Decaf.☕️🤎

You were always under threat. Your family was constantly on watch—they were kind of merciful. They let you talk to them weekly. You had lied to them, telling them you were on a very secret project that needed all your attention and was out of the States. Not a complete lie if you overthought it. They didn’t really do it out of the heart; they did it because they needed a low-profile situation, and having someone of your profile being missing was not a low-profile thing. They knew your parents got the resources to start a search for you, and they weren’t risking anything.

You hated every part of it. From the mystery behind, the not-even dubious but illegal and unethical things you were part of—the inhuman things you did to people who just wanted to serve their country, and now were used as lab rats.

The Winter Soldier Project was not new. It had been active since World War II—elite people choose carefully. Every one of them was studied, where found and picked. From the first in their clutches to the last recluded. If you could have called recluded to the kidnapping reclusive. They were enhanced with a Super Soldier Zerum that Dr. Arnim Zola replicated, thanks to Johann Schmidt. You learned all about it through conversations people around you held, not because you really wanted to know about it.

People around you always talked about the Prisoner #56898, HYDRA’s fist—their best soldier for decades. The man who was held in a cryostasis.

You knew how it worked. You had helped improve the cryogenic stasis that preserved the bodies of all the subjects involved in the project. But you never really knew him until he was activated again. You were handed his folder and read what you needed to know about him to understand what you were handling.

“James Buchanan Barnes. Prisoner #56898.”

“State: Active.”

He was not seen as a person anymore. None of the soldiers cryoginized were seen as such—but as weapons, assets, not more than living weapons.

You were in charge of “patching” them up. If you could even call it that. You just cleaned up their wounds or bloodstains and sent them back to be preserved.

You analyzed their metrics, saved up on an inner system their body counts, what mission they went through, and how to enhance them for the next mission, and reviewed the way their bodies reacted to different injuries and levels of pain.

You hated it even more.

You hated to stare at people who were clearly suffering, and you just had to analyze how their heart rate raced or how long it took for their bodies to heal from an almost fatal cut, a bullet gone through. And it was worse when Alexander Pierce—a man who you knew for being a very respectable politician—started to be more active. They started to use more The Project Winter Soldier—and with it, they brought back James Buchanan Barnes—The Winter Soldier.

“You need to review his stats. He’s been inactive for a long time, and the last mission was almost lethal.” You walked behind Karpov and Pierce, just nodding and typing on the device you got to keep a record of all your assets, as they called them.

“James Buchanan Barnes. Chronological age, 30. Perfect shape and state. Dr. Zemo’s enhancing. Healing with a time rate of twenty-four to forty-eight hours if not deep enough.” You started reciting the information the device threw at you.

“Great. You gotta record now how much pain the asset handles before breaking down—he hasn’t been wiped out, he might be relentless and erratic, you would be checked up on from afar.”

You knew they were lying. You saw other scientists being told the same, and they were torn apart in a split second before anyone could notice—and you always kept in mind that the probability of you dying because of one of the assets was bigger than being killed by these men in front of you.

You were in a makeshift office—more like a cell—typing on a computer while they talked about the most important mission he would face. He was assigned to kill every kind of person Pierce saw as an enemy, and the only man able to do that was James Buchanan Barnes.

He had just killed a congressman who was stuck up his nose a bit more than what they liked, and he was so well secured that the asset got injured almost fatally. He was tied on a stretcher with a bulky machine surrounding him.

When you were finally in front of him. Your heart clattered in your chest. He had his face completely swollen—but he looked young, maybe in his thirties, when he was first held captive. You learned he was born in 1917, and he was captured during World War II. He was the first man ever enhanced with the first Super Soldier serum that Zola had recreated back in time. He had been active and preserved since then—brainwashed, mind wiped every mission, or every time he got cryoginized.

He was grunting in pain, squirming, restrained under the belts around his body. You took your voice recorder and pressed the button.

“Asset Number five, six, eight, nine, eight.” You were about to say his name—you knew it was useless. You checked the computer connected to the machine. “Asset presents high pain resistance. No pain-killers, no medicine, nor vials in its system.”

You were hiding your teary eyes. His grunting was louder than your thoughts—you could see his cuts bleeding, and his swollen face. He growled like an animal—the belts around him barely restrained his movements, but were enough not to set him free. He never even asked for help. He had probably learned it did nothing.

You spent the next thirty minutes recording on your devices—typing, speaking, analyzing him. And, finally—and sadly—he finally broke down. He shut down, and his head tilted forward. Sweat and blood mixed, running down his face, droplets falling to the floor.

You had seen that kind of reaction before; his voice had surrendered from the pain.

A speaker was turned on, “Good job, doctor. Now, patch it up and send it to the cell.”

“No cryo?” You asked out loud.

“Not yet.” The connection was turned off.

You knew the protocol. They were gone by the moment you saved up your updates. The last person there had already left, and now it was your turn to clean him up. You walked slowly.

“Mr. Barnes, I’m gonna clean you up.”

You barely knew their names, but when you did, you tried to use them. It was useless—they were wiped out almost immediately, so telling them their names didn’t serve any purpose.

He didn’t respond.

You found the cleaning kit and started to clean up his face—even in the swollen state, his beautiful features could be appreciated. The rag came with a crimson, clear liquid. He finally snapped awake and stared at you. Blue bloody eyes locked on you.

“Mr. Barnes, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just gonna clean you up and send you to your cell.”

Still no response.

After some minutes, you finished your task. He was all cleaned up and ready. “Ready.” You shout.

No answer on the intercom.

They really thought you weren’t going to survive this. They weren’t even there waiting to see it.

You walked to the second floor, where you knew it would be more likely to find a guard.

The asset was already passed out. There was no threat to be careful of.

You knocked on the door for almost five minutes when hurried steps could be heard on the other side of the door.

Rumlow opened the door.

“What a surprise,” Pierce said, smiling with a hint of pride. “Go to your cell, doctor. You did well.”

You nodded and walked away from their sight. After almost five years there, you had some sort of privileges and were able to walk without a watchman by your side.

They didn’t tell you, but after that, you were designated as his personal handler—and that made it worse for you. You couldn’t handle his groanings, the way he didn’t even talk to you when you tried to comfort him. Like he didn’t know what it meant.

Because, for what you had learned at that point, he didn’t know what it was to be comforted. You learned that he was a sergeant back in time, one who excelled at everything—and that’s why they chose him. It was not deliberate. He was a target from the beginning.

And, because of that—he was now basically a hundred-year-old weapon disguised as a human. By the third time you were taken to him to patch him up, your bosses started to become reckless—letting you alone with him, not paying attention to what you did or how you cleaned him up. Why would they need to do that? You had been nothing but complaining to them.

The first time you did something against the rules was small.

You took some painkillers from the infirmary and snuck them into the chamber where they kept him.

You knew you could get killed, and he could be reprimented even worse.

You were patching him up, blocking the view from the window where you knew they should be. They weren’t there, and you knew it. They were never there. But you still wanted to be careful.

“Open up, sergeant.” You mumbled and made him open his mouth. He complied and swallowed what you put in his mouth. “It’s a very strong painkiller. It’s gonna help you.”

He grunted. You took it as a thank you.

After that, it became a habit for you to bring pills or whatever thing you could to ease his pain. You couldn’t do any more without raising suspicion.

You had a routine—arriving at the chamber, preparing what you needed, starting recording, and when you were about to clean him up, you put the pills on his mouth.

But you noticed something.

He was starting to groan and grunt less. Every session, it seemed like it was less painful for him, but that put him into more distress. The more resistant, the more danger he was put into.

In the last session, you noticed he was even more hurt—his cuts and bruises were deeper and getting worse. So you did the math—if your records showed he was resisting more, he would be taken into worst scenarios.

He was being used back-to-back. No resting between missions, no wipeouts, no preps. Just healing him as much as you could and easing his pain.

So, in the last session, you risked it all. You finished your recording and analysis and started your routine. You had brought a vial from the infirmary—this was the strongest thing you knew of. And those injuries were in great need of care.

“Sergeant,” you mumbled, leaning closer. You took out the vial from the waistband of your sweatpants, which you were forced to use, “This is gonna hurt as hell. You gotta pay attention. Blink twice if you understand.”

He blinked twice slowly.

“Thank you.” You put the vial out and looked at him, “If this hurts, please make all the noise you need. Don’t silence it. Please. It’s gonna help as soon as the burning feeling fades away.”

You knew he hated vials and syringes; you had seen how he reacted when someone approached him with one of them. How violent he became as soon as they pinched his skin.

You injected it into his arm as fast as you could, and as soon as you noticed the liquid traveling and burning his veins, he let a groan out and tried to fight back the pain.

“They're putting you in more pain because my metrics showed that you're getting stronger and that you can handle more pain. So I need you to stop doing whatever it is you're doing so you don't show pain on the machine.”

“Ty. Ty—to, chto pomogayet mne.” "You. You are what helps me."

It was the first time he ever spoke back to you. It had been months of you talking, mumbling, ordering, explaining—and he had never spoken back to you. You were taken aback but really tried not to scare him.

“I wish I spoke Russian, sergeant. I’m not that intelligent.” You tried to joke, a twitching smile left your lips unconsciously, but you didn’t see any kind of reaction from him.

But before you could say something, he started to grunt again—the machine behind you was beeping loudly. You didn’t want to, but you smiled.

The man behind all that brainwashing was still fighting.

You stepped back and started recording the spike on his metrics.

That helped for the next missions—he was put in less dangerous missions—not because they cared about him, but because they needed to keep him in his best shape. But, despite him being less in danger, something in the air made you know something was coming. Everyone was being more reckless than you were used to.

After that last time, you refused to refer to him as Asset. You hated it. At least for you, and to keep some sort of humanity on him, mentally, you started to call him James. It was best for your heartache—even when you worked for them, you were not like them. They were not weapons for you, and you wanted to make that difference at least in your heart.

James was sent to more missions than you could keep track of—they didn’t even ask you to keep track of them anymore.

You were waiting for your monthly meeting with Karpov and Pierce when you noticed the door of his office was open. You leaned to eavesdrop.

“… That’s gonna be its last mission—He’s gonna eliminate Fury, then we’re putting it in cryo, and after that we’re gonna forget about it. We don’t need that liability after killing Fury.”

“He’s getting weaker—the last metrics had shown his pain resistance is less and less with each passing mission.”

Your blood ran cold through your veins. Sometimes you would forget they don’t see him—them as humans, they were just that… assets. No more.

You stood still again on your chair as you waited for any of them to come for you. You knew even if you were breaking inside, they couldn’t know you were helping their best asset, their best fits—they couldn’t know you saw him as a human being after all.

The meeting was as common as the hundreds you’d had over time, but for the first time, you noticed they seemed erratic—they were even anxious about something happening. But between the Insight Project and the many missions James had been through, you could understand they could be relentless.

You were in your lab, and there were no new projects to work on, which was not completely out of the routine. From time to time, they needed to test the multiple projects you had worked on, and they needed time before approving them or sending them back.

Rollins stepped in, “Asset needs a clear-up. It’s going on a mission.”

“What happened?”

“He’s erratic. Pierce needs a clear-out before continuing.”

He stood still on the threshold of the lab. You knew what it meant. They had never asked you to do a clear-up before a mission—this could only mean one thing. You were not prepared. This could be the last time you could ever see him, and it made a pain grow in your chest, and it also meant you were not going to be as alone as you were used to when you worked with him.

You walked through the cold hallways of the building, and you arrived at the chamber—he was restrained on his usual stretcher; for the first time, you saw him completely connected to the machine. He was about to be wiped out, and they wanted to be sure it was not going to have any repercussions.

He looked down—he had been so long without his brain being washed out that he started to develop a hint of humanity, but even there, he knew it would be a death sentence to try to engage with you in this situation—if you could even call engaging the russian answer he gave you some weeks ago, and the nods or shakes of his head.

You were in front of him with your device—typing on, checking spikes, heart rate changes, lab test results, everything you were hired to check up on him.

“I’m so sorry.” You mumbled, it was almost inaudible, and he twitched a finger in response. You leaned closer to review some wire connections behind the machine, and with that move, he was able to touch your leg with his finger. It was fast, barely a move, but it made you almost break down.

“Hang tight, Sergeant Barnes.” You mumbled before coming back into your initial position, “Inspection completed. Asset in perfect condition and ready to comply.”

“You can leave the chamber, doctor.” You nodded and gave him a last look.

His gaze was fixed to the front, but he gave you a fast flicker in his eyes that was almost like a silent farewell.

You were putting the papers away with his new records when the rest of the team of scientists and lab techs walked in. Pierce was in front of them.

You were hurried to leave when you heard the last part of the conversation.

“But I knew him…” He mumbled for the first time in English—and your heart clattered once again in your chest. That broken voice shattered your heart into pieces.

“Prep ‘em.”

It was the only thing you heard before you walked out. Then, the machine being turned on, and his growls of pain. You wanted to step in, to ask for mercy, but you knew these people didn’t have a single bone of humanity—you would be dead before you could even reach Pierce's peripheral vision.

That night, you couldn’t sleep—your chest ached, your mind couldn’t stop repeating his finger barely touching the fabric of your sweatpants. All the work done had gone down the drain—he was now gone. Even with your vision clouded, you knew that your kind gestures towards him were not stronger than the machine that washed up his mind.

Days later, the building was tense—it had been like that since James left for the mission. The last thing you knew was that Sitwell was down. James had killed him after betraying HYDRA.

Two days after, you were sitting in your lab pretending you worked on something—until you heard it. Rumlow was talking to his intercom while he walked into your lab.

“You need to seize the asset.” He informed you.

You jumped on your spot. You were internally celebrating he was still alive—hadn’t he accomplished his mission? You walked behind Rumlow and three other men.

He was there, but his mind was not there anymore. The man you had helped to reach out for his humanity again was not there anymore. It was now gone.

You walked in and stood in front of him.

You could see it, you were not crazy, you could see that resemblance of humanity you had been seeding on him for the last few months. It was there. You really wanted to believe it was there.

“Asset Number five, six, eight, nine, eight.” The voice recorder was in your hand, and you left it on the silver table next to the machine.

You noticed he was silent—he hadn’t been injured on the mission. Maybe a successful mission?

The machine analyzing his vitals kept going while you reviewed every movement he made. The machine gave you back some papers—everything normal—but his heart rate. His heart rate spiked from time to time.

“I need to run a few more tests,” You shouted to be heard on the other side of the wall.

“Go ahead, doctor.” A voice you didn’t care to recognize responded.

You ran the machine again—you wanted to prove something, maybe to you, maybe for you.

First test—you stood still on the side of the computer. Out of his main point of view. His heart rate lecture came back normal.

Second test—you started the machine and walked to stand in front of him. Your tablet on your arm to disguise as if you were reviewing his movements and saving up information.

The heart rate spiked as soon as he locked eyes with you.

He was there. Something was there, and this was the only confirmation you needed. You walked towards him and leaned on him to fix some wires that were plugged into some curved pads around his body. “Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes.” You mumbled. His finger twitched on your side, giving you a faint touch.

Walking back to the machine, you responded. “Asset’s inspection done.”

“You can now leave, doctor.” You nodded and gave him a light and fast look.

You were walking through the hallway when you heard Rumlow talking to Rollins.

“Now it’s supposed to find Rogers and Romanoff now—that’s why they are inspecting it.”

He did kill the said Fury. Why was he kept alive just to kill Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff?

This was probably the last time you would see him alive, and you didn’t even realize it.

Radio silence for at least two more days. People had stopped working—everyone was hanging around trying to find ways to escape since most of the leaders were nowhere to be seen. You had no faith. You knew someone new would eventually come and take back the leadership—and then, if you didn’t get killed by the new leaders, you would be asked to do horrid things again.

You had been awake for the last twenty-four hours. You didn’t know what was worse. To be awake waiting for something, or to sleep knowing you could never wake up. Then, you heard a commotion on the other side of the building. It was loud, and it seemed to be getting closer.

“Soldat.” You heard someone yelling. You stood up—had the other prisoner gone free and were on a killing spree?

You hid on a corner—curled up, waiting for something to happen, and then you saw him. James was there. Injured, face swollen, shattered gear suit, he seemed… tired for the first time you had seen him. He ripped open the grid and walked towards you.

You shut your eyes, trying not to look at him when he eventually killed you. You didn’t understand why, but you were sure the man you had been taking care of was not there anymore. But instead, you felt how he pulled you by your wrist.

“Begat'.” “Run.”

He pulled you until you were out of the cell. He gave you a mobkey for a car.

“North wing. No look back. I’ll find you.” He ordered you. You nodded and started running.

You didn’t know this place—where to find anything, what to do—nothing at all. But you knew you needed to escape as fast as you could.

There was not a single soul who was not running; everyone was trying to find their way out, and you did the same. When you were finally on the north wing, you saw the window he had probably broken to get in. You ran towards it and found a door that was almost in pieces.

A car was waiting for you. You didn’t understand why, but you trusted him enough to know the car couldn’t be a kind of tramp or being watched.

You turned the engine on and drove as fast as you could—the place was a disaster, glasses all over the place, somehow smoke and fire was sorrounding the building, screams and people running filled all your senses—but you never stopped until you finally left HYDRA’s land, literally the middle of nowhere was the only thing your eyes could catch—and on the other side of the road, you saw dozens of trucks with “SHIELD” logos on them.

You felt it close. You knew HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD, and you weren’t there to find out if those trucks were friends or foes.

A sudden shake in the car made you lose control—your door opened, and James was looking down from the car roof. He tilted his head. You tried to move without leaving the car wheel unattended. Before you noticed it, he was already sitting and steadying the car.

“What did you do?!” You asked, looking back—the place was completely on fire.

“Rest.” He mumbled, gaze fixed on the road. “I’ll wake you up.”

“Sleep?” You sounded astonished.

“Yes. Long trip. Sleep.”

“You’re bleeding. I need to check your injuries.”

“Later.”

You sighed and curled up in your seat. The tiredness of twenty-four hours with no sleep was catching up to you, and you fell asleep immediately.

The adrenaline of the moment hadn’t washed over him—he still needed to take you out of the US before anyone found you had survived the fire. His mind was focused on only one thing—protecting you. You were the only person in seventy years who had shown him a glimpse of mercy, and he needed to give you back the life they had probably taken from you.

Hours later, finally, the hunger and pain woke you up. Your eyes adjusted to the bare light that came through a taped window, and you noticed you were in a safe house—more like a warehouse. James was nowhere to be seen, but you knew he wouldn’t have gone through all this mess just to toss you in whatever place he could have found.

You were trying to stand up, but your body had finally lost the battle. You lied down waiting for him.

Some minutes later, you heard him coming, his heavy boots echoing through the whole building.

“Take this.” He handed you some canned food. He stood there looking at you while you sat painfully on the mattress that you were lying on.

“James, can you sit down?” You looked up at him. He frowned at you. “Just sit, you don’t have to wait for any order. Just sit next to me.”

He knelt in front of you, his hands resting on his lap. His face was still swollen, and some cuts were covered with dried blood. You took some of the food and handed him the can.

“Take some too.” He didn’t move immediately. “Am I gonna have to be repeating myself very often, right?”

He grunted and took the can from your hand. You looked around and saw a black duffel bag. You crawled to it and found a kit aid there. You crawled back, dragging the duffel bag through the floor. He was still kneeling, eating slowly, looking at you, trying to decipher what you were doing. You took out some alcohol and rags to dampen them.

You knelt too in front of him, and you leaned over him, “Can I?”

He furrowed his eyebrows.

“I’m gonna clean you up. Can I do it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” You started cleaning him up, working on his face with the rags; he didn’t even flinch at the burning feeling of the alcohol sanitizing his injuries. “Great.”

He left the empty can on the floor.

“What’s next now, James?”

“Why James?” He finally questioned you.

“That’s your name.” You knitted your brows in the middle, “James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant in World War II.”

“Bucky.” He mumbled back.

“Huh?”

“A man that I saw in the last mission. He kept calling me Bucky.” He tried to remember the whole situation. His mind still tricked him into forgetting things after a while. “I think he knew me… He told me that exact name there.”

“Do you want me to call you like that?” He nodded. You said your name, and he nodded once again. “Bucky would be, then.”

A sepulcral silent filled the space.

“What’s next, Bucky?”

“Take you home.” He admitted.

“No!” You stood still, “Please don’t… My parents… they must be in danger, and they will be even more if I reach out to them…”

He didn’t answer.

“Let me go with you… I don’t care where you go. If you let me, I’ll follow you.”

“Why?” He hoarsed.

“You came back for me, didn’t you?” He nodded, “Well… you must trust me as much as I trust you. That means we should keep each other company. Now, what’s next?”

For the first time, you noticed he didn’t know what to say—his facial expression gave him away.

“What do you know about yourself?”

His eyes showed real fear.

“Not much.”

You remembered that Rumlow had mentioned Rogers—you were sure they meant Steve Rogers.

“The name Rogers rings a bell with you?”

“No.”

“I’m sure finding out about him would give us more information than we think. How much can we stay in the States?”

“We have to leave tomorrow.”

“Enough…” You pursed your lips, “Can you find some cover-ups for both of us?”

He nodded. You were getting tired of his three-word sentences and physical answers, but you also knew these were his first freely spoken words. He tilted his head to the duffel bag—there you found some clothing for males and females.

“How far are we from the Smithsonian?”

“ETA of twenty by car.” He answered immediately—like something was ignited in him.

“And do we have a car?” Another nod. “Let’s get ready, and we can leave this place as soon as we find some more answers.”

You stood up and took the clothes out of the bag. “Where can I get changed?” He tilted his head as if he didn’t understand the answer.

You sighed and closed your eyes. This was going to be the biggest learning curve you were about to face. “Stay here and change, I’m gonna find some spot to change too.”

You were walking with him by your side. He was wearing a black shirt, a flannel, and a denim jacket over it—you had almost the same outfit, he looked almost uncomfortable dressed as a civilian, but it was the only way to not take the spotlight with his metal arm.

“Bucky,” You mumbled, “I’m gonna take your hand, is that alright?” You looked up at him.

“Why?”

“PDA makes people uncomfortable.”

“PDA?”

“Public Display Affection.”

He furrowed, but offered his hand. He trusted you; he was sure you would survive even more than him in a more normal environment. You took his hand, and finally, that finger you had only felt through clothed skin was now tangled with yours. His very calloused hands felt warm—really warm at your touch. You closed your eyes before him just for a second. The warmth of his hand helped you to remind yourself you were now… almost safe. Or at least freed from HYDRA—and he was not being used as a human weapon anymore.

“Where are we going?” He looked down, and for the first time, you could see his blue eyes being enlightened by the sunlight. They were ocean blue. Deep. You could get lost in them even when they didn’t show too much.

“To find out who you are.”

You were now in front of the National Air and Space Museum. You pulled him by his hand and walked directly to Captain America’s exhibition.

You finally found what you needed—his exhibit. A photo of a younger him stared back at you, too. You looked at him, and he looked perplexed. You were mesmerized at the sight—he was full of life in that photo. Guessing by the years, he was at most twenty-seven. He still believed in a country that had never forgotten about him, that had declared him a hero even when he was outside, controlled by HYDRA. But looking at him, now, next to you. You realized you weren’t even sure if he had looked at himself in all these years—or if he could be able to even recognize himself after all.

“Is that me?” He looked at you.

“A younger you, but yes.”

“A fallen comrade. James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes.”

You could hear through the speakers: Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.

“Something here now rings a bell?” You asked again.

“Barely.”

“We would get to it eventually.” You looked closer at the exhibit.

“1917 - 1944”

“You’re ninety-seven years old.” You murmured.

“What year is it?”

“Two thousand fourteen.” You said, as if it hurt your throat. You hated to display all this information this fast to him. Yes, he had been put out of cryo all these years—but why would someone care to inform a weapon what year it was, or how long he had been frozen?

He sighed. “We are done.”

Walking away from that exhibit, you followed him, trying to match his pace, “Did you remember something?”

He swallowed, “No.”

He was not ready to admit that, since he snapped at the helicarrier, some blurred memories had come back into him—they felt too real to just avoid them, and standing up in front of what seemed his past. Even less, when you were there by his side—when you trusted him to be the person who would keep you alive and safe, when he had taken you out from HYDRA’s facilities. He didn’t have the chance to break down when you depended on him at this moment.

“Now what?” You hurried your steps.

“Leaving for Alaska.”

That was the last thing he told you until you arrived at the warehouse. You had to understand from time to time that he was getting accustomed to being free. To speak even if he was not spoken to or ordered to speak. You were looking through the window while Bucky drove back to the warehouse. When you arrived, the warehouse felt like a strange kind of home between you two.

“Sleep a bit. I’ll wake you up when we need to leave.” You furrowed.

“I don’t wanna sleep, I’m fine.”

“Sleep.” He hoarsed.

“Fine. I’ll sleep.”

You lay down and curled up on the mattress, and the tiredness of days and days fighting for your life finally caught up. During the night, Bucky didn’t sleep at all; his instincts kept him awake, checking that no one had found your traces or that you were sleeping well. He didn’t even sit to rest. And by the first ray of light, he took you in his arms and placed you in the seat. You didn’t even realize you had been moved until your ears were covered with a headset and you were buckled up in the copilot seat. Multiple questions came to your mind, but you knew who he was. He had been the biggest weapon HYDRA had had for decades—he knew all the resources, even the ones that weren’t easily reachable.

“Where are we going?” You mumbled, scratching your eyes carefully.

“Bucharest.” You bit your lip when he answered.

“How the hell are we gonna get there just in this thing?” You looked at him. “Not that I doubt your capacities…”

“We are going to Anchorage, Vladivostok, Moscow, Sochi, and then Bucharest.” He mumbled. “Train, car, sail…”

“Oh.”

Anchorage was the easiest part; a ship took you from there to Vladivostok. You stayed there for a week between safe houses, Bucky not trusting any place he had learned in his active years with HYDRA, and making you rest enough to be ready if you had to run away. He had prepared himself, and you really wanted to ask when he planned this… He even had a safe house there waiting for you in the middle—a place that wouldn’t set off any alarms as soon as you arrived. This was somehow better than the ones you saw in Canada and the States.

“Have to fix something before departure.” He said as soon as you sat in the bed you found.

“Oh… Can’t I… go with you?”

“Sleep. I’ll be back before you even wake up.”

“Bucky, I don’t need that much sleep. How much do you think they let me sleep back there?”

He stared blankly at you.

“Just come back, please.” He nodded and stepped away.

You weren’t even sure why you were following his lead, but you were both the only ones who had shown some humanity back in HYDRA, and maybe both of you were holding onto a string of fate built by traces of mercy, and maybe you could even help him to find answers he needed. At least, you knew who you were before all of this, but the only thing he had had was a name on a museum and some very old and grainy photos.

Hours later, he came back with a new duffel bag. You wanted to know where he was getting all his resources, but you also knew you were not going to have an honest answer even if you asked for it. He opened it in front of you, and some new clothes and a fake ID with your name on it appeared—passports, fake documents that could help you to get wherever he was taking you.

“Thank you, Bucky.” He slightly knitted his eyebrows in the middle. “Can I ask where you get all of this?”

He shook his head. “Best not.”

The train to Moscow was kind of relaxing. He had placed you in a window seat, and he chose one far from you. Security matters, he said. And when you arrived in Moscow, he picked you up thirty minutes away from the train station. It had been almost two weeks after he set you free from HYDRA, and now he was taking you God knew where just to make sure you were going to be safe.

“Another safe house?” You asked when you got into the car. He nodded. “Have you had any memory back?”

“No.” Dryly, he answered.

“When we get to Romania, I’ll find a way for you to communicate with your parents.” He answered without looking at you.

You had surrendered to the idea that they would believe you had died, but the fact was that no one knew you were at HYDRA’s facilities. They had taken care of it in such a way that made everyone believe you had just gotten tired of social media—and now you had been MIA for almost two or three weeks.

“Would it be a good idea?” He didn’t answer.

The house in Moscow was, in fact, a house. A small one, but it had a stove and a real bed.

“We will be here for some days until I find what I need. Two more stops and we will arrive at our destiny.”

“Why that many stops?”

“I needed to be sure no one had followed us.”

“Bucky, can I ask you for something?” He nodded, “Real food. I can even cook… I just… I’m tired of canned food.”

He furrowed. You realized you were asking for something he probably hadn’t even had. You looked over the window and saw a small store just a block away.

“Look. Do you see it? I can buy some food to cook for us.” He gripped your wrist.

“No.” His grip was strong, and you whimpered at the feeling.

“Bucky, you’re hurting me.” You cried out, and he snatched his hand from you as if your skin had burned him. “I don’t have to go on my own. We can go together, I just want real food.”

He moved carefully and found a statch of bills buried in his duffel bag.

And that’s how a play-pretend started. It didn’t last long, but you were happy to have a small, almost normal interaction with him. Something you both could feel like something warm and real.

You could even notice how he was walking more lightly. Like all the weight he carried on his shoulders was getting lighter by the day. Like he was starting to trust you and not just the person who had tried her best not to abuse him, as everyone he knew did.

But Moscow only lasted a week after taking a second train. This time, he sat just behind you and just made you walk for some minutes before meeting him to leave for yet another safe house.

‘Dobro pozhalovat' v Sichi' 'Welcome to Sochi.'

Sochi was small and beautiful. It made you kind of homesick, but it was only a connection to the Black Sea. You needed to ship to Romania, and he was there just to find a connection to take you there as fast as possible. He didn’t even take you to a safe house. The truck he had there was big enough for you to sleep in the back for a night before leaving for the Greater Sochi Area. A costline where he met a man who was bribed to take you directly to Bucharest.

And after what seemed an eternity. You arrived at Bucharest.

The day you arrived at Bucharest, you learned the place you were heading to was Rahova, a small neighborhood located in the southwest part of the city. The man Bucky had hired explained everything to him in Romanian, but you caught some of his words when broken English slipped through their conversation.

When you arrived at a very old and neglected building that could have been a very beautiful hotel back in time. Bucky walked through the reception area and went upstairs. You followed him silently. You knew he was getting tired; you could see it in his eyes. You had seen him months prior, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, finally catching him up.

He carried two duffel bags and a backpack that he had never taken off him. When you finally arrived at a very dusty and old room, he tossed the bags on his side and sighed.

“Are we finally done escaping?” You looked up at him while you locked the door. He finally nodded.

You couldn’t believe it—and the first thing you did was to hug him. Your arms enclosing his neck, tears dampening your cheeks, sobbing uncontrollably. His arms were on his side, confused, giving him away on the fact that he didn’t know how to react.

“I owe you my life, and I’ll spend the rest of it helping you to find who you are. We are going to recover every piece of it, and you will learn who you are.” You were sobbing, and out of instinct, he enclosed your body with a strong grip.

And for the next months, that’s what you did, you kept your word and found everything you could to make him feel like he was someone. He now owned the name “Bucky”. He learned that he was friends with Steve Rogers back in time. Not just a friendly camaraderie, but a strong connection they shared since the last of their days as they knew them. You helped him to learn more about his family. He had three siblings; he was the oldest of them, and he had lost his father when he was young. You explained to him what you learned about his story and how he had been enhanced.

He learned things about himself day by day. He loved plums, and loved music from the forties—he loved to see you dancing through the small room, and loved the way you gave him space when you were falling asleep, just to end up curling up and cuddling him up when you were past asleep. He loved the perfume you had chosen for him, and the clothes you helped him to wear once he felt more comfortable being seen in public.

He learned he loved the way you greeted every person you stumbled upon in the hallways or on the street. The way you made him become part of society and make him realize he was now a citizen, and he would do his best to make you feel proud, even when you told him day by day how proud you were of how far he had gone after everything he went through.

He became someone people trusted, and with the abilities he had learned through the years, he became the man the neighbors would look to when they needed a helping hand. He came in handy when something needed to be fixed, and he loved to think his hands were now used for something kind.

The truth untold was that he fought every day. He fought never to bring the Soldier back. Every time he saw you talking with a neighbor your age, or an older man gave you a small gift to help you two, he fought something darker, something that felt stronger than him from time to time. He felt that way every time he thought he could lose you, every time you felt sad, and someone was rude to you. But he understood that doing so would do nothing but hurt you.

Life was getting easier by his side, and you appreciated every waking moment with him.

He started sleeping while he cuddled you. His arms tugged you into his chest like he knew you were going to disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough. Because life had shown him the worst side of everything, and he wanted to make sure he was going to keep it at all costs.

Money was not tight. He had a good amount of money—you never asked where it came from, but you knew it would eventually run out, so he started making some side gigs while you helped take care of the children in the community. And starting from scratch in a completely new continent where you barely understood half a word they were saying, and Bucky tried, he really tried teaching you the essentials, to make it easy for you to deal with it.

One day, you were cooking when a knock on the door took you out of the act.

“Could you help me?” His voice came strangled. You ran to the door, and when he opened it, he had some appliances that almost covered his whole body piled up on his arms.

“What’s that, Bucky?” You chuckled, trying to take the blender from the top. He shook his head and walked in, putting it on the floor.

“I was working on Mrs. Marinescu’s kitchen when the couple next door came. They told me they were leaving and they saw us checking on the appliances on the talcioc.” A very thick accent could be heard. He was a native English speaker, but after so many years mixing Russian with Romanian and English, he tended to feel more comfortable speaking Russian or Romanian—and his English came broken from time to time.

“Oh my god!” You got excited and hung onto his neck, hugging him, your legs were hanging, and you were giggling, “This is so great, Bucky! Now we can use the money we’ve been saving to paint the room!”

He scoffed a laugh, and it filled up your ears in a soft way. He put you down, and you tiptoed to cup his face.

“Bucky…” He looked down, confused. “Can I do something, and you promise you’re gonna trust me?”

He nodded. You pulled him closer, your thumbs circled his rough cheeks. Your lips found each other halfway. He was petrified, like he didn’t know what to do, and clumsily moved—your hands fell to his ribs, and his hands clutched on his sides, you didn’t notice, but he had closed his eyes, finally letting himself feel completely safe. He grunted in response when you stepped back slightly.

“That was fine?” You mumbled, pulling away and giving him some space.

“Fine. It was fine.” Smiling, you were about to pull away, but he gripped your wrist. “Can you do it again?”

You smiled, and now he was the one holding your waist, but he stood still. You tiptoed once again and kissed his lips softly. You felt the way his fingers dug slightly into your soft skin, and the proximity made you feel his chest heaving rapidly. Your hands rested on his ribs; his skin felt hard through his clothes, but it was comforting to have him so close for the first time.

The last few months, he had gone from not being able to even say more than a two-word sentence to even being able to hold your hand in the street when he needed some reassurance. But old habits die hard, and he never let you go on your own to any place. He was always by your side. He was the only one going outside to earn money, and that’s how you ended up taking care of your neighbor’s children. He felt safer knowing you were there at what you both called home.

And now he felt so comfortable and safe to kiss you—to show you his most sensitive and private side. His movements were clumsy and slow; he just let you make the moves, playing with his lips, making him lose himself in the touch. You didn’t even think he was going to react, but he was there, physically asking for more. When you pulled back, he looked at you. There was no comeback. You were now his sole purpose to be alive. You had been that for months now, but the way your lips had enchanted him.

“Thank you,” He answered, still looking down at you.

“Don’t thank me for this… Just… Do it every time you need it or want it…” You stroked his hair carefully.

“Are you sure?” You smiled and nodded.

He leaned over you, and once again, his lips found yours. He was sure he had found nirvana in the way you kissed him. The way you took care of him in ways he didn’t know he could be helpless—the way you showed him the human side he thought he had lost and was never going to see ever again.

Time flew, and your connection grew stronger. With that, the way he treated you got even more protective. He didn’t trust anyone. Every time you tried to leave the apartment just to breathe, he was there, giving you enough space to not be all over you, but to keep an eye on you. He was just not willing to lose the only thing that kept him sane among all the things that kept him awake at night.

But he also had kept his word through the months; he let you talk to your family every once in a while. Always on burner phones, never more than a couple of minutes, and after that first kiss. One night, after a difficult call full of cries, he even held you tight for the first time while you cried for hours. You were sitting next to him, and his hands covered your whole. You missed them with your whole life, but you knew that going back to the United States or even keeping more frequent communication could mean a death sentence for you.

“I’m so sorry…” He mumbled, stroking your hair while you tried to ease yourself. “I’m gonna find a way. You’ll see them. I promise.”

“No!” You placed your hands on his chest, “No, if it means risking everything we had fought for.”

“But you want to see them.”

“And I also want us both to be happy. You’re barely getting to know yourself now. You get along well with the neighbors. We have this small place we now call home… We have each other… and as much as I miss my family, I’m not gonna risk everything we’ve built.”

“But you love them…”

That sole sentence broke your heart. You had shown him that even after all the dark you both had endured, you still had so much love to spread, and you were willing to teach him how to love and trust again.

“And I love you…” You confessed, looking at him. “And you are the only reason we are here now. That means more than anything else.”

“You… love me.” He repeated, trying to wrap his mind around your words.

“Yes, Bucky. I love you.”

“Why?” He was genuinely curious.

“Love doesn’t really have an explanation, you know?”

You could notice the way his mind raced through all the ways he should answer, and you cupped his cheeks again.

“I’m not asking you to answer anything; I just stated a fact. I love you, you can love me or not, tell me or not, that’s yours to find out.”

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, trying to find an answer in your eyes.

“I’ve already told you that you don’t have to ask.” You scoffed a laugh and leaned to kiss him.

“You always ask.” He said between kisses.

“You deserve it.”

His hands found your waist as you kept your hands on his chest—heavy breathing was all you could hear while the air grew thicker in the room. Since the first kiss, he had grown more confident in the way he touched you. Never touching bare skin, never going further than your waist, always being careful not to bruise or grip harder than he should.

And you were careful, too. You never initiated a kiss without asking first, even when he had stated he didn’t care if you did it.

His breathing was becoming erratic, as his hands found softer spots in your waist, he cradled you in his arms, trying to pull you closer without being too eager in his moves. Your hands found his neck, your fingers tracing paths around the scars that time didn’t heal properly. Teeth clicking, mouths going on and off, trying to catch some air between the messy kiss going on. When you finally came back to your senses, you stopped yourself before you took things further.

“Bucky… I think… We should stop.” You said with a hitched breathing.

He tried to mumble something, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No! You would never… I just… I think it’s not the right thing to do.”

“I thought you wanted to…” You shook tenderly. “It’s fine. We can…”

“Bucky, stop—We can wait as much as we both need.” You stroked his cheek, and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the feeling.

“What’s that?” Scarlotti spoke as he took out some dusty folders. Decker looked down at the open folder.

“These are old records from the facility that James Barnes intervened in.”

They were checking the papers, trying to find something of relevance. The exploration was nothing but a last chance to try to bring HYDRA back in one way or another. While they looked through the papers, a photo caught Scarlotti’s attention.

“Who’s that?” He read your name out loud.

“Oh, a scientist who worked for Pierce in that facility. One of the good ones. Went to waste, the government didn’t even know she was there. Karpov did a great job and made her contact her family to not raise suspicion.”

Scarlotti talked through his intercom. Orlov in the operative offices answered immediately. “Orlov here.”

“I’m gonna send you a photo. Give me all you have ‘bout her.”

He snapped the photo and sent it. Some seconds later, Orlov started reading information from his computer.

“She was one of the good ones. She took care of the Asset number five, six, eight, nine, eight. She was at the facilities when it went down…”

“Yes, yes. I know that. What else?”

“She was not officially there, but she was declared Missing in Action by our intelligence.”

“Not Killed In Action?” Orlov chimed in.

“No. Missing In Action.” He repeated, annoyed. “Her body was never found.”

“And you said she was the one who took care of Barnes?” Orlov hummed. Decker started to connect the ideas.

“I think we might have found something.” Dereck smiled mischievously.

It was not even a different day. At least, Bucky didn’t feel it in his bones. He was finally losing tension, letting you be on your own for more than an hour. Not taking you wherever he was going if he knew he could take more than an hour. You were at home, cooking dinner, a recipe Mrs. Marinescu had shared with you during your last visit. He knew you were safe there. He had researched the whole neighborhood just to be sure no one had found you two at any of your stops. He made sure you were safe. And even then, SHIELD’s intelligence, infiltrated by HYDRA, had found you as soon as they spotted your name in their files.

They concluded that Bucky had come back for you, and with weeks of research, they found a trace that led them to your last spot before Bucharest. And with some HYDRA treatment, they found your now-called home. They kept an eye on you for some more weeks. They studied when Bucky let you on your own, how many times a day you were alone, and for how long. They knew it was going to be difficult to take you from Bucky’s arms, but you were the only way to be able to put hands on him once again.

It was out of nowhere. Someone knocked on your door, and thinking it was one of your neighbors, you opened without even looking through the peephole. Something Bucky had scolded you plenty of times.

“I’m sure that’s how you ended up in HYDRA.” He joked once. He didn’t mean it. But you laughed fully on your belly when you heard him, and he furrowed.

You fought. You did everything you could to not be taken by them. You knew who they were; you didn’t even have to know their faces to know why they were there. But one of them pinched you with a strong sedating.

Before you could even scream for help, you dozed off.

“Target secured.” One of them spoke through his intercom. “Heading to the base.”

Bucky came back one hour later than he thought. One neighbor had asked him to rearrange some furniture, and that earned him some freshly baked sweets. When he saw the door torn down, he didn’t even have to come in. His world was crumbling down as he saw the mess inside the small room. The stove was almost catching fire, and he saw a used vial on the floor. His jaw kept ticking as he assessed the disaster.

He didn’t even think twice. He knew who had done this. And he was not willing to leave you more than necessary in their clutches, but he needed to be careful. They wanted the Winter Soldier back. Oh, and if he was willing to bring him back only to bring you back home safe and sound.

First, he prepared everything. He placed all his neighbors in different places. Even if it cost him all the money he had saved to buy a house for you two. He was not going to put anyone else in danger. It was just two families left at that building—that’s why he had chosen it. It worked; the fewer people involved, the fewer would get hurt if something happened. The rest of the neighborhood could act as if they had never met them, and they would be fine.

In the meantime, you had been chained up in a cell. When you finally woke up, a man in a suit stood in front of you. He said your name with a thick russian accent.

“Doctor, it’s so good to meet you. I’m so sorry for the harsh start. My intention was never to hurt you. I hope you understand that you’re a means to an end. And, of course, our goal is not a scientist who fell in love with a monster.” He chuckled. “So intelligent to end up emotionally imprisoned to a monster of the Winter Soldier’s caliber.”

You were looking around. You knew well this was not the cell you had been kept in years prior. This was somewhere else.

“We expect your pet—My apologies—Your loving partner to arrive more or less in a week or two. If he hasn’t lost his sparkle, he will eventually find us. Unless you’re not that important for him to come back.” He gripped your chin. His eyes were fixed on yours. But, looking at you. It’s hard to believe he’s not coming back.”

You didn’t even respond. You remembered the conversation you had with Bucky.

“You need to pay attention,” Bucky sat you down the first time he got nervous to the point of almost making you two leave the city. It had been just a week after the first kiss. “I don’t want to leave this place either. But if we want to stay, you need to understand something. They are actively or passively searching for me. Therefore, they could find me.”

“Bucky… they won’t. We are too far from there.”

“Yes, they will. And you’re now the most important part of my life.” He sighed and kissed your knuckles, “Therefore, they’ll come for you. So you need to pay attention to my instructions.”

He was dead serious, and that took you by surprise. Anxiety crawled up through your body. He noticed and cupped your chin carefully.

“I’m gonna explain what you've got to do. They will want to tear you down. They are not gonna hurt you. They need you by their side. They need me, but they need that big brain of yours.”

“And what if they hurt me?” He sighed.

“Then, I’m gonna have to kill them all.” He sighed and tilted his head, “But they won’t. You’re the only way they've got to find me… and you better be damn sure I’ll find you and bring you back to our home.”

“And what am I gonna do in the meantime?” Your voice came strangled.

“Nothing. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t tease them. They will try to pick fights with you, they will try to find the rage in you to give them an excuse and hurt you.” He stroked your hair. “Don’t give them a reason to hurt you, and don’t make me kill them for that.”

“How are you so sure that they will come for me?”

“Because I don’t have anything else that I care more about than you.” He leaned and kissed you.

You did as you were told. You never even acknowledge him.

“How rude of me? I never introduced myself. My name’s Daniel Whitehall. This fuckers know me like Kraken. An idiotic name they gave me. I’m not that different from the soldat.”

“Maybe the Asset never told you about me. He was busy killing people and slandering men to even know who gave him orders.” You swallowed. You had forgotten how much it hurt you to hear he was referred to as an asset.

He smiled as soon as he saw the way your throat bobbed with the swallowing movement.

He left the cell, and you hugged your legs when everyone left you alone there. You knew he was coming. You knew he would never leave you there, but if you had taken months to arrive from New York to Bucharest, how long would it take him to come back and find you?

But he found his way back to his armory. It was an old facility HYDRA had abandoned so many years ago. But he knew how to find it. Crossing the borders without you and with a goal in mind was even easier. In less than a week, he was back in the United States. He let himself be seen in places HYDRA had based decades ago. That would give you some faith for his arrival.

That week was a hell—even when they kept you fed and didn’t even raise a finger at you. But knowing they could snap at you at any moment was the actual hell in life. Whitehall never came back; usually, other people came to see you. Never the same men, but they brought you food, water, or took you to a shower regularly.

Almost a week later, Whitehall finally made an appearance.

“Look… I thought the soldat was rusty now. But it seems that you ignite something in him.”

He placed a device in front of you, and the screen showed a grainy surveillance snapshot of him. Black gear suit, long hair covering his sides. He was driving a black armored truck that you had never seen before. Even here, you drove a truck that could blend with the rest. But this one? This one was exactly what he would never use if he really wanted to not be seen. He was giving you a message. He was coming, and he was nearer than they thought, and you just had to wait for him.

You didn’t even flinch. You didn’t let yourself react; you couldn’t give yourself away that easily. But if you knew the monster they had created. This was not going to be cute.

You never really saw him in action, but you had heard the gossip, the ghost stories that revolved around him, you knew he was bloodthirsty, and he had no mercy—stories said he had killed John F. Kennedy back in time—you never really asked. Everything he had done as the Winter Soldier was way past you. You didn’t care; that was not him under your eyes. And the man you were about to see was not the man you loved. It was the man they wanted to see.

Your ankles were already bruised by the chain that restrained you since you had arrived, you could see how your skin was turning pale by the passing days, and you had even forgotten how Bucky smelled, that aroma he left in your skin every time he hugged you. That aroma he left that day before leaving to buy groceries.

It was a mixture of soap and a bergamot and clove scent that Ms. Marinescu had given to you as a gift for him when she was told you were starting from scratch.

“You two seem too protective of each other.” She smiled as she handed you a cup of tea.

“Yeah. We’ve been through a lot together. We kind of only have each other in the world.”

“Well, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Eugen and I saw the worst of Romania when we were young, and we started from scratch, too.” She smiled, and you responded with a hurt smile. “Just tell me something.”

“Whatever.” You looked up at her.

“You’re not just a pair of civilians, right?” You smiled, pursing your lips.

“I can see it from miles away. My Eugen was a soldier too. He also escaped to be with me.”

You sighed, “It’s a little bit more difficult than that.”

“Well, he seems too fond of you… If I come correct, he’s loyal to you. You seem to be everything he has.”

“And he’s everything I have.” You admitted, more to yourself than her.

“Keep it like that, and you’ll have the world on your feet sooner than later.”

Where was that promised world now? Where was the happy ending you were promised? Now you were here, sitting, chained, waiting for a man you didn’t even know, it would be the same man you had loved the last few months. He was angry, maybe mad crazy, they had done exactly what he said they would do, and he was doing exactly what he told you—he promised you he would do if that were the case.

Infiltrating the base was not difficult. The snipers were expecting a loud entrance. A Winter Soldier-type entrance. Loud, angry. But he knew better. And he was not willing to risk any chance of retrieving you and tore down every trace of you in paper and systems.

They were killed even before they could turn around—the suppressors did the job, and he had gathered enough armory to kill a hundred men, and he was still saving his best gun for the man who had ordered your kidnapping.

Daniel Whitehall was so full of himself that he never thought Bucky would find everything he needed to achieve his goal. He saw The Winter Soldier as just a weapon—but he had been trained to be more than that. He was well-trained in espionage, and many intelligence agencies had been compromised by him since the sixties, but Whitehall failed to learn more about him.

He started from the lowest in the chain—poor souls that thought they were untouchable. Men who believed that he was just a ghost story. He killed each one of them—then he compromised the security to come into the building. There, elite guards didn’t even wait for him. He was really trying to be as stealthy as possible, but he knew that trespassing into the building would set some alarms off and would inform Whitehall he was there.

He walked to the offices. He knew these people were not even informed that you were there. They probably didn’t even know your name—but at this point, everyone was a liability under his eyes. And being as merciful as he could be—he killed them before they even knew he was there. He was not there to save anyone but you.

A killing spree had begun, and it was nowhere to be done.

And like an old memory coming back to your mind. You heard it again, but this time, a hundred times worse. Men screaming muffled by a suppressed gun, there were no pleadings like the last time. He never even gave them a chance. He didn’t care about saving lives. He wanted every living soul in that place dead before they could even touch you.

A muffled whimper was heard through the hallway that led to your cell—a guard guided him to your cell. It was the last living soul on that floor before Whitehall’s chambers.

When the guard finally opened your cell, Bucky aimed at him, and without a hint of hesitation, he shot him in his temple.

“Out.” One-word sentences once again. He took the vest from the last guard and handed it to you. “By my side.”

You nodded, and he walked directly to the stairs—you were one step behind; he was always vigilant of his surroundings. Finally, he reached out to the last floor. He didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even bat an eye at you as he was killing those men. One by one. Not even thinking it twice. When there was not even a single soul there, he took you by the wrist and made you walk to the main doors.

He kicked the door open, and a bullet flew by your side. He then pushed you to the wall, and before you could even stumble against the door, he aimed and shot at Whitehall’s hand. A howl left his throat.

He took you again by the wrist and made you walk towards him. It was not any kind of torture towards you, even when you felt it was.

He walked towards the man, and before him, he sketched a wicked smile. Bucky—or maybe the Winter Soldier—shot him mercilessly. He then made you walk fast—assessing every floor again, making sure no one had stayed alive.

He walked to find a truck and took you out of the place.

You were in shock, everything seemed like a feverish dream—you were sure they had drugged you, and you were now delirious. In the middle of the desert, the same truck you saw in the CCTV days before was waiting for you. He took you by your wrist, and he sat you in the trunk. “Stay put and don’t even say a word.”

You nodded, the truck seemed to fly—you were lying down in the trunk, the vest hurt, but you knew that if he didn’t ask you to take it off, he would have done it on his own. There were some armory boxes there; you were curling up next to them to make yourself smaller. You knew you were safe with him, but you were afraid of what his next step was.

Some hours later, he finally stopped, opened the door, and over one shoulder he placed you, the other hand held the boxes that sat next to you during the drive.

He tossed you in a second car and drove all the way to a new place.

“We’re not leaving this country until I’m sure all HYDRA is down. I’ve done my research, you’ll be staying with the only people I trust enough until I finish what I just started.” He talked from his seat, you were still in the trunk—still confused about what was going on.

“I thought you didn’t trust anyone.”

“I didn’t.” He admitted. “But I need to keep you safe as I finish this. You’re not coming with me, and I’m certainly not leaving you alone anymore.”

Two hours later, he parked in front of a Tower you had seen plenty of times but never really batted an eye at it.

The Stark’s Tower.

“I’m so sorry.” He said before injecting something in your skin, you were already dozing off when you heard him mumbling. “I love you.”

He set off some alarms by shooting as he left the place.

Natasha Romanoff was the one who found you. You were drugged and sitting at the main entrance of the building. A quick face recognition threw at her and Tony your information. Off the radar for years. There was a folder under you. A Folder with words in Russian.

It was all she needed to know what was going on.

“Call Rogers,” Natasha ordered.

“Cap? Why?” Tony cocked an eyebrow, and Natasha closed the folder.

“She was the doctor in charge of The Winter Soldier Project.”

When you woke up, you were hooked to machines that read your vitals. Two guards with “S.W.O.R.D” vests stood in the doorway, and next to you—Steve Rogers himself, crossed arms, eyes fixed on a book. It was the most logical thing you could think of. No, Bucky didn’t trust anyone, but seeing Steve there, you knew he most likely had remembered him back in the Smithsonian.

“Nice to meet you, Captain.” You husked. He looked at his side and smiled.

He said your name and smiled. “Nice to meet you, doctor.”

“Where am I?”

“Right now? At the Metro-General. But you’re currently a guest at Stark’s.”

“At Stark’s? How?” You furrowed.

“Someone took you here, and you were heavily drugged and dehydrated when you arrived. We needed to take care of you.”

“Where’s that someone?”

“I was hoping you knew.” He tilted his head.

“He told me he was going to finish what he had started.”

“He killed everyone in a HYDRA base. Care to tell me why?”

“They took me, and he rescued me from there. The last thing I know it’s he hugged me, and then everything went blank.”

“He drugged you, most likely for you not to chase him.”

“Fair.” You mumbled.

“Rest. We will talk later. You need to rest, and we need to find him.”

Nights were rough after that. Steve asked you to stay fully at the Tower. Bucky seemed to be on a killing spree towards all the HYDRA’s facilities he might have known. And even when he had just done it, by the time the Avengers arrived at the place, he was not there anymore.

You kept walking like a wandering soul. You needed to know that Bucky was going to snap out of the trance he had gotten into. He had been silent for weeks, and you were going crazy. There were only two options in your head—he was either lost in the trance or he had been killed. There was no other single reason you could think of for him not coming back. Tony started to grow worried about you. At first, he thought Bucky would come back some days after his last attack, but when he did not. He called Steve. What were the next steps after this? If you had been targeted twice by HYDRA, you needed some kind of protection, and Bucky being out as the Winter Soldier was not something everyone could be sure of how it was going to end.

You were already falling asleep when you heard it. A thud sound on your floor next to your window.

A black figure stood still there.

“Did you compromise Tony’s surveillance?” You mumbled, still half asleep.

“I killed thousands of men, I compromised at least a dozen of intelligences, I almost tore down an emporium just for you.” He stood hidden in the shadows.

“Why didn’t you come as soon as you finished?”

“I needed to cool down. I was becoming someone I didn’t want you to see.”

“You drugged me, Bucky.”

“You weren’t going to stay here if I had asked you, were you?”

You sighed.

“You did great there. You were so intelligent.” He walked towards you.

“And what’s next?” You asked while sitting on your bed.

“Your extraction.” He offered his hand.

“Can I at least tell Steve we are leaving?” You stood up, “He doesn’t deserve to stay worried.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He sighed as soon as he saw your worried face, he took something out of his pocket and placed it on your bed. “This will tell him all he needs to know.”

You finally closed the distance between you two, and his hands found your wrist. Your chest could explode as soon as he touched you. His lips found yours, and your hands grasped his neck.

“Bucky,” you mumbled between kisses. He hummed in response. “I love you, too.”

He scoffed and shook. “My countdown skills are getting rusty.”

“No, you just were too hurried to say it before you left.” You giggled. “Now let’s leave before Jarvis notices someone else’s here.”

It didn’t take Steve by surprise that you weren’t there for breakfast. Tony had informed him before that you were hidden most of the time in your bed, but when you didn’t appear for your daily check-up, that was what worried him. When he knocked on your door, no one answered. He opened the door, afraid of what he could find.

You were nowhere to be found, and in your bed, Bucky’s dog tags that were displayed at the Smithsonian. He knew if he made one call or two, he would know they were missing from the exhibit.

At the end, he knew this was not a comeback. He knew the Tower and the Avengers were just a safe place for you until he found something safe for you two and until he eradicated most of the only danger you two had faced throughout your lives.

But it was a good kind of tired. The kind that came from working for someone who actually wanted to make a change, someone who definitely made the long hours feel worthwhile… someone who made your heart do ridiculous little flips every time he smiled at you.

You shook your head, trying to banish the image of Bucky's soft blue eyes and the way his voice dropped to that low, warm register when he spoke to you after everyone else had gone home. It was hopeless, really. You'd had a crush on him for months now, ever since you started working for him. You convinced yourself it was just professional admiration, but late nights alone in the office had a way of making feelings impossible to ignore.

You padded into your small kitchen, filling the kettle for tea. Your apartment was cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and stacks of books, but your favorite thing was the vintage radio sitting on the windowsill. It had been your grandfather's and you've grown up listening to it with him, learning to love the crackle and hiss, the way the music seemed to surprise you with every new song.

You reached over and turned the dial, letting the familiar static fill your quiet apartment. It was your nightly ritual, a small comfort after long days. You hummed along as a commercial for a local diner played, then another for a car dealership.

You were about to head to the bathroom to change when the smooth voice of the DJ, Frankie, cut through the air.

"Alright, folks, we've got a very special dedication coming up tonight. I'm telling you, this one's a real old-school romance, the kind that will make you believe in love letters and slow dances."

You paused, a smile tugging at your lips. You loved dedications. There was something so wonderfully old-fashioned about them, so personal in an increasingly impersonal world.

The crackle of a record filled the air, and then the voice of Louis Armstrong began to sing. You recognized it immediately, your breath catching in your throat.

"I'm confessing that I love you, babe.

Tell me, do you love me too?"

It was your favorite song. The one your grandfather used to play on Sunday mornings, the one you'd secretly always imagined a future love might dedicate to you someday.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. The saxophone, the gentle piano, Louis' velvet voice wrapping around every word like a warm embrace.

"Am I guessing that you love me? Mm Dreaming dreams of you in vain? Oh I'm confessing that I love you over again."

The song faded out, and you sighed ready to head to the bathroom. But then Frankie's voice returned.

"That was the one and only Louis Armstrong, a classic for a classic request. And that request came from a gentleman who wanted to send a little message to a very special lady."

Your heart skipped. You didn't know why, it was just a dedication, probably for someone else entirely.

"He says," Frankie continued, clearing his throat. "To my favorite person, who stays late, works hard and has a smile that makes the long nights a little shorter. This one's for you. Hope you like it as much as I do. And signs as J.B."

Your knees felt weak, and you had to grab the counter to steady yourself.

No. It couldn't be.

Your favorite song? A message signed with "J.B."?

Your mind raced, flashing through every late night in the office, every time Bucky had brought you coffee, every lingering glance, every soft smile. The way he always asked about your day, the way he remembered little details you've mentioned weeks ago. The way he told you to call him Bucky when it was just the two of you, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up. The name on your screen made your heart stutter.

Congressman Barnes.

You answered on the second ring, your voice was barely a whisper. "Hello?"

"Hey." His voice was that same low, warm rumble you heard every day, but there was something different now. "By any chance, were you listening to the radio?"

You could hear the nervousness in his voice and it made your chest ache in the most wonderful way.

"I… yes," you breathed, sinking onto your small couch. "Bucky, that was… did you really…"

"Did I really dedicate a song to you on the radio?" he finished, a soft laugh escaping him. "Yeah, yeah, I did."

"But how did you… how did you know it was my favorite song? How did you even know I listen to that station?"

"I pay attention," he said simply. "I pay attention to you, I notice the little things, like the way you hum along when you think no one's listening, or how you always turn on your radio when you think I'm not watching. I notice everything about you."

You felt tears prick at your eyes, hot and unexpected. "Bucky…"

"Look, I know it's old-fashioned," he continued, and you could picture him running his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you've noticed a hundred times. "I know I should've just said something in person, but… I wanted to do it right, and make it special. You deserve special."

"It is special," you whispered. "It's the most special thing anyone's ever done for me."

"Really?"

"Really." You laughed, a wet happy sound. "You dedicated my favorite song to me on the radio. That's… that's like something out of a movie."

"Good." You could hear the smile in his voice now. "Because I meant every word of it, you know. Every single word."

There was a pause, and you could hear him take a breath.

"So," he said softly, "did you like the song?"

You smiled, curling up on your couch, the radio still playing softly in the background. "I loved it," you admitted. "But I think I loved the message even more."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There was another pause. Then, "Can I see you? I mean, not right now, it's late, but… tomorrow? Maybe for coffee? Or dinner? Whatever you want, I just…"

"I'd love that," you interrupted, your heart soaring. "I'd love to see you. I'd love to do anything with you."

You heard him exhale, a breath of pure relief. "Good. That's… real good."

You talked for another hour, the conversation flowing easily, filled with soft laughter. When you finally hung up, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your heart felt so full it might burst.

You lay back on your couch, listening to the radio, and let yourself daydream about the next day. About Bucky and the beautiful thing that was finally beginning… and somewhere across the city, Bucky was doing the exact same thing, a smile on his face that hadn't been there in years.

💤 FALLING ASLEEP ON THEM unintentional closeness → realization / softness / caretaking 💤 "Have a nice nap?" / "I thought you were going to sleep forever." / "Shh, go back to sleep baby."

🌙 GOLDEN HOUR that in between moment → realization scenes / soft almosts / quiet tension 🌙 “It’s weird… everything looks different right now. You do too.” / “If I say something, will it ruin this?” / “We should probably go. - Yeah… just—give me a second.”

🧺 PICNIC BASKET something hidden inside → secrets revealed / gifts / unexpected confessions 🧺 “That wasn’t in there earlier. - “Yeah. I didn’t know how to give it to you.” / “You brought this… for me?” / “If I show you, you can’t pretend you didn’t see it.”

🪑SAVED SEAT someone always leaves space for you → quiet devotion / unspoken care / to be loved is to be known 🪑 “You always sit there. - Only when you’re here.” / “Was this—saved? - “It usually is.” / “I didn’t think you’d come. - “I didn’t think you’d leave me a spot.”

🌌 FIREWORKS ENDING silence after the noise → emotional comedown / realization / loneliness or peace 🌌 “It’s really quiet now.” / “I liked it better when I couldn’t hear myself think.” / “So… what happens after this?”

☀️ SUNBURN caretaking + vulnerability → tending to someone / soft touches / quiet intimacy ☀️ “Hold still—you’re gonna make it worse.” / “You don’t have to take care of me like this. - I know.” / “Does it hurt? - Not as much as you hovering.”

🍴 "TRY MINE" sharing food & sharing space → intimacy / trust / soft flirting 🍴 “Here—just take it. - “I could’ve asked. - You never do.” / “You always give me the better one.” / “Try it? For me?”

🪑 FOLD OUT CHAIRS side by side conversations → late-night talks / emotional honesty 🪑 “Funny how it’s easier to say things when we’re not looking at each other.” / “We’ve never actually talked about this, have we?” / “If I say it now, I can’t take it back.”

🛏️ AFTERNOON NAP lazy, quiet closeness → drifting in and out of sleep together / accidental cuddling 🛏️ “You’re still here. - “Wasn’t planning on moving.” / “Did I fall asleep on you? - “Yeah… didn’t mind.”/ “We should get up. -“In a minute.”

⏳ WAITING for them to show up + change → doubt / hope / payoff reunion ⏳“You said you’d come back.” / “I almost stopped waiting. - “Almost?” / “You’re late. - “I know. I’m still here.”

🧃 JUICE BOX playful, youthful energy → carefree chaos / laughter / childhood nostalgia 🧃 “You just sprayed that everywhere. - Worth it.” / “When did we start acting like kids again?” / “Don’t laugh—I’m serious. - “That’s the problem.”

🌾 TALL GRASS half-hidden, tucked away → private conversations / secret kisses / hiding from others 🌾 “No one can see us out here.” / “We shouldn’t be hiding. - “Then why are we?” / “It feels different when it’s just us.”

🕶️ SUNGLASSES seeing + not seeing → stolen glances / hiding feelings / perception vs reality 🕶️ “I can tell you’re staring. - You can’t even see my eyes.” / “You hide behind those a lot. - “Maybe I need to.” / “Take them off. - “Why?“ - So I know what you’re thinking.”

🧁 CUPCAKES small celebrations → “it’s not a big deal” birthdays / quiet milestones / soft surprises 🧁 “It’s not a big deal. - “Then why’d you remember?” / “You got these for me? - “Don’t make it weird.” / “Make a wish. - “You already know what it is.”

🪵 WOODEN FENCE leaning, waiting → watching from afar / longing / quiet observation 🪵 “You’ve been standing there a while.” / “I didn’t think you’d notice me.” / “You always look like you’re about to leave.”

🧂 POTATO CHIPS light, messy, impossible to eat just one → casual closeness / reaching into the same bag / lingering touches 🧂 “You’re gonna finish the whole bag. - “Watch me.” / "My hand was already there. - “So was mine.” / “You don’t mind sharing? - Not with you.”

🎆 FIREWORKS big emotions, louder than expected → confessions / overwhelm / emotional release 🎆 “I can’t hear you—what did you say?” / “I said I—” boom / “Fine. I’ll say it again.”

🍽️ PAPER PLATES temporary but meaningful → fleeting moments that still matter / this won’t last, but it’s real 🍽️ “This is kind of temporary, isn’t it?” / “Does it matter if it is?” / “I think I’d still choose this.”

🔕 MISSED CALL almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been 🔕 “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.” / “You were supposed to be there.”

🍦MELTING ICE CREAM time running out + fleeting moment → rushed confession / “before it’s too late” energy 🍦 “It’s gonna melt. - “Then say it faster.” / “We’re running out of time. - “Then don’t waste it.” / “Just—before it’s gone…”

💫 WATCHING THE STARS TOGETHER sneaky love + soft touches → falling asleep together / naming the stars after each other / forced (welcomed) proximity 💫 “That one’s yours. - “You can’t just claim stars.” / “You’re closer than you think.” / “If we stay like this, I might fall asleep. - “Then stay.”

⛺ BONFIRE warmth in the dark → storytelling / vulnerability / shared silence ⛺ “You don’t have to tell the whole story.” / “It’s easier in the dark.” / “I didn’t think anyone was listening. - “I always am.”

🌊 LATE NIGHT LAKE SWIM daring love + hidden feelings → romantic tension / almost confessions 🌊 “It’s freezing. - “You jumped in first.” / “You look different out here.” / “If I say something stupid, blame the cold water.”

🍯 HONEY slow, golden, lingering → drawn-out tension / soft touches that last too long 🍯 “You’re taking your time. - “I’m not in a hurry.” / “You always do that—linger.” / “Say it already. - “Not yet.”

🎇 FIRECRACKER sudden, sharp reaction → arguments / impulsive confessions / tension snapping 🎇 “Why are you acting like this?” / “Because you won’t just say it!” / “Fine—then listen.”

📸 DISPOSABLE CAMERA captured moments → memories / realizing feelings after the fact / almost too late 📸 “Don’t delete that. - “I wasn’t going to.” / “You kept all of these? - “Every single one.” / “That’s when it started, wasn’t it?”

🌧️ SUDDEN RAIN plans interrupted → running for cover / laughter / forced closeness 🌧️ “Run! - “Where?”/ “You’re soaked." -“So are you.” / “We should’ve checked the weather.” - “I’m glad we didn’t.”

🌳 SHADED TREE relief from the heat → safe space / emotional grounding / leaning on someone 🌳 “Come sit. You look like you need it.” / “It’s cooler here.” - “Stay, then.” / “You always find the quiet spots.”

🐜 ANTS tiny annoyance crowding into a big moment → interrupted confession / forced proximity / comedic tension 🐜“Don’t move—there’s—” / “Why are you so close?” - “Because you won’t stop moving.” / “This is not how I pictured this going.”

🍓 STRAWBERRIES soft, indulgent, a little romantic → feeding each other / quiet affection / yearning 🍓 “Here—try it like this.” / “You’re staring.” - “You make it hard not to.” / “You always give me the sweeter ones.”

✨ SPARKLERS brief but bright → momentary romance / realization of feelings / magical moment ✨ “It won’t last long.” / “Then don’t waste it.” / “Look at you—you’re glowing.”

🎡 CARNIVAL NEARBY distant music and lights → yearning / wanting something more / chasing a feeling 🎡 “We could go, you know.” - “Or we could stay.” / “You ever feel like you’re missing something?” / “I think this is enough.”

🍋 LEMONADE something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution 🍋 “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / “It gets better, I promise.” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."

💛 BEFORE THE SUN GOES DOWN aware of fleeting happiness + trying to memorize the moment → noticing details / fear of losing it 💛 “You’re doing that thing again.” - “What thing?” - “Trying not to forget.” / “Say something so I remember this right.” / “I wish I could pause this.”

📦 LEFTOVERS what’s left behind → memories / things unsaid / emotional residue 📦 “You can take this with you."/ “Feels weird packing it up." /“Not everything gets finished.”

☕ MORNING AFTER PICNIC soft aftermath → quiet conversation / reflection / “we should do this again” ☕ “We should probably talk about yesterday.” / “Do you have to go?” / “Same time next week?”

🧻 NAPKINS cleaning up a mess → vulnerability after something goes wrong / wiping tears / gentle care 🧻 “Hey—look at me.” / “It’s just a mess. We’ll fix it.” / “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”

🍉 WATERMELON sticky fingers, shared bites, sweetness that lingers → first kisses / almost kisses / teasing intimacy 🍉 “You’ve got juice all over your hands.” / “Then help me clean it.” / “You missed a spot.”

🍞BRUSHING NON-EXISTENT CRUMBS OFF crushing hard + scared to admit it → lingering touch / excuse for contact / care disguised as habit 🍞 “Hold still.” / “There’s nothing there.” - “I know.” / “You don’t have to find excuses.”

🌬️ SUMMER BREEZE soft, barely there → almost touches / words left unsaid / quiet longing 🌬️ “Did you feel that?” / “You almost touched me.” / “Almost doesn’t count.”

🚗 IN THE TRUCK BED open air, close proximity → stargazing / late-night talks / accidental intimacy 🚗 “There’s more space than I thought.” - “Not really.” / “You can lean if you want.” / “Don’t fall.” - “Then don’t move.”

🫙WATCHING THE FIREFLIES COME OUT summer crush → not realizing how close the other is / brushing hands 🫙 “You’re closer than you were a second ago.” / “Don’t scare them off.” / “I wasn’t looking at the fireflies.”

💬 OVERHEARD CONVERSATION something you weren’t supposed to hear → misunderstandings / accidental confessions 💬 “How long were you standing there?” / “Long enough.” / “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

🏡 BACKYARD LIGHTS soft glow at night → slow dancing / late-night confessions / lingering after everyone leaves 🏡 “Dance with me.” - “There’s no music.” - “There doesn’t have to be.” / “Stay until they turn off.” / “Just one more song.”

🎈WATER BALLOON FIGHT chaotic love + messy aftermath → picking pieces from their hair / hanging up wet clothes / sharing a towel 🎈 “You started it!” - “You escalated it!” / “You’re soaked.” - “So are you.” / “Come here—hold still.”

🥗 PASTA SALAD thrown together but somehow perfect → unlikely dynamics / found family / chaotic group settings 🥗 “This shouldn’t work, but it does.” / “Kind of like us.” / “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”

🍒 CHERRIES sweet with a hint of tension → playful teasing / “tie the stem” flirting / building tension 🍒 “You’re not actually going to try that, are you?” / “Watch me.” / “You’re unbelievable.”

🧺 PACKING THE PICNIC preparation as love → doing things for someone before they even ask 🧺 “You already thought of everything.” / “I know what you like.” / “You didn’t have to do all this.” - “I wanted to.”

🌻 WILDFLOWERS simple, soft, meaningful → “i saw this and thought of you” / gentle love 🌻 “These aren’t anything special.” - “They are to me.” / “You picked these?” - “I saw them and—yeah.” / “You think of me when you’re not here?”

🌅 LAST SUMMER TOGETHER knowing it’s ending → goodbye energy / nostalgia / unresolved feelings 🌅 “Let’s not talk about what happens after.” / “Just this once, okay?” / “I’m going to miss this.”

🚶 WALKING AWAY choosing distance → self-protection / heartbreak / growth 🚶 “Don’t follow me.” / “If I stay again, I won’t leave at all.” / “This isn’t me giving up.”

🎶 PORTABLE RADIO music drifting through the air → dancing / memory-triggered moments / song-associated love 🎶 “You remember this song?” / “Don’t laugh—dance with me.” / “We used to—” - “I know.”

🥪 SANDWHICHES carefully made, quietly thoughtful → acts of service / knowing someone’s preferences / domestic intimacy 🥪 “You cut the crusts off.” - “You hate them.” / “You remembered that?” / “I always do.”

🤝 “WE'RE JUST FRIENDS” until it’s clearly not → blurred lines / tension / denial 🤝 “We’re not doing anything wrong.” / “Then why does it feel like we are?” / “Say it—we’re just friends.”

🧊 COOLER what’s kept hidden → secrets / things unsaid / emotional walls 🧊 “What else are you keeping in there?” / “Stuff you’re not ready for.” / “You don’t have to hide it from me."

✨ anything else i should know? just this: take your time, enjoy the process, and don’t overthink it

this collab is about capturing a feeling. something warm, fleeting, and worth holding onto 🌼

for any more questions/curiosities feel free to send a message my way so we can figure it out! thank you all so much and i can't wait to see what you guys write!

throwing a few tags out there, don't feel pressured into doing anything i just thought i would spread the word and make the blanket big enough for us all ✨

Of all the things that come with dating a superhero, the loneliness is the one you’re least prepared for. You knew it would come — after all, you had chosen to date the Golden Guardian of Good. He was plastered across cereal boxes everywhere, a Spirit Halloween mainstay once he’d been properly introduced to the general public, and carried the hope of many people who had questions after the Avengers had seemingly upped and left to protect and defend other corners of the galaxy, but no amount of knowledge and acceptance could make up for the fact that sometimes you just wanted to be with your boyfriend.

You wanted to settle in for a cosy date night without worrying about an alert going off. You didn’t even mind the spontaneous situations. Civilians taken hostage, or runaway bank robbers, or rogue superpowered individuals. You always knew he’d be back before the night ended in those cases — the perks of being genetically engineered to be stronger than strong.

It was the covert missions that were the problem. The days, weeks, sometimes month-and-a-bit long operations that kept him out of sight and out of your arms. Phone calls were rare, if ever and you never knew what he was doing. Sometimes he’d come back visibly rattled, gaps in his memory that took weeks to fill and the intense guilt that followed after.

You hated these, and almost yearned for the days Bob was still considered too volatile to go on them, but as his control had gotten better, he was being asked to go for more and more of these missions. The cruelest part? Unless the other side had someone with unique abilities, he was always on standby, left to wallow in a room in a safe house in case the team genuinely needed him, but expected to follow all the same rules: stay out of sight, no phones, no leaving without permission. Sometimes he was allowed to call, but it was always short and to the point — they could never risk giving away their location.

The only thing that made it marginally better was knowing he was safe. Actually safe, not safe-because-he’s-strong.

You’re on week three of what’s meant to be a six week stint, and the longing is so bad you’ve buried yourself in Bob’s sheets dressed in nothing but one of his old shirts. His scent has long faded but it feels good to be surrounded by him in some way. Something plays on the TV, an old comedy with poorly aged jokes and a laugh track to match when your phone rings, an unknown number flashing across the screen.

Relief washes through you when you hear Bob’s voice through your earbuds, confident at first then more hesitant when you don’t immediately answer. He can’t see you but you sit up straight anyways, smoothing over the bottom of his shirt while you organise your thoughts. Calls like these were always short; you didn’t have time to waste on fumbling through greetings.

“Hi, I thought I’d be waiting at least another week,” you joke.

“Snuck away. Far away.”

“And what if the team needs you? Or you’re followed?”

And what if Valentina finds out? you want to ask, because you know he doesn’t have permission.

“I miss you. Needed to hear your voice,” he mumbles.

His voice echoes slightly, and you strain, ears trying to pick up any clues as to where he might be.

“Miss you so much. This is so hard,” he complains. You can pick up the faint drumming of his fingers.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been away for this long.”

“It’s the first time I’ve been with someone the entire time,” he whines. “I don’t have a single moment to myself unless I’m in the bathroom. I feel so … supervised.”

“Awww. It’s a bonding opportunity,” you coo, pressing yourself further into his sheets. They’re too fresh to smell like him but you take a deep breath anyways.

“It sucks. I’m sharing a room with Bucky,” he whispers. “Bucky’s the lightest sleeper alive.”

“He was in the Second World War, and you guys should be on high alert,” you laugh.

When you close your eyes you can picture his face as he sighs, brows furrowed in frustration, head tilted back. When your thoughts start wandering to the way this action exposes his neck you, you shake your head trying to bring your thoughts back to the current conversation.

“I know it’s just… I miss you and I can’t stop thinking about you but I’m never alone and I can’t work it out because every time I relax even a little I hear Bucky shifting in his bed and it kills my boner.”

You picture his pout, his pleading blue eyes. You imagine he has the phone clenched tightly in his hands.

“Oh so that’s what this is about. You’re pent up. Poor Bob can’t rub one out.”

“Easy for you to mock me when you can get off whenever you like.”

You snort then, and the line crackles as he waits for you to finish laughing.

“I’m serious. If you’re home you can just get into bed and get yourself off and hey presto you’re done.”

“It’s not that easy,” you pout, thighs pressed together.

“It seems easy enough when I do it.”

You imagine the small smile he’s trying to suppress.

“Exactly. Not the same without you. I almost miss you more when I try.”

“I think you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“No. If I was trying to make you feel better I would’ve told you I’m lying in your bed right now because being at mine feels too lonely.”

“Don’t say that,” he rushes out. “Don’t say that please. It’s not fair.”

You hum, shifting slightly on the bed. Outside you can hear raised voices and car horns.

“Guess I probably shouldn’t tell you I’m wearing that old Buccaneers shirt you tried to hide from me, then?”

The sigh on the other end is enough to make your stomach turn slightly. You can see him now, fist clenched trying to keep his voice level when he speaks to you.

“You probably shouldn’t,” he starts, voice heavy with something you recognise as need. “Any other things you probably shouldn’t tell me?”

You hum a little, dragging out the sound as you listen to his breathing, slow and controlled on the other side.

“I’ve been using your little gift,” you whisper suddenly shy.

There’s a sharp burst of static, then a silence so long you think he’s left.

“Bob, baby, are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. Fuck. Shouldn’t have said that. Not fair I don’t get to see you,” he whines. Can see you on your back all spread out,” he muses.

“Not just on my back. Standing in the shower, on my stomach. If I use a couple pillows and the harness I can ride it too,” you hum. “Been practising for you. Gonna be so good when you get back,” you purr.

Static crackles as he exhales.

“Have you got it with you?”

His voice is tight, stretched thin as he tries to keep up the façade. He’s doing a miserable job.

“You bring it to the Tower with you?”

You hum out a yes, listening to the soft way his breath catches. Wherever he is, you know he’s palming at himself — discreetly, hopefully — because he never quite has the control to hold back when it comes to you, especially when he hasn’t seen you in a long time.

You let your mind stray to the times he’d come after long missions. Sometimes he wouldn’t even text, just show up at your front door with windswept hair and a new mission of his own.

“You still there?” he asks.

“Yeah. D’you say something?”

“Asked you if you have time now… it’s fine if you don’t I can–”

You cut him off.

“I don’t know what time it is where you are, but I have time. So much time,” you assure him, hand already slipping under the hem of his shirt.

“Wanna hear you use it,” he says, static crackling softly when he speaks. “Wanna hear. Been thinking about it since we left,” he mumbles and you know for sure he’s got his pants pushed down to his thighs, cock in hand.

“You have?”

“‘Course I do. All I could think about when I was getting the mold ready,” he sighs. “Does it work? Does it feel like me?”

“Of course it does,” you answer. It’s scary how much like him it feels, down to the veins and the slight curve. If you pretend for long enough, play the voice notes he leaves you when you’re at work and he’s at home, you can almost pretend he’s there with you. Almost.

“Good, that’s what I wanted,” he chuckles nervously. “Hope it doesn’t work too well. Don’t wanna be obsolete,” he jokes.

“God you could never be obsolete,” you sigh, thighs pressed together as you think of all the ways he could never be replaced.

“Really?” he asks.

His voice is still measured but there’s an undercurrent of barely restrained need beneath it all so you agree. You tell him that even with the lovingly crafted custom dildo he’d left you it wasn’t the same as having him there. It didn’t feel as good when you couldn’t feel the warm hum of his skin beneath your palms while you rode him, hard and fast until you couldn’t anymore and he helped you along with his fingers pressed deep into your thighs.

“Fuck, wanna touch you so bad,” he huffs. “Touch you, taste you, all of it.”

“Yeah? That what you’ve been thinking about when you should be sleeping?”

“What else am I supposed to think about? Wish I could see you use it, bet you look so pretty,” he groans. “Wanna kiss you again. I miss kissing you,” he whispers, and you feel something in you shift as your hand rests over your boob and then squeezes. “You’re so soft,” he continues. “Always so soft for me,” he mumbles again. “Sound so cute too,” he chuckles when you sigh at his words, desire already pooling deep in your stomach.

“Wish I could feel your tits,” he complains, “put ‘em in my mouth. Just for a bit,” he adds, attempting restraint.

“Never just a bit,” you sigh as you squeeze at your boob, stomach tightening when you imagine the heat of Bob’s mouth and the scrape of his teeth against your nipple. Your other hand rests between your thighs, fingers pressing down gently as you listen to Bob’s breathing get that little bit faster.

“You touching yourself?” he asks. It’s timid, despite the fact that he started this.

“What am I supposed to do when you’re talking about how soft I am,” you whisper, laughing. “I’ve missed you so much. Feels so good to hear your voice, honey.”

He laughs, and you imagine the shy way his face lights up.

“Are you still wearing the shirt,” he asks.

“Yeah. Want me take it off?”

You stop pawing at yourself but he’s rushing out a hurried no before you can actually move.

“Keep it on. Love you in that shirt,” he explains. “Can you play with your tits for me? Make yourself feel good.”

“You can’t even see me doing it,” you snort, even as your hands move to cup both of them, pinching at your nipples as you sigh softly.

“I can imagine. You always look so good for when you do it for me.”

His voice is low, a quiet confidence simmering beneath his words. “Don’t have to stop myself anymore,” he continues. “I can think about you all soft and easy on my bed. Always so easy.”

Static crackles softly as he speaks and it’s almost like the current is running through you.

You whimper.

You imagine the glow, the quiet power as he holds himself together wherever he is. You squeeze a little harder, almost able to feel Bob on you. The sound of traffic outside softens, his voice bouncing around your head as you groan softly for him.

“Sound so sweet,” he praises. “Even when I’m not there, you sound so sweet for me.”

You let one of your hands slide back down between your thighs, a shiver running through you in expectation.

"I’m so hard, it’s not fair,” he whines. “Know you’d take such good care of me, right?”

Your jaw clenches, and the coil in the pit of your stomach tightens as you think about getting on your knees for him, his cock heavy on your tongue while you take your time.

“Awww baby, of course I would. Wouldn’t even tease, I’d let you get straight to fucking my mouth,” you sigh, fingers pressed to your clit in tight circles. “You want that honey? Wanna make me cry?”

Anything coherent he has to say is lost in a flash of static and garbled sentences and you can already see the gold flashing in his veins, moving beneath his skin in fast intermittent bursts.

“That what you see when you think of me?”

“Yeah. Lots of tears. So pretty when you’re crying… and-and eager too. Let me do what I want,” he chokes out.

The strangled pitch of his voice gives you confidence.

“Bet you’re all leaky right now, huh. All pink, and pretty and sticky for me,” you purr, eyes shut as you picture him, big hand wrapped around the base of his cock. “You taking it nice and slow? You being patient for me?”

You let your fingers drag through your slit, already slick. You know he’s not, that he’s probably squeezing frantically, hips bucking into his fist. He doesn’t answer you, just panting into the receiver.

“Bob, honey. You taking it nice and slow? You waiting for me?”

“Trying. You’re not making it easy.”

You preen, back arching off the bed slightly. The fingers on your clit speed up, slit growing slicker as you imagine him frantic and needy.

“If you can’t control yourself now how are you gonna handle it when I’m all full of you, huh? This isn’t even the main event.”

There’s another burst of static, a couple of faint clunking sounds and then a short silence.

“Bob?”

“I’m here. Lost it for a bit but I’m here, fuck.”

You tease around your entrance, prodding as he catches his breath.

“I’m so wet for you, honey I wish you were here,” you whine, sliding your fingers through your arousal.

“Yeah. Wanna taste you so badly. It’s been so long I’ve practically forgotten,” he sighs. “Wanna eat until you’re begging me to stop, nice and slow. Can you get a finger in for me?”

You don’t hesitate, sighing in relief when your finger sinks into you nice and easy.

“Not the same when it’s not you,” you pout.

“I know, baby I know. But it’s just for a bit, get you nice and open yeah?”

You pulse around your finger.

You slide another in uninstructed, impatient as you listen to Bob’s barely controlled breathing on the other side.

“Fuck, I can hear it,” he groans out. “How wet you are. Just from my voice, huh.”

His admission only makes your want grow stronger as increase the tempo, grinding up into the heel of your palm.

Your breathing grows frantic and whiney as he instructs you to press harder, stretch yourself open on your fingers for him. Your back arches off the mattress as you try your best to reach that peak. The hem of his shirt brushes against your wrist almost distractingly, but you won’t take it off knowing that that’s how he’s picturing you.

“Can you get it?” he asks.

“Hmmm?”

“The dildo. Wanna hear you fuck yourself on it for me. Bet I’ll slide right in like I always do.”

“Cocky.”

“Know you so well now. She always opens up for me doesn’t she?”

You sigh out an agreement as you scan the room for your makeshift dildo dock. It was an invention of laziness that had proved to be your best idea yet. It’s on the floor nearby, almost calling for you to pick it up.

You listen, stretching out so you can heave it into bed, your knees pressed firmly into the mattress on either side.

Despite Bob’s urging you take your time, spreading lube over it as you listen to him on the other end.

“I don’t have much more time,” he reminds you.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” you say as you finally sink down onto it.

You don’t need to say anything, because the moment he hears your breath catch he’s praising you, encouraging you so earnestly you can almost conjure up the feeling of his hands on your hips as he guides you down, down, down until all of him is snug inside you.

“So full, Bob,” you whine as you rock your hips gently, your hands pressed forward into the mattress beneath you. It takes you a while to find a rhythm that makes sense, but you’re settled in soon enough, your stomach coiling in pleasure.

You close your eyes so you can focus on Bob’s voice, on the way he says your name through gritted teeth and hissed profanities.

It’s not the same. It’s never the same, but with Bob on the phone, when you close your eyes you can almost pretend he’s right there, can almost feel the heavy, desperate press of his fingers as he squeezes your thighs in an attempt to retain control. When he whimpers on the other end, it’s like you can feel the humming beneath his skin, the warmth that pulses through him while you grind down into him.

“Let me hear you baby, please,” you plead when he whimpers too low for you to hear.

“Gotta be quiet,” he mumbles.

“Can’t get there without you. Please don’t make me beg,” you plead, rocking your hips against the pillow as the toy presses into you. Your knees press uncomfortably into the mattress, and the steady creaking of his bed beneath spurs you on and you know, deep in your gut that all you want is to hear him properly.

He complies, voice clearer over the line and you feel a flash of heat travel through you.

You can feel the sweat beginning to bead on your temple, and the small spasms in your thigh.

“Wish you were here,” you whine out as you chase your high.

“Tired?”

Your stomach tightens again at just how well he knows you, and you just hum.

“Wish you could help,” you say and you hear him gasp, the static between you growing louder when you shift your hips just right and you can’t help but let out a desperate whine.

“Me too. Wanna see your face. I miss seeing your face,” he chokes out, the static building steadily over the line.

“We’ll see each other soon. Can look at me as much as you want then,” you coo. Every press of your clit on the pillow pulls you closer to the edge and you’re trying to drag this moment out, hold on to the way the static builds as Bob whimpers pathetically.

“Bob, honey are you there? You’re breaking up,” you ask desperately, ears straining for the sound of his voice.

It’s not long before the static subsides.

“Yeah, I’m here, sorry. You close?”

“So close. Just need a little more,” you plead.

He delivers immediately, groaning his encouragement.

“Let go for me. I need to hear it,” he pleads.

You don’t deny him, twitching and fluttering as you ride through it, voice broken as you call for him.

He lets off a chorus of “I’m right here”s that are soon drowned out by the returning static.

There’s a pause, a choked ‘I love you’ that’s somehow clear as day over the harsh burst of static.

As the static subsides, all you hear is Bob’s heavy breathing and when you close your eyes again you can almost feel him sprawled out beneath you, his lips soft as he kisses the top of your head.

And then the spell is broken by an automated voice.

“To continue your call please deposit more money.”

You hear Bob swear under his breath, and he must follow instructions because the call doesn’t disconnect.

“Are you in a payphone?” you laugh.

“Yeah, I was looking for some place private and saw it, thought I’d give it a try.”

“Didn’t know those still worked.”

“Me neither. Guess I got lucky.”

“Very lucky.”

After a longer than usual pause you add: “I guess we shouldn’t push that luck, huh?”

Your stomach’s already sinking at the thought of getting off the phone, of having to go another stretch of time without hearing him.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon, I promise.”

“I’m gonna miss you more now,” you complain.

“Me too. Shouldn’t have called, I made it worse.”

“It was nice to hear you Bob, even just for a little bit. Come home in one piece for me.”

“Of course, I always do.”

“And no more jerking off in payphones,” you add before he can hang up.

“No promises there.”