buck

“Okay, okay, chill,” Sam said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But seriously, what’s the problem? People date all the time now. You just have to put yourself out there.”

Bucky groaned, running his flesh hand down his face. “I don’t even know what that means. ‘Putting yourself out there?’ What am I supposed to do? Walk into a bar and yell, ‘Hey, anyone wanna go dancing?’”

Sam snorted. “Well, no. But honestly, that would be hilarious.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky said, his voice edging on a growl. “It’s… different now. People are different. I don’t even know where to start. Hell, I don’t even know what half the words mean. What the hell is a ‘situationship?’”

Sam blinked, clearly trying not to laugh. “You don’t want to know.”

“No, I do. Because apparently, if I don’t figure this out, I’m going to die alone with a cat and some plants, according to Dr. Raynor.”

“Don’t panic, old man. Lucky for you, you’ve got a team of very knowledgeable people who can help.” Sam said, waving a hand.

Bucky groaned again, sinking deeper into the couch. “Oh God.”

An hour later, Bucky found himself sitting in the kitchen with a motley crew of Avengers who all seemed way too amused by his predicament. Sam, predictably, was leading the charge, while Natasha perched casually on the counter, sipping a glass of wine. Steve, ever the supportive friend, sat beside Bucky with a faintly concerned expression. And Tony… well, Tony was being Tony.

“So,” the billionaire began, clapping his hands together. “You’re telling me you’ve never even seen a dating app?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “No. Why would I? I didn’t even have a phone until last year.”

Natasha smirked. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“It’s not going to be fun,” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms. “It’s going to be a disaster.”

“Well, that attitude’s not going to get you anywhere,” Tony said, pulling out his phone. “Let me show you the basics. There’s Tinder, Bumble, Hinge—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bucky interrupted. “You’re telling me there are multiple apps?”

“Of course,” Tony said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And they all work differently. Tinder’s your classic swipe-right-if-you-like-them situation. Bumble? Ladies make the first move. And Hinge… well, honestly, I think that one’s for people who are trying a little too hard.”

Bucky blinked. “You’re making my head hurt.”

“Relax, Barnes,” Natasha said, sliding off the counter. “Dating apps aren’t your only option. You could always try meeting someone the old-fashioned way.”

“Like what? A bar?” Bucky scoffed. “You think I’m going to walk into a bar and—what? Hope someone throws themself at me?”

Sam choked on his drink, and Natasha nearly spit out her wine. Steve, meanwhile, turned bright red.

“No, but seriously,” Natasha said, still laughing. “Modern dating is… direct. People aren’t shy about what they want anymore.”

Bucky frowned. “That’s what I don’t get. It’s like—there’s no mystery anymore. Back then, you had to work for it. You had to actually talk to someone, get to know them. Now it’s just… swipe, swipe, swipe. It’s weird.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the 21st century,” Sam said. “Nobody’s got time for long walks in the park anymore.”

“But that’s the thing,” Bucky said, leaning forward. “I don’t want this… hookup nonsense. I don’t even know what that means. I’m not trying to ‘Netflix and chill’ or whatever the hell that is.”

Sam let out a bark of laughter. “Oh man. You’re hopeless.”

“Hopeless?” Bucky repeated, glaring. “You think this is easy for me? Half the time, I don’t even know what people are talking about. And the other half? I’m just trying to figure out if they’re laughing with me or at me.”

Tony raised a hand. “In this case, definitely at you.”

“Tony,” Steve said sharply, giving him a disapproving look.

“What?” Tony shrugged. “I’m just saying. He’s got a point. Dating is a minefield these days. And for someone like Bucky, who’s basically a walking antique, it’s even harder.”

“Gee, thanks,” Bucky said dryly.

Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You know, maybe you’re overthinking this.”

“How am I supposed to not overthink it?” Bucky asked, throwing up his hands. “I’m walking into a world I don’t understand, trying to do something I’m apparently terrible at.”

Natasha shrugged. “Maybe start small. Don’t think of it as dating. Just… meet someone. Talk to them. See what happens.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Easier said than done.”

“Not necessarily,” Sam said. “You just need to get out of your head. Start with the basics. Like—what’s your type?”

“My… type?” Bucky asked, frowning.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You know. Blonde? Brunette? Smart? Funny? What’s the vibe?”

Bucky thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Okay, let’s make it simple,” Natasha said. “You see someone across the room. What’s the first thing that catches your eye?”

Bucky hesitated, his mind flashing briefly to a memory—a soft smile, bright eyes, and laughter that made his chest feel warm. But the thought was gone as quickly as it came.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe… someone who’s not afraid to challenge me.”

“Challenge you?” Tony repeated. “Like what? Arm-wrestling?”

“Not like that,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes. “Someone who… I don’t know. Doesn’t take crap from me. Someone who can keep me on my toes.”

Natasha smirked. “Interesting.”

“What?” Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” she said innocently, sipping her wine. “Just… interesting.”

Bucky groaned, sinking back into his chair. “This is a disaster.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve said, speaking up for the first time. “You’re overthinking it, Buck. You always have. Just… take it one step at a time. You don’t have to figure everything out right now.”

Bucky looked at his oldest friend, the sincerity in his voice calming him just a little. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“And in the meantime,” Tony said, pulling out his phone, “I’m setting up a Tinder profile for you.”

“What?!” Bucky shot up from his seat, panic flashing across his face. “No way. Absolutely not.”

“Too late,” Tony said, his fingers flying across the screen. “This is going to be amazing.”

“Tony,” Steve said, his voice stern.

“Oh, relax,” Tony said, grinning. “It’s just for fun. You know, to get him started.”

“I hate all of you,” Bucky muttered again, but this time, there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He was doomed. Absolutely doomed.

About a week later, Bucky sat frozen on the couch, staring at the glowing screen of the phone in his hand like it might suddenly combust and take him out of his misery. The bright icon for Tinder was glaring at him, a beacon of his current humiliation. His thumb hovered over the app, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it again.

He could still see the messages in his mind, bold and unapologetic, as if the women on the other side had absolutely no filter.

He muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching. “This is… insane.”

“What’s insane?” Sam’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Bucky immediately tried to stuff the phone under a couch cushion, but it was too late.

Sam strolled in, a gleeful grin plastered across his face. “Oh no,” Sam said, pointing at him. “You’ve got that look. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie,” Sam said, plopping down on the couch beside him. “You’ve got the same look you had when you got caught trying to figure out Instagram. What is it this time? TikTok? Snapchat? Oh, wait—did Tony’s Tinder experiment finally break you?”

Bucky groaned, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t mean that.” Sam leaned over, squinting at the phone Bucky was clearly hiding. “Wait. Are you blushing? Oh, this is good. What happened? Did someone match with you? Oh God, is it a bot? Did you fall for a bot?”

“It’s not a bot,” Bucky snapped.

“Then what is it?” Sam asked, leaning back with a grin that suggested he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

Bucky hesitated. He debated lying, but he knew it was useless. Sam wouldn’t stop until he dragged the truth out of him, one way or another. With a sigh, Bucky pulled the phone out and shoved it at Sam.

“Here. Look for yourself.”

Sam took the phone eagerly, and Bucky immediately regretted it. He watched as Sam’s eyes scanned the screen, his grin widening with every passing second.

“Oh. My. God,” Sam said, the words dripping with barely-contained laughter. “DTF? They asked if you’re DTF?”

Bucky’s head fell into his hands. “I don’t even know what it means.”

That clearly was the wrong thing to say as Sam burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that made his whole body shake.

“You don’t know what it means?” Sam wheezed. “Oh man, this is amazing. This is better than I ever could’ve hoped for.”

“Just tell me what it means,” Bucky growled.

“Oh no,” Sam said, wiping tears from his eyes. “This is too good. I’m not gonna ruin it. I need to savor this moment.”

“Wilson—”

“Fine, fine,” Sam said, holding up a hand. He took a deep breath, clearly trying to compose himself, though the grin never left his face. “It means… ‘down to fuck.’”

Bucky stared at him, his expression blank. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sam said, laughing again. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. They’re asking if you want to—”

“I get it,” Bucky said quickly, his face turning red.

Sam slapped his knee, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch. “Oh man. No wonder you look like you just saw a ghost. Poor old-fashioned Bucky Barnes, getting hit with the modern world of no-boundaries texting. I love it.”

“It’s disgusting,” Bucky muttered, his voice muffled by his hands.

“It’s efficient,” Sam countered. “You’ve gotta admit, at least they’re upfront. No wasting time, no beating around the bush. Just straight to the point.”

“It’s horrifying,” Bucky said, glaring at him. “Who talks like that? Who just… asks someone to—to—”

“Fuck?” Sam offered helpfully.

“Don’t say it!” Bucky grumbled.

Sam leaned back, still grinning. “Man, you really are from another time. This is just the way things are now. People don’t have time for all that slow courting stuff anymore. They know what they want, and they go for it. Honestly, it’s kinda refreshing.”

“No it’s not!,” Bucky exclaimed, shaking his head. “How am I supposed to do this? I can’t just… text someone back like that. I don’t even know these people.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not about getting to know them. It’s about… well, you know… one time fucking.”

Bucky stared at him. “I hate this century.”

“You’ll survive,” Sam said with a chuckle. “Hey, maybe this is a good thing. At least now you know what you’re dealing with. It’s all part of the learning curve.”

“Learning curve,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “This isn’t a learning curve. This is a out of syllabus for me.”

Before Sam could respond, Tony walked into the room, holding a mug of coffee and looking far too chipper for someone who had caused all this chaos.

“Hey, what’s going on in here?” Tony asked, eyeing the two of them.

Sam grinned, holding up the phone. “Oh, you’re gonna love this.”

“Don’t,” Bucky said, his voice low and warning.

But it was too late. Sam handed the phone to Tony, who took one look at the messages and let out a loud, dramatic laugh.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” Tony said, scrolling through the messages. “DTF? Really? I knew Tinder was a cesspool, but this is next-level.”

“This is a nightmare. You made me do this, Stark. You and your stupid app.” Bucky said, standing up and pacing the room.

“Hey, don’t blame me,” Tony said, holding up his hands. “I just set up the profile. I didn’t tell them to message you.”

“Yeah, but you knew this would happen,” Bucky said, pointing an accusing finger at him.

Tony shrugged. “Okay, maybe I had an idea. But come on, Barnes, this is good for you. You need to loosen up. Get out of your comfort zone.”

“This isn’t getting out of my comfort zone,” Bucky snapped. “This is the opposite of getting out of my comfort zone. This is hell.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Tony said, waving him off. “Look, if you’re not into it, just unmatch them. Problem solved.”

“That’s not the point,” Bucky said, throwing his hands up. “The point is, I don’t belong in this world. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even know where to start.”

“You’re starting right now,” Sam said. “Look, it’s not that complicated. You just have to adjust. Take it one step at a time.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bucky muttered. “You didn’t just have someone ask you if you’re down to—to—”

“Fuck?” Tony offered, grinning.

“Stop saying that!!” Bucky snapped.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” Tony said, laughing.

Just then Natasha strolled into the room, her sharp eyes scanning the scene. “What’s all the noise about?”

“Bucky got his first DTF message,” Sam said, his grin widening.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a smirk. “Really? Already? I’m impressed.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Bucky said, glaring at her.

She leaned against the counter, clearly enjoying his misery. “It’s not the end of the world, Barnes. People are just… direct these days. You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it,” Bucky muttered. “I just want to—”

“To what?” Natasha asked, tilting her head.

Bucky hesitated, his words catching in his throat. He didn’t know how to explain it—not to her, not to any of them. How could he make them understand that all he wanted was something simple, something real? That he didn’t care about swiping or hookups or acronyms he didn’t understand.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter.

Natasha studied him for a moment, her smirk fading into something softer. “You’ll figure it out,” she said.

Bucky nodded, though he didn’t feel reassured. Time. That was the one thing he thought he had plenty of, but right now, it felt like he was running out of it.

Two Weeks Later….

The little bell above the diner door gave a soft chime as Sam stepped in, followed closely by Steve and Bucky. The place was warm and cozy, filled with the faint hum of conversation and the comforting clink of plates and silverware. It smelled like pancakes and coffee, the kind of familiar scent that made Sam’s stomach growl on cue.

“Same table as always?” Sam asked, nodding toward the corner booth tucked away from most of the commotion.

Steve gave him a look. “Do we ever sit anywhere else?”

Bucky, as usual, didn’t say much, but his slight nod spoke volumes. He was already heading toward the booth, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and his signature grumpy expression firmly in place. Sam grinned to himself as he slid in across from him, with Steve taking the spot beside him.

“Man, I don’t know why you two are so boring about this,” Sam said, leaning back against the cracked vinyl of the seat. “Same table, same time, same diner. You’re like a couple of old men stuck in a routine.”

“Sam,” Steve said patiently, his tone betraying years of having heard this before. “It’s called tradition. Something you’d appreciate if you weren’t so busy being… you.”

“Yeah, because being me is clearly the problem,” Sam replied, smirking.

Bucky stayed quiet, his gaze flicking over the menu even though Sam was pretty sure he already knew exactly what he was ordering.

A waitress appeared at their table, notepad in hand and a warm smile on her face. “Morning, boys. The usual?”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a polite smile. “Thanks, Dottie.”

“Make that two,” Bucky added gruffly without looking up.

Sam hesitated for dramatic effect, tapping his finger against the edge of the table as if he was in deep contemplation. “You know what? Let’s get crazy. I’ll take the usual too. Wild, I know.”

Dottie chuckled, jotting down their orders before disappearing toward the kitchen.

Sam leaned forward, glancing between Steve and Bucky. “Okay, so what’s on the agenda today? Bucky glaring at random strangers? Steve pretending not to worry about everything? Or me keeping you two entertained?”

“Maybe try sitting quietly for once,” Bucky muttered, his eyes still on the menu even though there was no need for it.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Sam shot back, grinning.

Their banter carried on as the diner steadily filled up. The booths around them were soon packed with locals, regulars who had been coming here just as long as Steve and Bucky had—though most of them didn’t look like they’d been frozen in ice or turned into a super soldier assassin.

The noise level rose, but it was a comfortable kind of buzz, the kind that made you feel like you were part of something even if you didn’t know anyone else in the room.

Sam was mid-sentence, telling some exaggerated story about a mission-gone-wrong in Egypt, when the bell above the door chimed again. It wasn’t like he was actively paying attention, but something about the way the woman walked in caught his eye.

She was dressed in all black—black boots, black coat, black gloves. Normally, Sam would’ve thought it was a bit much for 8 a.m. breakfast, but somehow she made it work. The coat cinched at the waist, accentuating her figure, and when she unwound the scarf from around her neck, she revealed a cascade of long, dark hair that curled at the ends.

Sam blinked. “Whoa.”

“What?” Bucky asked, looking up from his coffee.

“Nothing,” Sam said quickly, though his gaze was still on her.

She paused near the door, scanning the room. Her eyes swept over the booths and tables, taking in the crowded space with an air of quiet confidence. Sam couldn’t help but notice the way she carried herself—calm, self-assured, like she knew she belonged wherever she went.

And then, to his surprise, she started walking toward their table.

“Uh, guys,” Sam said, his voice dropping as he leaned in. “She’s coming over here.”

Bucky glanced up, his brow furrowing. “Who?What are you talking about?”

But before Sam could answer, she stopped at their booth.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, her voice smooth and polite, with just a hint of amusement.

Sam looked up, momentarily thrown by the way she was looking directly at them—or, more specifically, at him. She smiled, a faint curve of her lips that somehow managed to be both friendly and entirely self-assured.

“The place is packed,” she continued, gesturing to the crowded diner. “Would you mind if I sat here? Everywhere else is full, and, well…” She glanced over her shoulder at a table of older men who were very clearly ogling her. “…you seem like the least creepy option.”

Steve immediately got up from his seat beside Sam and shifted to the opposite side of the table, his ever-polite instincts kicking in. “Of course. Please, have a seat.”

Sam shot him a look that screamed seriously? but didn’t object. With a resigned sigh, he moved his jacket off the seat beside him, and she slid in with a soft “thank you.”

Sam noted the faint scent of vanilla and something floral as she settled in, peeling off her gloves to reveal perfectly manicured nails painted a deep burgundy red. A few rings adorned her fingers, and Sam couldn’t help but notice the small tattoos on three of them.

She slipped off her coat next, revealing a fitted, long-sleeved navy blue turtleneck that hugged her figure in a way that was… distracting, to say the least. Sam tried to keep his expression neutral, but the corner of her mouth quirked up as she caught him looking.

She fucking winked.

Sam coughed, suddenly very interested in the menu he didn’t need.

“So,” she said after a moment, picking up the laminated menu in front of her. “Do you gentlemen come here often?”

Bucky, who had been suspiciously quiet, shifted in his seat. His gaze flicked to her, then away, then back again, as though he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Every Saturday,” Steve said, smiling. “It’s kind of a tradition.”

She nodded, glancing around the diner. “It’s a nice place. Very… nostalgic.”

Sam smirked. “You could say that.”

When the waitress came by, she gave her order—a full plate of hashbrowns, toast, eggs, and grilled tomatoes, followed by a vanilla milkshake. Sam couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that.

“A milkshake?” he asked, his tone teasing. “In the middle of winter?”

She shrugged, her expression unapologetic. “Life’s too short not to have a milkshake when you want one.”

“Fair enough.” Sam chuckled, leaning back in his seat.

But his amusement faded as he noticed Bucky’s gaze lingering on her again. It wasn’t obvious—Bucky was too good at being subtle for that—but Sam had spent enough time around him to pick up on the small creepy things the old man did.

The way Bucky’s eyes followed the movement of her hands as she twisted one of her rings. The way his jaw tightened slightly when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The way his posture shifted, as though he was unconsciously leaning closer.

Aha ha! So, grumpy found her attractive!

Sam bit back a grin.

“Well,” the woman said, glancing between them as she pulled out her phone, “thanks for letting me crash your breakfast. I promise I won’t interrupt your ‘guy time’ too much.”

“No problem,” Steve said, ever the gentleman.

Sam, meanwhile, was having far too much fun watching Bucky squirm.

“So,” Sam said casually, turning to Bucky, “what do you think?”

Bucky frowned. “About what?”

“The milkshake,” Sam said, fighting to keep his expression innocent. “Bold choice, right?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “I don’t care about the milkshake.”

“Oh, I think you care about something,” Sam said, his voice low enough that only Bucky could hear him.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Sam thought he might actually get punched. But then the woman looked up from her phone, and Bucky’s expression softened—just barely, but enough for Sam to notice.

“Everything okay?” she asked, her tone light.

Bucky nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Fine.”

Sam grinned, Oh, this was going to be fun. He leaned forward slightly, his usual grin plastered across his face as he turned to the woman sitting beside him.

“Well, now that you’ve joined us and saved yourself from the creeps in the corner, let’s make it official. I’m Sam.” He gestured across the table. “That’s Steve, and the brooding one trying to blend into the booth is Bucky.”

The woman, now settled into the booth like she belonged there, flashed a smile that had Sam thinking she knew exactly how much attention she was commanding. “Nice to meet you, Sam. Steve. Brooding one,” she said, her tone teasing as her gaze flicked to Bucky for a second too long.

“And your name is…?” Sam prompted, arching an eyebrow.

“Y/N,” she said, offering her hand first to Sam. Her shake was firm but friendly, and when she turned to Steve and then Bucky, Sam didn’t miss how her eyes lingered just a beat longer on the latter.

Steve smiled with his usual polite charm, while Bucky just muttered something unintelligible, his shoulders tensing slightly. Sam smirked at how Bucky suddenly couldn’t seem to figure out where to put his hands.

“So, Y/N,” Sam began, fully intent on keeping the conversation interesting, “what brings you here so early? Most people wouldn’t call 8 a.m. diner breakfast a ‘hot spot.’”

Y/N shrugged casually, resting her elbows on the table. “I’m a regular. Dottie makes sure my milkshake is always perfect, no matter the season.” She gave a small smile, her eyes glinting with humor. “Besides, breakfast food hits better on a winter morning. You guys should know that if you’re here every Saturday.”

“She’s got a point,” Steve admitted, taking a sip of his coffee.

Sam nodded slowly. “Alright, alright, I respect it. You’ve passed the character check.”

Before the conversation could veer further, Dottie returned with Y/N’s order, setting the plate and milkshake in front of her. “Here you go, sweetheart. Just the way you like it.”

“Thanks, Dottie. You’re an angel,” Y/N said with a grin. Her tone shifted slightly, casual and conspiratorial, as she asked, “How’d your date with Finn go last night? Was he at least a little less vanilla than the last one?”

Sam blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that.

Dottie snorted, shaking her head as she pulled her notepad out of her apron pocket. “Girl, please. He talked a big game, but once we got to it, it was nothing but missionary and five minutes of effort.”

Y/N winced sympathetically, her lips curving into an exaggerated pout. “Yikes. Come on, how hard is it to mix it up a little? These men out here are really failing the basic training.”

Sam felt the conversation hit him like a freight train, and judging by the sudden stiffness from both Steve and Bucky across the table, they were feeling it too. Steve’s ears turned bright red as he stared into his coffee like it held all the answers to life’s mysteries, while Bucky’s face remained impressively blank—except for the red creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Tell me about it,” Dottie said with a laugh before turning her attention to the rest of the table. “You boys need anything else?”

Sam, of course, was quick to recover. “No, we’re good, Dottie. But thanks for sharing. Really educational.”

Dottie shot him a knowing grin before walking off to tend to another table. Y/N, meanwhile, had already started digging into her breakfast, blissfully unaware—or perfectly aware—of the havoc she’d just caused.

Sam let the silence linger for a moment, purely to watch Steve and Bucky squirm. Then, unable to resist, he leaned back and gestured between them. “Well, you two are quiet. Any thoughts on the importance of… uh, mixing it up?”

Steve choked on his coffee, coughing into his fist, while Bucky shot Sam a glare so intense it could’ve melted steel. “Don’t,” Bucky said warningly, his voice low.

“Oh, come on, this is a safe space,” Sam teased, grinning.

Y/N’s eyes flicked up from her plate, her gaze darting between Steve and Bucky like she was trying to piece together a puzzle. Sam could practically see the moment the light bulb went off in her head, her lips curling into a slow smile.

“You know,” she said, leaning back in her seat and tapping her fingers lightly against the table, “you guys look really familiar.”

Steve, clearly eager to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory, offered a polite smile. “I don’t think so.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying them both with a curious glint in her eyes. Then she snapped her fingers in front of them, the sharp sound making Bucky flinch.

Sam nearly laughed out loud at how quick Bucky’s hand twitched toward the table, like he was ready to fight whatever danger that snap might’ve represented. Sam couldn’t really blame him, they were all still pretty traumatised for the Thanos sized snap.

“You’re them, aren’t you?” Y/N said, her smile widening. “The guys from the 1940s. Captain America and…” Her eyes shifted to Bucky, and Sam didn’t miss the way she gave him a once-over, her gaze lingering just a second too long on his jawline. “…Sergeant Barnes.”

Steve, ever gracious, nodded. “That’s us.”

Y/N let out a low whistle, leaning back in her seat with a look of mock disbelief. “Well, damn. Didn’t think I’d run into living history over breakfast.” Her gaze returned to Bucky, her smile turning sly. “You know, I remember seeing your pictures in my high school history textbook.”

Bucky blinked, clearly thrown off. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, resting her chin in her hand as she watched him. “Steve, no offense, you were pretty and all, but it was Bucky’s pictures that always caught my attention.”

Steve smiled awkwardly, trying to wave it off. “None taken.”

“I mean, there’s one picture in particular that I’ll never forget,” Y/N continued, turning her full attention to Bucky now. “You were with your unit—what were they called.. umm… The Howling Commandos?”

Bucky nodded stiffly, and Sam swore he saw his fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “Yeah.”

“Right, right. Anyway, there’s this picture of you in the middle of a group, your shirt half-open, showing off all that chest hair.” She grinned, her tone turning teasing. “And you had a cigarette dangling from your lips. Very rugged. Teenage me thought, ‘If I’d been alive in the 1940s, I would’ve absolutely banged this guy.’”

Steve immediately choked on his coffee, nearly spilling it across the table as he coughed and spluttered. Bucky froze, his eyes wide, his entire face going redder than Sam had ever seen. Sam, meanwhile, was practically doubled over in laughter, his hand slapping against the table as he tried to catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he buried his face in his hands.

Y/N, completely unfazed, picked up her milkshake and took a casual sip. “What? It’s true. Teenage girls are allowed to have crushes on historical figures, right?”

“Crushes, sure,” Sam said between laughs. “But damn, you went straight for the throat with that one.”

Steve was still struggling to compose himself, his hand covering his mouth as he tried to suppress a smile. “You, uh… you don’t hold back, do you?” he managed to say.

“Why should I?” Y/N replied with a shrug. “Life’s too short for that.”

Sam watched with delight as she turned her attention back to Bucky, who still looked like he wanted to melt into the booth and disappear.

“By the way,” Y/N added, her tone softening slightly, “the pictures don’t do you justice. You’re utterly ravishing in person.”

Bucky blinked, clearly unsure if he’d heard her correctly. “Ravishing?”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, smiling. “That jawline alone could kill. And those eyes? Swoon-worthy. If I didn’t already know you were a super soldier, I’d be wondering what kind of skincare routine you’ve got going on.”

Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing too hard, especially when Bucky looked like he was physically incapable of forming a coherent response. Steve, meanwhile, was doing his best to play the role of the supportive friend, though even he couldn’t hide the faint amusement in his expression.

“Well,” Sam said, leaning back and giving Y/N an approving nod, “I think it’s safe to say you’ve officially made Bucky’s day.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Y/N said, her smile turning sly again as she glanced at Bucky. “But I think I’ve made him blush. And honestly? That’s good enough for me.”

Bucky groaned softly, his hands covering his face as Sam let out another laugh, savoring every second of his friend’s rare moment of vulnerability. This breakfast was turning out to be better than he’d expected.

As Bucky shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze darting down to his coffee cup, where he found solace in stirring it absentmindedly with his spoon. It had been twenty minutes since Y/N had casually admitted she’d have “absolutely banged him” if she’d been alive in the 1940s.

Twenty minutes, and it was still reverberating in his head like a song stuck on repeat. Every now and then, his thoughts would get snagged on it, and his face would grow hot all over again.

It didn’t help that Y/N seemed utterly unfazed by her boldness. If anything, she had doubled down, her shameless flirting woven seamlessly into the natural flow of conversation. She had this effortless way of throwing out sly comments, cocky grins, and occasional glances that left him feeling… visible in a way he hadn’t felt in decades.

And strangely, Bucky didn’t mind. Not at all.

“So, what do you do for work?” Steve asked, his ever-polite curiosity breaking through the general banter.

Y/N looked up from her nearly demolished plate of breakfast, her eyes sparkling with warmth as she set her fork down. “I’m an interior designer,” she said simply. “I own my own brand—Everfall.”

Sam, who had been lazily sipping his coffee, froze mid-drink. “Everfall?” he repeated, his voice pitching slightly higher. “Wait, Everfall Everfall? Like, luxury homes, glossy magazine spreads, the Instagram account with a million followers?”

Y/N smirked, resting her chin in her hand as she turned to him. “That’s the one.”

“No way,” Sam said, leaning forward now, his eyebrows shooting up. “My sister’s best friend got her house done by your company. She wouldn’t shut up about how gorgeous it was. But I remember looking at the price tag and thinking, ‘Man, whoever owns this business must be swimming in cash.’”

“Well, I try,” Y/N said, her tone dripping with faux humility. Then she laughed, the sound low and melodic. “But really, it’s a passion. I fell in love with design in college, and it kind of took off from there. Now it’s less about the money and more about the challenge. I just like creating spaces that feel like home, you know?”

Steve nodded, clearly impressed. “That’s amazing. It must be nice to do something you’re so passionate about.”

“It is,” Y/N agreed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I don’t just stick to interiors. I dabble in graphic design too. It’s more of a side hobby, something I do for fun when I’m not rearranging someone’s living room.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Man, I feel like I should be asking for your autograph or something.”

“Oh, please,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that glamorous. Half the time I’m yelling at contractors who refuse to follow deadlines or trying to convince a client that their ‘vision’ for a zebra-print kitchen is a terrible idea.”

Steve chuckled, and even Bucky found himself smiling faintly. There was something refreshingly grounded about the way she spoke—like she didn’t take herself or her success too seriously.

“Well, I think it’s impressive,” Steve said, his tone earnest. “It’s not easy to build something like that from the ground up.”

“Thanks, Steve,” Y/N said, her smile softening.

Then her eyes flicked back to Bucky, who had been unusually quiet during this part of the conversation. “What about you, Brooding One? Do you have any secret talents I should know about?”

Bucky set the cup down quickly, his hand tightening around the handle as he forced himself to meet her gaze. “Uh… not really,” he said, his voice gruff. “Unless you count being good at brooding.”

“I mean, it’s definitely a talent,” Y/N teased, leaning back in her seat. “You’ve got the whole dark, mysterious thing down to a science. Very James Dean meets tortured soldier.”

Bucky could feel the heat creeping up his neck again, and Sam, ever the opportunist, didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, he’s had years to perfect it,” Sam said with a grin. “The man practically invented brooding. Isn’t that right, Buck?”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Nope. This is the highlight of my day,” Sam said, leaning back and crossing his arms, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Y/N laughed, her eyes sparkling as she looked between them. “You two are like an old married couple. It’s kind of adorable.”

“Adorable?” Sam repeated, clearly offended. “There is nothing adorable about me, thank you very much. Handsome, depends on your type. Rugged, definitely. But adorable? No way.”

“Whatever you say,” Y/N said with a laugh, her gaze sliding back to Bucky.

And there it was again—that look. That slow, deliberate once-over that made Bucky’s stomach tighten in a way he couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t leering or crude; it was confident, like she knew exactly what she was doing and wanted him to know it too.

It should have made him uncomfortable. But instead, it made him feel… noticed. Seen. Desirable, even.

“So Bucky, what do you do for fun these days?” Y/N asked, her voice softening slightly, though the teasing edge remained.

Bucky hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of how mundane his answer might sound. “I, uh… I read a lot,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And sometimes I go to museums.”

Her eyes lit up. “Museums? Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Which one’s your favorite?”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by her genuine interest. “Uh… the Met, I guess. They’ve got a great collection.”

“I love the Met,” Y/N said, her smile widening. “I actually designed a room inspired by one of their exhibits last year. It was one of my favorite projects.”

Bucky felt himself relaxing slightly, the initial tension giving way to something warmer, more comfortable. “That sounds… nice,” he said, though the words felt inadequate.

“It was,” Y/N said, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she turned her attention back to the table.

The conversation continued from there, flowing easily between topics like books, movies, and their mutual love of art and history. Y/N had this way of making everything feel light and effortless, her humor sharp but never cruel, her curiosity genuine. She asked questions, shared stories, and laughed in a way that felt natural and unforced.

And all the while, she kept sneaking glances at him—these quick, deliberate looks that made his heart race in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Every now and then, she’d catch his eye and give him this knowing smile, like she could read his mind and found his internal struggle endlessly amusing.

Sam, of course, noticed everything. “You okay there, Buck?” he asked at one point, his voice laced with mock concern. “You’re looking a little… flustered.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, though his face betrayed him as it flushed a deep shade of red.

Y/N, clearly enjoying his discomfort, leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand as she studied him. “You blush a lot for a guy who’s supposed to be all tough and stoic,” she said, her tone light and teasing.

Bucky opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he found himself staring into her eyes, utterly speechless.

Sam snickered, and even Steve couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t worry,” Y/N said after a moment, her smile softening as she reached for her milkshake. “It’s kind of endearing.”

Bucky didn’t know how to respond to that, so he settled for picking up his coffee and taking a long, deliberate sip, hoping it would hide the small smile threatening to break through.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind being noticed. Just then the check landed at the edge of the table with a soft clink, Dottie’s practiced smile already moving on to the next booth. Steve reached for it first, the old-fashioned chivalry never more obvious than when he was in a setting this retro, his big hand covering the bill before anyone else could get a look. Y/N protested, even if they knew she wouldn’t win, but it was the principle of the thing that counted.

“Come on, you guys let me crash your table, at least let me pay” she tried, eyes flicking to Sam and Bucky in hope, but they just shook their heads all apple-pie politeness of ‘not happening’s

“Afraid not. My ma would haunt me,” Steve said, passing the check over to Sam, who grinned like he was getting away with a heist.

“You can leave a really nice tip,” Bucky offered, mouth twitching. “But food’s on us.”

She rolled her eyes but her smile was genuine, and the warmth of it lingered as they bundled up, sliding out of the booth one by one. The diner was packed, windows fogged with condensation, the clatter and chatter fading as the four of them stepped out into the late-morning cold.

And it was cold—the kind of wet, honest cold that only New York in December could serve up. The world outside had gone a little blurry, snow swirling down in lazy, determined flakes, already beginning to mound up on the sidewalk. Bucky hunched his shoulders, hands shoved deep in his pockets, but Sam’s wail split the quiet before anyone else could speak.

“Steve!” Sam hollered, flinging a gloved finger in Steve’s direction. “Didn’t you say it wasn’t gonna snow until afternoon? Huh? I distinctly remember you saying—‘no snow, Sam, we’ll walk, it’ll be fine, Sam’—”

Steve just sighed, rolling his eyes as he adjusted his scarf. “Forecast said light flurries,” he grumbled.

“These are not flurries, man!” Sam gestured wildly at the sky. “This is the opening credits of a Christmas movie out here. You trying to freeze us, Cap?”

Y/N laughed, the sound bright and warm as she tied up her coat. She paused, keys dangling from her fingers. “I mean, I could give you guys a lift, if you want. My car’s just around the corner. I’m headed uptown anyway—Tower’s not that far out of the way.”

Steve started to decline, all courtesy and Captain America manners, but Sam was already halfway to the curb. “Bless you, Y/N. My unfrozen ass thanks you.”

Bucky’s mouth curled up, a real, easy grin slipping through. He caught Y/N’s eye, feeling that odd little zing of something new—something normal.

He liked it. It was weird. He liked that it was weird.

They piled into her car—Steve and Sam in the back, Bucky in the front, fingers stiff with cold as he fiddled with his seatbelt. She cranked the heat, windshield wipers working overtime as she merged back into traffic.

For a few minutes, it was just that—quiet, city noise and the radio low, everyone thawing out and not talking about super-soldiers or the fact that Bucky had spent a solid five minutes earlier blushing like a teenager when Y/N told him she’d recognized him from her high school history textbook & would have absolutely banged him in the 40’s.

“Can’t believe I’m giving the Avengers a ride,” she muttered, shooting Bucky a sidelong look, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I’m definitely telling my dad.”

“Please don’t,” Steve groaned, but he was smiling, too.

“You know,” Sam piped up, “in high school, all I got was algebra and disappointment. Nobody in my textbooks I’d wanna—”

Steve made a choking noise in the backseat. Y/N’s eyes went wide, but then she snorted, unable to keep a straight face. Bucky let himself laugh, the sound shaking something loose in his chest.

They reached the Tower too soon—skyscraper gleaming through the snow, security already clocking their approach as Y/N pulled to a smooth stop out front.

Steve popped his door. “Thanks for the rescue,” he said, meaning it in that bone-deep way that made strangers trust him and old friends roll their eyes.

“Anytime,” she said, meaning it, too.

Sam slid out behind Bucky and immediately leaned back in, hand on the frame, eyes wide with mischief. “Okay, Barnes,” he stage-whispered, as if Bucky weren’t three inches away. “Don’t blow this.”

Bucky angled an elbow toward Sam without looking, the elbow-language of men who’d shared too much history to make room for full sentences.

Then he reached for the handle, and she touched his sleeve—not demand, just the light, practical pressure you use to keep a page from flipping in the wind. He looked back.

She was already fishing in her bag with the other hand, smile slanting sheepish and brassy at once. She produced a business card and held it between two fingers. Heavy stock; cream; letterpress you could feel with your eyes. EVERFALL across the top in quiet serif. Her name below it, then “CEO & Creative Director” the phone number and email, small unfussy type that invited rather than announced.

Her thumb brushed his fingers, just for a second. “If you ever want to go to the Met, or a library, or just get coffee—or whatever works for you—call me. Or text. No pressure.” Her tone was breezy, but her eyes were intent, almost mischievous. “I’d really like to see you again, Bucky.”

The line landed in him like heat. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say anything at all for a heartbeat that stretched long enough to fit last century and this one side by side. He took the card. The paper was cool. The ink was pressed deep enough that his thumb could memorize the letters without looking. Old habits reached for a suit jacket that wasn’t there, a pocket square that could shelter something small and important; he tucked the card into the safest place the century allowed—wallet, front slot.

“Okay,” he said, because the good words were simple when they mattered. “I will.”

She looked like she might say something else—some joke to ease any weight he could possibly be feeling—but she didn’t rescue him from it. She let the moment stand on its own legs.

“Also,” she added, softer, as if leaving him with a second option in case the first felt too formal, “I walk in the park on Sundays. Real early. It’s quieter then. You can actually hear the reservoir.” A beat. “I know it’s not the forties. But it’s close.”

He didn’t have to manufacture the smile. “Close counts.”

“Sometimes it’s better,” she said, and leaned over the console and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

It wasn’t a peck. It wasn’t a movie cue. It was a warm, certain press that said, I liked this. I like you. Her scarf brushed his jaw; the cold from outside rode on her skin, bright as mint. When she pulled back, there was a little lipstick ghost near his stubble, a smudge only a mirror would tell on.

He got out before he could test how long the quiet could hold and closed the door with gentle finality. Snow tapped his hairline. Then she was gone, pulling into traffic, red taillights glowing through the snow.

Steve and Sam were waiting just inside, Steve with that fond, exasperated look and Sam with the world’s widest grin.

Sam elbowed him as soon as he stepped through the doors. “Look at that. Didn’t even need a dating app. Guy gets one number the old-fashioned way and suddenly he’s the King of Brooklyn.”

Steve snorted. “Maybe next time, let’s stick to the diner instead of Tinder.”

Bucky kept his hands in his pockets until his fingers stopped trying to check for the card every five seconds.

“Met,” Sam said, ticking options off with his chin like they were mission waypoints. “Library. Coffee. Park. You are spoiled for choice, my guy.”

“Sunday morning,” Steve said, too casually. “We could do a run and—”

“Absolutely not,” Sam said, pointing at Steve like he was marking enemy units on a tablet. “You will not third-wheel a meet-cute with a cardio ambush. Let the man text like a normal person.”

Bucky let the banter pass through him the way a good melody does. The resolve he found surprised him with how little fanfare it required. Text. Call. Show up. He touched his cheek where she’d kissed him. The cold had already taken back the heat, but the memory held its own.

“Text her before you change your mind,” Sam said, already keying them into the elevator. “Don’t do that thing where you workshop each syllable until it’s basically a constitutional amendment.”

“I don’t do that,” Bucky said, automatically, which was exactly the thing a man who did that would say.

Outside, the snow kept falling—soft and slow, blanketing the city in fresh beginnings. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky let himself look forward to whatever might come next.

The small bathroom was a still hush of sounds , except for the faint weak hum of the overhead light. 

You sat on the edge of the porcelain tub , knees drawn up to your chest , toes pressing and then relaxing into the cool tile. The plastic test sat on the counter , face down , a tiny white rectangle that seemed far too small to carry the weight of everything you wanted. 

It was almost haunting.

Your heart beat thumped against your ribs in violent punches. 

It’s just a test. Just another one. 

But it wasn’t “just another one.” Not when each single month chipped away at your hope , and your life , not when you’d seen negative after negative after negative. When all you wanted was to see that little plus sign.

“Doll?”

Bucky’s voice was soft, tentative. He stood in the doorway with his hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it , a cotton t-shirt hanging loose across his broad shoulders. His arm glinted under the yellow tinted bulb as he leaned against the door frame , watching you carefully and attentively.

You tried to smile when you saw him come in , but your lips turned into a quiver as they trembled. “Timer went off.”

He didn’t move closer right away at that ,  he was giving you space. “You want me to look first?” 

You shook your head quickly , clutching the hem of your slip dress twisting and ringing it in your white knuckled grip. “No. I can’t—I need you with me , at the same time.”

That broke him. 

In three strides he was there in your bubble , crouching in front of your slightly shaking body , as his blue eyes met yours. His steady hands , one warm meeting your flesh ,  one that grounding familial cool metal—covered across your knees.

“Okay, together,” he vowed firmly.

You nodded , swallowing hard , lifting a fast hand to wipe an anxious tear that fell despite you wanting to hold it all together .

He rose , standing and tugging you up along with him , his fingers interlaced with yours , gently rubbing over your knuckles in gentle sweeps.

 Your legs felt shaky, knees threatening to buckle , like you were about to step off a plank into a roaring sea as the both of you turned toward the counter.

“Ready?” His voice cracked.

You pressed your face into his shoulder for one deep breath , sniffling. “Okay.”

He held one hand around your shoulders massaging the back of your neck as the other reached across and flipped the test over.

Two pink lines flashed back at him. Clear. Unmistakable.

For a moment neither of you moved as it glared. 

It was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room as your vision began to be blurred and your knees locked harshly.

Bucky caught around your waist before you could fall , arms wrapping tight as he held your full body weight. His face buried into your neck as he let out a strangled laugh-sob—that shook through both of you.

“Baby,” he whispered fiercely. “You see it? You see it , doll? Look honey!”

You pawed at and clutched the back of his shirt , tears streaming freely now like two waterfalls. Dams and walls , fully broken. 

“We did it , Bucky… oh my God, we did it.”

He lifted you into his arms without effort and carried you back to the bed with your legs tangled around his waist, sitting down as you shifted and curled in his lap.

His hands roamed across the expanse of your back , your hair , your face—like he needed to reassure himself you were really there. And this was really happening.

“You’re gonna be a mama, baby” he whispered wetly into your temple. “And I’m gonna be a dad. Can you believe that?”

You pulled back enough to cup his face and lean against his forehead with yours. His eyes were rimmed red but shining bright , a boyish toothy grin breaking through the years of weight and war.

“I can,” you whispered , assuring. “Because it’s us , Buck…you and me.”

He kissed you seconds after the words left your lips , salty and damp with tears , tender and trembling.

That night , lying together under the covers of your shared bed , Bucky rested his head in between your ribs and stomach , listening like maybe he could hear something already. 

His hand stayed protectively over your hips , thumbs tracing and rubbing slow circles as you drifted into a dream-filled sleep.

And for the first time in a long time—you both dreamed of your future with hope and peace

-

A few weeks later after the laundry was warm and folded , after the floors were shiny and mopped– you decided to reward yourself with some homemade salted caramel cookies. 

You hummed to yourself as you cracked one egg , then two and as you cracked the third egg into the glass bowl— reaching for the whisk , a subtle cramp bloomed across your abdomen. 

Small at first , almost easy to ignore. You told yourself it was nothing—just your body adjusting , the kind of thing the doctor had said could happen in early pregnancy.

But later that night , came the spotting.

By the time you were sat  in the ER , fear had burrowed deep into you like a lead weight. The fluorescent lights were too bright , the antiseptic smell—too sharp. Everything felt rushed and impossibly slow all at once , doctors and nurses moving around you while you clutched at Bucky’s hand like it was the only thing tethering you down to reality.

He never let go. Not once.

When the nurse tried to separate you so she could take your vitals , Bucky leaned forward and sternly said, “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not leaving you, not now.” His knuckles brushed the back of your hand the entire time , even as his other hand curled into a bruising fist against his thigh.

They ran tests. They asked questions. They wheeled you in the ultrasound room.

As the tech began spreading the cool jelly across your belly , your eyes searched the monitor helplessly , desperate for the flicker of light and noise you’d seen before , for the rapid flutter of a heartbeat. 

But the dark screen stayed still. Quiet.

The doctor’s voice was gentle , practiced. Too practiced as he came in holding a paper. 

“I’m sorry Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. It looks like you’ve had a miscarriage.”

The words dropped heavy, impossible, final.

Something in you shattered in a million pieces. You turned your face into Bucky’s shoulder and let out a sound you didn’t even recognize as your own , it startled you. 

He wrapped himself around you at the words , shielding you from the sterile walls , from the sympathetic but useless glances of the staff , from everything but him.

-

Later , back at home , you were sat on the edge of the bed in silence. You draped yourself in one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, your hair damp from the shower he’d coaxed and helped you into. 

The sheets smelled faintly of your same lemon detergent , but nothing could soften the raw and slicing ache hollowing you out inside and out.

You stared at the floor , at your wiggling socked toes. “I couldn’t hold on.”

Bucky, who’d been hunched over , sitting beside you with his hand warm across your thigh , stiffened. He slowly slid off the bed and knelt on the rug in front of you— just like he had done in the bathroom , his hands firm as they cupped your jaw and cheekbone. His blue eyes misted with unshed tears , but his voice was fierce.

“Don’t you say that,” he rasped. “Don’t you ever blame yourself. This isn’t your fault , couldn’t be.”

Your bottom lip trembled, shaking your head rapidly as you coughed out. “But if I…if I’d been stronger, if I hadn’t…maybe then”

“Stop.” His thumb pressed gently over your mouth , your soft lips puffy and red from your teeth’s own harsh assault. 

“Doll, listen to me. You carried our baby for as long as your body could. That’s not failure. That’s love. That’s the bravest thing in the world.”

Your head continued to shake and spin as you finally fell and collapsed into him, sobbing so hard your body shook like an earthquake. He caught you instantly , gathering your shaking form over his thighs ,  right there on the fuzzy bedroom rug , rocking you back and forth with care. His lips pressed over and over into your hair , his voice a low , steady anchor.

“I’ve lost a lot of things in my life,” he whispered. “Too many. But I swear to you—we’ll get through this. Not over but through. You’re not alone in this. Not now, not ever.”

-

You fell asleep that night where you felt safest , right in his arms , his body curled protectively around you , his metal hand resting carefully over your stomach.

And when the sun rose , painting the sky and room in soft gold and hazy pink light , he was still awake , still holding you. His eyes swollen ,  face drawn , but when you stirred, he simply kissed your forehead and would murmur to no one, “We’ll try again. When you’re ready. We’ll try again, I promise.”

-

Time soon after became measured in what felt like never ending cycles.

Every month , you marked dates on the calendar , counting days , tracking symptoms , watching the rise and fall of hope like waves against sharp rocky bays. 

You learned to live inside that waiting , to balance between cautious optimism and the sting of disappointment.

And Bucky lived there right with you.

-

The first time you both were ready and tried again , you couldn’t stop your hands from shaking when you bought a new box of tests at the pharmacy.

You tucked it in the basket like it was normal ,  under a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread , as if hiding it could protect you from the feel of it in your hands.

After dinner and too many yawns , you shuffled to bed flicking on the dim light ,  setting the box on the bathroom counter and staring at it until Bucky padded in. 

He glanced at it through heavy lidded eyes , then flicking his gaze at you , his brows raising a hair.

“You ready?” he cooed softly , head cocking to the side.

You shook your head pulling your lips in a tight line. “Not yet.”

He nodded like he understood completely, even if his eyes lingered a little longer on the box before he wrapped his arms around you from behind. Lips brushing your cheek. “Whenever you’re ready, doll. No rush.”

But when the test was negative again, and you found yourself yet another time sitting on the cold bathroom tile with your knees hugged to your sternum. Bucky kneeled beside you, not saying a word at first until he kissed the top of your head, “It’s just one month. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong. We keep going.”

-

The months stretched. You sat in all too familiar waiting rooms full of women with big rounded bellies and soft shiny smiles, your heart twisting as you picked at the edge of your sleeved top. 

Bucky held your hand through every appointment , towering awkwardly in chairs too small for his broad frame , but never once complaining.

He asked every question you were too overwhelmed to voice. “What can we do differently? Is there something we’re missing?”

When the doctor reassured you both that sometimes it just took time, Bucky rubbed your arms as you both sat perched in the car, he glanced at you after a beat, “See? We’re not broken. We just… gotta be patient.”

But the patience— was so hard.

-

Some nights , after lying awake beside him for hours on end , you whispered your fears into the darkness.

“What if it never happens?…What if—“

Bucky shifted and flopped onto his side facing you , one hand sliding over your stomach in small circles , grounding you. 

“Then we’ll find another way.”

“Another way?” You turned your head at him brows creasing.

He leaned in kissing your forehead with a sigh. “There’s adoption. Fostering. Hell, we’ll get a dozen cats if that’s what it takes to fill it. Doesn’t matter how it happens, doll. S’long as I get to do it , this life , with you.”

-

Each negative test cut deeper than the last. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you didn’t—sometimes you just threw the test in the trash and went about your day like it hadn’t just ripped you apart.

But Bucky always noticed.

Especially one late afternoon, after you wordlessly dropped another useless disappointing plastic stick in the trash , you found him sitting in the kitchen at the bar. Setting out a pint of your favorite ice cream , two spoons stuck haphazardly into the carton as he gave you a sheepish grin when hearing you pad in.

“Figured we could eat the whole thing and not talk about it.”

You laughed weakly, but the sound turned into another quick sob, holding you close as you cried into his chest.

“Don’t give up on us , we’ll get there. One way or another, we’ll get there.”

-

Even in the dark stretches and trenches , there were small sparks. Planning a nursery you swore you’d only do “just for fun.” Buying a tiny pair of socks on impulse or scrolling for hours on Pinterest board and mommy blogs as Bucky snored in bed beside you.

-

 He was curled up on the couch half under you are you traced up and down his stubble placing little pecs here and there. “Do you think our baby will have your eyes?”

Bucky chuckled softly, cracking a closed eye open. “With my luck, they’ll get your eyes and your smile. And I thank God for that.”

You smiled at that , a real gleaming smile.

-

It happened on a morning that felt just like all the others. Grayish blue light slipping through the cracks in the blinds, rain tapping softly against the window dragging down the glass like lines of lace. 

You’d almost stopped testing altogether , telling yourself you couldn’t put your heart through another negative. But something in you—something small and stubborn , whispered to try just one last time.

You sat on the seat of the toilet ,the last test in the box wrapped in your small hands. 

The timer ticked down on your phone. You’d gotten used to the routine: hold your breath , check the result , feel the familiar sting of disappointment.

But when you flipped it over and sitting right there were two pinky lines. Clear and solid. .

Your chest tightened so hard you thought you might collapse over the sink. Hot fresh tears filled your big eyes , but this time they weren’t from grief. 

They were wild, disbelieving tears of something you barely recognized anymore—hope.

Still, you didn’t tell Bucky right away. Not this time. You wanted to be 100% sure.

-

A week later , you sat in the dim exam room ,  heart rattling in your ribs. The nurse spread the blue gel across your stomach and pressed the ultrasound wand gently to your skin. You turned your head toward the screen, terrified to look, terrified not to.

And then—there it was. A flicker. A steady, rapid flutter.

“Do you hear that?” the nurse asked softly as her fingers continued moving the wand and typing on the keys.

And then the sound filled the room. The fast, miraculous , tiny rhythm of a heartbeat. 

Your baby’s heartbeat.

Your throat closed tight. You covered your mouth with your hand, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. 

The nurse smiled kindly and handed you a tissue nearby, but you barely noticed as she tucked it into your hand—too busy memorizing that sound, letting it sear into your bones. Keeping it forever.

You pulled out your phone with shaking hands and pressed record peering it up closer to record the perfect sound.

-

That evening , Bucky came home from his same nightly run, his shirt damp and glistening with sweat , hair clinging to his forehead in waves. 

He skipped in a little breathless when he found you sitting on the couch, fidgeting with your phone.

“Doll?” His brows knit. “Everything okay?”

Your lips wobbled as you held out the phone nodding him to you. “I wanna show you something.”

He sat down his things abc was beside you, instantly alert. “What is it?”

You smiled , pressing play and plopping the phone down in his lap.

The silent living room then filled with the rapid , fragile rhythm of the heartbeat.

Bucky froze. 

His eyes went wide, his breath caught halfway , staring at the phone, then at you, then back again, as if he couldn’t trust his senses.

“Is that—?” His voice cracked , his hand raising to cover the sobs and sounds pouring from his throat.

You nodded, sobbing as you covered your own face with your palms. “That’s our baby, Buck. Our rainbow.”

He was on you in an instant, pulling you on top of him like he couldn’t hold you close enough. His chest shook ,  his face buried in your neck.

“That’s them?” he whispered against your skin, voice breaking. “That’s our baby? Oh, doll…”

You pulled back just enough to see him, to cup his tear-streaked face in your hands. He looked at you like he was seeing sunlight for the first time.

“We’re really gonna be parents,” you whispered.

He let out a watery laugh, kissing you over and over till you giggled and squealed. “After everything… we made it. We’re gettin’ our kid.”

Lying in bed with his hand splayed protectively over your belly , he whispered promises to you both. “I’ll protect you with everything I’ve got. I’ll be here for every moment. I’ll sing to ‘em, read to ‘em. Doll, they’re gonna know they’re loved from the second they’re born.”

-

Labor was long.

It was so long and extremely exhausting. Hours blurred together under the harsh hospital LED’s. Contractions , nurses bustling in and out , Bucky’s voice always at your ear, steadying you like a weight.

“You’re doin’ so good, doll,” he murmured over and over, brushing the damp hair strands from your forehead. His flesh hand held strong in yours , metal one supporting your lower back as you braced forward in screaming release. 

And every single time you thought you couldn’t go on , he reminded you exactly how you could. “Strongest person I know. Stronger than me. You’ve got this.”

By the end , your whole body trembled with effort. And then , suddenly , the cry came.

A sharp, beautiful sound that filled the small room, cracked your chest wide open, washing away months, and years, of grief in an instant.

“Congratulations Mom and Dad! ,” the nurse beamed, placing the tiny, pink , wet wriggling bundle onto your bare chest.

The moment her perfect soft skin met yours , your breath caught.

“Oh My God!….Hi baby! Hi,” you cried out , voice breaking , hands shaking as you touched tiny fingers, impossibly small, curling instinctively around your pinky. The warmth, the weight—it was real. She was real.

Nurses moved quickly, voices calm but firm, the doctor giving clear instructions. You barely noticed any of it—your world had narrowed to the cries filling the air, that tiny voice that was somehow the loudest, most beautiful sound you’d ever heard.

The blonde headed nurse glanced at Bucky before asking. “Dad , do you want to cut the cord?”

Bucky blinked, startled, his eyes darting from you to the nurse to the tiny, wiggling baby now in the doctor’s hands. “Me?” His voice cracked.

“Yes, you,” you whispered hoarsely, giving his hand a squeeze. “Go, Buck.”

For a second he just stood frozen, like his feet were rooted and glued to the floor. Then he nodded quickly, wiping his damp cheeks with the back of his hand. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll do it.”

They guided him closer, handed him a pair of sterile glinting scissors. His hands shook as he looked down at the cord, still pulsing faintly with life.

“Right here,” the doctor instructed as the pulsing ended.

Bucky swallowed hard. He glanced back at you, eyes wide, like he needed your permission.

You gave him the smallest smile you could muster. “Do it, baby.”

He exhaled, steadying himself, and snipped hard through the touch cord. The soft snap of the scissors felt like a punctuation mark—the moment between one life and another.

The nurses carried her gently to the warmer across the room. You hated the sudden emptiness of your chest, but Bucky never left her side. He hovered close as they dried her off with warm blankets, her cries sharp and indignant.

“Seven pounds, four ounces,” one nurse called out.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob rolled into one. “That’s my girl,” he whispered.

“Twenty inches long.”

“She’s perfect.”

They wrapped her snugly in a pink-and-blue striped blanket, settling a tiny knit cap over her damp dark hair. Bucky reached out, almost reverent, his big hand dwarfing her tiny body as he stroked one finger along her cheek. She quieted at his touch, her mouth opening in a small, contented sigh.

The nurse smiled. “Looks like she knows her daddy.”

Bucky’s throat worked. He bent low, whispering something you couldn’t hear, kissing the edge of her cap before the nurse carried her back to you.

You counted each toe and finger , memorized the slope of her nose and looked into those same beautiful blue eyes as her fathers.

Bucky leaned over your shoulder ,  for a moment he didn’t breathe. His eyes were wet , wide , reverent. His metal hand hovered in the air like he was scared to touch.

You turned to him , guiding his palm to rest gently against the baby’s back. “She’s yours, Buck. You can touch her.”

When his hand made contact, his knees nearly buckled. A broken laugh-sob escaped his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, kissing you hard through the tears.

“She’s here,” he whispered , almost testing if it was really true. “Our rainbow.”

After the nurses had left you both to rest , and the room was still. The entire world had shrunk down to just the three of you—soft beeping machines meaning safety and life, moonlight filtering through the windows , and the feel of tiny breaths against your chest.

You dozed off a few hours after her arrival , but Bucky didn’t sleep a wink. He sat in the hard chair by the bed , your newborn cradled against his chest, wrapped in a pink and blue-striped hospital blanket. His lips brushed her feather soft head again and again, whispering words too soft for anyone but her to hear.

“You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe now. Your Mama and I—we wanted you so bad, doll. We waited so long. And now you’re here. You’re our miracle.”

When you stirred awake after the IV pulled a little too tight at your arm , you blinked through the haze of exhaustion and found him just like that—his broad frame hunched protectively over the tiniest little life, his thumb stroking gently across her cheek.

“She’s got your nose,” he whispered when he noticed you watching. His smile was watery, boyish. “Poor kid.”

You laughed out a snort at his tease , as more tears spilled again. “She’s perfect.”

Bucky carried her back to you carefully, like she was the most fragile, precious thing in the world. He laid her against your chest and then climbed onto the bed beside you, curling around the both of you like a shield. His arms folded around your body and hers, caging you in warmth.

For the first time in years, your chest felt light. The storm was behind you. You were here, in this moment, with your rainbow in your arms and Bucky’s heartbeat steady at your back.

Peace.

-end

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