lifting toward your face, knuckles brushing your jaw. You tilted your head instinctively.

“Lemme feel.” His palm rested on your forehead. Then the back of it. “You don’t feel warm.”

“Thanks, Doctor Barnes.”

He smirked, then leaned down, brushing his lips over your temple. “Still. If you’re getting sick” his voice dropped, gentle and matter-of-fact, “I’ll take care of you. You know that, right?”

*****

His hand was still warm against your temple, rough fingertips brushing back your hair as he looked at you, now that the imaginary betrayal had cleared from his brain.

You looked tired. And not just the tired that everyone looked at 3am. There was a sluggishness behind your eyes, a slight squint when the bathroom light caught them. Your voice had rasped a little when you spoke, and your nose had that faint pinkness around the edge of one nostril.

He could see your discomfort now. Bucky exhaled quietly, fingers tracing from your temple down to your jaw, then under your chin.

“You should’ve just nudged me,” he murmured. “I’d’ve gotten you water. Tea. Anything.”

You swallowed. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

He gave you a look. “You think I’d rather sleep than take care of you?”

You tilted your head, still half-braced on the counter, your toothbrush back on the counter in its usual spot. “You’re very grumpy when I wake you.”

“I’m charming when you wake me.”

“You once answered the phone by growling and then hung up on Sam.”

“That was Sam, and it was two in the morning.”

You smiled. “And now it’s three in the morning.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

Bucky ran a thumb along your jaw, more tender than the situation probably called for. “I really did think you were in here with that damn toy,” he muttered, voice lower now. “I was about to kick down the door like a jealous idiot.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. “What would you have even said?”

He shrugged. “Depends on how smug you looked.”

“And if I was using it?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened slightly, “Then I’d’ve made you put it down and use me instead.”

Your heart did a low, syrupy flip at that. The ache in your throat dulled for a moment beneath the warmth that pooled somewhere in your belly. He caught your look and smirked faintly. “You missed out. I’m very accommodating at three a.m.”

You laughed, which turned into a cough, It wasn’t dramatic, but still sharp enough that his hand reflexively settled on your lower back.

“Okay,” you rasped. “Maybe I’m a little sick.”

Bucky stepped back just enough to reach for a washcloth draped on the side of the sink, wetting the corner under the tap before pressing it gently to your lips, wiping away the lingering foam you’d missed.

He didn’t say anything about it, just did it.

It made your throat feel tighter than the cold did.

You looked up at him, that same sleepy crease still in your brow. “I just wanted my mouth to feel clean before I got back in bed.”

“You done in here?” You nodded. He tossed the cloth into the hamper and crooked a finger at you. “Come on.”

He didn’t take your hand. He simply started walking, and you followed, because that was how it always worked with Bucky. He didn’t lead so much as he cleared the way.

Back in the bedroom, the light from the bathroom spilled across the covers. Bucky walked around to his side, pulled back the blankets and climbed in first, then patted the space in front of him.

You slid in, your feet already cold again. He wrapped an arm around your middle and tugged you back into his chest, the heat of his body instant and solid.

“Better?” he asked against your ear.

You nodded, throat dry again. “Yeah.”

*****

You weren’t sure what woke you, the light, the dull pressure behind your eyes, or the fact that breathing through your nose had become officially impossible.

You sniffled once and regretted it immediately.

Your throat was worse, thick and tight and sore all the way up the back, and your head felt unpleasantly floaty, like your skull had been stuffed with damp cotton.

You blinked against the soft light filtering in through the bedroom curtains. The clock on the nightstand read 8:23. Bucky’s arm was still slung across your waist, warm and heavy, holding you flush against his chest.

His breath moved slowly, steady against the back of your neck. You could feel the rise and fall of him, the press of his bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. He hadn’t let you go all night.

You shifted a bit, just enough to breathe without swallowing razorblades.

Bucky stirred immediately. His arm tightened, his nose nudging into your hair. “Mm.”

“You’re awake,” you rasped, voice like sandpaper.

He grunted, a sleepy affirmative, then pressed a kiss behind your ear. “How’s the throat?”

You made a pitiful noise and Bucky sat up.

You felt him shift behind you, propping himself on one elbow, the blanket falling to his waist. His flesh hand grazed your forehead, then your cheek, then tilted your chin slightly so he could see your face.

“Yeah,” he said, looking grim. “You’ve got the sick face.”

“Thanks.” You deadpanned. 

He smirked. “It’s a cute sick face. Your upper lip gets all puffy. It counts.”

You groaned and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I feel terrible.”

“You sound like a haunted clarinet.”

“Wow. So romantic.”

Bucky leaned down and kissed your forehead, slow and warm, then pressed his own brow gently to yours.

“You stay here,” he murmured. “I’m gonna go fix this.”

You squinted up at him. “Fix what?”

“Everything. Gimme ten minutes.”

He rolled out of bed, shirtless, rumpled, with the kind of bed hair that should’ve made him look ridiculous, but instead made you feel personally attacked by how handsome he was. His gray sweats hung just low enough to remind you he’d fallen asleep without underwear.

You did not have the energy to think about that and be sick at the same time.

Bucky disappeared into the apartment.

You heard the whir of the electric kettle, cabinets open and close, and then plastic packaging being torn open, followed by the hiss of vapor as something was poured into a mug.

By the time he came back, you’d sat up with your back to the headboard and resigned yourself to the fact that your body had fully mutinied.

Bucky reappeared carrying an actual tray with a steaming mug, two cold pills, a tissue box, and an unopened pack of honey cough drops in a tiny bowl.

“I didn’t know we had a tray,” you croaked.

“We do.”

He set it down carefully across your lap, and handed you the mug. “Drink.”

You sipped. The tea was perfectly hot, perfectly sweetened with honey, and exactly what you needed.

Bucky climbed back into bed beside you, careful not to jostle the tray.

“We’re gonna watch something dumb,” he said. “Cartoons. Or that baking show with the Scottish lady you like.”

You blinked slowly. “You hate that show.”

“I do, but you sound like you swallowed a cactus and I love you more than I hate their weird puddings.”

You smiled, eyes wet for reasons you decided not to examine too closely.

“You know, your birthday’s tomorrow.”

A dramatic groan echoed in the room when your head fell back and he had to smother his laugh. “Please, don’t remind me,” you begged.

“Why not? We need to celebrate,” he said.

You shot him a glare, which only made him smile in return. “Not worth celebrating.”

That grumpy look you loved appeared and he slowly shook his head. To you, your birthday was just another day. To him, it was a day to celebrate the most amazing person he had the honor of knowing. More than that, he had the privilege of being the one you chose to build a life with. How could he not celebrate tomorrow and every day?

“We have to do something to celebrate. Doesn’t have to be a big production or anything over the top,” he said, shutting his book so he could give you his undivided attention. Truth be told, he had glanced at you so many times while reading that he hadn’t made it through a single chapter. “Whatever you want.”

A thoughtful look crossed your beautiful face and he found himself leaning forward in his chair to stare at you more. Some days he looked into your eyes and saw a mirror reflecting your love for each other. When you smiled it was like you hung the sun in the sky just for him, even on the cold and rainy days. 

“Okay,” you said, closing your laptop and setting it aside. “I want you to wake me up with an orgasm.”

His cock twitched with interest at that and he shifted in his seat. “Fingers, tongue, or cock? Wouldn’t want to disappoint the birthday girl.”

“As if you could ever disappoint me,” you said, slowly standing and stretching. Your shirt rose and he bit back a groan at the sight of your exposed skin. “Tongue and fingers first. Then your cock. Raw.”

He shivered. He loved fucking you raw, loved filling you up. “Whatever you want,” he murmured. He’d give you whatever you wished for.

You smiled and made your way over, perching yourself on one of his massive thighs. “And then I want my favorite dessert for breakfast. In bed.”

He brought a hand to your cheek, his heart racing when he leaned in. “So, after I fuck you and make you scream my name, you want my cock in your throat to clean it off? That’s very generous of you to do on your day.”

You leaned back before he could kiss you and lightly smacked his chest. “Your cock is not my favorite dessert. That big boy is a whole meal and you know it.”

Bucky smirked and lowered his head. “You hear that, big boy? You’re a whole meal. I gotta tell the others. They’ll be jealous.”

He smiled when your laughter rang out in the room. Whenever he was down or thinking too much about the past, he’d think of your laughter and it soothed the pain inside him. “You boys and your dick measuring contests. You know, girls don’t sit around and say, ‘Guess what? I have the tightest, wettest pussy of the group!’ or anything like that.”

“Maybe you should because you do have a tight, wet pussy,” he said in a low voice, trying to pull you in for a kiss he desperately wanted. “But fine. Your favorite dessert in bed after at least two orgasms. Got it.”

Thank the heavens you two were in your own place and not the tower because he’d have to fight everyone from stealing your dessert.

Your lips skimmed his, teasing him, making him want more. “And after we have dessert, we’ll snuggle,” you said, your fingers moving through his hair and sending tingles down his spine. He didn’t think he’d be a cuddler until you. People touching him was a foreign concept after everything, but you went at his pace and now he craved your touch more than anything. 

“Love snuggling with you,” he admitted like it was a secret. He loved the sound of your racing heart, feeling your body melt under his touch. He got to hold you when there were so many others who wanted you, and he made sure you’d never question or regret choosing him to be your man.

“I love snuggling with you, too,” you said, hesitating before you added, “But after snuggling, I want a few minutes to myself.”

His heart dropped, cold settling within him and refusing to leave. “You want to be by yourself?” he asked, the lust gone from his voice and replaced with something smaller.

Bucky feared some days that he was too clingy, too much. After being alone for so long and having lost so much, he didn’t want to lose you or what you had together. But you never made him feel like he was smothering or bothering you. You made him feel like he was worthy, not just of you but of himself. You made him believe in hope and forever in a world filled with chaos and uncertainty.

As if you sensed the sudden storm about to brew inside him, you cupped his cheeks. “Stay with me, Bucky, please,” you urged, not wanting him lost in the darkness of insecurities. Your touch made the cold so much warmer. “The time to myself isn’t to shut you out or not spend time with you. It’s for me to write a letter and reflect on the past year. How I’ve grown, how I’ve faltered… and how lucky I am because I have you in my life,” you explained patiently. There was no annoyance or judgement, only understanding. 

He pressed his forehead to yours and allowed himself to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. It was meant to be your day and he felt like he just made it about him.

“Don’t be,” you whispered back, nudging your nose against his and making him smile just a little. “You’re always there for me when doubt and insecurities creep up. As much as we try to ignore them, it isn’t easy. That’s why we lean on each other. It’s what partners do.”

You were right. True partners leaned on each other. There were days you carried each other when things were too heavy. You saw the battles within each other and chose to fight for and beside each other. He even learned to appreciate fighting with you, as much as arguing with you broke his heart, because love wasn’t perfect. Love was two imperfect people refusing to give up on each other and always being willing to show up.

He kissed you in thanks for assuring him, wordlessly breathing his love into you. “So… orgasms, dessert, and time to yourself to reflect. Sounds like a good way to celebrate,” he said, already imagining how beautiful you’d look by the time he finished ruining you. “Anything else? Remember, it’s whatever you want.”

He probably sounded like the worst boyfriend since it came across that he had nothing planned for you, but he had gifts ready to shower you with. Something to pamper you with, something you had been eying at a store, something that showed that he saw you, and something that showed how much he loved you. He hoped you liked them. You deserved them and more. 

“Movie night with our favorite takeout,” you decided, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck. His heart swelled when you said “our” favorite, giving him a piece of what was meant to be your day. “Complete with fairy lights and a blanket fort.”

“That’s it?” he smiled, already knowing which blankets and pillows he’d use. He also had snacks in case you got hungry after takeout, anticipating how you’d want to spend the day. “That’s all you want?”

“Orgasms, dessert, reflecting, takeout, movie night with the love of my life,” you listed, his heart pounding when your eyes went soft with love. “That’s perfect, and that’s all I need.”

Bucky didn’t say anything for a moment. He wondered every now and then if he was living on borrowed time, but you helped him appreciate the time he was given. You looked at him and handed him the world in every gaze, every smile, every moment. Including him as part of what you considered to be a perfect birthday was everything.

“You’re sure?” he asked. If you wanted more, he’d give it to you.

“You said it doesn’t need to be a big production or something over the top. I just want a day where I’m seen and cherished and I know you’ll give that to me.”

“I will. I promise.” Bucky wanted you to feel seen and cherished every single day, not just on your birthday. “How about we end the day with me showing you how much I love you?” he asked, brushing a thumb along your lips.

You kissed his thumb and smiled. “I expect nothing less.”

“I know you don’t think your day is worth celebrating, but you are, sweetheart,” he said, needing you to hear and know how important you were to him.

Your eyes softened more. “Thank you, Bucky,” you whispered.

Replacing his thumb with his lips, he vowed to give you a birthday you’d never forget.

And that was exactly what he did.

I wish I could give you lovelies the birthday celebration here that I wanted, but I hope you like what's to come later this year. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Then you saw it.

A single cup sat in the center of the kitchen island, white, ceramic, no lid. Steam still rose gently from the dark liquid inside, curling in delicate tendrils into the morning air. And on the paper cup sleeve, from the little café down the road that you liked, someone had doodled a crescent moon. Your breath caught. That was your moon. The same stylized shape you’d doodle on notepads, whiteboards, even the corner of mission maps. The same one that matched the silver pendant you wore around your neck, always hidden beneath your neckline.

You stepped closer. The scent hit you first, a rich, bold roast with a hint of cinnamon and just a splash of oat milk: exactly how you ordered it. You picked up the cup slowly, eyes scanning the kitchen, the hall, even the windows, but there was no one. Not a sound of retreating footsteps, no rustle of movement, nothing.

Except…

Out past the glass, heading toward the training wing, a figure moved briskly across the courtyard. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hoodie pulled up despite the July heat. The way he walked, stiff, precise, like he was trying not to look like he was walking away from something.

Bucky.

You blinked, instinctively stepping closer to the window, the warmth of the cup seeping into your hands. He didn’t look back. His pace didn’t falter. But something in your gut twisted, that odd fluttering feeling, soft and uninvited, like the moment just before a dream becomes something real.

You took a cautious sip. It was the perfect temperature.

There was no note or message, nothing but the doodle and the unshakable feeling that someone, maybe Bucky, had been paying much closer attention than you ever expected.

And for the first time in weeks, the exhaustion faded just a little.

*****

Lunch at the compound was always a strange affair—never quite formal, never quite casual, its tone dictated by who was present and whether the latest mission had ended in triumph or disaster. That afternoon, the kitchen hummed with quiet energy as Sam held court, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin while recounting Steve’s near-collision with a rogue protein shake spill. Natasha smirked into her coffee, Clint chimed in about finishing a thriller on the quinjet ride back, and soon the table had launched into favorite author confessions—Sam swearing by Octavia Butler, Natasha standing firm on Le Carré, and Vision offering a dignified nod to Austen, earning a groan from Sam.

“I used to read The Secret of Rowan Hollow every summer,” you said absently, more to yourself than anyone else, the name tumbling out like a familiar melody. “My aunt had this battered old copy with half the cover torn off. It had these eerie little black-and-white illustrations between the chapters. Felt like magic.”

Wanda glanced over with interest. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No one has,” you replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s out of print. I looked for it once, but it was like it vanished with my childhood.” You shrugged, brushing it off with a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, then changed the subject before the ache of nostalgia could linger too long.

You forgot about it by dinner.

You remembered it again the next week when you stepped into your room and found the package sitting neatly in the center of your bed.

It was wrapped in brown paper, carefully folded and secured with a thin piece of twine, like something from a quaint corner bookstore . You hesitated, closing the door slowly behind you, and approached it with cautious curiosity. A small white tag had been slipped beneath the twine, but it didn’t have your name, only a tiny ink drawing of your crescent moon.

You slipped your finger under the seam and peeled the paper back.

Your heart stuttered.

The Secret of Rowan Hollow. The exact edition you remembered, aged but pristine, with that haunting forest illustration across the front and those familiar fraying edges you’d once traced again and again as a kid.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, almost afraid the whole thing would vanish if you blinked too hard. Your fingers hovered over the embossed title, then gently opened the cover. Pressed between the pages, page seventy-two, the scene with the ghost in the attic, was a daisy. Dried, whole, and perfectly preserved.

It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

Your mind raced through the few people who might do something like this. Steve? Maybe. Nat? Unlikely. Tony wouldn’t bother. But your gut, your instinct, told you exactly who it was. You looked over your shoulder, half-expecting someone to be watching from the hallway, but it was empty. 

Your eyes lingered on the book again. The flower.

No name, but a shape was starting to form in your thoughts. A tall shadow who moved like he didn’t want to be seen. A man who hadn’t spoken more than a few words to you, but always seemed to be somewhere nearby, watching without watching. Guarding without permission. 

You ran your thumb gently over the soft edge of the daisy, your chest blooming with something warm and fragile.

You didn’t know for sure yet, but you were beginning to suspect.

*****

The training wing always smelled faintly of sweat and rubber mats, sun-baked steel and adrenaline. Mornings here were usually quiet, early risers like Steve and Bucky cycling through punishing routines in near silence, but today, you’d been roped into a sparring session after Natasha claimed she “needed to see your right hook in action.”

Somehow, that had landed you on the mat across from Bucky Barnes.

He stood across from you now, calm and composed, arms loose at his sides, chest rising and falling beneath a slate gray T-shirt that clung just a little too well to the sculpted muscle beneath. His vibranium arm glinted under the overhead lights, that beautiful, sleek Wakandan design that hummed with silent power. There was a strange softness to him today, like he’d sanded down the sharpest edges.

His blue eyes flicked to you, unreadable. “You ready?”

You gave a playful roll of your shoulders, brushing a lock of hair back with the back of your hand. “Unless you’re scared of being shown up by a girl.”

A flicker of something, a smirk, maybe, tugged at the corner of his mouth. It vanished just as quickly.

“Nope,” he muttered, voice low and steady. “Just don’t want to break you.”

You laughed, stepping forward into position. “Try me, Tin Man.”

Ten minutes later, your lungs were burning and your knuckles smarted.

Bucky moved like water, fluid, efficient, and effortless. You could feel how much he was holding back in the way he dodged just enough to avoid contact, how he didn’t follow through on openings he could’ve exploited. He was careful, like if he hit too hard, you might vanish in a puff of dust.

You pushed harder because of it.

You landed a glancing blow to his side that made his eyebrow tick up. That was reward enough.

But then you tried a more ambitious combo, a sweep, a pivot, and a right cross that didn’t quite land right, and you felt the jolt immediately.

Pain burst across your knuckles, dull and pulsing. You hissed, pulling your hand back and shaking it out.

Bucky stepped forward instantly. “You alright?”

His voice dropped, concerned now. You nodded, stubborn, even as you cradled your hand against your chest.

“Fine,” you said through gritted teeth. “Just... overextended.”

He looked at your hand, then at your face. His jaw clenched. “You need to stop when that happens.”

His concern was real, edged with guilt, and something softer, tucked beneath the careful blankness in his expression.

You tilted your head, voice dipping just enough to sound coy. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

His eyes flicked to yours, a full second of silence, then back to your hand. His next words were quiet.

“I notice things.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “Yeah?”

A beat. His lips parted like he might say something more, but instead, he nodded once, turned away, and muttered, “You should ice that.”

And just like that, the moment slipped from your fingers.

You made your way to the locker room alone a few minutes later, hand throbbing despite your best attempts to play it off. You sat on the bench, peeled off your gloves, and sighed at the angry red swelling across your knuckles. You were already dreading the stiffness.

Then you opened your locker.

Inside sat a small black zip-up pouch, a first-aid kit. Not the standard-issue kind the compound kept on hand, but a personalized one. Inside were your preferred flexible bandages, a cold pack, some gentle antiseptic balm, and, taped to the top, a square of dark chocolate and a yellow sticky note.

The handwriting was neat and blocky. You recognized it.

“You held your ground today.”

You stared at the note, your fingers curling around the chocolate like it might vanish if you didn’t hold onto it tightly enough.

It was him. It had to be.

And if you weren’t sure before, the tension in the gym, the way he watched you like you were some kind of impossible equation he couldn’t solve, the look in his eyes when you teased him, now you were certain.

You had a secret admirer. And his name was Bucky Barnes.

*****

It had been an offhand comment, one of those throwaway observations you make when you’re running on caffeine and a few hours of sleep, chatting just to keep your brain from turning off. You and Sam were walking side by side, each holding to-go mugs from the kitchen, trading bits of small talk on your way to the admin wing.

You tucked your free hand into your hoodie pocket and let out a breath. “My room still feels like a rental unit.”

Sam looked over, raising a brow. “You’ve lived here for over a year.”

“Exactly.” You sipped your coffee, wincing slightly, too hot. “I keep saying I’m going to decorate, but then missions happen, or someone blows up a hallway, or I just, I don’t know, forget.”

He smiled knowingly. “So decorate. What do you want?”

You hummed, thinking aloud. “I don’t know. Just something small. A plant, maybe. Something green. I feel like it would brighten things up a little. Bring some life in.”

Sam gave you a mock gasp. “You? A plant parent?”

You grinned. “Only the kind that doesn’t judge me for neglect.”

“Maybe you need something cursed and dramatic,” he teased, giving your arm a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Like a poisonous orchid that only blooms at midnight.”

You laughed as you turned the corner. “You joke, but I’d probably forget to water that too.”

The conversation drifted to other things, mission updates, Steve’s growing obsession with protein powder, the truly wretched breakfast Tony had tried to make earlier, and you didn’t think about the plant again after that.

But someone else had.

The admin wing of the compound was always cooler in the late morning, its temperature carefully calibrated to keep Stark’s precious server systems from overheating. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as you made your way through the hallway, the soft soles of your sneakers whispering against the polished floor. You'd only stopped by your desk to drop off a signed report, half expecting a clutter of outdated files and a broken pen or two, but what you found instead made you stop short in the doorway.

It was small, simple, and alive.

A pothos plant sat neatly on the corner of your desk, its deep green leaves spilling over the ceramic edge of a round, glossy pot. The color of the planter was dark, nearly black with a faint shimmer in the light, like night sky glaze, and the leaves looked freshly watered, vibrant and thriving. Tied to one of the stems with a bit of twine was a hand-lettered tag made from thick, soft paper. Your fingers brushed it gently as you read:

“Low maintenance. But still needs care.”

Your stomach fluttered, not from confusion anymore, but from confirmation. Whoever had been leaving these things knew you. Or at least, they were trying to. It was thoughtful and deliberate, almost tender.

Your lips curved upward, slow and involuntary. The kind of smile that bloomed without thought, the kind you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

You turned slightly, scanning the hallway through the glass wall beside your desk. At first, you only glimpsed empty space, but then you saw him.

Across the corridor, half-shadowed near a supply alcove, stood Bucky Barnes. His back was to the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you in the stillest, quietest way.

He didn’t flinch when you met his gaze.

For a moment, one long, suspended beat, the air between you pulled tight, like a cord drawn taut between two ends. You could feel it in your chest. He wasn’t looking through you, pretending his focus was on something else. He was watching you, unblinking, like he needed to memorize something before it was gone.

And then, just like that, he looked away.

He pushed off the wall with one slow movement and walked down the hall without a word, shoulders hunched slightly, head down like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You stood frozen in place, one hand still resting lightly on the edge of the plant’s pot, heart fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird.

He’d seen you smile. He’d stayed just long enough to make sure you did.

*****

The common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday. You sat curled up in the corner of the sectional, an open tablet on your lap, one leg tucked under you and the other swinging slightly over the edge. You weren’t really reading. You’d scrolled past the same paragraph three times, barely seeing the words. Your focus had drifted elsewhere, into a quiet, persistent question you could no longer ignore.

Your thumb idly traced the rim of your mug as your mind replayed the moments in reverse. The quiet footsteps down the hallway. The look across the admin wing. The way Bucky had stood there, half in shadow, watching you smile at something he’d left, like he needed proof that he hadn’t gotten it wrong.

You couldn’t deny it.

It was him.

And he wasn’t just being nice. These weren’t generic gestures, they were personal. He was showing you the kind of attention no one ever gave unless they were really listening. 

You shifted on the couch, heart pounding as the realization settled in. You’d been seen in a way that was careful and quiet and completely unspoken.

But the part that made your chest ache was that he hadn’t said a word.

He watched, he gave, and he disappeared.

A part of you wanted to march straight to his room and say something, anything, but there was still that invisible wall between you. You could feel it every time he left a room just before you entered, or how his eyes would flick to you like a reflex before darting away again. Like he was afraid of being caught wanting something he didn’t believe he was allowed to have.

You set the mug down gently and rose to your feet.

You didn’t know what he was afraid of: rejection, being wrong, being seen in return. But you already knew he didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Tomorrow was your birthday.

And if he left something again, just one more silent offering, one more tender, wordless gift, then that would be it.

You’d stop pretending you didn’t know.

You’d knock on his door and ask him why he was trying so hard to love you from a distance.

*****

You weren’t expecting anything.

That was the lie you told yourself as you stood in front of your door the next morning, fingers hesitating just inches from the handle. You hadn’t mentioned your birthday to anyone. It was buried somewhere in your file or an HR calendar no one ever looked at, but it wasn’t the kind of day you usually drew attention to. Too many birthdays had come and gone with more silence than celebration. You’d gotten used to carrying the day quietly.

But this year felt different.

Because this year, you weren’t alone. Not since the coffee, the book, the chocolate, the plant, and the way he watched you like you mattered, even if he never said it.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and opened the door.

A small gift bag sat on the floor. The tissue paper inside was a muted silver, and it rustled softly as you knelt down and pulled it aside with tentative fingers.

Inside was a slice of cake, your favorite flavor, still chilled, the frosting wrapped neatly in wax paper to keep it from smudging. There was a candle tucked beside it, unlit, but the message was there all the same: someone remembered. Someone cared enough to make sure some sweetness was waiting for you.

You set it aside carefully, breath catching as your hand brushed a small box at the bottom of the bag.

It was velvet. Midnight blue. The kind of box you knew to open slowly.

Inside was a delicate pendant, a teardrop moonstone set in a fine silver chain, iridescent and pale, glowing faintly as it caught the morning light. You gasped before you could stop yourself. You had told Nat once, months ago, in the middle of a stakeout, bored and shivering in the dark, that you always loved moonstone. That it felt like carrying a piece of the sky close to your skin. You hadn’t thought anyone was listening.

Beneath it, folded with near military precision, was a piece of paper.

His handwriting.

You’re the brightest thing in a place full of shadows. I didn’t want to ruin that by being near it. But I hope this still means something. Happy Birthday.

No signature, no initials, but you didn’t need either.

You were already moving down the hall, heart thudding like a drum inside your chest, bare feet whispering across the cold floor. You didn’t even think. Your body knew the way before your mind caught up, past the kitchen, past the empty lounge, until you stood in front of a door you’d walked past a hundred times without ever knocking.

Bucky’s.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your knuckles hit the wood, three soft raps that somehow echoed louder than they should.

The door opened slower than you expected, like he’d known it would be you. He stood in the doorway, hoodie slung low over his brow, dark hair curling slightly at his temples, eyes wide and unreadable.

You held up the bag gently, “You’ve been leaving things for me,” you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “All this time.”

Bucky’s expression shifted immediately, from blank surprise to something closer to panic, his jaw tensing, eyes flicking down the hall as if looking for a way out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, voice a little too fast, too tight.

“Bucky,” you said, gently, not moving from where you stood. “Don’t do that.”

He shook his head once, almost like a reflex. “I didn’t— It wasn’t me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

“I guess someone else happens to know exactly how I take my coffee. And my favorite book. And the exact brand of bandages I like to keep in my locker. And how I’ve always wanted a moonstone pendant.” You took a slow step forward. “Was it Sam?”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“I did mention the plant to him.” you pushed, tilting your head. “Maybe Tony? I mean, someone left this outside my door this morning. With a note. In your handwriting.”

He flinched.

“Bucky,” you said again, softer now, letting the weight of everything between you settle into your voice. “You’ve been leaving things for me in secret. And I want to know why.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the gift bag, then to the floor. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to yours, throat working around a reply he wasn’t sure he was allowed to give. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to know it was me.”

You took a step forward, holding his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Bucky’s hand curled around the edge of the doorframe. “Because... I didn’t want to ruin anything. You’re warm. You’re light. I didn’t want to get too close and put shadows over that.”

Your heart cracked, full and aching. “You could never ruin anything.”

He still wouldn’t look at you. “I just wanted you to have good things… And I didn’t think I could say that out loud.”

You reached into the bag, pulled out the moonstone pendant, and held it up between you.

“You did say it,” you whispered. “You just didn’t use words.”

For the first time, he met your eyes and you saw the fear, the tenderness, the desperate hope that maybe he hadn’t misread every silent smile, every teasing comment, every glance you thought was too brief to matter.

“Can I take you out sometime?” he asked, voice low and careful, like it might shatter on the way out.

You smiled, and it felt like sunlight pouring out of your chest.

“Only if next time you get me something,” you said, stepping into his space, “you give it to me in person.”

His breath hitched, and then, for the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled, soft, lopsided, and real.