The party is mostly over by the time Bucky finds you. You're curled into the corner of the couch, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, clutching a cup of water like it's precious cargo.

"There you are," he says, crouching beside you.

Your face immediately brightens.

"Bucky!"

"That's me."

You stare at him for a long moment, then point at him with complete seriousness.

"I have a request."

His mouth twitches.

"Do you now?"

You nod, a sultry smile on your lips. "Can I have a kiss?"

For a second, Bucky just looks at you, not missing the hook line you were trying to set. Then he gently takes the water from your hand before you spill it on yourself.

"Not tonight, sweetheart."

Your face falls.

"Oh."

The disappointment is so dramatic that he nearly laughs.

"But," he says, lifting a finger, "I can offer an alternative."

You squint suspiciously.

"What alternative?"

Bucky leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.

"There."

Before you can protest, he kisses the top of your head.

"And there."

You blink.

"That was two."

"Sure was."

"I asked for one."

"Figured I'd throw in a bonus."

A sleepy smile spreads across your face.

"I'm so lucky. You always give me extras."

His expression softens. Yeah, he does. Because it's you, because every day he gets to spend with you feels like something he never expected to have. You yawn and tip sideways until your head lands against his shoulder.

Bucky wraps an arm around you to keep you steady.

"Comfy?" he asks.

"Mhm."

Outside, the last of the guests are leaving while inside everything feels warm and quiet. You mumble something sleepy and slurred into his shirt.

"What was that?"

Your eyes are already drifting shut.

"No," you murmur, smiling, "I couldn't ask for another."

He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.

Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.

Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.

Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.

Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.

Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.

But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.

"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.

You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.

His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.

Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.

When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.

"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.

You respond by doing it again.

"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."

His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.

Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.

Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.

All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?

You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.

"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."

If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.

Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.

When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.

"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."

"N—!"

Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."

When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.

"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."

"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.

Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.

She doesn't hear you. Of course.

"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"

"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"

Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—

"What the fuck?"

"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"

"I am freaking."

"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't even pitch it to you."

"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."

Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.

But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."

"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.

"I didn't think I needed to?"

Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.

Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?

"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."

You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.

"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.

Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.

"It could be fun."

"Are you kidding?"

"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."

"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."

This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.

"Haven't pushed me away yet."

Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.

So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.

"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"

Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"

Deadpan stare.

He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"

Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.

"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"

"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."

The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.

Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.

You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.

He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him chatting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other girl who looks him up and down on the street to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?

Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.

"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"

It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.

And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."

You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.

But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.

So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.

"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.

Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.

"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."

He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."

You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.

Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.

"I want Alpine."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."

"You just said whatever I wanted."

His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."

Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."

"Gotta practice somehow."

"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.

Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"

You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.

"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.

But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.

"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."

God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.

Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.

Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.

"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."

You quirk a brow.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."

For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.

The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.

You sigh deeply.

"Three," you counter-argue.

"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."

You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."

He still hasn't let go of your wrist.

"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.

And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—

"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.

As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.

"You didn't hear?" Bucky says amusedly. "We're dating."

You should've said no.

Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.

Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.

When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.

The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.

Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.

The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.

But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.

Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.

(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)

Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.

"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"

Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.

Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.

"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."

She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."

You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.

"Oh, did he?"

Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.

"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."

He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.

"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.

You shove that assumption way, way, way down.

Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."

Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"

You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.

His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."

If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.

"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?

Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.

"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”

Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.

The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.

The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.

"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."

Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.

Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?

But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.

"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.

Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)

"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."

You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"

Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.

"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."

Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.

His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.

You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?

Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.

When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.

"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.

And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.

Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.

Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.

Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.

And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.

You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?

Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.

"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"

Bucky's lips twitch just barely.

"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."

"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."

You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"

"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"

Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.

"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."

"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.

(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)

He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."

"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"

"There you are!"

An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.

Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—

"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."

Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.

"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."

You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.

Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.

"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.

Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."

"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.

Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.

"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.

Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.

Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).

"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.

Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.

After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.

No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.

A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.

"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."

He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.

But you're an adult. At least you try to be.

So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."

His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.

Then, Bucky does something you never expect.

The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.

He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—

Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.

You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.

You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."

"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."

Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.

You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?

"Pardon?" You ask calmly.

Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.

"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."

Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.

Doesn't seem like it, though.

But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.

"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."

The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.

"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.

"You think that's you?"

Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.

She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."

Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."

The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.

"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."

Your brow quirks.

"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.

Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.

Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.

"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."

Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.

Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.

Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.

"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"

Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.

He bites cautiously. "You alright?"

You quirk a brow. "Peachy."

Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.

"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"

"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."

His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.

"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"

Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."

God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.

No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.

His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.

"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."

Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.

Bucky rides that high all night.

Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.

"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."

You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.

His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.

"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.

God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.

Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.

"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."

The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.

But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.

Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.

“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”

Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.

He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.

But why’d Margaret say again?

You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?

You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.

But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.

All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.

But you do.

Fuck. You notice.

And your heart just… breaks.

How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?

Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.

“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”

Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.

Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”

She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.

But it only breaks the dam.

God damn it.

“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”

Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.

But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?

You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.

Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.

"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.

Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.

“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”

The stammering is immediate.

“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“

“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”

And Bucky?

His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.

"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."

Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"

You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.

Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.

"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"

He takes a beat. Registering your words.

Then, he nods. "Read my mind."

You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.

"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.

Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.

It's... achingly comfortable.

God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.

The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.

"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."

You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."

He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.

"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."

"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."

His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."

"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."

"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."

"Bucky."

"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."

"Do you ever think before you speak?"

"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.

You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.

But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.

...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.

When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.

"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"

The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.

But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."

When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.

This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.

...And Bucky fucking freezes.

Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.

He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?

The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.

It makes you stifle a grin.

"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"

You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.

Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.

"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"

You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.

You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.

His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.

There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?

And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.

Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"

"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.

"Debatable."

"Is it?"

"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."

"For show," you add pointedly.

Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."

"That's presumptuous."

"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.

God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."

Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.

Your brows pinch slightly.

"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."

It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"

His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."

"Do I?"

"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."

...You do.

You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?

You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.

You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?

"You're thinking about it."

Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.

"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.

He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"

"Bucky."

"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"

"You're insufferable."

His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"

Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."

"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."

"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."

"Hot."

"Bucky."

"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."

You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?

Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.

Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—

God, you can't even say it. Falling for—

"Bucky!"

The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?

"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"

Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."

"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."

While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.

And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.

When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.

Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.

The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.

Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.

Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.

It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.

Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.

But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.

Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.

"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."

A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.

Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.

A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.

You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.

"I wanna swim."

Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"

Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."

His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).

But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.

A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"

Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.

"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.

Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.

"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."

His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.

After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.

You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.

The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.

However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.

"Agh—"

You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.

Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.

"You're evil for that."

You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."

Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.

"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.

Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"

His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"

"I'd say so."

"Yeah. For you."

"What would you consider it?"

He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."

“Oh?”

“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”

"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."

Then you kiss him.

And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.

Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.

"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."

"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.

"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."

Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.

"I can't?"

"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."

You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.

Now it’s your turn to curse.

“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”

Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man. (A man who has been practically celibate the past year when he realized this feeling towards you was going nowhere, but nonetheless just a man.)

“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.

You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.

“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”

“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”

“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“

“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”

You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”

Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.

“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.

That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.

How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.

It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.

“Argh— What the fuck!”

Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.

“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”

You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.

“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”

Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.

His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”

You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”

“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”

His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.

"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"

"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."

"Bucky."

"It's worse than I thought."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Just like any other day."

When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.

As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.

"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."

Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.

Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.

Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.

"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.

He hums low. "Am I?"

"Clearly."

"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"

God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Never with you."

He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).

Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—

...To where you're not alone.

You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.

Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.

"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."

Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."

His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.

All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.

The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"

Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."

"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."

"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"

A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.

But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.

"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."

Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.

"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."

Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.

But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.

Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.

His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"

"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"

"That's not—"

Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.

"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."

You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.

But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.

"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."

Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.

When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.

"You wanna shower?"

Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.

He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."

You frown.

...No. That's not what you're thinking.

You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.

But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.

So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.

Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.

Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.

The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.

"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"

"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."

"...So, no?"

Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."

You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.

His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."

You blink stupidly.

"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."

Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.

God, why isn't he saying anything?

You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."

Bucky's still quiet for a moment.

Then, "Will you c'mere?"

At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.

You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.

And you just... hug him.

Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.

The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.

You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.

The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."

"Okay."

"I think you're more upset about it than I am."

You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."

Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."

"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.

All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.

It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.

You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.

"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."

His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.

You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.

"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."

Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.

Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.

"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.

Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."

"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"

With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."

Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.

(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)

He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."

"Bucky."

He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.

You ask anyway. "What happened?"

"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."

Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.

"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."

The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"

"Easy." A playful warning.

"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."

He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."

The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.

You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.

Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.

"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."

"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."

Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.

"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”

But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.

The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.

You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Yup.” Prick.

“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”

“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”

You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”

The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”

His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.

“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Bucky.”

He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.

You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.

But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.

“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.

Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”

With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.

Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.

It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.

You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”

Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”

His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.

“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.

Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.

You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.

Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.

This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.

When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.

“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”

Your face flushes. “Bucky.”

Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.

He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”

“Shut up.”

Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.

“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”

You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“

You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.

And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—

Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.

A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.

He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.

The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.

“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“

A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.

Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.

The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.

You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.

It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.

“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”

“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.

You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”

“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”

“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”

His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.

“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“

Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—

You gasp.

Brushing over the prominent wet spot.

The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.

He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.

So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.

“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.

Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.

You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).

“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.

Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.

“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.

You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.

God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.

Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”

You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”

You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.

The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)

“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”

Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.

“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”

“Gonna come from just the tip?”

“Shit. Maybe.”

You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.

Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.

“Breathe,” he muses gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.

His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”

You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”

“Do you want me to come immediately?”

His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, drunk with pleasure.

But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”

You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”

So you do.

Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.

You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.

It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.

“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”

“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”

The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”

God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?

“You—You’re not.”

“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”

Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“

“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”

Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.

A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“

“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”

Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.

But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.

“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.

You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.

“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”

That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.

“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking—“

You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.

You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.

Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.

His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.

“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.

You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.

Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.

“Thank you.”

Did he just—

Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”

“For sleeping with you?”

“No. For letting me sleep with you.”

You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—

“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).

Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.

But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.

All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”

“I’m literally inside you right now.”

You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”

Bucky hums, biding you to continue.

Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.

“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”

“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”

You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

You freeze. “Huh?”

His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”

Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.

“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”

Your left cheek.

“How come I live to rile you up?”

Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.

His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?

Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?

“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”

“Took you long enough.”

Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”

Bucky snorts. “As of a year ago, more like.”

“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. A year— Okay.”

“Take your time.”

“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”

Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.

“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”

His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.

All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.

It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.

Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.

At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”

Your heart skips. “I think I…”

The words escape you.

Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Obviously.”

You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.

“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”

Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”

It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.

Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. He kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.

You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.

“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”

“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.

His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”

Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.

“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”

A pause.

Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”

You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.

And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.

And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.

Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.

“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”

“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”

"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.

Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.

And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

soft!dom!bucky who figured the next gift he'd give you would be something a little smaller. he doesn't want to overwhelm you, or make you think you're not capable by accepting his help. so, he figured a bouquet (that cost way more than bucky will ever tell you) and takeout from your favorite restaurant would be a good start, dropping them by your apartment after your shift from hell. actually, he thinks it's the bare minimum in a relationship, but he can tell you're not used to receiving things just for the hell of it, and he wants you to get used to it. so. starting small is necessary. you were still a little hesitant to take the flowers, but bucky could see the way your eyes lit up at the beautiful arrangement, the way you stumbled through expressing your gratitude as though you were trying not to show how touched you were at the gesture.

soft!dom!bucky who makes it a point to buy you a new bouquet every sunday. it's always a different arrangement with vibrant colors and calming scents, and always comes with a little note, each one different than the last. to my princess, just for being you, or you deserve things as beautiful as you are, or you've made me the happiest man alive. and all of the notes end with from, your daddy<3. and bucky absolutely preens when he steps into your apartment one day and finds himself in your bedroom, only to see the cork board on one of your walls with all of his notes pinned to it.

soft!dom!bucky who always pays when you go out to eat. and, this is pretty normal with all of the dates you've been on with any of your past partners, but it's the location of the dates that gets you. the restaurants get more and more expensive as time goes on, and you have to fight not to gawk at the prices of the entree's alone. the first time you went to a higher-end restaurant, you started with a single glass of wine and scoured the menu for any dish that cost less than fifty dollars, only to find none. bucky saw your deliberation, and he caught on quickly as to why you seemed stressed, causing him to place down his own menu and reach over the table to grab your hand and tell you to order whatever you want, princess. you like steak, right? let's get that. when you quietly fought him on it (the steak was fucking 65 dollars??), bucky insisted that he doesn't care about the price. he wants to treat his princess to a nice evening and this place has the best food in town.

soft!dom!bucky who refuses to call maintenance or talk to the landlord about any issues his place has. he's pretty handy and can fix most broken things on his own, so he always opts to work on a project himself. this also applies to you. the hinges on your cupboards are loose? baby, why are you calling maintenance when you know I have a toolbox? ac went out again? princess, hang up the phone and show me where it is. the first time he fixed something for you, you offered to pay him for the 'inconvenience', to which bucky looked absolutely offended, claiming that helping you isn't an inconvenience, princess, I'm your boyfriend, of course I'm going to help you.

soft!dom!bucky who always offers to drive you anywhere you need to go. he doesn't trust public transportation and he has a perfectly good vehicle, so why would he let you take the bus? especially since he knows you'll be safe, away from prying eyes and people sitting uncomfortably close to you. you tried offering him gas money a few times, but he always turns it down immediately with princess, it's only a 10 minute drive, I'm not losing that much gas, or driving you places isn't a chore, I just love spending time with you.

soft!dom!bucky who eventually starts ramping up the generosity. as time goes on, you're less hesitant to accept his smaller gifts and gestures, which bucky absolutely loves. it feels like serotonin is being pumped directly into his veins when you stop appearing guilty every time you take his gifts or let him buy your groceries for the week. it also helps that you give him a kiss afterward, a little thank you for treating me even though I don't really believe I deserve it.

soft!dom!bucky who nearly gets an instant erection the first time you ask for something. granted, it's just a blanket from your local farmer's market, but still. you're asking for something! he pauses for just a second too long, relishing in the fact that you're taking that step, but you interpret his silence as rejection, so your smile immediately falls. you start assuring him that it's okay, I'll just buy it! it's fine, I just thought - interrupted by him taking out his wallet and shoving too much money into the stall-owner's hands as he says you absolutely will not be buying it, I've got it. and he has to recite his grandma's old apple pie recipe to will away his hard on any time you look up at him with those doe eyes and timidly ask for the painting hanging in one of the stalls or a new cup of coffee after you've finished the one he bought you when you first arrived. he does, but insists you drink water to offset the jitters he knows you'll get if you don't hydrate.

soft!dom!bucky who swears nothing will ever compare to the feeling he gets when you send him a link to an apparel website with a screenshot of the new blouse you've been eyeing but have been hesitant to purchase because of the price. you offer to pay for shipping, but bucky ignores that text and simply sends you a screenshot of the confirmation email he received and lets you know that it'll be at yours in a few days. he loves that you're coming around to letting him treat you, that you've stopped apologizing for needing or wanting anything from him. he'll spoil you rotten any day of the week, and he's so happy that you're starting to love it too.

He was at his desk, feet kicked up, grading with a red pen and eating your pretzels. The special buffalo kind. The ones you had labeled with a clear ‘DO NOT TOUCH. I’M TALKING TO YOU, BARNES’ written in the juiciest Sharpie you could find.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Watermelon. Banana. Licorice. Limited edition root beer.”

He looked up. “Are you trying to cast a spell on me?”

“My Mr. Sketch scented markers, ” you snapped. “They’re gone. And I know it was you.”

He clicked his pen. Slowly. “Have you considered the possibility that the marker fairy took them because you didn’t believe hard enough?”

You rolled your eyes and walked over, snatching your pretzel bag from his desk. All that was left were crumbs. You glared.

“Delicious, by the way.” He licked his fingers obnoxiously.

“Jerk.” You stalked over to the supply cabinet behind his desk and yanked it open.

Bucky swiveled his chair dramatically, spinning to face you. “Excuse me, I believe this is an invasion of private property.”

You didn’t turn around. “You raid my lunchbox on the daily. Don’t start with me.”

Bucky scoffed. “God forbid a man gets hungry.”

“The lounge has snacks. Refilled. Weekly.”

“I know.” He smiled cheekily. “I just like your snacks.”

You groaned. “Go to hell.”

Bucky feigned a gasp. “Don’t you mean H-E- double hockey sticks?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I mean hell.”

“Does this constitute a case of workplace harassment?” he mused. “Because I’ll have you know the law does not take lightly to…”

He trailed off mid-sentence.

You smirked, rifling around the top shelf while balancing on your tiptoes. “Impressive. Didn’t know you knew how to shut up.”

No response.

You paused, turning your head slightly. “What, cat got your—”

Then you saw his face. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Horrified.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Above you. Inches from your head.

Hulking. Legs too long. Too many joints. One of God's mistakes.

A spider. The size of a softball.

It moved.

Bucky’s scream was so loud that it made you feel better about yours.

You flung yourself backward, nearly knocking over a beanbag. “KILL IT!”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” he shrieked, scrambling out of his chair.

“It’s your classroom!”

“You touched the cabinet, it’s your problem now!” Bucky hid behind his lunchbox.

“Are you kidding me?!”

“I am not built for combat!”

“JUST KILL IT.”

He grabbed a whiteboard eraser and held it like a weapon. “You kill it.”

“You're taller!”

“You’re scarier!”

You pointed at him with shaking hands. “This is karma. For taking my pudding cup. And vandalizing my bulletin board. And stealing my parking spot. ”

“That was one time!”

“You took the staff of the month space!”

He made a strangled noise not dissimilar to a dying goose and pointed behind you. “It’s moving. ”

You turned.

It was.

You screamed again.

You both ran behind his desk, and he clung onto you, knuckles white and nails digging into your arm.

“Do something!” you hissed.

“You do something!” he shoved a glitter glue stick at you. “Use this!”

“I swear to God, Barnes-”

“It’s getting closer!”

“It’s not even moving!”

“I’m calling in air support.”

“You don’t have air support.”

“I have Steve from P.E. on speed dial.”

Yet, his fingers remained locked onto your cardigan.

You stared at the spider.

The spider stared back.

“Okay. Rock-paper-scissors for who kills it,” Bucky whispered.

You turned slowly. “We’re seriously going to-”

He was already holding up his fist.

You sighed. “Fine.”

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

You both picked scissors.

“Again.”

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

Scissors again.

“Again.”

Scissors.

You groaned. “We’re going to die in here.”

Bucky dropped his fist, pushing a half-empty Pringles can toward you.

“Use this.”

You blinked. “Why me? ”

“Because you’re the one who got this thing angry.”

“Oh my God.”

“Does that mean you’ll kill it?”

You cursed him out through gritted teeth, snatched the Pringles can, and launched it like a grenade. It bounced off the shelf. The spider didn’t even blink.

“Jesus, that was a terrible throw!” Bucky shrieked, ducking behind his chair again.

“You wanna try, Mr. Roger Clemens?”

“No!”

“Then shut up!”

With a sudden burst of energy, you grabbed Making Math Fun: Kindergarten Edition and smashed the disgusting creature. Once. Twice. 

It crunched.

You gagged.

Bucky made the sign of a cross.

You shoved the dead spider textbook into his arms, and he almost dropped it. 

“I inhaled,” he said, utterly horrified. “I breathed it in.”

“I hate you.”

He reached into his desk drawer and handed you your marker pouch solemnly. “For your bravery.”

“You owe me three pudding cups for doing this.”

“Two.”

“Wanna make it four?”

“Fine. Three. But I’m keeping the cheese stick.”

You didn’t even know he took your cheese stick.

You glared. He grinned.

God, he drove you insane.

Inside, Professor Barnes, who has the reputation for being the toughest grader in the department and object of half the campus’ unrequited crushes, looks up from his desk, one brow arched, red pen hovering whatever he had been grading, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

You recognize it immediately, the slightly judgemental expression of someone who was not expecting to have his work interrupted with even as much as a knock; but the moment he notices the expression on your face, your hands still shaking with adrenaline, his own shifts from professional uptightness to something much softer. A soft look you’ve come to know, too, after the two of you began a secret relationship a little over four months ago.

“Sorry,” you say, already stumbling through words. “Sorry, I know I didn’t knock, I just—"

 “Come in. Lock the door.” His voice drops, shifting from Professor Barnes to your James in the space of a few words.

You do just that. Then you stand there, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, hands twisting the strap.

“I’m freaking out about the European History exam,” you start. Professor Barnes shows no signs of being bothered by you immediately firing information his way.

“Sit down first.”

“I can’t sit down, James. I’ve been sitting for the past four hours, trying to—" You drop your bag onto the floor and start pacing the narrow strip of space between his bookshelf and the leather couch pushed against the wall. “I completely bombed it, okay? I know I did. Question three asked about the socioeconomic impacts of the Treaty of Tordesillas. I wrote about trade routes, James. Why did I write about trade routes? That wasn’t the prompt. And then I couldn’t remember some exact years, so I guessed, and I’m pretty sure I guessed about two decades off. If I fail this exam—”

“Please, sit—”

“—my GPA drops, and if my GPA drops, I lose my seminar slot for next semester, and then my entire track is ruined, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box—”

“Love.”

You stop, the way you always stop when he calls you that, like your mind still hasn’t quite learned to process that this man, older, more experienced, with a salt and pepper beard that makes your knees weak, would want to call you love.

James is leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed with muscles straining slightly against the shirt, and watching you with a particular patient expression, despite your serpentining conversation.

“The exam is done. You're spiralling," he tells you, and the second after he is getting up from his chair and stepping into your pacing path. A hand reaches for your wrist and makes you stop in front of him. “Breathe for me?”

“I’m not breathing, I can’t breathe, I have three more finals this week and I feel like my skull is gonna fracture from the pressure,” you whine, but are already leaning into his touch, seeking the warmth of him through your most stressful moments. He lets out a sympathetic sigh, fingers curling firmer around your wrist and pulls you fully to him before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” And he’s not wrong. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. Because there is nothing you can do about it now, and that’s somehow better, but also considerably worse. James tips your chin up with two fingers, ocean blue eyes meeting yours from behind his glasses.

“You have barely slept or eaten properly for the past week. I don’t like it. The way you chastise yourself whenever something goes wrong.” His thumb traces your jaw, and some of the tight coil in your chest loosens very much against your will. “Take a seat.” 

“James, I don’t need to—"

“I’m not asking,” he says gently, which makes it incredibly more effective than if he had said it any other way, then nods towards the leather couch. “Sit. You’ve been white-knuckling it for days, give yourself ten minutes.”

You consider it. Not because you want to sit down, not because the exam is finally slipping away from your mind, but because James has shifted into that version of him he only ever lets out when he’s near you, with you, the one that breaks down all your defenses and leaves you bare, although not unsafe. You always feel safe with him.

Slowly, you agree and take a seat on the couch, back slumping against the cushions. Your body recognizes it as home almost immediately, letting the familiarity seep into your bones and making you relax.

James crouches down in front of you and rubs one hand over your right knee.

"Still thinking about it?" he asks.

"...A little."

You sink deeper into the worn leather of the couch, the tension in your shoulders only kind of melting under the weight of his gaze. James remains crouched between your knees for a long moment, large hands taking residence on your thighs, now, thumbs stroking soothing circles through the fabric of your jeans.

“You know I’ve always got you, right? Prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Smartest, too,” he murmurs, voice wrapped in velvet. That does it quickly, for you, and you know he knows it. He showers you in praise every time, because every time your body opens to him like a flower blooming in the sunlight.

Before you can overthink it, you simply nod. There’s a brief moment where you’re sure he whispers something like ‘let me take care of you’, and you do, you let him, the permission being the way your legs gently pry open right in front of him. A shaky exhale, head falling back against the couch. All the agreement he needs.

His long fingers travel upward and make easy work of the button of your pants before peeling them down your legs slowly. James pulls your boots off, then the pants along with them, and he leans forward, mouth pressing a kiss to your left knee. Upward, to the skin of your thigh, a bit to the side, to the inside of your leg. Three days' worth of stubble prickles against you as he moves, and you make a noise, something he sees quickly as desperation, and you know the complaint is futile. When has Professor Barnes ever given you anything quicker than the exact pace he wanted to?

“Relax,” he says against your thigh, then presses his lips to the skin again, an open-mouthed kiss before he bites down so gently you are barely even able to call it a bite. “Didn’t I just say I’ve got you?”

Large hands slide from your thighs to wrap firmly around the backs of your legs, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to tug you forward on the couch, sliding your ass closer to the edge so you’re perfectly positioned for him. That’s when you open your eyes again, just in time to watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slowly, dragging the fabric along your thighs and off your ankles. And he does it all with his eyes on yours, two blue pits making you feel dizzy, but you still don’t look away. You couldn’t if you tried.

Cool air hits your now exposed pussy, making you shiver. James lets out a quiet hum of approval at the sight of you, already glistening with arousal.

“She’s always so beautiful,” a reverent whisper before his large hands wrap around your legs again and lift effortlessly to drape them over his broad shoulders, heels of your feet resting against his back. The new angle tilts your hips up towards his mouth, spreading you open for him completely, and before you can even catch your breath, or take a moment to push down the flush on your skin growing from the vulnerable way you are exposed to him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A breathy moan tears from your throat, echoing in the quiet office like a confession, and it unravels the last threads of your anxiety as pleasure rises in its place. Then James does it again, a little slower, savoring the taste of you, messy and unhurried, spit mixing with your arousal until your folds are slick and shining. On his knees in front of you, this brilliant man, esteemed professor, becomes nothing more than a servant doing worship at the altar of his Goddess. His broad shoulders carry your legs like an honor he would gladly take forever, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses closer.

He’s incredible at this; you’ve known it from the first time he fell to his knees, right here, in this office, always reading every twitch, every gasp, mouth moving with exquisite skill. Slow and indulgent at first, mostly for himself, drowning in the taste of your slick, before giving way to teasing flicks of the tip of his tongue around your swollen clit only to dip lower again, lapping messily at your entrance where your arousal flows for him.

Wetness coats his silver-streaked beard, glistening on his chin as he buries his face deeper between your thighs. The obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your fill the room, wet slurping and sucking noises, a slick glide of his tongue, an occasional hungry groan into your cunt that sends sparks flying up your spine, all of it the actions of a man who could be on his knees for hours.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as your thighs tremble around his head. “James…”

No words come out of his mouth then, none you can understand, anyway; instead, the response comes in the way he sucks your clit between his lips, wet suction making your hips jerk, before he releases it with a lewd pop. One hand claws at your thigh, keeping your legs right in their place, while two thick fingers slide into your welcoming heat, curling against the spongy spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. James pumps them slowly, in time with the dance of his tongue over your clit.

Exam long forgotten, the world narrows to nothing but him, the way his blue eyes will sometimes flick up to watch you through fogged glasses, dark with lust and adoration. Only when he needs to take a moment to breathe, a quick one, enough to allow him to keep going for as long as you need him to, does he speak again.

“Goddess,” he whispers teasingly, slowing his fingers as if to get your attention. Your head tilts forward and you watch him through hooded eyes. “Will you cum for your most loyal subject?”

You huff in soft frustration, the sound breaking into another shaky moan as your body refuses to cooperate with your irritation. Because the edge is so close, molten in your belly, and here he is, being a wicked scholar and working you through comedic words.

“James, don’t… fuck, I’m so close, don’t play with me right now…” you manage, trying to reprimand him. But even as you say it, your cunt betrays you completely, clenching hard around his fingers, fluttering and squeezing with need and pulling them deeper as slick coats his hand.

Your favorite Professor gleams with amusement, lips curled into a devastating half-smirk, swollen and shiny. “You like it when I’m funny. You’ve told me before.”

You want to protest, but he curls his fingers again, strokes the perfect spot and dips his head again, sucking your swollen bud with perfect pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly in a rhythm that makes your vision spark white. For a second, he slips his fingers out and instead fucks you with his tongue, thrusting it inside you, before dragging it back up to torture your clit again while his fingers move back to their rightful place. His free hand grips your thigh harder, holding you open for him as you start to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.

The combination is merciless. Frustration melts instantly into overwhelming pleasure, and another broken moan rips from your throat as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, heels digging into his back. Every stroke, every suck makes the coil in your belly tighten, pulling you deeper into a sea of sensation where exams and fears cannot reach. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin with every movement of his head, and arousal drips down his chin onto the leather couch, but he only presses closer, as if he would gladly drown in you.

And just like that, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, sudden and blinding. You cry out sharply, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through every nerve in your body. James moans against your pussy like a man receiving divine absolution, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, gushing against his mouth. And he drinks down every drop of you until your trembling begins to quiet down, slowly easing his movements before pressing a couple of tender, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive pussy and to your inner thighs.

Still, he keeps your legs draped over his shoulders a moment longer, gazing at you through glasses that look slightly uneven with the most loving expression you have ever seen on a man. Breathless and floating, you manage to meet his eyes, and you smile at the sight of your brilliant professor on his knees, face glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.

“You’re trouble,” you whisper, though the words carry no real heat in them. James is busy kissing down your legs, lips reaching softly to every inch of skin, but he smiles in the midst of it.

“Trouble?” he repeats, feigning offense. “My goddess calls me trouble after I’ve knelt here and offered proper tribute? How cruel.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a soft gasp when he nips gently at the crease of your thigh.

“You do know I love you, right? Even when you’re being silly while going down on me.”

That makes him smile wider. “I reckon you love me especially when I’m being silly while going down on you.”

And he’s not wrong at all.

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On the other hand, Bucky had been up for hours already—you could hear it faintly through the open door. The clink of dishes, the quiet hum of movement in the kitchen. He was cleaning up. Your chores. The ones you’d planned to handle yourself.

But every time you even thought about getting up, your stomach would twist again, keeping you pinned right where you were.

The guilt settled heavy in your chest.

You hated that he was doing your chores. Hated that he’d probably noticed you hadn’t come out yet. But more than that—you didn’t want to bother him. Not with this. Not with something that felt so humiliating to say out loud.

So you stayed quiet.

Even as the hours dragged on.

Even as it got way past noon.

Because as awful as the pain was, it still felt easier to lie there and deal with it alone than to actually say it.

As time passes, your body curls in on itself, hand pressing into your lower stomach like you can hold it still, like you can stop it from tightening any further.

“Mm—” your voice breaks, barely making it out.

You try to breathe through it.

But it’s too much for you to handle. A quiet, broken sound leaves you, your face pressing harder into the pillow as tears finally spill over. You try to be quiet about it. You didn’t want him to hear you, nonetheless see you like this—curled up, crying over something you should be able to handle. 

You were so caught up in the pain and the way it kept building that everything else blurred out. Your thoughts spiraled, one into the next, until it was all you could focus on.

It consumed you, so much so that you didn’t even hear him approaching.

He’d come in every now and then to see if you were up and moving, yet this time he had paused in the doorway, watching for a moment, like he was waiting to see if you were going to say something. When you didn’t, he let out a quiet breath and started to walk slowly towards you, not wanting to wake you if you were still asleep.

But as he walked closer, he could hear you sniffling and moaning. 

As soon as you felt the mattress dip beside you, you immediately turned away—like if he couldn’t see you, maybe he’d leave you alone. But he knew you were stubborn sometimes. 

He doesn’t say anything at first.

There’s just a quiet pause as he looks at you, like he’s putting the pieces together—your back was turned away from him, the uneven way you’re breathing, the way you’re trying a little too hard to stay still.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a second. One hand comes up, hesitating for just a moment before settling lightly against your arm—not forcing, not pulling, just there. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“…Nothing,” you managed to mumble, blurting out the first word that came to mind.

There’s a quiet huff from him. “Right,” he mutters. “S’that why you’ve been rollin’ around like you’re tryin’ to fight the mattress all day?”

“It’s stupid,” you mumble into the pillow.

His hand settles over the blanket near your side. “I highly doubt that,” he shakes his head at your response. 

You only pulled the blanket a little closer. “…it is.”

He sighs quietly, not anywhere near being annoyed—he was just worried. “Mmm, no, it isn’t.” His voice is calm, more tender like, with that low firmness he only uses when he’s trying not to let his concern show too much. “You’ve been in here all day, barely said two words to me. That doesn’t sound like ‘stupid’ to me.”

You stay quiet, and his hand smooths slowly over the blanket.

“C’mon now,” his eyes were searching your face. “You know better than to say something like that.” There’s something almost gentle in his scolding, the way he says it like it’s less about correcting you and more about how much he hates hearing you talk yourself down.

“If something’s got you curled up in bed like this, then it must matter.” His thumb brushes lightly against the blanket. “And if it matters to you, then it matters to me. You know that.”

The room goes still for a moment, his voice the only thing breaking the silence. “I’m not askin’ because I wanna pry,” he says quietly. “I’m askin’ because I can see somethin’s wrong, and I don’t like watchin’ you sit here hurting and actin’ like I’m supposed to ignore it.”

His hand shifts slightly, resting over the blanket before giving a small, steady rub against your leg beneath it.

He’s been patient with you the entire time yet the concern on his face hasn’t gone away for a second, and somehow that only makes it harder to say anything. When you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.

“It’s…that time of the month.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Something in his expression shifts, concern taking over again. “You’re on your period?” You give a small nod, too embarrassed to say it again, and he lets out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw before looking back at you. “Darlin’…why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug weakly, staring harder at the blanket. “I didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it.”

His brows pull together, not frustrated, just confused. “So instead you were gonna sit in here feeling like hell and not say a word to me?” His tone stays gentle, trying his hardest to not sound upset.

“I just didn’t want to make you grossed out,” you admit. The words come out hesitant, like you already know how bad they sound. “Or bother you.”

The second you say it, something in Bucky’s expression shifts completely. His eyes flicker with something almost hurt, and the concern in his face deepens. He shifts a little closer, his hand settling over yours on top of the blanket.

Bucky exhales quietly and shakes his head, his thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles.

“Baby, I would never judge you for that,” he says, like the thought doesn’t even exist for him. “First of all, periods are natural. There’s nothin’ weird about it, and there sure as hell isn’t anything disgusting about you.”

He watches you as he speaks, like he’s checking that the words are actually landing.

“And second, even if it wasn’t natural, I’d still want you to tell me. Not because it bothers me, but just so I can help. You’re not supposed to sit here and deal with it alone.”

A pause settles for a second, but it isn’t empty. His eyes shifts over your face, taking in the way you’re holding yourself too still, the tension you’re trying not to show.

“Sweetheart,” his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “This is your body. There’s nothin’ about it that’s disgusting. And there’s definitely not a damn thing about you that would make me feel that way.”

His jaw tightens briefly, not at you, just at the idea of you thinking that.

“You’ve been in pain and you’ve been hidin’ it in here alone because you thought I’d be uncomfortable,” he says quieter, almost more to himself than anything, like he’s piecing it together as he speaks. “That’s what gets me.”

His eyes flick back to yours. “You don’t have to sit on stuff like that with me,” he adds, more grounded again. “If you’re hurting, I wanna know. Alright?”

You muttered, “I just didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“But you look paler than usual,” he says simply. “And you’ve been holding yourself like you’re one second away from either crying or passing out.” The concern in his voice makes it impossible to lie, so after a second, you nod. Bucky closes his eyes for a brief second, then lets out a slow breath.

You hesitate for a second, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve before you finally look back up at him. “…Are you upset with me?”

“No, no, I’m not mad,” he says when he sees your face crumple. His hand squeezes yours gently, as if he was trying to ground you. “I just wish you’d told me sooner.” His gaze softened as he looked back at you. “Because the thought of you laying here hurting this bad while I had no clue what was going on? I hate that.”

You let out a shaky breath and look away. “I didn’t want to be over dramatic or anything along those lines..”

Bucky’s brows knit together again, but his tone stays soft. “Baby, being in pain isn’t dramatic. If you’re hurting, that matters. And if it matters to you, then I wanna know.” His hand stays warm over yours while he speaks, every word calm and sure. “I don’t care that it’s your period. I care that you feel awful. That’s what matters here.”

Your chest tightens, and he keeps talking, softer now, like he’s trying to undo every anxious thought you’ve had all day. You nod weakly, wiping at your face, and Bucky gives the faintest nod back before brushing your hair away from your forehead.

“Good.” He holds your gaze for a moment, making sure you mean it. “Because next time, I wanna know the second you start feeling bad. I can’t help you if you don’t let me in, sweet girl.”

Your throat tightens again, but this time it’s because of how gentle he sounds. Bucky brushes away one more tear, his hand warm against your cheek.

He watches you for a second before saying anything, his eyes moving over your face like he’s trying to figure out how bad you’re feeling without making you explain it. 

“Have you taken anything yet?”

You shake your head, giving him a weak little “no,” like maybe if you say it casually enough it won’t sound as bad as it is, and he lets out the smallest breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little like he already expected that answer.

“No?” The corner of his mouth lifts just a tad. “Were you just gonna tough it out and hope for the best?” There’s no judgment in his voice, just quiet fondness, and when you try to shrug it off, he only smiles a little, as if he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Sounds like a terrible plan,” he murmurs. You manage the tiniest smile back, and his expression softens the second he sees it, like that alone makes him feel a little better.

“You need somethin’ besides curlin’ up and sufferin’ over here,” he muttered as he stood. “I’ll be back in a minute, sweetheart.”  He squeezed your hand gently, pressed a quick kiss to your temple, and slipped out of the room.

A little while later, there was a brief knock before the door cracked open. “In my defense, I didn’t know what counted as enough,” Bucky pointed out as he stepped inside, his arms full of things he had gathered for you.

He made his way over to the bed, carefully setting everything down on the nightstand beside you before looking back at you with a softer expression. “Do you need anything else?”

“Yeah.” You hesitate for a moment before adding, “I’d like it if you stayed.”

That earned a huffed out quiet laugh from him, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small smile as he leaned against the side of the bed. “I can do that.” 

He reached down to brush a hand over your hair before nodding toward the pile he’d set on the nightstand. “C’mon, move over,” he murmured, already climbing onto the bed beside you. “Lemme take care of ya. You look miserable.”

You let out a tired groan but shifted anyway, making enough room for him to slide in beside you.

Bucky settled carefully against the pillows before reaching for the water bottle he’d brought in. “Alright,” he murmured, unscrewing the cap for you first. 

You barely moved, only burrowing deeper beneath the blankets with a tired groan. Bucky just sighed quietly through his nose, already expecting the resistance.

“Don’t you start,” he muttered, one hand sliding under the blanket until he found your arm. “You gotta take the meds, angel.”

“I will,” you mumbled weakly. “Later.”

“Mmmm, yeah? And when exactly is ‘later’?” he asked dryly. “After you moan ‘nd groan around for another three hours?”

You shot him a sleepy glare that had absolutely had no bite behind it, and he almost smiled. Almost. Instead, he reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the bottle before shaking two pills into his palm. “Sit up a little f’me.”

When you didn’t move fast enough, Bucky just rested his hand around your waist, giving you enough time to shift on your own before he gently helped you against him. As you settled there, he kept his arm loosely around you, holding you close to his chest so you didn’t have to support all of your weight by yourself.

“There we go,” he murmured, much softer now. 

You frowned at the pills in his hand. “But they taste miserable.”

“They’re not meant to taste good, sweetheart,” Bucky saw the horrendous face you made towards the medicine. “They’re supposed to help.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Bucky huffed out a quiet laugh before pressing the water bottle into your hands. “C’mon. Take ’em before I start getting mean.”

“You’re always mean.”

“And yet you love me anyway.”

You rolled your eyes but finally took the pills, immediately reaching for more water afterward. Bucky watched carefully until he was sure enough you’d swallowed them, his metal fingers rubbing slow circles against your side the entire time.

“Good.” He waits until he’s sure you’ve swallowed before taking the bottle back and setting it aside. The second your head hit his shoulder, Bucky pulled the blankets higher around you, tucking them under your chin with gentleness. His hand drifted up to brush through your hair. “You still hurtin’ bad?” he asked quietly.

You gave a small nod against him.

Bucky’s jaw tightened for half a second, not at you, never at you. He just hated seeing you uncomfortable, hated that he couldn’t fix it instantly.

“Okay,” he murmured after a moment. “Well the meds’ll kick in soon, hopefully. Till then, I’ll have to suffice.”

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky adjusted against the pillows beside you, one hand absently fixing the blanket where it had twisted around your legs. He looked oddly thoughtful for a second before answering, “Well I was thinkin’ that maybe we should invest in one of those warming thingies, y’know?” 

You blinked up at him. “A what?”

“One of those warm…things,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Couldn’t find one anywhere. That’s why it took me so long to come back.”

A sleepy laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Baby, are you referring to a heating pad?” 

“Yes,” he deadpanned immediately. “That. That’s what I meant.”

Your smile only widened, and he had to fight the urge to smile back too much at the sound of your laugh. “A warming thingie,” you repeated teasingly.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “You know what I meant.” 

His gaze dropped toward your stomach then before flicking back up to your face, suddenly more careful again. Bucky only hesitated for a second before speaking again. “Well since we don’t have one, I was thinkin’ maybe we could lay down for a while and I could hold you a little closer. Might help warm you up some.”

His hand brushed gently along your side before he added more quietly, “Would you mind if I do that?”

You looked up at him for a moment, your expression softening immediately at the quiet concern in his voice.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’d like that.”

The tension in Bucky’s shoulders eased almost instantly. Carefully, he helped guide you down beneath the blankets until you were laying on your side with your back pressed against his chest. Bucky shifted in behind you, settling close enough that his presence immediately surrounded you from every angle.

One arm slipped carefully around your waist, holding you against him while his other hand found yours beneath the blankets. He made sure not to squeeze too tightly, keeping his touch gentle 

“There,” he whispered near your ear. “Is that…better?”

You let out a quiet hum, relaxing further as his warmth seeped into you.

Bucky’s nose brushed lightly against your hair before he ducked his head and pressed a kiss to your temple, staying there for a moment.

“Hate seein’ you like this,” he admitted quietly. “I wish I could just take it from you instead.”

His hand spread warmth against your stomach then, rubbing slow circles through the blanket while he tucked you even closer against him.

Bucky stayed quiet for a while after that, just holding you close while his hand continued slow circles against your stomach. The room fell quiet after that, the only sound being your steady breathing and the occasional rustle of blankets when Bucky adjusted them around you again.

After a few minutes, his lips brushed lightly against your temple once more. “Do you need anything else?” He was still worried. “Water, snacks, more blankets?”

You shook your head weakly. “Mm-m. I’m okay now.”

“Okay now,” he repeated skeptically, earning a sleepy little smile from you.

Bucky’s arm tightened around your waist just a little, he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Well, if that changes later, you tell me, alright?” he gently scolded. “Don’t care if it’s two minutes from now or three in the morning.”

His thumb brushed gently over your stomach again. “I mean it,” he added softer. “If you need somethin’, I’ll get it.”

You turned your head just enough to look back at him over your shoulder, the look on his face. He was tired, worried, but so unbelievably gentle with you. “Alright,” you whispered.

That finally seemed to satisfy him. Bucky pressed one last kiss against your temple before settling back against the pillows with you tucked safely against his chest.

For a while, things seemed better.

Between the medicine kicking in and the comfort of being wrapped up in your boyfriend’s arms, you were on the verge of falling asleep. Almost. A sudden cramp seized low in your stomach, making your breath hitch as you curled tighter against him.

Bucky immediately felt it. His arm tightened around your waist as he lifted his head from the pillow. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, concern immediately creeping into his voice. “Talk t’me. Did it start up again?”

You hesitated before nodding.

Bucky’s expression fell. For a moment, all he could do was look at you.

Then he let out a slow breath through his nose and rested his forehead against the back of your head.

“God, my sweet girl…” he muttered quietly. “I really thought you were finally getting some relief.”

His hand moved across your stomach once more, rubbing slow circles through the blanket.

“I know the meds are helping some, but every time I think you’re doing better, you get another one of those cramps and I just…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. It just gets to me.”

You shifted slightly so you could glance back at him. “Buck—”

“No, I’m serious.” His voice softened. “I hate seeing you hurt. I know that sounds obvious, but I mean it. I hate watching you try to act like it’s not that bad when I can feel you tensing up every few minutes.”

His gaze dropped toward where his hand rested over your stomach.

“And the worst part is that there’s not really anything I can do to fix it.”

Another cramp made you wince, and he noticed right away, frowning at you.

“If you scraped your knee, I could clean it up. If you were sick, I could make soup or get medicine. If somebody was giving you a hard time, I’d know exactly what to do.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “But this? All I can do is sit here and wish I could take some of it off your shoulders.”

You reached for his hand. “Baby, you are helping.”

His fingers intertwined with yours immediately. “Maybe a little,” he admitted.

“A lot.”

His expression softened at that. Still, he looked unconvinced.

“I just wish it was more. You shouldn’t have to sit here hurting while I’m stuck guessing what might make you feel better.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“Honestly, I’ve been trying to think of things this entire time,” he admitted although he was still working through it in his head. “Different positions, more blankets, less blankets, water, food…I was halfway ready to tear the apartment apart looking for one of those heating pads.”

His eyes dropped to where his hand rested carefully against your stomach, still moving in slow, steady circles through the blanket.

“I keep running it over like there’s something I’m missing,” he went on, a little more tense now. “Like there’s some obvious fix and I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

A quiet exhale left him through his nose.

“And it’s just…it’s frustrating,” he admitted. “Because I can deal with things I can fix. I can handle problems that actually do something when you act on them. But this just sits here and you’re hurting and all I’ve got is…this.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face before reaching for yours again, holding it a little tighter this time. “I don’t like feeling useless.” His jaw tightened briefly before he looked back at you. “Especially when it comes down to you.”

That made something in your expression shift, and you turned your head just enough to look back at him over your shoulder.

“You’re not useless,” you said immediately, not giving him the chance to argue. “You’re literally doing everything you can right now.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced right away. “I’m rubbing your stomach,” he replied, almost bluntly. “That’s not exactly fixing anything.”

“It’s helping,” you insisted. “Trust me, it does help.”

His jaw tightened slightly, not in anger, just stubbornness. “It’s just not enough.”

“Yes it is.”

“Not really.”

You huffed faintly, adjusting against him a little more so you could see his face better. “Bucky, I’m telling you it is. I feel so much better than I was before.”

He hesitated at that, eyes flicking down to your face like he was trying to decide whether to believe you or argue with you out of habit. “…Yeah?” he asked finally, quieter.

“Yes.”

His shoulders eased just a little, though his expression still held that lingering frustration. “Still feels like I should be doing more,” he admitted.

You rolled your eyes a little, tired but fond. “You always feel like you should be doing more. That’s kind of your thing.”

That earned a faint huff from him through his nose, like he didn’t appreciate being called out but couldn’t fully deny it either.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, hand resuming its steady motion over your stomach. “My ‘thing’ is usually more useful than this.”

“You’re literally holding me together right now,” you said quietly. “That’s useful.”

That made him pause again. For a second, he just looked at you like he was trying to reconcile what you were saying with whatever he had in his head.

“I just don’t want you thinking you have to deal with this alone.” He shook his head, like the thought of it alone bothered him. “Or that I’m just sitting here not doing anything.”

“But you’re not,” you sat up and laid your head against his shoulder. “You’re here. You’re paying attention. You’re taking care of me. That’s everything to me.”

A quiet second or two had passed. He exhaled slowly, some of the tension finally easing out of his shoulders. “…Alright,”  he wasn’t fully convinced, but he was just choosing to accept it for now.

“I just wish I could make it stop.” His arm tightened gently around your waist as he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on your temple. “I know I can’t make the cramps disappear,” he said quietly. “Believe me, if I could take them from you, I would.”

His hand kept moving over your stomach in slow circles, more out of habit than anything now. “But I can be here.”

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you a little closer against him. “So if you need to complain, complain. If you need to cry, let it out. If you want to tell me for the hundredth time how much this sucks, then tell me.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to make it easier for me to hear. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay because you’re worried about it bein’ dramatic. You’re in pain. That’s enough.”

He pressed another quick kiss to your forehead. “And I know you deal with this all the time. I know you’re used to pushing through it and getting on with your day anyway.”

His eyes dropped to where his hand rested against your stomach. “But just because you’re used to carrying something doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy.”

He pressed another quick kiss to your forehead.

“And I know you deal with this all the time. I know you’re used to pushing through it and getting on with your day anyway.”

He shook his head slightly. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

His hand rubbed slowly up and down your side. “I know there’s not much I can do. Trust me, if there was, I’d be doing it.”

For a moment, he just looked at you.

“I just hate seeing you feel like this.” The honesty in his voice left no room for argument.

You shifted closer, tucking yourself against his chest as he wrapped both arms around you. The room fell quiet after that.

Bucky kept one hand moving lazily along your back, the other resting against your side, and little by little the tension started to leave you. When he felt your body finally begin to relax against him, he gently guided you down onto the mattress.

Once you were settled, he stretched out beside you, pulling the blankets up over both of you before gathering you back against his chest.

“Get some sleep, angel.” He didn’t need to say anything else. Your eyelids were already getting heavier by the second.

While you knew tomorrow would likely look a lot like today, you also knew he’d be right there with you through it. 

“I love you,” he pressed one last kiss to the top of your head.

You don’t pick it up this time. You don’t flip it over like maybe the answer will change if you look at it from a different angle. You just stare at it, arms wrapped tight around your middle, like if you hold yourself together hard enough you won’t come apart.

The apartment is quiet. Bucky is in the living room—you can hear the faint murmur of the TV through the wall—but he hasn’t come to check on you yet. He never hovers. He gives you space, always, like he’s afraid of crowding you when you’re already hurting.

You know why.

Because every time this happens, he looks at you like it’s his fault.

And every time, you let him.

Just like you let him believe you’re okay.

Your throat tightens, the pressure building until it feels like it might choke you, and you press the heel of your hand against your mouth to keep the sound in. You don’t want him to hear. You don’t want him to come in and see you like this—again, always again—because you’re so tired of the way his face falls, the way guilt settles into his shoulders like something heavy and permanent.

You hate that he carries it.

You hate that you do too.

You close your eyes for a second, breathing through it, counting in your head the way you’ve learned to do when things get overwhelming. One, two, three—

You’re fine.

You’re going to be fine.

You just need a minute.

But the minute stretches, and the silence presses in, and the thought that’s been living in the back of your mind for months now finally pushes its way forward, loud and impossible to ignore.

What if it’s you?

What if there’s something wrong with you?

The idea settles in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and suddenly everything makes too much sense. All the negative tests. All the waiting. All the quiet disappointment that never quite gets spoken out loud.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, and finally reach for the test just so you can shove it into the trash, like getting rid of it might make the feeling go away too.

It doesn’t.

Nothing does.

When you step out into the hallway, the light from the living room spills toward you, warm and soft in contrast to the harsh brightness you just left behind. Bucky is stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his stomach, the TV flickering across his face in shades of blue and gold.

He looks up the second he hears you.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice careful in a way that makes your chest ache. His eyes flick over your face, searching, and you can see the moment he understands. His expression softens, something sad slipping in around the edges. “C’mere.”

You hesitate for half a second, because if you go to him, you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep it together.

But you go anyway.

You always do.

He shifts to make room for you, sitting up just enough to pull you into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders automatically, tucking you in close like you belong there. Like you’re something to be protected.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, softer this time, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair. “It’s okay.”

The words hit something fragile inside you, and before you can stop it, you let out a shaky breath that sounds a little too close to a sob.

It’s okay.

It’s not, though.

It hasn’t been for a while.

You press your face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, trying to ground yourself in it, but the thought won’t leave you alone now that it’s out in the open, circling and circling until it feels like it’s going to swallow you whole.

“Buck,” you whisper, your voice small against the fabric of his shirt.

His hold tightens immediately. “Yeah, doll?”

You don’t know how to say it.

You don’t know how to put something like this into words without breaking something between you, without confirming the fear that’s been eating at you for months now.

But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I think…” Your voice catches, and you have to swallow hard before you can keep going. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

The words hang in the air between you, fragile and terrible all at once.

For a second, everything goes very, very still.

And then Bucky’s hand freezes where it’s been rubbing slow circles against your arm.

“What?” he breathes.

You pull back just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face is enough to make your heart twist painfully in your chest. He looks…stricken. Like you’ve just said something that physically hurts him to hear.

“I just—” you start, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “We’ve been trying for so long, and it’s just…nothing, and I keep thinking—maybe it’s me. Maybe I can’t—” You cut yourself off, your throat closing up around the rest of the sentence. “I feel like I’m failing you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky shakes his head hard, like he’s trying to physically reject them.

“No,” he says immediately, too fast, too sharp. “No, don’t—don’t say that.”

“But—”

“It’s not you,” he insists, his hands coming up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wide, almost frantic. “Jesus, sweetheart, it’s not you.”

You blink at him, confused by the intensity in his voice. “Then what is it?”

His jaw tightens, something conflicted flashing across his expression before he looks away, like he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore.

“I thought…” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair in a frustrated motion. “I thought it was me.”

You stare at him.

“What?”

He lets out a humorless little huff, shaking his head. “All the stuff I went through. Hydra. The experiments. I figured they probably messed something up.” His voice drops, rough around the edges. “I thought I was the reason we can’t—”

“Bucky,” you breathe, your chest tightening painfully.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” he continues, the words coming faster now like he’s been holding them in for too long. “Didn’t want you to think I was…broken, or that I was the one keeping this from happening for us.”

Something in your chest cracks wide open.

All this time.

All this time, you’ve both been carrying the same fear, the same guilt, just in different directions.

And neither of you said anything.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, your hands coming up to cover his where they’re still holding your face. “Buck…”

His gaze finally meets yours again, and there’s so much vulnerability in it that it makes your heart ache.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve told you.”

“No,” you shake your head, tears slipping free despite your best efforts to hold them back. “No, I should’ve told you. I’ve been sitting there thinking I’m the problem, and you’ve been thinking the same thing, and we just…never talked about it.”

He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against yours.

“Guess we’re both a little stubborn,” he murmurs.

You let out a watery laugh, the sound soft and shaky but real.

“Yeah,” you agree. “A little.”

For a moment, you just stay like that, breathing each other in, the weight of everything that’s been unspoken finally starting to lift, piece by piece.

“It’s not your fault,” you say softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“It’s not yours either,” he replies just as gently.

The words settle into something warm and steady between you, replacing the cold uncertainty that’s been there for so long.

“We’ll figure it out,” he adds after a second, his voice firmer now, more certain. “Whatever it is. Together.”

Together.

The word wraps around you like something solid, something you can actually hold onto.

You nod, leaning in to press your lips to his, the kiss soft and lingering, full of something deeper than just comfort. It’s reassurance. It’s promise.

It’s hope.

When you pull back, he nudges his nose against yours, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No more keeping this stuff from each other, okay?” he says.

“Okay,” you agree, your own smile coming a little easier now.

He presses one more kiss to your lips, then pulls you back into his arms, holding you close like he never plans to let you go.

you, bucky, and steve had been a trio since you were all in sandbox together, your three little buckets making a perfect triangle in the golden sand. steve and bucky were born in the same year, two peas in a pod, while you trailed behind them, the tagalong little sister they never actually minded having around. growing up, it was always bucky with the easy charm and the devil-may-care grin, steve with the steady heart and the righteous gaze, and you, the quiet observer who catalogued every stolen glance and every shared secret. it was no surprise to anyone that when your college acceptance letter arrived, you were bound for the same sprawling university campus as them, a fact that had you all bouncing on the balls of your feet with a giddiness that felt like pure, unadulterated sunshine.

college life was a whirlwind of caffeine-fueled study sessions in the library, the smell of old books and stale coffee, your constant companions. you were a sophomore now, navigating the sprawling campus with a bit more confidence than you had as a freshman, but still feeling like you were playing catch-up to bucky and steve, who were juniors and seemed to have this whole thing figured out. bucky, with his effortlessly tousled brown hair and eyes the color of a summer sky just before a storm. he had the campus reputation for being a bit of a heartbreaker. you'd watched him from the sidelines, metaphorically speaking, as he dated a string of girls: the cheerleader, the poetry major, the girl from his chemistry class. each one was beautiful and bright, and each one eventually faded away, leaving bucky unscathed and charming as ever. steve, on the other hand, was the steady one, the one who had a serious girlfriend or two, relationships that were built on a foundation of mutual respect and shared values.

you had always, always had a crush on bucky. it was a fact as constant as the north star, a secret you kept tucked away in the deepest corner of your heart. he was harmlessly flirty with everyone, his compliments as easy and natural as breathing, and you were always on the receiving end of them. "hey, beautiful," he'd say, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walked across the quad. "that color looks amazing on you." or, "don't study too hard, sweetheart, wouldn't want you to burn out that brilliant brain of yours." and every time, you'd feel a little flutter in your chest, a tiny spark of hope that you'd immediately stamp out. you were too scared of messing up the perfect, fragile thing the three of you had. you were a unit, a tripod, and you wouldn't risk that for anything, not even for the possibility of something more with him. so you smiled, and you laughed, and you pushed your feelings down, down, down, convincing yourself it was all just a part of who bucky was; a charming, slightly flirty player who didn't mean anything by it.

it was a tuesday, and you were crammed into a lecture hall for your intro to sociology class, the professor's voice a monotonous drone that was doing a poor job of competing with the glorious sunshine streaming through the tall windows. thankfully this was one of the few classes you thoroughly enjoyed on campus. not because of the teacher, but because of two of your best friends, one being a gorgeous tall and beefy frame that sat next to you.

the three of you didn’t end up in this class by accident, no. you planned for this. you remember having forced bucky and steve to sit down and create a plan of their semester classes up until their graduation date. now, when it came to choosing the electives, you all agreed to pick sociology together, hoping it was interesting enough to keep you guys entertained for a semester.

you were scribbling notes, your pen scratching against the paper, when bucky, who was sitting next to you, nudged your elbow. you glanced over, and he was grinning, that same mischievous, boyish grin that had gotten the three of you into more trouble than you could count.

"guess what i got," he whispered, his voice low and conspiratorial.

you raised an eyebrow, trying to focus on the professor's diagram of social stratification. "a passing grade on your last exam?" you teased.

"ha ha, very funny," he said, rolling his eyes. "no, better. way better." he reached into his backpack and pulled out three neon green tickets, the kind that looked like they'd been printed at a cheap carnival. "the traveling carnival is in town this weekend. the big one. the one with the roller coaster and the giant ferris wheel. i got us three tickets."

your eyes widened, and for a moment, you forgot all about social stratification. the carnival was a legendary event, a temporary city of lights and sounds that set up on the outskirts of town for one weekend every fall. you'd been talking about wanting to go for weeks, but the tickets were notoriously expensive and sold out fast. "bucky, are you serious?" you breathed, your heart doing a little leap. "how did you even get these?"

"i have my ways," he said, wiggling his eyebrows. "i know a guy who knows a guy. but yeah, i'm serious. for friday night. you, me, and stevie. we're gonna go."

on your other side, steve, who had been pretending to be absorbed in his textbook, leaned over. "the carnival? nice, buck!" he said, giving bucky a fist bump in front of you, his face lighting up. "i've been wanting to try that deep-fried everything stand."

you felt a wave of pure, unadulterated happiness wash over you. it was just going to be the three of you, just like old times. "this is amazing, bucky," you said, your voice full of genuine gratitude. "thank you. i didn't think i'd be able to go."

"of course," he said, his smile softening as he looked at you. "wouldn't leave you guys out." he reached over and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your cheek for a fleeting second. it was a simple, friendly gesture, but it sent a jolt through you all the same. "it's gonna be great."

the rest of the week passed in a blur of classes and assignments, but the thought of the carnival was a constant, bright spot in your mind. you found yourself daydreaming about it during your lectures, imagining the neon lights reflecting in bucky's eyes, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy hanging in the air, the sound of laughter and screams echoing from the rides. when friday finally arrived, you felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of nervous energy buzzing under your skin. you were in your dorm room, staring at your closet, a feeling you couldn't quite identify swirling in your stomach.

you should have just thrown on your usual jeans and a hoodie. that was your go-to, your uniform. but instead, you found yourself pulling out a pair of dark-wash, tiny, denim shorts that you usually saved for special occasions, and a soft, dark red sweater. you spent an unusual amount of time on your hair, trying to get it to fall in just the right way, and you even dug out a tube of mascara and a hint of lip gloss. you caught your reflection in the mirror, a flicker of self-consciousness making you blush. what were you doing? this was just bucky and steve. you'd known them your entire life. you'd seen them with food poisoning and broken arms and terrible haircuts. why did it smatter what you looked like?

a little voice in the back of your head whispered, ‘because it's bucky.’ but you quickly shoved that voice aside, telling yourself you were just being silly. you were just excited to go to the carnival. that was all. you slid on your shoes and headed out to meet them, your heart thumping a little faster than usual.

they were waiting for you by the main entrance of your dorm building, just like they always were. steve was leaning against the brick wall, scrolling through his phone, and bucky was standing next to him, his hands shoved in his pockets, a small, thoughtful smile on his face. when he saw you, his smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"hey, look who it is," he said, pushing off the wall and opening his arms for a hug. you walked into them, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, something clean and woodsy. "ready to have your mind blown?"

"always," you said, your voice muffled against his shoulder. when you pulled back, you noticed someone standing a few feet behind him. she was tall and blonde, with a perfectly manicured smile and a cute miniskirt that looked like it belonged in a club, not at a dusty carnival. she was looking at bucky with an expression of proprietary interest, and your stomach did a little flip-flop that had nothing to do with excitement.

"chloe, this is," bucky said your name, introducing you and turning to the girl and then back to you. bucky repeated your name, continuing with the introductions “, this is chloe."

your smile froze on your face. "oh," you said, trying to recover quickly. "hi! It's really nice to meet you,” your smile more welcoming by the second.

"you too," chloe said, her voice smooth as silk, but her eyes were cool as they raked over you. "bucky's told me so much about you,” she said plainly, still eyeing you.

you glanced at bucky, who was rubbing the back of his neck, a slight flush on his cheeks. "yeah, well, i hope all good things," you said, trying to joke, but it fell a little flat.

"i hope you don't mind that i invited her," he said, turning to you and steve, his expression a little apologetic. "i bought an extra ticket."

"of course not," steve said, ever the peacemaker, stepping forward to offer chloe a friendly smile. "the more the merrier."

you got lost in your thoughts for a second. you recognized her name from campus whispers, a sophomore in your year who was rumored to be as sharp as broken glass and twice as evil. you'd always given people the benefit of the doubt, assuming most rumors were just little white lies born from jealousy or boredom.

bucky's eyes had lit up when he'd mentioned her joining them, a bright, eager look that you'd rarely seen directed at anyone else. you felt a little pang of jealousy, but ultimately shrugged it off because you knew he didn’t like you like that. you had no right to feel that way. you were just his friend. and besides, maybe she was nice. maybe all the rumors were wrong.

the carnival was a sensory explosion from the moment you stepped through the gates. the sun was just beginning to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink, and the entire place was buzzing with a chaotic, joyful energy. the air was thick with the smells of popcorn, fried dough, and sweet, spun sugar, all mingling with the faint scent of diesel from the generators. neon lights in every color imaginable blinked and pulsed, casting a kaleidoscope of reflections on the wet pavement. the sound system was a cacophony of upbeat pop music, the delighted shrieks of people on the rides, and the booming voice of a carnival barker promising a prize to anyone who could ‘knock down the milk bottles!’

"wow," you breathed, your eyes wide with wonder. it was even better than you'd imagined. "this is incredible."

"told you," bucky said, his voice full of pride. he was standing close to chloe, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. "so, what first? the tilt-a-whirl? the haunted house?"

"definitely the roller coaster," you exclaimed, pointing towards the massive metal structure that loomed over the rest of the carnival like a giant, skeletal beast. its tracks twisted and turned in impossible loops, and you could hear the screams of its riders echoing across the fairgrounds.

"i don't think so," chloe said, wrinkling her nose. "i just got my hair done. and i don't want to get whiplash."

"oh," you said quickly, your enthusiasm deflating slightly. "right. well, maybe the ferris wheel then? we could see the whole town from the top,” you smiled.

"that's a bit... boring, don't you think?" chloe said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her chin. "how about we play some games first? i want a prize." she looked up at bucky, batting her lashes and smiling "are you gonna win me that teddy bear bucky?"

bucky's chest seemed to puff up a little. "for you? anything," he said, half joking and half flirting, his voice a low, a charming rumble. he led them over to a booth where a man with a grizzled face was gesturing towards a pyramid of milk bottles. steve followed, shooting you an apologetic look over his shoulder. you trailed behind them, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach.

you watched as bucky paid for three balls, his muscles flexing in his t-shirt as he wound up for the throw. he was a natural athlete, and it showed. the first ball flew through the air and knocked down all three bottles in the front row. chloe clapped her hands delicately and smiled. the second ball took out another row. but the third ball, aimed at the final, most stubborn bottle, bounced off the rim and flew wide.

"so close," the carny said, a smirk playing on his lips.

"let me try," steve said, stepping up. he was strong, deceptively so, and his first throw sent the remaining bottles flying. "there we go," he said, a triumphant grin on his face.

“nice stevie!” you added, grinning and looking proud. 

the carny sighed and gestured towards a wall of prizes. "take your pick."

steve reached for a purple octopus, but chloe was already pointing at the small teddy bear in the top corner. "the big one, steve," she said, her voice dripping with sweetness. "bucky almost got it for me."

“almost.” you muttered quietly under your breath, trying not to roll your eyes.

steve's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second, but he nodded gamely and pointed to the bear. the carny grumbled as he unhooked it and handed it over. it was small, furry, and she immediately wrapped her arms around it, snuggling into its fuzzy brown fur.

"my hero," she cooed, looking up at bucky, not steve. 

“he didn’t even fucking win it for you” you whispered quietly to yourself, turning your head to hide your annoyed expression.

you really wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, but she made it so fucking hard. you weren’t really sure if you were more angry that she was dick-riding bucky or the fact that she might actually literally dick-ride him. but if there was one thing you knew how to do was push your emotions to the side. you’ve done it with bucky for years, how hard can it be to hide your growing annoyance for just a night.

you immediately snapped back into reality when you heard chloe ask, “what was that?” while tilting her head and giving the fakest smile you’d ever seen.

“oh nothing,” you added, scrunching your nose and shaking your head.

"buck, what should i name him?" she presses.

"how about barnaby?" bucky suggested, his eyes soft as he looked at her.

you felt a little sick to your stomach, like you might actually throw up. so you turned to steve, who was already giving you a side-eye, a wry smile on his face. "come on," he said, jerking his head towards a ride that looked like a giant swinging pendulum. "let's go on that thing. i need a break for a minute." he teased, widening his eyes and shaking his head as he walked.

you laughed, the tension in your chest easing slightly. "you and me both," you said. "that thing looks like it could make a person's brain fall out of their ears."

“are you talking about the ride or chloe? because if its chloe that was a great metaphor” steve added, nudging your shoulder to make you laugh.

you let out a small chuckle. steve always knew how to cheer you up.

"come on, lets find out if this ride will scramble that smart head of yours," he said, ruffling your hair before grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the ride. you glanced back at bucky and chloe, who were already lost in their own little world, chloe stroking the bear's head while bucky whispered something in her ear that made her giggle. you pushed the image away and focused on steve, whose warm, steady presence was a comforting anchor in the sea of unfamiliar emotions.

the ride was exhilarating, a stomach-dropping, heart-pounding thrill that had you screaming and laughing until your sides hurt. as you stumbled off, your legs feeling like jelly, steve was right there to steady you.

"you okay there?" he asked, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"i think my organs are all in the wrong place," you gasped for air as you laughed, leaning against him for support. "but yeah, i'm great, wow! that was amazing."

"glad to hear it," he said. "now, i believe we were promised some deep-fried delicacies."

you spent the next hour or so wandering through the carnival with steve, trying on ridiculous hats, making fun of the cheesy prizes at the game booths, and eating yourselves into a state of blissful, greasy stupor. you shared a deep-fried pickle corndog that was surprisingly delicious, and a basket of deep-fried oreos that were pure, unadulterated heaven. for a while you had completely forgot about bucky and chloe. that was up until bucky and chloe caught up with you, but they seemed to be in their own bubble, and you found yourself gravitating back towards steve, whose easy-going company was a welcome relief from the tension that seemed to cling to chloe like a second skin.

"so, what's the deal with her?" steve asked, nodding towards chloe, who was currently trying to convince bucky to win her another prize, this time a giant pink unicorn.

you shrugged, trying to act casual. "i don't know. i've heard some things, but i don't really know her. she seems... nice enough." you knew you were lying, and you knew steve knew it too.

"right," he said, nodding, holding back a laugh. "Nice."

you both made eye contact and immediately broke into laughter. “honestly i can’t even lie anymore,” you said, shaking your head and throwing your hands up in surrender “she’s a bitch!”

steve was always really nice, not often engaging in gossip, but today, with chloe, it was a completely different story. he noticed how she talked to you and made snarky remarks. it was hard not to laugh at her persistent attitude.

after hours, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the carnival transformed. the neon lights seemed to grow brighter, casting long, dancing shadows on the ground, and the air grew cooler, carrying with it the promise of a crisp autumn night. you were all standing in line for the haunted mansion, a classic ride that promised a scary good time, except this one had a water warning outside of it, but you simply assumed it was probably just a bit of mist and water drops to add fear to the ride. you were getting in line with steve when chloe decided to make another appearance.

"i'm not going on that," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "it looks creepy. and i'll get wet."

"It’s called the dripping in fear haunted mansion for a reason, chloe," you said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. "that's kind of the point."

she shot you a look that could have frozen hell. "i wasn't talking to you," she said, her voice icy.

you scoffed, a bit fed up with her bad manners.

"chloe," bucky said, his voice a low warning.

"what?" she said, turning to him, her expression instantly softening. "i just don't want to ruin my shoes. they're new."

"it's fine," you said quickly, not wanting to cause a scene. "we can do something else, it’s not a big deal."

"no," bucky said, his voice firm. he looked at chloe, his brow furrowed. "why don't you go get us some funnel cakes? find a table and we'll meet you there."

chloe's smile tightened, but she nodded. "fine," she said, her voice sweet as poison. "anything for you, my love." she stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick, peck-like kiss on the lips before sashaying away, leaving a cloud of cloying perfume in her wake.

you couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy and rage when you saw her do that, but you quickly shoved it, storing it deep in your heart because bucky was still your best friend. you always wanted him to have the best, to be happy, and if chloe somehow did that, that was good enough.

you and steve and bucky stood in awkward silence for a moment, the sounds of the carnival swelling around you. you could feel the anger radiating off bucky in waves, his jaw clenched tight.

"i'm sorry," he said, finally turning to you. "she's not usually like this."

"it's fine," you said, even though it wasn't. "really,” you smiled.

"no, it's not," he said, his voice low and intense. "she had no right to talk to you like that." he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration you knew all too well. "i don't know what's wrong with her tonight."

"maybe she's just not a carnival person," steve offered, ever the diplomat.

"maybe," bucky said, but he didn't sound convinced. he looked at you, his blue eyes full of a regret that made your chest ache. "i'm really sorry, doll. i wanted this to be a good night for all of us."

"it is a good night," you said, forcing a smile. "i'm with my two best friends at the carnival. it doesn't get much better than that." you reached out and squeezed his arm, trying to convey a sincerity you weren't sure you felt. "come on, let's go on this thing."

the dripping haunted mansion wasn’t as wet as you’d expected, but it sure was scary as hell. you sat in the middle of the cart, steve directly in front of you, and bucky bringing up the rear. as the ride progressed, you encountered all types of scary actors with makeup as well different jumpscares. you could feel the mist coming down from the ceiling, but with the noise around you and seemingly fake blood dripping on the walls it was disgusting and terrifying. 

just as you thought the ride was about to end, the cart quickly turned a sharp corner and a massive clown flashed and moved above your head, a scream tearing from your throat as you squeezed your eyes shut. the cart quickly rolled down a tiny incline and you came out of the house, being ushered out of the seats.

"holy shit," you gasped, gripping your hair in fear. "that was horrible"

bucky was laughing, a genuine, deep-throated laugh that you hadn't heard all night. "you look like you just saw a ghost" he said, his eyes sparkling.

"maybe because i just fucking did" you shot back, splashing him with the droplets of water that were dripping from your hair.

steve was just shaking his head, a grin plastered on his face. "either i’m too old for this, or you’re a wimp, because that was not scary," he said, but he was laughing too.

you weren’t soaked but your hair had taken most of it, but you didn't care. you found chloe sitting at a picnic table under a large tent, a pristine funnel cake sitting in front of her, untouched. she looked you up and down, her lip curled in disgust.

"you're all wet and your hair is frizzy," she said, as if it were a personal affront.

"it's the dripping haunted mansion" you said, your voice sprinkled with a sweetness that rivaled hers. "it’s exactly what I expected" you retorted, taking a step back, pulling your hair in your hands and shaking most of the water out.

"i can see that," she said, her eyes narrowing. "did you have to shake all over the place? you're gonna get water on my shoes."

“my hair isn’t even near you, that's why i stepped back” you defended, slightly irritated.

"chloe," bucky said, his voice dangerously low.

"what?" she said, turning to him, her eyes wide with mock innocence. "i'm just stating a fact. she's being a bit of a mess, don't you think?"

that was it. you'd had enough. you were tired of her snide comments and her condescending tone. you were tired of her making you feel like an intruder in your own group. you opened your mouth to say something, something sharp and witty and cutting, but bucky beat you to it.

"that's enough," he said, his voice cold and hard. he stood up, his posture rigid with anger. "come on, we're leaving."

"what?" chloe said, her smile finally faltering. "can she not take a joke?"

"nobody laughed," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "we're leaving. Now."

he grabbed her arm,  his grip firm but not rough, and started to respectfully guide her away from the table. she stumbled after him, her expression a mixture of shock and outrage. you and steve watched them go, your heart pounding in your chest.

"well, that was... something," steve said, breaking the silence.

"mhm," you voiced.

"well, he can deal with her. I’m gonna go to bathroom" steve said, gesturing towards the green portapotties. "i'll be right back."

you nodded, your eyes still fixed on the spot where bucky and chloe had disappeared. you felt a strange mix of emotions: relief, anger, and a lingering, aching sadness. you'd wanted this night to be perfect, a chance to recapture some of the old magic, the easy camaraderie the three of you had always shared. instead, it had been a minefield of tension and unspoken feelings you had.

you decided to take a walk, to clear your head. you wandered through the crowded midway, the lights and sounds a blur around you. you weren't paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you on a familiar path, until you heard a raised voice from behind a row of game booths. you recognized it instantly. it was bucky.

"...don't care," he was saying, his voice tight with anger. "you don't talk to her like that. you don't even look at her like that."

"like what?" chloe shot back, her voice shrill with indignation. "like she's a child who can't take a joke?"

"it wasn't a joke," bucky said, his voice low and dangerous. "you were being cruel. shes special to me and you know that.”

“oh trust me, i know she’s special to you, you never shut up about her.” chloe gritted

“i won't have you treating her like shit." bucky remarked back.

"or what?" she challenged. "what are you going to do about it?"

"wow okay,” he said, swiping his hand over his face. “Yea this," his voice flat, "we're done. go home, chloe."

you heard a scoff, followed by the sound of footsteps stomping away. you held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs. a moment later, bucky emerged from behind the booths, his face a mask of fury. he saw you standing there, and his expression softened, the anger in his eyes replaced by a look of weary resignation.

"how much of that did you hear?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"enough," you said, your voice just as quiet. “buck, i’m so sorry.”

he ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. "no, i'm sorry," he said, for what felt like the hundredth time that night. "i really messed tonight up."

"no," you said, stepping closer to him. "you didn't. you couldn’t have known she would act like that."

"i shouldn't have invited her," he said, his eyes fixed on the ground. "i just... i thought it would be fun. i didn't think..."

"it's okay, bucky," you said, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "i promise it's fine."

he looked up at you then, his blue eyes searching yours. they were so full of emotion, a swirling vortex of regret and frustration and something else, something you couldn't quite name. "you're too good for this," he said shaking his head, his voice thick with emotion. "you're too good for me."

"don't say that," you said, your voice soft. "that's not true."

"isn't it?" he said, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "i bring a girl who treats you like crap, i ruin the night you were so excited for, and then i have a public fight with her in the middle of a carnival. some friend i am."

"Buck, you're my best friend," you said, your voice firm. "and tonight is not ruined because it's not over."

a slow smile spread across his face, the first genuine smile you'd seen from him all night. "yeah?" he said, his voice a little hopeful.

"yeah," you said, returning his smile and nudging his shoulder. "now, are you going to buy me a deep-fried snickers bar, or do i have to steal steve's wallet?"

he laughed, a real, honest-to-god laugh that made your heart soar. "lead the way," he said, gesturing grandly.

you found steve by the funnel cake stand, looking a little lost. when he saw you and bucky approaching, a look of relief washed over his face.

"everything okay?" he asked, his eyes darting between the two of you.

"everything's great," you said, linking your arm through bucky's. "chloe had to go. something about a... hair emergency, right?" you asked jokingly while looking up at bucky.

he simply nodded, holding back a laugh.

steve's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't press. "well, in that case," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "who wants to ride the scrambler until they puke?"

the rest of the night was a blur of pure, unadulterated fun. you went on every ride you could find, from the bumper cars to the gravity-defying pendulum, until you were all dizzy and breathless with laughter. you ate more fried food than you thought was humanly possible, sharing sticky, sweet bites of funnel cake and crispy, salty onion rings. bucky was back to his old self, his charm and his easy laugh on full display, but there was something different about him now. his eyes kept finding yours in the crowd, a soft, warm look in them that made your heart skip a beat.

it didn’t help your case when he made flirty remarks towards you, or when he looked at you with his gorgeous blue eyes, gosh you were head over heels for him and you couldn’t do anything about it.

by the time you made it to the ferris wheel, the night was in full swing. the moon was high in the sky, a pale silver disc against a backdrop of inky black, and the stars were out in full force, a dizzying array of glittering diamonds. the line for the ferris wheel was long, but you didn't mind. you were content to just stand there, tucked between bucky and steve, the cool night air a welcome relief from the heat of the day.

"i don't know if i can do another one," steve said, his face a little green. "I think that last ride might have been a mistake."

"aw, come on, stevie," bucky said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "the ferris wheel is a gentle ride. it's practically a rocking chair. you'll be fine."

"i don't know," steve said, his voice a little weak. "i think i'm going to call it a night. you guys go ahead. i'll just... wait here for you."

"are you sure?" you asked, a little concerned. he did look a bit pale.

"yeah," he said, forcing a smile. "i'm sure. just... maybe don’t go on any more rides that go upside down. i don't think your stomachs could handel more."

“pussy” you said jokingly coughing into your arm, steve rolling his eyes and chuckling at your remark.

"no promises," bucky said, grinning.

you said your goodbyes to steve, promising to meet him back at the entrance in an hour, and then you and bucky got in line for the ferris wheel. the line moved quickly, and before you knew it, you were being ushered into a small, swinging car, the metal gate clanging shut behind you. the car lurched as it was hooked onto the giant, slowly turning wheel, and you felt a little flutter of excitement in your stomach.

"i haven't been on one of these in years," you said, leaning your head back against the cool metal of the seat, finally feeling relaxed.

"me neither," bucky said, his voice quiet. As he sat across from you, his knees pressed against yours, and you could feel the warmth of his body touching you. "not since we were kids."

"remember that time we went to the county fair back home?" you said, a fond smile on your face. "and you got stuck on the top of the ferris wheel with that girl from your math class? what was her name? jessica?"

"jenna," he said, a laugh in his voice. "and i didn't get stuck. the ride operator just stopped it at the top to give us a romantic moment." he said, emphasizing his words and wiggling his eyebrows.

"it was the most awkward five minutes of my life," you said, laughing. "i was down on the ground with steve, watching you two just sit there in silence. i thought steve was going to die from secondhand embarrassment."

"hey, in my defense, i was fourteen," he said. "i didn't know what to say to her."

"you never know what to say to girls," you teased. "you just stand there and look pretty."

"and it works, doesn't it?" he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

"most of the time," you conceded, rolling your eyes, feeling your heart fluttering a little. "but not with jenna."

"no, not with jenna," he agreed, his smile softening. "she was too smart for me."

"or maybe you were just too busy staring at her boobs," you said, unable to resist the jab.

"hey," he said, feigning offense. "i was a fourteen-year-old boy. what do you expect?"

"i expect nothing less," you said, grinning.

the ferris wheel continued its slow, steady ascent, the world below you shrinking with every rotation. the lights of the carnival blurred into a glittering tapestry of color, and the sounds of the crowd faded into a distant hum. it was peaceful up here, a quiet, intimate bubble suspended between the earth and the sky.

"it's beautiful up here," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

"yeah," he said, his voice just as quiet. "it really is."

you turned to look at him, and he was already looking at you, his blue eyes soft and luminous in the dim light of the carnival. they were the color of a deep, tranquil ocean, and you felt like you could drown in them, happily and without a second thought. the air between you crackled with a tension that was both terrifying and exhilarating, a thousand unspoken words hanging between you, waiting to be said.

"bucky," you started, your voice a little shaky.

"yeah?" he said, his voice a low, gentle hum. 

"why did you invite her tonight? why bring chloe if she’s such a… like a…" you asked, struggling to find the right words, the question tumbling out before you could stop it.

“a bitch?” he asked straight faced.

“well i mean, i was gonna say cunt but yea that too!” you said breaking out in laughter

he chuckled, his gaze slowly dropping from yours to his hands, which were fidgeting in his lap. "i don't know," he said, his voice quiet. "i guess i was just... trying to prove something."

“what?” you asked confused.

“you asked why i brought her here. I was trying to prove something.”

"prove what?" you asked, your heart aching for him.

"that i could date other girl" he said, his voice barely audible. "that i didn't... that i wasn't..." he trailed off, his jaw clenched tight. “nevermind,” he grumbled out.

"that you weren't what?" you prompted, tilting your head, your voice soft and confused.

he looked up at you then swiped his tongue across his top lip, biting back a laugh. “doll, i thought you were smart.” 

“okay rude. i would like you to know that i am ver–” you groaned, stopping mid sentence. “ugh, it doesn't matter, buck, you didn’t finish your sentence–”.

“and i’m not going to.” he said plainly.

“i– what? why not?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“you’re smart doll, you’ll figure it out.” he said, ruffling your hair as he got up to get out of the car.

you hadn’t even noticed you were back on the ground until you were trailing behind bucky, taking massive strides to catch up with him.

“bucky wait, are you gonna explain or?” you said walking after him before he stopped abruptly.

you watched as he looked up at the massive circular structure in front of you. “woah” you whispered, watching the rides car do a full 360, leaving the passengers completely upside down.

"what the hell is that?" you asked, completely caught off guard by the insanely terrifying coaster in front of you.

“that is the ring of fire” he said pointing towards the massive, steel monstrosity that literally looked like a giant, spinning ring of fire

your eyes widened in horror. "nope," you said, shaking your head. "absolutely not. that thing leaves you hanging upside down." you said trying to turn around and walk away from the ride.

bucky quickly grabbed your wrist and pulled in, resting his hand on the low of your back. 

"i know," he said, his voice full of mischief. "it'll be fun."

"it'll be terrifying," you corrected, shaking your head. "i'm not going on that."

"please," he said, turning his head down, his blue eyes wide and pleading. "for me?"

“i’ll tell you what I meant on the ferris wheel” he added.

you knew you should say no. you knew it was a terrible idea. but you were looking into his eyes, and you could see the boy you had grown up with, the one who had dared you to climb the tallest tree in the park and the one who had held your hand when you got your stitches. you saw the man who you were head over heels for. you wanted to know the truth, something he was adamant on not sharing with you. and you knew you were a goner.

you took a deep breath, "deal," you said, your voice a little shaky. "but if i puke, i'm doing it on your shoes."

"deal," he said, repeating the word back to you, his face breaking into a triumphant grin.

you started to walk closer to the queue of the ride. the ring of fire was even more terrifying up close. it was a giant, steel circle, with a single row of cars attached to the inside of the rim. as you watched, it started to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until the cars were perpendicular to the ground, the riders screaming as they were held in place by nothing but a flimsy-looking lap bar. then, as it reached its maximum speed, the entire ring tilted upwards, until the cars were at the very top of the circle, completely upside down, a silent, breathless moment of defiance against gravity.

"i can't do this," you said, your heart pounding in your chest. "i changed my mind."

"too late," he said, grabbing your hand

and pulling you closer to the entrance. "you already agreed. no backsies."

"that's not a real rule," you protested, but you were already being ushered into a car, the metal lap bar coming down to lock you in place. it felt flimsy and inadequate, and you were suddenly very aware of how high up you were going to be.

"it's the most important rule," he said, his hand finding yours in the darkness of the car. he laced his fingers through yours, his grip tight and reassuring. "just hold on to me. i've got you."

you took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "okay," you said, your voice a little shaky. "i'm holding you to that."

the ride started with a jolt, the car lurching forward as the ring began to spin. it was slow at first, a gentle, rocking motion that was almost pleasant. but then it started to speed up, the world outside the car blurring into a dizzying kaleidoscope of light and color. you could feel the g-force pulling at you, a heavy, insistent pressure that pinned you to the back of the seat.

"you okay?" bucky yelled over the roar of the machinery.

"i think so!" you yelled back, your knuckles white where you were tightly gripping his hand.

the ring began to tilt, the ground slowly disappearing from view as you were lifted towards the sky. your stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that made you gasp. you squeezed your eyes shut, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"don't close your eyes," bucky said, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. "look at me. just look at me."

you forced your eyes open, and you were looking at him. his face was illuminated by the flashing lights of the carnival, his blue eyes intense and focused on yours. he was smiling, a wide, exhilarated grin that made your heart do a little flip.

"see?" he said, his voice full of confidence. "it's not so bad."

"it's terrible!" you yelled, but you were smiling too.

the ring reached its apex, and for a terrifying, exhilarating moment, you were completely upside down. the world was a dizzying, upside-down mess of lights and sound, and you were hanging on for dear life, your only connection to reality the warm, steady pressure of bucky's hand in yours. you screamed, a long, loud, cathartic scream that was equal parts terror and pure, unadulterated joy. there were muffled yells around you, but you could hear bucky laughing, a deep, booming sound that was even louder than the roar of the ride and screams.

and then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. the ring began to level out, the spinning slowing down until you were back on the ground, the world righting itself around you. the lap bar released with a loud clank, and you stumbled out of the car, your legs feeling like jelly.

"i can't believe we just did that," you said, your voice shaky with adrenaline and laughter.

"i told you it would be fun," he said, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

"it was the most terrifying thing i've ever done in my entire life," you said, leaning against him, your body still buzzing with the aftershocks of the ride.

"but you loved it," he said, his voice a low, confident rumble.

"i did," you admitted, a wide, unstoppable grin spreading across your face. "i totally loved it."

you were standing there, in the middle of the crowded midway, the lights of the carnival pulsing around you, the sounds of the rides and the laughter of the crowd a distant roar. you were breathless and disheveled, your heart still pounding in your chest, and you had never felt more alive in your entire life. you looked up at him, at the boy you had known your whole life, the man that you convinced yourself you could live romantically without for years on end, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that you didn’t want to do that anymore. that this was it. this was the moment.

you reached up, your hand cupping the back of his neck, and pulled him down to you. you kissed him, a fierce, passionate kiss that tasted of adrenaline and cotton candy and a future that was finally, beautifully within your reach. he kissed you back, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer, his lips claiming yours in a way that left no room for doubt. it was a kiss that said everything you had ever wanted to say, a promise of all the adventures to come, a declaration of a love that had been there all along, just waiting for the right moment to be set free.

when you finally pulled away, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. the lights of the carnival seemed brighter, the music louder, the stars in the sky more brilliant than they had ever been before.

You bit back a smile, "wow," you breathed, your voice full of wonder.

"yeah," he said, his voice a low, contented hum. "Wow."

“well i guess you figured out what i was talking about on the ferris wheel. told you you were smart enough doll.” bucky said grinning.

“oh shut up” you said giving him a small push backwards with a smile on your face.

“where do you think you’re going?” he said, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back in for another kiss. this time it was sweeter and slower, showing the gentle way each piece found its place, like a story meant to unfold this way.

pulling back he immediately took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and you started to walk, away from the noise and the chaos of the midway, towards the quiet, tree-lined path that led to the entrance. you walked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the carnival fading behind you, replaced by the gentle rustle of the leaves in the cool night air.

"so," you said, your voice a little shy. "you owe me a pink unicorn" you teased.

he laughed, a deep, warm sound that made your heart soar. "don't worry," he said, squeezing your hand. “first thing tomorrow, we're coming back, and i'm winning you that giant unicorn. and the teddy bear. and that weird-looking fish with the googly eyes." he added, placing his fingers over his eyes and flailing his head around jokingly.

"you don't have to do all that," you said, nudging him, your voice soft.

"yes, i do," he said, his voice firm. "i have a lot of time to make up for."

you reached the entrance of the carnival, the bright lights a stark contrast to the quiet darkness of the street beyond. steve was waiting for you, leaning against a lamppost, a sleepy smile on his face.

"there you are," he said, pushing himself off the lamppost. "i was about to send out a search party."

"sorry," you said, grinning. "we got a little sidetracked."

"i can see that," he said, his eyes darting between your intertwined hands and the goofy, lovesick grin on bucky's face. "it's about time."

"shut up, steve," bucky said, but there was no malice in his voice, only a deep, abiding affection.

"i'm just saying," steve said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "it's about damn time."

you all started to walk, the three of you, a unit, a tripod, just like you had always been. but something was different now. something had shifted. the unspoken tension that had always existed between you and bucky was gone, replaced by a new, easy intimacy, a comfortable silence that spoke volumes. you were walking hand in hand with bucky, your fingers laced through his, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"so," steve said, breaking the silence. "did you win her a prize?"

"not yet," bucky said, his eyes twinkling. "but i promise i will."

"you better," you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. "i've been waiting a long time for this."

"me too," he said, his voice a low, contented hum. "me too."

you walked through the quiet streets of the college town, the three of you, your laughter echoing in the cool night air. you stood between steve and bucky, your hand on their shoulders. the carnival was a distant memory, a glittering dream of lights and sound, but the feeling of it, the magic of it, stayed with you, a warm, glowing ember in your heart. you looked at steve, your best friend, he was there, every year, through every single situation you encountered, then you looked up at bucky, at the boy you had grown up with, the man you had been in love with for years, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was just the beginning. the beginning of everything.

─˖· masterlist

At first, you’re confused, because this isn’t your room. You’re in a hospital bed in a white and quiet room. When you turn your head to the side, you see a small bouquet of fresh flowers and a little box on your nightstand.

Next to it, Bucky is curled up in a chair. His limbs are too long for the position he’s in to be anything but uncomfortable, but he’s managed to nod off despite that. His hair is damp and he’s got several nasty cuts on his face; but he looks almost peaceful like this.

Slowly, reality kicks back in and you remember snippets of what’s happened. The mission. Bucky dying. Crushing your amulet with the heel of your boot. Energy and power rushing through you, consolidating themselves. The time loop.

Shit, the time loop.

"Bucky," you croak. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s, raw and unused. You try and reach out for him when he doesn’t wake up, but your arms are just too damn heavy. "Bucky!" you try again.

He jolts upright, concern immediately settling into his features before he realizes it’s you who woke him. His face gets softer, then.

"You’re awake." You’ve never heard him sound so careful, so unsure.

A flurry of emotions rushes through you, and you can’t make sense of all of them because you’re still so sleepy. The past few hours—days? weeks?—feel hazy in a rather pleasant way, like they’re waiting for you to pick through and unravel them at your own pace.

Whenever you’re ready.

"You look like shit," you say quietly.

Bucky breathes a laugh that eases some of the tension in his shoulders. "Fuck you."

Your fingers twitch towards him, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, studying your face like he doesn’t believe you’re really in front of him. It’s exhilarating, to be looked at like that.

"What day is it?" you whisper.

Another hint of that smile you adore. "Pretty late on Saturday."

The rush of relief that courses through you is enough to make your vision blur. "Are you sure?"

He takes a newspaper from a pile on the floor you hadn’t noticed. "They kicked me out for a while earlier. Bought every copy they had at the stand round the corner."

You gasp slightly, painfully, as you read the date printed on the title page. Saturday, July 5.

"It’s really over?"

"It’s really over," he confirms, solidly settled in this brilliant, magnificent new world that is Saturday. "And we’re both alive."

"Sam?" Hope tastes different without the bitter tang of things stuck in stasis.

Bucky’s eyes twinkle. "Went home about ten minutes ago. He’s gonna be pissed, he was here all night, too."

You really could get used to this warm feeling in your chest. "You were here all night?"

He tilts his head at you. "I’m not about to leave my best girl after she’s just saved the world."

"Hardly," you mumble, even though you feel your cheeks heat up.

Tentatively, you reach out for your powers. There’s a tired spark of acknowledgement you’re too exhausted to do much with; it lets you breathe a little easier.

Bucky’s chair screeches closer to your bed. "How’s your head, gorgeous?" he asks quietly, fingers trailing along the sides of your face.

"'M okay." You scrunch up your nose. "I can’t believe you made me stomp on my necklace and it worked."

His grin is easy, relieved. "I’ll buy you a new one."

"How did you know that’d work?"

"It was a calculated risk," he shrugs.

You groan. "Reckless idiot."

"Look who’s talking." He rests his forehead against yours. "You had me a little worried there, sweetheart."

You wince when his voice twists painfully in your stomach, guilt settling heavily.

"I’m so sorry," you whisper. "I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, and that I just—"

You can feel him shake his head. "Not right now. We’re gonna talk about you nearly giving me a heart attack another time, but not right now."

You swallow. "Okay."

"I might lock away our firearms for a while."

"That’s fair. I don’t plan to do that again any time soon."

"You better don’t," he growls.

You put your hand up to his chest, and there it is, the steady thumping you’ve never been able to let go. You feel that? it seems to say. It was all worth it.

"No dying for either of us for a while yet, alright?" you say quietly, and Bucky huffs.

"Deal."

"Are we good?"

He breathes you in, slowly. "We’re okay."

The monitor next to your bed starts beeping loudly enough for a nurse to rush into the room. She has to clear her throat twice for Bucky to finally sit up again.

"I see you kept the drip in and everything," she tells you with raised eyebrows. "Good job."

"Bucky?" you say admonishingly.

"Ignore Claire," he says. "I’m fine."

She sighs in exasperation. "Despite your best efforts. Now shoo, I need to look at my patient." Her hands are cool and efficient, and the way she ignores Bucky makes you think this isn’t her first time patching up lone Avengers. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit boiled in the microwave," you mumble.

"Good. Then I did my job right." She takes your temperature and nods approvingly, referencing your vitals on her tablet. "You have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle as well as a couple of minor contusions, so we’re gonna keep you one more night just to be on the safe side."

"Sounds great," you croak sleepily.

Bucky looks at you warmly as the nurse—Claire—finishes your check-up and helps you sit up a little straighter.

"I’ll see if we can find some food for you, you’re probably starving," she concludes, giving you one last scrutinizing look. "Do you need anything else?"

"Actually, could you open a window?" you say.

Claire frowns. "You sure? It’s a downpour outside."

"I know." The thought is making you positively giddy.

Bucky helps push your bed closer to the cracked window. Heavy raindrops hail against the glass. The sky outside is gray and wild, and there’s the cacophany of traffic and sirens and a howling wind.

But the air smells like rain and new beginnings.

You remember the stone just after Claire has left you to your own devices again, your eyes widening. "Did you take the—”

He drops the small box from your nightstand into your lap. "Is it what I think it is?"

You pull off the lid, and there it is again, nestled into the corner of the box like it wants to hide away from prying eyes: the time stone.

Different than you remember, so small, so unassuming; and yet, it hums with magic, familiar and changed all at once, a warm pulse connected to your very core.

"Pretty sure," you say.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Bucky asks.

You contemplate the stone a moment longer, thinking about all the different possibilities; all the realities that could split off from this one. In all honesty, though, you’ve known the answer all along. "I think I’ll bring it back."

"Good call."

"Thank you. I have my moments." You put the box aside, looking at him. "You know what I’m gonna do after that?"

"What?" he says warily.

"I’m getting out of this town immediately. In fact, I’m kidnapping you and we’ll go to, I don’t know, Canada."

"We are?" Bucky chuckles.

"We can rent a cabin," you continue, "do absolutely nothing except read and go on walks and just—shit, what about our cat?"

Something in his gaze shifts, turns it even fonder. He kisses you, careful not to put pressure on you. Your heart pounds against your bruised ribs.

"What was that for?" you whisper against his lips.

"Nothing. I like your plans."

You smile tiredly. "When did you turn soft on me, Barnes?"

"Sweetheart, if you don’t know already, there’s no use in telling you."

You exhale, your lungs stinging. "Maybe you should, though," you say. "You should keep telling me."

A light blush creeps onto his cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again.

* * *

It’s still overcast a few days later when you’re standing in front of Bleecker Street’s Sanctum Sanctorum, your heart hammering. The air around you hums with familiar whispers.

I knew you’d be back. Still not good enough after all this—

"Oh, fuck off." You pull the door bell.

Your neck prickles with nerves as you stand there and wait for someone to come to the door, shuffling from one foot to the other. Bucky offered to come with you, but this is something you have to do on your own. You’ve told him as much.

Besides, you’re no longer scared of these people.

"What are they gonna do, trap me in another time loop?"

"Not funny."

He’s sitting in the coffee shop on the corner. You let him think you’ve not spotted him there in his cap and sunglasses; he needs that win, after the week you’ve both had.

While you’re there on the doorstep, you pull the time stone out of your bag again. For something supposedly so powerful, it really looks rather harmless. Just a pretty little stone with sharp edges. When you close your fist around it, you can feel a soft vibration, like a content low hum. It makes something tickle pleasantly down your spine.

"Sorry, sorry, I got your tip right—whoops. You’re not the pizza."

"I—" You stare at the young woman in front of you. She doesn’t look particularly Mystic Arts-y with her graphic t-shirt and electric blue shorts, and yet she looks like she’s very much at home.

Maybe things have changed since the Blip.

You’re still gonna take a little shortcut; for old times’ sake.

"Whoops. You’re not the pizza."

It’s great to have your powers back.

"Hi Katy. Is Wong in?"

She sighs. "I know you want me to ask why you know my name but you’d be surprised how quickly you get used to this shit. You wanna come in?"

You step over the threshold with a smile and the entire building whoomps.

It’s a sensation that’s not quite physical, like a sigh of air blasting out of all the windows at once, rushing through your hair and making the lamps in the foyer flicker. The stone in your hand pulsates warmly.

"Okay, that was freaky," Katy tells you. She turns around to shout up the stairs, "Wong? It’s for you, it’s—what was your name?"

"Y/N."

"It’s Y/N!"

It takes a couple of seconds before a muffled shout responds, "Do I know a Y/N?"

"How am I supposed to know?!" Katy answers.

There’s another break, followed by a crackling in the air and a string of curse words in a language you’ve not heard in a long while. "I’ll be there in a minute!"

"He’s gonna be five," Katy says. "You’d think timing’s the one thing they get right but …"

"Oh, I know what you mean. I like your boots, by the way."

"Thanks! They’re really uncomfortable."

You put the stone back into your bag and sit down in one of the couches near the stairs and she crosses her legs underneath her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Weirdly, you’re still not curious enough to ask.

This house feels like the kind of place where people just show up.

"Afternoon," Wong frowns about seven minutes later, looking at you from head to toe. "Have we met?"

You smile. "A couple of weeks ago, but not yet."

He nods slowly. "Tea?"

"For the record, I hate this."

"It’s just a teeny, tiny paradox," you tell Katy with a grin. "They happen all the time. The more you think about it, the less sense it’s gonna make."

"Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better whatsoever, but thank you for trying."

"Any time."

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Wong asks.

"Not really. I’d love some tea, though."

"Tea comes with a side of time talk," you warn her.

"Never cared much for tea. You guys go ahead."

Wong sighs, gesturing towards one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall. As it turns out, it leads to a rather cozy little office with a large window overlooking Sullivan Street. It smells like old books and candle wax, and there’s a framed Sopranos poster above the unlit fireplace.

"So, Miss Y/N," Wong says, sitting down behind the desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to you to report a time anomaly."

You start your explanation with the loop. With Bucky’s death, with the countless fruitless attempts to save his life and your reluctance to ask for help. You tell him about your meetings with Strange, about Bucky starting to remember the loop, about your previous visit to the Sanctum.

You talk about the way it ended as your tea goes cold.

Wong’s a good listener, only interrupting for a few clarifying questions. He doesn’t, you notice, inquire about your initial distrust of the Mystic Arts.

Finally, you’re coming to the last part of your tale, rummaging through your bag. "And then … well, I thought I’d return this."

You set the time stone on the table in front of you.

Wong’s chair clatters to the ground when he stands abruptly, his mouth agape.

"I think I restored it to an earlier stage, before it ever got pulverized in the first place." You frown. "I’m not sure why it changed colors, though."

It’s a rather nice shade of orange. Much less jarring than the cool shade of green you remember it being.

"Remarkable," Wong mutters, holding up his hand. The stone lifts off the table, humming gently. The sound vibrates through your chest. "I’ll have to do some research, but as it stands—you seem to have reached for the last remaining strands of the dying loop’s energy and knotted them into this one, and so they … crystallized."

In other words, you beat the closed system theory. Schrödinger can go fuck himself.

"Does that mean what I think it does, though?" you ask, leaning your head on your crossed arms on the table. "If the stones are interconnected, does that mean they’re all back?"

Wong shakes his head. "Quite possibly."

You hum. "Someone should probably go check on that."

"And you’re telling me that you did all of that—including resets of the entire timeline instead of performing a simple time slip, for your entire life—you did all of that by accident?"

You shrug, watching the amber specs of light dance all around the room. "I like the thought of serendipity."

* * *

"Hey."

"Mmm. Not yet."

"Sweetheart. It’s been an hour."

"No. It definitely hasn’t. It’s barely been thirty seconds."

Bucky chuckles, the only sound in a languidly slow universe on a perfectly cloudy afternoon. His breath tingles the back of your neck as he kisses your shoulder.

"Why do I get the feeling this is less about me and more about you procrastinating your meeting?"

"What meeting?" you say innocently.

"You know, time wizard shit? Happens every Friday?"

"Oh, that meeting." You burrow your nose into his shirt. "It got canceled."

"No, it didn’t. I saw you curse out your calendar yesterday."

"What are you, my overseer? We have a cat for that." One that’s currently curled up near the foot of the bed, sleeping. "Besides, I’m fine," you continue. "I can skip the meeting every now and then. Every week is just excessive."

"Doctor’s orders," Bucky reminds you, and you groan.

Wong’s unfortunately been too busy, so you’ve once again been stuck training your powers with a freshly multiversal Strange.

("Three-Eyes, are you sleeping?"

"Very funny."

"How do you sleep with it?"

"Silenor."

"Am I gonna get one of those?"

"No."

"Because I really don’t think it would work with my complexion."

"Are you done?"

"Sure. Let’s take the table quite away.")

Suffice it to say, he’s been even more on edge than during the loop. You’re quite sick of hearing about interdimensional travel and multiversal theory. What you lack and crave is practice, not philosophizing, and yet, somehow, it always seems to circle back around to that.

You sit up to scowl at Bucky, propped up as he is on your pillow. "Why do I feel like you want to get rid of me?"

His fingers continue tracing invisible patterns across your back, gentle and unwavering. "I don’t want you to exert yourself."

"You wanna do that yourself." He nudges you playfully and you laugh. "Seriously, I’m good. Ever since the stone’s been returned, my powers have felt … lighter. So much easier."

"Yeah?"

It really has been easier. You’ve gained a new confidence around your powers, even though you know, deep down, that you probably couldn’t create something as complex as that time loop again if you tried. It’s a pretty good thing you have no intention of doing anything like that ever again.

"Promise," you tell Bucky, and hold your hand up.

He wraps his pinkie around yours and pulls it close to kiss it. Warmth spreads in your chest and your belly.

"I’m not winning this one, am I?"

"Nope," you grin.

"And here I was gonna buy you coffee on the way."

You hum into his mouth. "You could do that later."

"Think you’ll be able to walk later?"

"Honestly, Buck, in front of the cat?"

His laugh is muffled by another kiss, soft and familiar by now, and yet no less electrifying. He kisses you like he doesn’t need air to breathe, and when you finally separate and he looks at you, his eyes are full of disbelief and wonder.

"Is this real?"

His hands are solid around your hips, anchoring you to the moment. You’re not entirely sure you’d be convinced if he didn’t provide that reminder; the world is too deliciously content to be believed.

But he’s here. His cheeks pink, his eyes dark enough to drown in, his heartbeat strong and steady and fast under your touch.

"You want me to pinch you?" you say, lightly scratching the back of his neck. His hair’s gotten longer since the loop, and now it’s thoroughly mussed by your fingers.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Bucky says. "If it’s not real, it’s a damn nice dream for a change."

There’s a slight waver in his voice that rasps against his careful façade of lightheartedness. So instead of teasing him further, you kiss him again.

Honestly, you should’ve been doing this all along. For months. Years. Lifetimes.

His lips slant perfectly against yours, coaxing, tasting, a soft, silent declaration of something yet unnamed spilling from his mouth to yours.

How people in relationships got anything done at all is beyond your comprehension.

People in relationships.

You try to banish the thought. Somehow, after everything you’ve been through, it feels both too trivial and too intense.

"What’s wrong?" Bucky murmurs into your mouth.

"Are we … that is, you and me …" you trail off, looking desperately for a turn of phrase that doesn’t come on too strong. "You know."

He moves to nudge his nose against yours, grinning. "Yes?"

"An … item?"

"An item."

"You know—going steady?" you wince. "Is that the right phrase?"

Bucky snorts. "Sure, it is."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "So?"

He tilts up your chin again, your gazes locking. Oddly bright blue eyes that have always been able to see right through you.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "I’ve wanted you to be my girl for a very long time. Whatever you wanna call this is fine with me."

A gentle shiver trickles down your spine.

"Okay. I’d like that."

You feel the world return to its normal speed with a gentle whoosh. The AC hums. There’s music in the living room, and you can hear Sam potter around in the kitchen. Alpine purrs in her sleep.

Gloriously, life goes on and on.

"A very long time, huh?"

Bucky smirks. "Are you gloating?"

"Well, it’s not every day I hear about my accidental charms. It was the post-its, wasn’t it?"

He’s still smiling as he pulls you back towards his lips.

* * *

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Error: Delayed transmission.

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Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. Your dialed number is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press one for more options.

Beep.

"Hey hon, it’s me. Sorry for calling so late, the kids are driving me crazy. Listen, I got your voice message and I’m worried about you, so call me back soon, alright? I miss you, too. I’m always there when you need to talk, I hope you know that. Love you. Call me!"

July 4, 2025 at 10:19 PM

[Call Back] [Delete]

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—fin—

this story began at 1am in my notes app when i couldn't fall asleep one night and was suddenly struck by an idea for a time loop story i tentatively called july 4th. i'd never written for bucky barnes before in my life. i'd only been reading reader insert fanfic for about a month. that was exactly four years ago, almost to the minute. since then, i've not spent a single day not thinking about this story. my life has changed in so many ways since it began, even though it's not always felt like it. it's a story about love, and about grief, and everything that connects the two with just a sprinkle of magic. it's meant the world to me and it will always mean the world to me, and i hope that it resonates with some of you.

in my life, i've been exceedingly lucky in one area, and that's friendships. it'd take too long to shout out every single person that kept me going through this strange and lonely process that's writing a time travel story (i tried, but i tend to ramble), but i will say this: i have, without a shadow of the doubt, some of the kindest, loveliest, most wonderful mutuals ever to be found on this earth. i've been talking about this fic nonstop for the past few years, and you were there, listening and encouraging and telling me you think about this story. that's absolutely everything a fic writer could wish for.

“I just want more.”

“Seriously? Can’t a man recover for a minute?”

Bucky’s teasing was making you more frustrated, and you groaned softly. It wasn’t your fault that his old ass was tapping out. You huffed and tried to think of how to solve this issue. That’s when it hit you.

“What if you didn’t have to move? I’ll do all the work.”

“You’ll do the work? It’s a little more difficult than you think, sweetheart. You’ve never even been on top.”

The fact that he was doubting your capabilities only annoyed you further. It was no secret that Bucky had more experience than you did. That didn’t mean that you were naïve, though. You could ride him with no issue. At least, that’s what you thought, and you voiced that.

“I can do it, Bucky. Please let me try. Just teach me how to do it.”

“Alright. Do as I say and you’ll do great.”

“Okay.”

Without another word, he placed his hands on your hips and helped you move so that you were hovering over him. Your knees were placed on either side of Bucky's thighs. He was fairly large, so it took some effort to fully straddle him. You managed, though. Once he had you positioned exactly where he wanted you, he spoke up again.

“Just like that. I’ve got you lined up, so all you have to do is settle down.”

“Okay. You’ll say something if I hurt you or anything?”

“Of course, sweet girl. Go ahead and move.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and did as you were told. You slowly sank down on Bucky’s thick cock and gasped as he stretched you out. Since you’d both gone a few rounds before this, you adjusted quickly. This angle was a bit different from what you were used to, though. You locked eyes with your boyfriend and sought out reassurance.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah, baby. Fuck, you’re doing so good.”

“What do I do, now?”

“Keep your knees planted where they are and just move. Do whatever feels best for you. You won’t hurt me.”

Bucky’s words had eased the anxiety you had surrounding performing. If he could sound confident about your abilities, so could you. Following his instructions, you did what felt right and started grinding your hips in long circular motions. He knew that you wanted to be independent, so he fought the urge to rut into you.

Instead of acting on those desires, Bucky laid back and watched the way that your tits bounced while you moved. God, he was never going to get used to seeing you like this. It was even better than he had imagined.

What you hadn't accounted for was that you were still tired and overly sensitive from earlier in the night. It didn't help that Bucky wasn’t a small man, and you had to be somewhat flexible to straddle him properly. You were determined to keep going, but your efforts were steadily becoming sluggish. He couldn't help, but tease you lightly.

“Poor baby. Is it too much for you? Is my girl getting sleepy on me?”

Refusing to stop, you didn’t give Bucky the satisfaction of responding, and you focused your attention on riding him. In a vain effort to anchor yourself, you planted your palms on his broad chest. It didn’t help very much, though. He could tell by the hazy look in your eyes that you were burning out, and he offered to lend a hand.

“You look so tired, pretty girl. Do you need me to take over?”

You nodded in defeat and tucked your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck. If you weren’t so exhausted and worked up, you would’ve been embarrassed. He wasted no time in taking over for you, moving your hips up and down. Your boyfriend was going out of his way to keep his motions gentle, but purposeful.

His efforts were relentless, and they were finally rewarded when you cried out. Your walls clamped around him and your vision went white with pleasure. Bucky's euphoria quickly followed, and he spilled inside of you. He held you close and rode out the orgasm with you. He continued praising you afterward.

“You did so good, baby. That was perfect.”

As you came down from your high, Bucky gently traced the curve of your spine and waited for his own breathing to even out. It took him a moment to realize that you had actually dozed off. He'd fucked his girl to sleep. The thought boosted his ego, and he could finally let himself return to resting.

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @sunday-bug (comment to join!!)

You have been running on empty so long your bones have started to keep time with the blades of your skates.

You have pushed until there’s nothing left to push with.

The ice stutters beneath your blades like a tired engine. Your breath is small, calibrated, and draining away faster than you can refill it.

The lights above the rink melt into watery coins and throw haloes on the surface as you carve the same figure eight for the hundredth time.

You keep going because that’s what you do — because the program sits in your chest like a lit fuse and you cannot, will not, let it sputter out.

Weeks of intense repetitions have hollowed your edges and now your vision is fringing with that dangerous tunnel blindness that arrives when the world has been pushed past its patience.

Your phone has been a persistent nuisance in your pocket all day. Bucky’s name lighting up the screen, messages piled over one another. He’s called several times already. He’s left one of his signature gallows-humor voicemails and another that was just him trying not to sound foolish while telling you to drink water.

You saw them. You read them in the awkward pause between jumps, and you told yourself you’d reply once you hit one more clean triple. You told yourself this while your hamstring grew louder in protests and your lungs burned pleasantly at first, then sharply, then not pleasantly at all.

Weeks have stacked on top of each other like plates you never learned to set down. Early mornings. Late nights. Blisters that reopened and bled and scabbed over and split again. Ankles wrapped tight, calves screaming, a spine that feels like it’s been wrung out and never hung to dry.

And in between all that, there’s your overly concerned and overly protective boyfriend Bucky.

He warned you. He pleaded with you. He reassured you, you’re good enough without running yourself to ruin.

You glided past his concern and his fear like it was a defender you could outmaneuver.

And he might not give up, but you don’t either. Because you can’t let go of that obstinate faith that if you could land this program, the rest would line up like obedient dominoes.

You tell yourself one more run. One more clean run.

But your vision starts losing structure, and the corners of your mouth taste of metal. The music you used as a heartbeat thins to a single string. The rink reduces to the sound of your blades and painfully kindling echo of your own breath.

You try to call back a session — focus on your core, focus on the placement of your feet — but the inhale in your chest catches on something and decides to stay there.

There is that small, stupid thought — as if your brain, faithful to your stubbornness, insists on making a pun even as it betrays you — that collapses are dramatic, that fainting is a theatrical exit you will be remembered for, that this, too, will make for a good story later.

You let the idea pass because there is an actual, immediate pressure ramming through the back of your eyes.

Your knees give a soft, diplomatic no, and you go down.

The rink feels like it’s been waiting for you to stop moving.

Your body is finished negotiating with you, and the ice is too kind to hold you. Cold seeps through your clothes and settles in your bones.

Darkness doesn’t last because there’s a sound somewhere at the edge of your consciousness. It’s muffled and contorted, but you know what it is. It’s the door of the rink slamming open. Footsteps follow.

“Y/n?”

The sound of your name echoes across the rink and bounces back unanswered. You don’t answer because you can’t. Your mouth is sewn shut, as are your eyes, and your limbs are in a dreamland somewhere far away. They’ve been loaned out and forgotten.

“Hey, baby, come on.” He calls out again, and it’s only now that you realize it’s Bucky. “Are you mad at me? I know you’re here. Saw your car out front.” You know the voice he uses. It’s the one that has learned to try sounding casual and failed twenty times and then softened into something that always, inevitably, breaks when you’re involved. You hear the way his tone is slightly pitched too high.

Nothing answers him but the electrical buzz of the fluorescents. You hear his boots thud against the concrete as he moves farther in. You hear the way his breath kicks faster, getting louder in the refrigerated silence around you.

There’s a beat of silence, then an exhale that comes out a little shaky, followed by a bit of rustling and him tapping on his phone probably.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, but it sounds dragged out of a dry throat, strained through gritted teeth. “Pick up. Just pick up, please.

The ringing echoes faintly.

And then something starts vibrating against your hip. You don’t understand what it means at first. It’s a trapped insect buzzing insistently from your pocket. It keeps going. Over and over. It’s muffled, but loud in the empty rink.

Bucky is calling you again.

“Baby?” Bucky’s confused voice sounds out once more. There are more footsteps. Coming closer to the edge of the rink. “Sweetheart, are you—”

There’s a sharp inhale. A gasp caught stuck in his throat and then choked out for a second try.

“Oh— no. No, no, no— Baby, shit.” Bucky’s voice is scraped raw completely. He calls your name, rougher, every syllable a rock thrown hard and failing to miss. Suddenly everything is movement. Shoes sliding on ice, a body hitting the rink hard, the scrape of frictionless panic.

You taste salt in the back of your throat and then a hand is under your shoulders, lifting you, solid and fast and careful and all wrong for someone who plays a sport on the ice.

“Hey, hey, baby! Come on, look at me!” Bucky’s voice is right above you, fractured and stumbling into horror, words tumbling over each other. He sounds wrecked, as though something in him cracked open.

“You were supposed to text me,” he croaks, but it’s not an accusation so much as an animal sound — distress turned into language. “God, why didn’t you—” He doesn’t finish. He coughs it away and leans down, breath hot and staccato against your ear. He checks you like someone trained to assess damage. Fingers under your chin, on your wrist, at the base of your throat. His hands are rough from hockey tape and practice, but the carefulness is exact, surgical even, belying the shaking in his jaw.

You try to answer and your mouth shapes air into nonsense. He presses a palm to your forehead, then lifts it away as if measuring temperature by motion rather than touch. Blood rushes in your ears. For an absurd second, when his hand finds your wrist to count your pulse, you feel both terrified and small and fancifully precious. “Jesus, baby, come on— look at me, wake up, please—“

He is not calm. There is no quiet hero energy, no easy collectedness. He is in shock. He is terrifically, achingly on the edge of being undone. He kneels beside you like the world is a problem he will not surrender to. “Can you hear me, baby?” he demands gently, fiercely. “Y/N, look at me. Talk to me.”

You feel the warmth of him around you, his hand cupping your cheek, his arm around your middle. You feel the faint, harmless ring of hockey gear. Tape, leather, the brief rasp of his shoulder guard against your cheek. You feel his breath puff against your face in horrified, ragged spurts.

You hear him fumbling with his phone again and you manage to let out a soft groan. The sound is barely there, but it might as well be a siren.

“There you are,” he breathes, the relief in his voice so intense, it feels too much. “There you are, baby— Jesus, okay. Okay.” His thumb brushes your cheek. His chest rises and falls hectically against you.

When you stir, half-dreaming, his face is all angles and midnight hair, eyes blown wide and dark as if someone had poured worry into them and left it boiling there. Your eyes flutter open to a ceiling that won’t stay still. Light stabs. You blink against all of it, confused, disoriented, your brain struggling to catch up with your body.

“Hey,” he lets out, soft but no less shaken. “Hey. I’ve got you.”

You swallow. Your throat burns. “Bucky?” Your voice comes out weak, confused.

He exhales sharply, almost a sob, and nods over and over. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, it’s me. You passed out. You scared the hell out of me.”

You try to lift your head. The rink spins violently, and you hiss, clutching his jacket instinctively. His grip tightens immediately.

“No, hey, no. Don’t move,” he says quickly. “Don’t sit up yet, doll. Just stay right here for a moment, yeah?”

He rips his own water bottle from his bag with a motion that is almost violent. He pulls the cap and, without wasting time, tips it into your mouth while keeping one hand around you to support your head. The water is cold and sharp and exactly what you need. You cough and swallow, and let the fluid do its slow, saving work. He watches every swallow like a judge watching a verdict.

“You—” He interrupts himself, pushing the bottle away after you’re done and pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s like watching someone holding a collapse at bay. His hand is shaking. “You can’t keep doing this, baby.” He isn’t hard on you. His voice is anything but hard, really. “You listen to me. No more practicing alone until you sleep, eat, hydrate and I get to see the schedule. Yeah? Please, sweetheart.”

You let yourself slump against him with a sigh. “Buck—”

“You’ve been training flat-out for weeks,” he goes on, not accusing, but his tone gets a little rougher, his eyes a little more glassy. “You’re running yourself into the damn ice, sweetheart.” His hands remain utterly devoted and gentle as his thumb swipes away a bead of something that might be sweat or might be a tear. “You’re killing yourself for this, and I’m not here to stand by and watch, baby.”

There is a rawness to him, a tenderness that is sharpened by fear. He sounds like someone who’s been rehearsing how to ask for permission to love harder.

You think about being indignant, to say you’ve got it handled. But being examined by him — by those honest eyes that know the shape of your laugh and the way your shoulders fold when you’re tired — makes your defenses feel silly and thin.

And you are glad he came.

You are glad he cared enough to come looking for you.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” you whisper. Your fingers curl into his wrist, around the familiar calluses and the warmth of taped knuckles. His skin smells like the rink and aftershave and something else that is unequivocally him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He looks back at you with shining eyes. “I know, baby,” he replies quietly. “But you can’t keep this up.” He is still shaken and angry at you and with you and at himself — an internal calculus that makes him move with an urgency that borders on brittle. “No more solo marathons,” he grounds out, determined. “You let me know. I want calls. I want texts.” He hunts for words and fails and swallows and licks his lips. “Please just— promise me you’ll call me next time before it gets like this.”

You squeeze his arm. “I promise,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.” You reach up and touch his cheek, soothing your fingers over his skin the way he did with you. He closes his eyes briefly at your touch.

He exhales as though he’s been holding his breath for weeks. But his jaw remains a locked door.

His forehead meets yours, pressing almost a little too hard. His eyes shine into yours with much more than the usual amount of worry. “You feeling dizzy? Something hurt? Talk to me,” he whispers into your skin.

“I’m tired,” you admit silently, only briefly meeting the depth of his eyes.

His face does a small crumple. “That’s what I’ve been sayin’,” he murmurs with his lips brushing your temple. “You don’t listen when I tell you, though.”

You will, now.

“I’ll do better,” you breathe as your lips meet, guilt making you press harder into him. “Promise.”

“Alright.” He lingers a little on your mouth and then leans back to smooth your hair away from your face and look you in the eyes. He still gazes down at you with a kind of affection you didn’t expect after your little stunt. “I’m takin’ you home. You’re done for tonight.”

You don’t even think about protesting.

A tremor runs through his shoulders when he moves to lift you. He doesn’t make a show of strength, he simply does it with the same unspoken competence that makes him lethal on the ice. You cling to him, and his hand steadies the small of your back while the other arm slinks under your knees.

You let your head rest against his shoulder, his heart loudly ticking against your ear.

You are light in his arms and heavy in your own skin.

The ceilings of the compound’s gym echo your breath back toward you, basically wanting you to choke on it. You still smell faint traces of fresh rubber and eucalyptus from the earlier team yoga class you skipped on purpose, because you have been home from a two-week mission for less than twelve hours, and socializing feels like lifting a cement truck with your teeth.

Now everyone’s in the city doing shots or doing karaoke or being alive in a way you currently refuse to be.

You don’t want joy.

You want the barbell.

You want the barbell because two weeks of a deep-cover op in Bogotá will do some serious brain frying to a person. You also feel like you still have mission dust in your hair and you hope if you sweat hard enough you will finally stop being a person who thinks too much.

You are alone in the gym at 11:37 pm on a Tuesday and every single bulb feels like it’s judging you.

You thought training would feel grounding.

It really doesn’t, but you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than that.

The fluorescent lights feel too bright suddenly, they seem to jab needles into your retinas. Mirrors mirror back a version of you you don’t recognize. A version that needs to recalibrate every joint in your body to remember she is real.

Your bones ache from the flight, your knee is still half bruised, your lower back is whispering threats. You don’t listen. Of course you don’t listen. You are annoyingly competitive with the version of yourself inside your own head. The worst opponent possible.

You pick up the barbell anyway, talk to your own reflection like a menace, and decide to go heavier than you should. You imagine Sam calling this late-night atonement energy. You imagine Natasha calling this the I don’t know how to rest disease. You imagine Tony calling this peak dumbass.

You grab the bar. You set your stance. You inhale fire.

Your muscles pull like reluctant rope.

You start your deadlift.

You lift like you are punishing the molecules.

And because the universe is a pretty little brat, your left pinky finger twitches at the wrong millisecond and the weight slips and gravity shows her claws and you make a sound.

You make a sound because the bar crashes directly onto the very top bones of your right foot. Not enough to pulverize, but enough to send every neuron in your leg into a perfect barbershop quartet of pain.

You go still.

The pain is radioactive. The pain is hilariously specific. It’s like your foot is attempting to write a novel in morse code.

You inhale through your teeth so violently you think you might vomit. Your soul briefly leaves your body, files a complaint, and then returns only to scream.

FRIDAY’s soft, neutral voice materializes overhead.

“Agent, you appear to be in acute pain. Would you like me to alert Sergeant Barnes?”

The humiliation is instant.

Absolutely not.

You would rather limp forever. You would rather cut off the foot with kitchen shears. You would rather crawl into a vent and hibernate.

You will not let Bucky I said that out loud? Wow real sorry Barnes find you helpless on the gym floor.

He would smirk once. Once. And then he’d get that smug quiet face. That sergeant face. As if he’s a patient father of a toddler.

No. You can’t do this. You are a superhero. You once bench-pressed a truck. Small truck. Flatbed. And Steve might have helped a little. But still.

“No,” you wheeze, trying to sound composed. “No notifications. This is a private moment. A stupid private moment.”

You grip the iron and shift it away, and your vision whites out like someone turned the saturation all the way up.

Your mouth hangs open like a glitching tab in a browser, and you are trying to breathe with just the top half of your lungs because the bottom half is currently replaying your poor life choices.

You slowly lower yourself onto the mat and clutch your foot like a widow clutching her pearls.

It throbs so intensely you are convinced the bones rearranged out of spite.

“Your injury metrics are not insignificant,” FRIDAY offers again, very calmly.

“I’m fine,” you lie to the ceiling, to the AI, to the ghosts of your own pride. “I don’t need him of all people.”

The gym buzzes with fluorescent indifference.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your eyes from watering.

You genuinely might vomit.

“Friday,” you whisper-yell, shaky and wrecked, “this stays between us.”

There is silence. And the glimmer of a camera diaphragm narrowing somewhere behind a tinted panel.

You close your eyes.

You stay there, trying to breathe through the sharp pain, refusing to acknowledge the part of your stomach that dipped when FRIDAY suggested him. The part you would sooner die than admit.

Because if Bucky Barnes walks in here right now and sees you like this, you will never hear the end of it.

You stay seated on the cold gym floor for exactly fifteen seconds before panic kicks in.

Because logically, rationally, historically; Bucky never actually mocks you when you get hurt. Not once. He is surprisingly gentle in those moments. Weirdly soft-spoken then. His eyes do that serious, scanning thing and he starts troubleshooting silent solutions like a one-man tactical medic unit.

And yet.

You are absolutely convinced that this particular flavor of idiotic self-injury will turn him into the smuggest man alive. This is different. This is embarrassing. This is textbook hubris. You can practically hear his voice in your head.

really?

the bar fell on your foot?

Your pride is choking you like a boa constrictor of your own stupidity.

You haven’t even seen him yet tonight. You stepped off the quinjet, showered, lowered your cortisol enough to pretend to be a functional human, and then came here to sabotage yourself with iron. Classic. Meanwhile, the rest of the team went out to some bar in Brooklyn because they apparently enjoy friendship and daylight and the dopamine of communal beverages.

Bucky stayed behind. That’s nothing new. Bucky never goes with them. He does not do sociable frivolity. He does the exact opposite. He haunts the hallways like a large, beautiful housecat with too many knives.

And you could hear him earlier.

When you were changing in your room, you heard the solid thud-thud-thud of his boots pacing in the hallway you both share. A restless zig-zagging that made the wood subfloor complain just enough to announce his existence. Like he was waiting for his thoughts to quiet. Or for something to happen.

And now the risk of him appearing is non-zero.

You very carefully begin the slow-motion process of standing up on your one functional foot. The pain radiates catastrophically, like a small nuclear detonation in the cluster of metatarsals you once trusted. You hiss under your breath, like a dying teakettle.

You limp.

It is not dignified.

You are trying to disguise it as a casual limp. A sexy limp. A limp that implies you are aloof and ethereal and maybe you just did something mysterious and glamorous. You are trying to make this limp seem like a lifestyle choice.

FRIDAY thankfully doesn’t call you out on it.

You take another hobbling step toward the door.

Your foot screams like a siren.

You grit your teeth and tell yourself fiercely, that you’re going to make it to your room like a stealth operative. You are not going to encounter him in the hallway. The universe loves you. It is rooting for your dignity.

The universe, of course, does not answer, and the hallway that leads away from the gym feels like a mouth about to bite down.

It is a dim, blue twilight ribbon of motion sensor light. You commit to the bit. You commit to the limpless limp. You commit to an Oscar-worthy performance of nothing is wrong here, I am merely walking like a normal person with normal bones that have not betrayed me.

You try to glide past the kitchen as though you are not a person in agony but instead a hologram of a person in agony.

You are almost safe, but then you see him.

Bucky is standing at the kitchen counter in a soft gray T-shirt, hair damp like he just showered, stirring honey into a mug of tea with an absent expression that looks almost thoughtful. Or irritated. Or both. His face always sits somewhere between those two coordinates.

In the overhead LEDs he looks like a man who’s been alive too long and somehow still cares enough to steep Earl Grey.

He glances up at exactly the wrong or right second.

His eyes catch yours fast, as if he expected you.

You tell your face to perform. Placid. Composed. The girl who has two functioning feet and never did anything as embarrassing as dropping iron on her own bones.

Your right foot is an electrified balloon.

“Hey,” he lets out gruffly.

You blink in the same startled way a raccoon might blink after being caught in someone’s garbage.

“Hey,” you say, voice too casual. Casual like a person trying to launder their own voice through a filter of charm.

He looks too awake for this hour. Damp hair pushed back, shirt soft and lived-in, sleeves loose on his shoulders.

He glances at you in that slow, data-logging way he always has. His jaw makes a tiny shift.

“You’re back.” He says it as though it’s information he already had. Stored away. It’s as close as he’ll get to I was aware of your absence and the knowledge of that makes your chest go fizz.

“Yeah,” you answer, absolutely planting both feet to the ground in a stance that looks stiff and unnatural. Both feet touch the ground, technically, but all your weight stays on the left leg. Your right foot is barely skimming the tile, like a very nervous hovercraft. “Got in earlier. Crashed for a while.”

Bucky studies you for one long second.

He has that look that reads people like a list of ingredients.

“Rough trip?” he asks, with that deep and throaty voice.

You swallow. “Kind of.”

He takes a sip. Eyes stay on you. Calm. Reading you like a page with underlines.

“You want tea?” He nods vaguely at the kettle. He doesn’t even say it as a question. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. Communicating in half-offers so he can pretend he doesn’t have feelings.

You try to pivot and your right foot brushes the tile a little too forcefully and your soul leaves your body, briefly. “No, thanks.”

He nods once, takes a sip. “Others are out in Brooklyn.”

“Yes,” you echo, as if you had just invented geography. “Bars. People. Laughing. All that.”

He hums. “You didn’t feel like joining?”

You shrug, hoping the casual movement distracts from the fact that your right foot has become a private expanding sun of pain. “I was tired. I wanted some peace and quiet. And a shower with real water pressure and products that don’t smell like industrial lavender.”

His mouth tugs at one corner. The hint of an almost-smile.

But he doesn’t stop studying you.

He taps his spoon on the rim of the mug, lightly. “You good?” he asks with a small tilt of his head. This is his version of leaning closer without actually leaning closer.

Your heart rate spikes so abruptly you nearly wobble onto your injured foot. Your stomach does a weird flutter, and your mouth lies on autopilot.

“Yeah,” you say too fast, too bright, too defensive. “Just tired, still”

Bucky hums, setting his tea down. He taps his metal thumb on the counter twice. It’s a little thinking tic you’ve catalogued without meaning to.

You plant your feet deeper into the floor to make it look more natural, but that was another stupid decision. Lightning surges up your right foot. You keep your expression intact, hopefully. But your small smile feels strained and brittle, like a sticker coming off in the wrong direction.

Bucky squints at you subtly. He does not buy it. He does not not buy it either. He is in the investigative purgatory of maybe.

“You sure?” His voice drops half a register. Not teasing. Sincere. Some microscopic muscle in his jaw flexes.

You nod. “Yeah, totally.”

He stands there, still, like a statue that thinks it’s a shadow.

“You’re standing kind of weird,” he assesses.

“Weird how?” you ask nonchalantly, but you feel the sweat at the nape of your neck starting to sting.

Both feet remain on the ground for demonstration and you think you might faint from the flash of pain but you do your best to keep your face movie-perfect. It doesn’t really seem to work but all you can do is try. You need to leave before the pain makes you involuntarily scream.

He stares at your posture. “Don’t know.” His voice is faraway, reflective. However, his eyes are a little too focused for your taste.

You decide you should leave before he witnesses the collapse of your whole performance. You start to pivot - warily, guardedly, like a spy tiptoeing through a field of pressure plates.

“Okay well, I’m back in my room, trying to get some sleep in,” you start, feeling nervous but doing your best not to let it seep into your tone. “Guess you should too.”

He watches you turn, watches you aim your body toward your bedroom hallway like a wounded gazelle refusing to acknowledge the predator in the room.

“Good night.“ His voice is quiet.

You can feel his gaze between your shoulder blades. You can feel him trying to parse the strange thing you are doing with your joints. You can feel another single step might make you whimper.

But you keep going.

Because you are determined.

Because pride is something too important to lose.

Because you would rather fall down in an empty hallway and crawl to your room like a tragic mythological creature than let him see you hurt yourself in the stupidest way imaginable.

You try to keep moving. Every step is sending an array of pain through your body, and you’re glad your back is turned to him so he doesn’t see you grimace.

You clear the kitchen doorway. One more corner and you can hide in the blessed anonymity of your room. But as you turn the corner, the pain detonates. White behind your eyes.

Your right foot tries to touch the ground and your entire body says absolutely not.

You slap your hand onto the wall for support, breath hitching like your lungs just skipped frames. Your injured foot is instantly lifted off the ground. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale through your teeth, because if you make a noise you will cry and if you cry you will dissolve.

“You shouldn’t walk on that foot.”

You startle again. And then freeze like one of those wildlife documentaries where the deer hears something in the wind.

But honestly, you should’ve expected him to follow you.

When Bucky Barnes finds something suspicious, he’ll dig deep, and he’ll get to the bottom of it.

You exhale every lie you were planning to use.

You turn to him a little, trying for nonchalance again. You swallow. Your pride tries to creep into your esophagus and choke you out. Your back is pressed to the wall. Your right foot is levitating like a hostage.

And Bucky takes you in.

A microsecond scan. That mouth like it knows things. Those eyes like they were born knowing how to observe damage.

His face goes blank in that specific Bucky way. Not cold, not warm - just laser discipline clicking into place.

“It’s not a big deal,” you try.

He doesn’t bother arguing your version of reality. He just gives you that look that could bisect molecules. The one that says I’ve been alive a hundred years, doll, I can spot bullshit from space.

His hand - flesh, this time - lands gentle and firm just above your elbow. Irritatingly tender.

“C’mon,” he says, almost whisper-soft, but directing. “Sit.”

Your body obeys before your ego can intervene. You grind your teeth as you move your foot because it feels like stepping on broken glass and electricity. He guides you to the nearest bench in the hallway's alcove and helps you lower yourself down on it.

The sudden absence of your own weight from that foot makes your whole nervous system sag in shaky relief.

Bucky kneels in front of you and the gesture makes your breath hitch. His hair shifts forward a little as he ducks his head to see, that dark, wet-soft strand falling near his brow.

“Let me see,” he utters, extending his metal hand, palm up.

You hesitate. His eyes move up and pin you.

You offer your injured foot in a slow movement.

He eases your shoe onto his palm, deliberate and mindful. That gentleness always shocks you. You keep forgetting the metal arm is the part used for breaking things, not the man.

He presses carefully along the outside of your shoe, testing for reaction.

You hiss, involuntarily, like air bursting from a tire.

His mouth goes grim.

“What happened?”

There’s no edge to it. Just dead-serious need for accurate data.

You scramble for an excuse. “It’s nothing- mission- just a little-”

He cuts you a short, dissecting glance.

“You weren’t limping off the jet twelve hours ago.”

Your stomach drops.

You stare at him.

He doesn’t blink.

You didn’t even know he saw you come off the jet. You didn’t see him watching.

Your brain does that glitch thing. A stutter-step of surprise. An emotional pothole.

“I didn’t know you were there,” you note, voice a little thinner than you wish.

He doesn’t correct. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t get embarrassed.

“You weren’t limping,” he simply repeats. “So, try that again,” he adds in the same tone, flat but also nonjudgmental.

He continues evaluating your foot, thumb soft.

You are suddenly eight years old and caught with crumbs on your face and cookie-thief written across your forehead.

“It was nothing, just-” you start. You stare at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then your own disastrous sense of dignity. “I dropped a weight on it,” you mumble into the void.

There. It’s out.

Bucky pauses.

Then, he exhales through his nose. The closest thing he has to a sigh.

“You dropped a weight on your own foot,” he repeats, as though he’s documenting the incident in some internal report.

You slap a hand over your face. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

He lifts your foot slightly to examine a different angle. His voice is subdued and infuriatingly calm. “I’m not. I’m trying to make sure you didn’t fracture anything.”

You grip the edge of the bench.

“Which plate,” he asks, pragmatic. As if he’s logging injury metadata.

“Twenty-five,” you mutter.

He frowns, lifts his eyes to yours. You are drowning in the blue of them. “You went for a PR while you were still jet-lagged.”

You want to fling yourself into a recycling bin.

“Needed to get my mind off things,” you admit slowly.

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just fixes his gaze back to your foot, pensive.

“I need to remove the shoe, doll,” he tells you, voice deeper, tone gentle. “Won’t be able to see the damage otherwise.”

“Okay,” you say, small.

“Alright.” His tone is even but also soft-spoken in a way that makes something jump in your chest. “Don’t move.”

His fingers find the knotted lace. He works it loose with scientific delicacy. He moves slow enough that you can tell he’s preparing for pain spikes. He knows the math of injuries. He’s done field trauma on five continents. He’s probably triaged broken feet in tundras and deserts and alleys.

Your breath goes shallow.

He eases the heel of the shoe back a millimeter at a time.

Your vision fuzzes.

Your body goes rigid.

He pauses.

And after waiting for your next intake of breath, he slides the shoe off, along with your sock.

The air hits your swollen skin and you suck a sharp breath in because the sensation is a category 5 hurricane.

He sits back a bit. Flesh hand holding your shoe. Metal hand holding the underside of your foot. The coolness of his hand is somehow both grounding and electrifying.

You tilt your chin and pull your bravado on like a thrifted sweater.

He looks at your foot. Looks at the bruising that has bloomed purple-black-green like a chaotic galaxy.

He exhales, slow. A low whistle folded in one long breath.

His expression is grim, so quietly fixed in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and then crawl back in again. His grip remains secure. He keeps cataloguing pain points.

“Yeah, you’re not waking on that,“ he comments decisively. “Not until we ice it.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I can walk.”

His eyes cut to yours again.

“You can pretend,” he corrects. “That’s different.”

He shifts his hold gently, supportive, as if he’s already planned the next three steps.

You get off the bench, reaching for his arm because you are trying to be a reasonable adult. But your foot doesn’t even touch the ground and gives a little spark of fresh agony.

And before you can redirect, or negotiate, he is already sliding an arm behind your back, another under your knees, and lifting you.

Like a damsel.

Like a problem to be redirected.

You gasp, palms flying to his shoulders.

“Bucky- hey- no, put me down-”

He doesn’t even dignify your panic with a reply, he just adjusts you against his chest as though you weigh the mass of a warm towel and starts walking.

It is the least graceful moment of your adult life.

You are hyper-aware of everything. His bicep under the fabric of his shirt. The faint scent of cedarwood shampoo. The fact that your thigh is pressed to his torso in a way that feels obscene for this late hour on a Tuesday.

“This is humiliating,” you complain under your breath, face on fire.

He snorts. “You can feel humiliated while sitting down.”

“Bucky-”

“Stop arguing,” he remarks, and he isn’t condescending. He almost sounds concerned. “You’re injured. I’m not letting you load that foot.”

You stare up at him, mortified and also completely overwhelmed by the fact that his arms are around you and he smells clean and warm and a little like the tea he just had.

Then you try to look anywhere but his face because your heart is beating rude and loud.

The med freezer alcove is small, clinical, stainless steel surfaces and that cold antiseptic smell of professional athletic medicine.

He sets you gently on the padded trainer table and kneels again like earlier.

Except now you’re sitting, and his face is close enough you can count the faint freckles on his cheekbones. You are fully in his gravitational forcefield.

You feel ridiculous. Tiny. Exposed.

He extracts an instant ice pack, cracks the inside unit with a short metal-thumb pressure, shakes it once, then cups your ankle again.

You’re sure the couch in the living room and a simple ice pack from the kitchen would have been enough. But Bucky’s always been a little dramatic.

You wince as he applies the ice.

He watches your expression, careful. Adjusts pressure. Finds the threshold between helpful and too much.

“Next time,” he notes quietly, voice a little rough, “ask someone to spot you.”

You feel heat edge all the way to your scalp.

“I didn’t expect this level of stupidity,” you argue, defensive, self-deprecating.

His mouth almost curves. Not a smile, just a flicker of wry acknowledgment.

“Accidents happen,” he replies, voice level but sympathetically warm.

You scoff. “Not ones this dumb.”

He looks up, a longer look. “S’ not dumb, doll.”

You look away from him. His sincerity freezes you more than the ice.

Your throat goes tight.

He holds the ice pack in place.

You clear your voice, small. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” A simple statement.

He adjusts your foot again, more secure. His metal hand brackets the underside so the ice stays even.

“And yet,” you murmur, almost whispering.

He doesn’t look at you.

He just keeps his focus on your foot. His voice is calm, but there’s no exit, no loophole, no weakness in it.

“You wouldn’t have done it yourself.” Another verdict.

And you hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows you so well.

He keeps the ice there until the initial stabbing pain dulls into a deep, sullen throb. Your whole body is humming like a machine red-lining.

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he shifts the pack aside and carefully cups your heel again. His touch is slow and precise and light enough to heat up your skin.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft. “I need to see how bad it is. I’m gonna check range.”

You nod. Your throat is a mess.

He cups your heel with the metal palm - cool straight through your skin - and with his warm organic hand, he supports the arch.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he instructs quietly, gruffly.

He lifts your foot a hair, rotates it a tiny bit. His eyes never leave your face.

You want to die and also be like this forever.

“That hurt?” he inquires, careful.

You swallow. “No. I mean- yes. Kind of. I don’t know.”

His lips jerk the ghost of a laugh. “Okay. What about this.”

He shifts the angle two degrees right.

A tiny lightning strike of pain arcs straight to your skull.

You suck in air through your teeth.

He freezes.

His jaw clenches.

“That’s a no,” he concludes with a scowl. His thumb traces along the bone line with that careful pressure that feels like a spotlight.

Then he angles your foot inward.

You inhale sharply once more.

He holds still. Eyes on your face. “Top? Side?”

“Top,” you whisper, like shame is oxygen.

He nods once. “Alright.”

He lowers your foot back down with so much tenderness it almost offends you.

“Are you enjoying this?” you ask him with a small teasing curve of your lips.

He gives you a look.

“No,” he states plainly. “I’m trying to see if your metatarsals are intact.”

You blink.

He is so serious. Expression pulled so tight.

But he’s watching you with his face growing a centimeter softer, eyes doing that thing where they go half-warm.

Then he shifts your foot again. He uses his flesh hand to gently lift your toes - just a few degrees - just enough to check something internal and intangible and soldier-logic.

Pain punches through your entire leg in a clean bright line so harshly, you choke on your breath.

Your whole torso jerks back.

Bucky flinches with you. His brows slam together in a hard grimace.

He goes stone still.

His jaw goes hard.

“Okay,” he mutters, almost under his breath, as though he’s already adjusting his internal assessment. “That might be a break.”

Your stomach drops through the table.

“Are you sure?” you nervously ask.

Bucky grinds his jaw, still keeping his gaze on your foot, his hands holding it still. “Yeah. I’m guessing you might’ve fractured something.”

You curse under your breath.

“This is such bad timing,” you groan, instantly nauseous. “I’m scheduled to leave again in three days.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and the look is very Bucky Barnes you’re not doing that energy.

“No you’re not.”

“I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” you insist, anxiety rising like steam. “If I bail, Fury will-”

He scowls. “Fury can’t send you anywhere like this.”

You cringe. Because you know Fury’s response would be well then get un-broken.

“Fury’s not known for compassion, Bucky. Especially not for something this ridiculous,” you say roughly.

Bucky’s jaw cements. “I don’t give a damn what he’s known for,” he bites out. “He’s not putting you on a plane like this.”

You sink your fingers into your forehead. “He’ll make me regret it.”

“He won’t,” Bucky utters, tone flattening to steel.

“Bucky-”

“You can’t even put pressure on your foot, sweetheart. Your job is to come home alive. Not to impress anybody with how much punishment you can absorb.” His voice is so low, it almost sounds like a threat.

You stare at him. Speechless.

He places the ice back on your foot, softly. Checks your expression again.

You deflate. Shoulders cave inward. Because you know he’s right. But it’s an awful feeling.

You look at your foot. The black-purple galaxy bruise swelling like cursed bread dough.

“When do you think I can go again?” you whisper, trying to sound casual and totally failing.

He angles his head, considering. He studies your foot again, but his expression softens. He is doing timelines in his head. Calculating bone health, trauma recovery, mission requirements, your ego.

“Depends,” he explains softly. “If it’s a partial fracture - five to six weeks minimum. If it’s a clean break - might take a while longer.”

You make a miserable noise.

He watches your face.

And then, very gently, he softens his tone.

“Look,” he offers, quiet, searching. “This happens, doll. You’re not indestructible. And Fury shouldn’t expect you to be. You’ve been stacking mission after mission, overclocking your system.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

He continues, softer still, eyes pinning yours like a hand on your sternum.

“Maybe this forces you to stand still for a while. And I think that’s not the worst thing. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

You huff a laugh that’s mostly sad.

“I don’t even know how to stand still.”

He smirks, barely. Almost invisible.

“Sitting still, then,” he revises dryly, glancing at your foot, “because you’re absolutely not standing on that.”

You let out a burdened sigh.

“I could hop,” you try again, because apparently, your brand is relentless denial.

He deadpans, not even looking up. “You can hobble into a worse injury. That’s all hopping gets you, doll.”

“You’re very bossy,” you grumble.

He lifts his eyebrows at you, a tiny glint of amusement lining up behind his eyes.

He shifts the ice pack a millimeter - just enough to reduce pressure - and you breathe out like a dying accordion.

“This isn’t a setback, doll,” he tells you empathetically, tone so soft. “It’s just downtime. Think it will be good for you. You stay put. You rest. You let your body catch up. And next time, you let me spot you.”

You blink at him with your eyes stingy because the word downtime feels like a permission slip you didn’t know how to write for yourself. Because the way he’s talking to you makes your spine light up in neon.

He looks down again - checking swelling, repositioning the ice once more - and the whole moment is so gentle you don’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll talk to Fury,” he announces, firm and resolute.

You blink at him.

“What?”

He shrugs one shoulder, not looking up at you. “You’re not taking heat for this. I’ll handle it.”

Your chest goes fizzy weird and unsafe.

You keep staring at him.

This man would go to war with an entire intelligence apparatus rather than watch you limp into one more dangerous thing.

And it’s too much to process so you look at your foot again because it’s easier than looking at him.

“You don’t have to, Bucky,” you reply, almost breathless. “I can deal with it.”

“I know.”

And yet.

“The hardest thing is to give up control when you’ve spent your whole life thinking it’s what keeps you safe.”

- Brené Brown

“I just don’t get why they have to be part of everything we do,” you argue, louder than you mean to. You fold your arms across your chest, like you could barricade yourself behind them.

You’re standing in the middle of the Halloween fair, which should be something nice, something lighthearted and pumpkin-scented and sticky-fingered - but now you’re trying not to look like someone who’s about to stage a coup.

The air is full of sugar and something smoky - caramel apples, popcorn, fake fog. And the lights blink as though they’re trying to have a conversation with your anxiety. Somewhere nearby, a kid screams and you would like to scream back.

Natasha lifts her eyes from her phone and gives you that sideways look. The one that says you’re entertaining her, but only marginally - like a cat watching a bug crawl across the floor. Wanda’s on your other side, hiding a grin behind her mug of hot cider. The steam curls around her face like it’s trying to soften the laughter she’s swallowing.

“They’re fun to have around,” Natasha says, tone dry, unbothered. Her lips jerk into that smug little smirk you love and hate all the same.

“For you, Romanoff,” you fire back, a grumble in your tone. “Which doesn’t count. You’re literally sleeping with one of them.”

That earns you the full smirk, sharp and satisfied.

“Come on, they’re not that bad,” Wanda offers, all warm and useless. She nudges your arm trying to be helpful by not being helpful at all. Her optimism doesn’t reach you tonight.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t tumble clean out of your head and into the funnel cake booth.

“They’re men, Wanda,” you declare, voice punctuated with a huff that carries over the carnival din. “Plural. That’s already two strikes.”

Natasha snorts, her face haloed by the string lights dangling over the fairground gate. Then she tilts her head, pretending to think it over. “He’s not that bad once you get used to him.”

You whip toward her, scandalized. “That’s what people say about wasps, Nat.” Your voice pitches up, caught between disbelief and despair. “And for the record? I’ve been trying to get used to him for months. It’s not working. If anything, it’s getting worse.”

Natasha just hums, noncommittal, eyes already back on her phone. Wanda’s trying - and failing - not to laugh.

“He’s just messing with you. He likes that you get all worked up,” Nat says, and she’s saying it with that sly tone you don’t like.

You sigh, loud enough for both of them to hear. “Yeah, well, I’d like for him to find a new hobby.” You scan the fairgrounds, half-expecting to see a flash of chrome in the parking lot already. “Don’t they have, like, engines to fix or tires to kick or whatever it is men do when they’re not ruining girl time?”

Wanda’s giggling now, eyes sparkling under the string lights. “This was supposed to be our night,” she sides with you, tugging her knit beanie lower over her ears.

“Exactly,” you agree. “We should be laughing at other people’s bad costume choices, not-” you wave wildly at the air, where somewhere out there, you can already hear the low thunder of engines, “-being third-wheeled by testosterone.”

You do realize Steve is Natasha’s boyfriend, and yeah, you genuinely love that for her. She does seem happier, lighter. She doesn’t flaunt it, but you know her. You know when she’s secretly smiling about something, even if she tries to act like she’s not.

What you don’t love is that her boyfriend comes with accessories. Steve being the main purchase. Sam being like the fun add-on pack. And Bucky is the extended warranty that no one asked for but keeps showing up in your email.

And right when you think maybe you’ve got a few more minutes of peace before the Motorcycle Trio arrives, the growl of engines grows louder. Too loud for your taste. The sound squirms up your spine and sets the fair’s neon skeletons rattling.

And there they are.

Steve first, predictably, all straight-backed and golden-boy-ish whatever that even means, but it’s what he looks like. The headlights cleave through the fairground fog as though he’s leading a parade of righteousness. Sam right behind him, and you imagine him grinning as though the whole night is his stage behind that helmet.

And then, of course, Bucky.

How unfortunate for you.

He’s last, because of course he’s last.

He pulls up slowly and in a way that seems kind of deliberate. Their engines cut off in unison - a coordinated act of drama, clearly rehearsed.

Bucky knows every motion is being watched as he pulls off his helmet, and his hair - unfairly shiny, obnoxiously cinematic - falls into his face. And because he’s Bucky, he tosses a wink at the girl selling kettle corn just to prove he’s aware of the attention he’s getting.

You hate it here.

Steve takes off his helmet like it’s a scene from a romance movie he’s too humble to star in. His hair is doing that annoyingly perfect thing again. He waves when he spots Natasha, and the glow of the fair lights finds his boyish smile and makes it even brighter than a pumpkin lantern. Sam’s laughing, already shouting something you can’t hear but know is probably inappropriate.

You almost grimace at the way Natasha’s own face lights up at the sight of her boyfriend, but something in your heart has the audacity to soften for her happiness. It makes you both melt and gag at the same time. A part of you has to admit, it’s kind of nice.

“See?” She nudges you, but doesn’t take her gaze off of Steve. “Now it’s a party.”

You mutter something that sounds and tastes like funeral and take a sip from Wanda’s drink. It tastes pumpkin-y and warm but it’s no good distraction from the way Bucky catches your eye from across the fair entrance, so you give it back to Wanda.

That lopsided grin already plays with his mouth, and it has you wonder if he knows exactly what you were just saying about him.

And he mouths, miss me?

You don’t. You absolutely do not.

But your pulse, traitor that it is, does a small, stupid skip.

Bucky’s smirk grows as though he can hear it from fifty feet away.

Steve dismounts like a man straight out of an old movie, Sam hops off his bike like he’s dismounting a parade float, stretching his arms wide, and to Bucky, you don’t even look anymore. Out of reasons you’re not going to discuss with yourself.

They walk toward you three girls in slow motion. Or maybe it’s not slow motion, maybe it’s just the unfair way men seem to take up more space when they’re together. Three tall silhouettes under the amber glow of the lights. Leather jackets and that soft swagger that says we’ve arrived and we know it.

Steve is the first to reach you, smiling that golden retriever smile that could probably charm the moon out of orbit. He doesn’t even say hi to anyone else before wrapping his arms around your best friend. You look away because god forbid you witness another episode of people in love.

“Ladies,” Sam’s voice distracts you, and he stretches the word out. “Hope you didn’t have too much fun without us.”

“Define fun,” you muse, tilting your head, but letting a smile tug at your lips. “If you mean in peace? Then yeah. We did.”

Sam grins, hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Look at y’all, already sampling everything without us. Unbelievable.”

Wanda smiles beside you, half-sheepish, half-pleased. “You guys were late.”

“Late?” Sam gasps dramatically. “We’re on biker time, sugar.”

Bucky hangs back a step, not seeming to be in a rush. His hair is a little too long, his jacket half-zipped as though he can’t decide between effort and apathy. There is a small cut on his knuckle, that faint sly smirk on his mouth, and that familiar glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to your mood.

“Still hidin’ from the fun, doll?”

Irritation is an old friend and it comes knocking once more. “Still mistaking yourself for fun, Barnes?”

Bucky steps closer, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you can smell leather and motor oil and whatever cologne he probably stole from Steve. “You wound me, doll” he drawls, with zero evidence of actual pain.

“Promise?”

Steve clears his throat, heroically holding his hand up before the verbal sparring turns into something nuclear. “Alright, alright,” he starts, smiling that peacemaker smile. “What’ve you three been up to?”

Natasha answers for you. “Mostly browsing. Candy, cider, taking bets on which pumpkin Wanda would choose to mother.”

“I don’t mother pumpkins,” Wanda protests. “I just appreciate craftsmanship.”

“You took a photo with one,” you remind her.

“That’s called memory-making.”

Steve chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Alright, so you’ve been getting into the Halloween spirit. That’s good.”

Bucky leans in and you don’t want him to. “What about you, doll? Picked out any pumpkins or just glaring at them for sport?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs and it’s the worst kind - real and deep and infuriating.

Wanda hides her grin in her cup. Sam nudges Bucky’s shoulder with a come on, man look, but he’s already busy smirking at you as if you’re both in on a joke you absolutely didn’t agree to.

The fair is loud and glowing and full of everything that should distract you - cotton candy clouds spinning in machines, kids in half-falling-apart costumes darting between booths, the smells of cider and kettle corn twirling through the air, a tinny remix of Monster Mash leaking from the speakers overhead. Somewhere, someone screams - the happy kind - probably from the haunted hayride you’re absolutely not getting on later.

But your brain keeps getting hijacked by the sound of his voice.

It’s annoying. Like a song stuck in your head.

Like a mosquito with good hair.

Steve’s hand rests on Nat’s waist, comfortable and certain, and for a second you wonder what it would be like to have that kind of easy warmth.

Then Bucky winks at you.

And the thought dies a swift and justified death.

“Alright, so what I’m hearing,” Sam starts, voice filled with a faked offense, his face still smiling, “is none of you girls won me something.”

You don’t bother hiding your grin. “Sorry to disappoint, Sammy.”

Steve wraps an arm around Natasha’s shoulders and says something about finding the best pumpkin pie stand. Sam agrees loudly and wanders off toward the smell of sugar like a cartoon character following a scent trail.

And soon enough the six of you are walking through the fair in a loose cluster. Natasha and Steve remain joined at the hands, looking like a Pinterest board brought to life.

Wanda bounces between Sam and you, dragging you toward every booth that glows or sparkles, which, at a Halloween fair, is approximately all of them.

And Bucky remains somewhere in your peripheral vision, because apparently the man doesn’t believe in personal space but does believe in existing exactly where your awareness can’t ignore him. You hear him making low and amused sounds whenever something inevitably catches fire on a grill.

Then Wanda makes you all pause at a booth lined with plush animals stacked in precarious towers, or hanging from hooks like soft trophies. Stuffed bears with crooked smiles. Tigers that look faintly unhinged. A battalion of plush ghosts dangling from clothespins. She gasps delighted and points at a round little bat with wings too small for its body. “Oh, look at him,” she coos lightly. “He’s adorable.”

You lean closer to squint at it. “He is adorable,” you agree, but then spot a sleepy-looking fox with a pumpkin in its paws. “That one’s cute too, look!”

Wanda’s smile blooms wide and wicked. You nudge her before she can say anything smug. “Shut up.”

“What are we shutting up about?” Sam materializes behind you two like a nosy older brother.

“Nothing,” you and Wanda chorus, which, of course, makes everyone suspicious.

Bucky sidles up next to you, already looking at the wall of prizes. “These things rigged?” he asks the booth guy - some teenager in a vampire cape who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

“Only if you suck,” the kid deadpans.

Sam smirks, slapping his palms together. “Oh I got this.”

A snort escapes Bucky before you can even roll your eyes. “Come on, man. You couldn’t even throw straight in middle school.”

Sam turns to him, mocking offense with a glint in his eyes. “You got middle school trauma you wanna unpack, Barnes? Or you just jealous you’re about to lose in front of an audience?”

“Oh, I’m counting on the audience,” Bucky drawls, smirk glinting under the yellow lights. “They should witness greatness.”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “This is so stupid.”

Natasha hums, leaning into Steve’s shoulder, her grin too knowing for comfort. “Let them be boys.”

Bucky picks up one of the baseballs from the counter and spins it in his hand a few times. His eyes snap to the stuffed fox you pointed out earlier, hanging from a hook above.

And maybe it’s your imagination, but something happens in his face - focus, mischief, maybe both. Maybe even something gentler, if he ever let himself have that. He sets his feet, shoulders loose but sure.

You watch with folded arms and furrowed brows. “What are you even planning to do with a stuffed animal, Barnes?” you inquire, tone deliberately flat.

He glances over his shoulder, lips curling into something familiar. “Didn’t say it was for me, doll.”

Your brain does that stuttery thing you can never suppress when Bucky says things that make you hope for things, but Sam is already stepping forward and your brain is thankfully shutting up again.

Sam throws, and the ball hits the edge of a tin can tower, knocking only two cans off. “Alright, that was a warm-up,” he says quickly.

“Sure it was.” Bucky sounds amused, a little too smug for your liking. “You done warming up or you need me to call the coach?”

“Man, shut up and throw your ball.”

And so he does.

Bucky steps up. The others lean in. You do too, but who’s to acknowledge that. You watch him squint once, spin the ball once more as though he is taming a thought, and then lets it fly.

There is a clatter.

Every can drops.

Every single one.

Wanda gasps. Sam groans. Natasha slow-claps. Steve smiles proudly as though this is somehow America’s achievement too.

You hate how fast your mouth curves upward. You hate that you’re smiling. But there it is - a reluctant, back-stabbing bloom in your chest.

They go back and forth, throwing and taunting, the fair lights flashing. You catch yourself watching Bucky too long, though you pretend you’re not.

He’s focused in that way that makes you understand, suddenly, why he’s good at so many things. There is something sharp and balanced about him when he’s locked in - as though he can’t stand to lose, even at something that costs three tickets and wins a plush animal worth maybe five dollars.

And you can’t seem to be able to look away. You tell yourself it’s because you try to understand what makes him tick, but you know it’s not just that. There is something dangerous in his focus. Something magnetic. Something you shouldn’t find beautiful.

When it’s finally over, Sam’s last throw ricochets off a bottle and bounces uselessly to the ground where it takes its last breath. Your group lets out a collective oooh, which makes him glare in your direction.

With a triumphant and aggravatingly cocky smirk, Bucky turns toward the booth attendant, and points to the stuffed fox you’d liked earlier. “That one.”

The kid shrugs, unhooks it, and hands it over. “Congrats, dude.”

Bucky twirls the fox by its little paw, then glances your way. His smile is the exact kind you wish you could legally ban.

“Guess I still got it,” he exclaims smugly.

You arch a brow. “Congratulations. You beat Sam Wilson at carnival sports. Truly an achievement for the history books.”

Sam crosses his arms with a theatrical sigh. “You could’ve let me win, man.”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “Not in my nature.” His smirk widens, almost soft now.

You look away, pretending not to see how he’s still holding the fox with almost exaggerated care. Its soft and warmly brown colored fabric glows under the lights.

And you freeze because he’s still looking at you with the kind of gaze that tugs at something you carry too deep inside yourself. There’s a smirk lurking there. Dangerous because it’s too familiar and impossible to ignore.

But you can practically feel the smugness radiating off him.

“So,” he starts, voice low, each word a conscious brush against your awareness. He steps closer to you. “You wanted this one, right?”

Your pulse jumps and you’d like to tell it to keep it normal. “I never said I wanted it.”

He grins and it’s too infuriating, too effortless. “Didn’t have to.”

And for a microscopic second, you forget how to roll your eyes.

Bucky spins the plush fox once more in his hands before tossing it lightly into your hands. Reflexes betray you and you catch it.

“Souvenir,” he says, voice soft but edged with that infuriating confidence. He starts walking backward into the crowd.

Wanda sidles up beside you, whispering. “You know he totally won that for you, right?”

You snort, clutching the fox tighter. “He just can’t stand losing.”

Wanda hums, Natasha smirks.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s competitive. Because he has that stubborn streak that probably gets him into trouble. Because it’s not about the fox, or you, or anything other than the challenge and winning it.

That’s what you tell yourself. Because that’s what this is.

The fair is beautiful in that messy, overstimulating kind of way. Like someone spilled magic and sugar across an entire parking lot and then charged admission for it.

Everywhere you look there is motion. Spinning rides, people screaming and laughing and singing all at once. The lights flash in colors that make everything look like it’s underwater. It smells of fried dough, melted butter, kettle corn, and the faint metallic tang of the Ferris Wheel that’s been here since you were born probably.

Together, you wander and weave between children in plastic masks and teenagers holding hands. Wanda wipes off caramel on her fingers. Natasha keeps stealing bites of Steve’s popcorn. Sam walks backward half the time, narrating your night as though he’s hosting a travel show while still pretending he wasn’t emotionally wounded by losing at the booth. You are still holding that fox plushie to your chest, warming your hands with the soft fibers of his fur.

You’re laughing more than you mean to.

Until Bucky comes walking beside you. Every few steps, his shoulder brushes yours - not on purpose you tell yourself, just bad spatial awareness. Except he has perfect spatial awareness. You’ve seen it often enough. You know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of you.

You shift half an inch away. He notices. Smiles. Moves closer again.

Infuriating man.

“So,” he starts, glancing down at the fox, and you want him to stop. “You name him yet?”

You blink, irritated once more. “Why would I name him?”

He shrugs. “Just thought you’re the type who names things.”

“I’m not the type who names things,” you protest, frustrated, tightening the grip on your fox as though using it as a shield before you get flustered.

Bucky smirks, proud of himself for knowing whatever fact about you. “Didn’t you name-”

“Oh, hell yeah,” comes the loud exclamation of Sam further ahead. And something in your stomach tells you you are not going to like whatever comes next.

You follow Sam’s gaze to a booth wrapped in fake cobwebs and glimmering lights - a big, gaudy setup lit in blood-red bulbs and fog machine mist. A sign above says SKEEBALL OF DOOM! in jagged orange letters. Beside the booth, a banner flaps in the cool night air - Test your aim! Win vip haunted house tickets! Couples get bonus rounds!

A pit forms in your stomach.

“That’s perfect,” Sam declares. “We’ve gotta try that.”

Natasha grins, sharp and sly. “I’m in.”

Steve smiles down at her affectionately, a little teasing. “You sure? You flinched last year when the clown jumped out.”

“That was a reflex,” she replies evenly. “If I’d had a weapon, he’d be dead.”

Bucky laughs, the sound a low, satisfied rumble, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s win us some tickets then.”

“I’ll pass,” you interject, before this can get any further.

He looks at you, pretending not to hear. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

“I don’t feel like going in there.”

Wanda tilts her head, teasingly bright. “You don’t like haunted houses?”

You shrug, trying to look casual. “They’re fine. I just… don’t need to go to one tonight.”

Natasha smirks.

You send her a subtle glare in warning.

“What, scared already, doll?” Bucky throws you a smirk, that teasing edge in his voice you hate so much.

Your stomach knots. It’s not that you’re scared - okay, you are - but it’s different. It’s the thought of getting startled, and of him seeing it. You can already picture the smirk and the teasing and the way he’d hold it over your head for weeks.

You cross your arms over the plushie and you hate how it makes you look so much less serious. “No. I just have no interest in giving a man dressed as a zombie the satisfaction of my money.”

He laughs. “God, you’re adorable when you lie.”

You glare, ready to snap, but Wanda bumps you gently. “Could be fun,” she encourages sweetly, like a sunbeam trying to coax a storm into smiling. “A little adrenaline.”

You grit your teeth. You already have plenty of adrenaline. It’s called anxiety.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Sam says, elbowing Bucky. “Barnes here can hold your hand if you get too scared.”

You spin toward him, teeth bared. “He can hold his own hand.”

Bucky’s smile is slow and sharp, predatory in its leisure, like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You know, doll, that sounded almost like an invitation.”

You stare him down, wishing you could weaponize sheer disdain. “You wish.”

He just shrugs, unbothered. “You’ll be begging for it by the second hallway.”

Your heart does an irritated, startled stutter, but you ignore it, staring determinedly at a nearby cotton candy stand like that’s suddenly your religion.

The guy at the booth, a middle-aged man wearing a cape and exactly zero enthusiasm, waves some plastic darts. “Three tries, win two tickets. Easy.”

Bucky cracks his knuckles, eyes gleaming. “Piece of cake.”

You want him to lose.

You really want him to lose.

Partly because you can’t bear the thought of being trapped in a fake haunted asylum while he laughs at you, and partly because - you admit it - his stupid confidence makes your blood fizz like soda.

But you know that this is Bucky and you know that that makes the chances of him losing almost zero. Which, honestly, is kind of hot. But you’re not acknowledging that.

Steve murmurs something to Natasha about friendly competition and Wanda’s already fishing in her purse for more tickets because apparently, you’re all funding this madness now.

Bucky rolls his sleeves up, eyes on the target like this is a mission. “Let’s make it interesting.”

“Define interesting,” you mumble.

“If I win,” he draws out, leaning on the counter. “we all go. No excuses.” His eyes meet yours and you look away.

“And if you lose?”

He smirks. “I don’t lose.”

You can’t do anything except clutch that poor fox to your chest, feeling its soft, threadbare fur squish against your palms, while watching Bucky line up for his first dart. His focus is absurd. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed. He looks too calm, too sure.

Sam stands beside him, muttering prayers to the carnival gods. Steve is offering advice as though this is a strategy meeting. Wanda is whispering something to Natasha, and you can practically feel her smugness on your skin.

You stand there, pretending not to watch, pretending you don’t care, pretending your pulse isn’t keeping time with the flickering fair lights.

The first dart flies. Pops a balloon dead center.

Of course it does.

You sigh.

The second dart follows and thuds against its target, slightly off - but close enough to be perfect. Bucky clicks his tongue as if it’s a personal affront to his skill.

The third dart hangs in the air a fraction too long. He glances back at you, that one eyebrow arching in a way that makes your stomach do a tiny somersault. “This one’s for you, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something. “Wow, romantic.”

The attendant looks mildly impressed. “Almost there, big guy.”

He throws. Another pop.

The carny, who has seen all manner of carnivals and idiots, actually smiles - a genuine, slightly impressed smile. The booth lights up and a bell rings so loudly, half the fair turns to look.

He hands Bucky two black tickets with VIP HAUNTED HOUSE printed in dripping red letters. “Congratulations, lovebirds. Haunted house tickets for two!”

“Not lovebirds,” you grumble as Bucky pockets the tickets, grinning as though he just robbed a bank.

“Guess we’re going ghost-hunting, doll.”

You narrow your eyes in annoyance. “Over my dead body.”

He leans closer, voice low enough that only you can hear. “That’s kinda the point, isn’t it?”

And you hate it. How your stomach flips like a carnival ride, how the lights smudge a little around the edges, how he looks at you as if this is all some game he is already winning.

You tell yourself it’s irritation.

Definitely irritation.

But when he strolls off to show Steve the tickets, Sam dashing after another set for Wanda, that stupid grin never leaves his face. And you’re still standing there, staring after him, wondering when exactly you lost control of this night.

Because it all happens faster than you can protest from here on.

Natasha somehow nails her shots as though she’s been training her whole life for this kind of thing. Which you wouldn’t even be surprised at, to be honest. But it’s inconvenient for you now. And now she’s waving two more tickets in the air, all casual, throwing you a heated smirk that has some kind of meaning you can only scowl at.

And because the universe enjoys symmetry and your suffering, Steve wins another set - for himself and Sam.

Which means all of you now have tickets.

Which means you are officially outnumbered.

Bucky looks absolutely delighted about this. Sam looks less so. His ego has taken another audible hit, and Bucky has not shut up about it since.

And you continue clutching your stuffed fox as if it’s a therapy animal and seriously consider tripping into the kettle corn stand to avoid whatever’s going to happen next.

“It was a warm-up!” Sam argues, still trying to claim winning the tickets was a team victory, but everyone knows it was Steve’s aim that won his ticket.

“Didn’t you already have a warm-up?” you add your own commentary, weaving a little bit of a teasing tone into your voice to mask your unease.

Bucky grins at you and it’s blinding for a short second. There is something delighted, almost proud in the way he smiles. “She’s learning.”

Sam ignores you both and keeps muttering about rigged equipment and unfair wind conditions, and Bucky’s still smiling so wide, and you’re absolutely not distracted by it.

The path to the haunted house winds past the Ferris wheel, where the lights blink constant circles of cobalt and amber into the foggy air, and the closer you get, the colder it seems to get, too. Or maybe that’s just your nerves catching frost in your spine.

The air almost starts tasting like damp hay and something caramel-y. Somewhere behind you, a ride screeches, gears grinding, and your nerves decide to start practicing acrobatics.

The warped, old Victorian facade of the haunted house looms ahead. It’s half covered in cobwebs and real shadows. It looks like it should have its own tragic backstory and Wikipedia page. Speakers hidden in the fake ivy groan out the sounds of rattling chains and screams coming from inside.

You hear the screams of a girl group that start out playful and end in actual panic, and you feel your heart leap in sympathy.

That’s just the soundtrack you needed.

There is a sign by the entrance that sparkles like a dying heartbeat.

WELCOME TO THE HOUSE OF HORRORS. ENTER IF YOU DARE.

You don’t dare.

Your heart is doing jumping jacks in your ribcage, and your palms feel too warm, and the closer you get, the more the fog seems to breathe.

A horde of people is waiting outside, shuffling forward as the line crawls along.

You shift your weight and stare at the painted signboard near the entrance - something about no refunds if you faint. Cool. Fantastic. Excellent.

The others are talking. Wanda and Natasha are analyzing who will scream first. Wanda says Sam, Nat bets on you, which - rude. Steve is asking questions about the setup and if there is a tactical plan involved because he’s just that extra. Sam insists that jump scares don’t count as fear because they are only a reflex.

Bucky is quiet beside you.

Which is worse.

Because you can feel him looking at you. Not directly, just that sideways awareness that punctures your skin.

You keep your eyes fixed ahead, on the fake gravestones and fog machines hissing out mist like the world's most tragic kettle.

When you glance sideways, he’s definitely looking at you.

You see him nod at the plush fox. “You’re gonna strangle that poor thing before we even get inside.”

Your fingers loosen automatically, caught. “You gave it to me,” you defend, as if that’s reason enough to want to kill it.

He chuckles, rich and easy. “Yeah, I’m still waiting for a thank you, by the way.”

You glance up at him then, because of course he’d say that, and of course he’d look completely nonchalant while doing it. His hair is a little wind-tousled, his jaw shadowed, eyes bright with that perpetual teasing gleam.

You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He seems to fight a grin. “Afraid of saying something nice to me, doll?”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse is skittering too fast. You don’t notice your hands kneading the fox's fur. “You don’t handle compliments well.”

He wears that smirk again, and it makes you want to throw something soft and plush and fox-shaped at his head. “You don’t give ‘em well, either.”

But he’s still looking at you as though anything you say might be a compliment to him.

The line moves forward a little. The fake screams keep coming - louder now, closer. You can see dim red lights pulsing through the cracked boards of the house, hear something mechanical creaking behind the walls. Every instinct you have is begging to leave.

But everyone is here. Everyone is laughing. And you’re not about to be the one to back out - especially not in front of him.

Still, your palms are clammy, and your stomach is doing a whole interpretive dance of dread.

Bucky is walking a little closer now, his jacket brushing your sleeve. You hate that you notice. You hate that your heart is making up its own rhythm again.

Every new sound makes your stomach tighten another notch. You can already imagine the flashing lights, the jump scares, the embarrassing sounds that will come out of your mouth when something inevitably lunges at you.

You can already imagine him laughing.

The line moves again, until there is nothing left between you and the entrance. The heavy curtain at the entrance sways open, the kind of dark that feels like it could swallow anything waiting just beyond it.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You tell yourself you don’t care if Bucky sees you startle or hears you scream.

But you do care. You really, really care.

Bucky tilts his head, studying you for a moment longer, that smirk fading into something softer, something that looks suspiciously like concern. “You good?” he asks, low enough for you to hear.

You nod. “Totally.”

He hums, clearly not buying it. “If you say so.”

Your fingers tighten around the plush fox, claws of guilt gripping the soft fabric. You do feel grateful to him for this stupid little stuffy, but not enough to ever admit it.

Bucky steps ahead, to hand over the tickets for both of you. The man at the door scans them under the dim red light, his face painted like a corpse. “Two at a time. Couples only,” he explains, voice theatrical. “Enter at your own risk.”

You open your mouth to argue the word couple on principle, but Bucky just smirks and motions you forward, that infuriating kind of self-assuredness oozing from every step. He doesn’t even wait, just nudges the curtain aside with one hand, looks back at you with that damn glint in his eyes, and says, “After you, doll.” His other hand gestures toward the door as if he’s about to escort you into a ball instead of your personal nightmare.

You narrow your eyes with a glare. “If I die in there, I’m haunting you.”

His grin widens, slow and bright. “Wouldn’t ever say no to your company, doll.”

The others laugh. You don’t. The fog grows thicker.

And as you step toward the dark entrance, Bucky’s win clutched tight against your chest, you get the feeling that maybe the haunted part of this house isn’t even what’s inside it.

You step in first because pride is a terrible thing, and Bucky follows, close enough that you can feel the brush of his jacket against your shoulder.

The first thing you notice is the dark. Not normal dark - this kind eats the light and presses close to your skin. It smells like old wood and machine fog, like cheap rubber masks and something cold. The floor creaks under your shoes. Somewhere is a warped music box tune that sounds like it’s melting.

You keep walking carefully, the fox clutched to your chest like a talisman.

The sound of a heartbeat thumps from speakers that are hidden somewhere above, and it syncs up too easily with your own. The lighting is all wrong the further you step - too red, too flickering, every corner whispering something’s waiting there.

Dim bulbs are swinging overhead and shadows move when you blink. Somewhere ahead, something groans. Something mechanical. Or not.

Bucky leans in, voice low, teasing. “Still time to back out, doll.” You feel the heat of him even through your jacket.

“I’m fine,” you whisper back, even though you’re gripping your fox like it’s a flotation device on the Titanic.

He hums, not convinced at all. “You’re squeezing that thing so tight it’s gonna need CPR.”

You glare at him in the dark, but words are failing you.

He grins. You can hear it, even if you can’t see it. “You know, if you needed someone to hold onto-”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll feed you to the zombies.”

He laughs under his breath, soft and maddening.

You move forward down a narrow hallway. The walls are lined with crooked portraits - eyes that seem to follow you. Every time the light flickers, the expressions change. You know it’s sensors. You know it’s fake. Your brain knows. Your body, however, does not.

The floorboards groan underfoot. There’s a sound - slow footsteps behind you - and your heart immediately tries to exit through your throat. You whirl around. Nothing’s there.

Except Bucky, who’s still smiling like he is the jump scare.

“Stop doing that!” you hiss.

“Doing what?” he says, perfectly innocent.

“Just- being there!”

He chuckles. “I can walk in front if you want.”

Pride is still a terrible thing so you don’t react immediately, but then a mechanical ghost jerks forward with a hiss and a canned scream. You flinch so hard the plush fox nearly goes flying.

Beside you, there’s a warm laugh. “You okay there, champ?”

Again, you shoot a heated look into the dark. “That was cheap.”

“Pretty sure that’s the point,” he retorts, still grinning.

You keep walking, chin up, pretending you’re over it. You’re not. Every step feels like stepping into a dare. The walls creak beside you. Shadows keep moving in places they shouldn’t. Someone whispers overhead - something about don’t look behind you - which, of course, makes you look behind you.

And of course, Bucky is still there.

He is close enough for your shoulder to brush his chest. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you, because moving means acknowledging it.

The next room is darker with strobe lights turning everything into snapshots - flashes of fake cobwebs, plastic skeletons, people’s faces caught mid-expression. In one of those flashes, you can see your own reflection in a cracked mirror, wide-eyed and gripping that poor thing. Bucky’s right, it probably will need some serious damage checks.

Something flashes from the wall ahead. A painted face, maybe. You can’t tell. You flinch again.

“Easy,” his voice murmurs in your ear, smooth and deep. “It’s fake, doll.”

You can’t tell if your heart is pounding from the scares or from the way he said it.

You shoot him a look. “I know that.”

He hums - that sound lives somewhere between a scoff and a dare. “Sure you did.”

You keep moving and your fox is probably developing trauma of its own from the way you’re squeezing the life out of it. The hall grows more narrow, and you can hear the others’ voices somewhere behind you. Wanda is laughing nervously, Sam swears dramatically, and Natasha sounds like she is comforting Steve, which feels cosmically correct.

Bucky is still beside you and he doesn’t tease you again, not for a while. Every time you flinch, his hand twitches. As though he’s ready to reach out, but doesn’t.

When another jump scare hits - a skeletal hand dropping from the wall - you flinch once more, and he just chuckles quietly, low enough you almost don’t hear it. But his hands twitch again.

“Not funny,” you mutter.

“Kinda is,” he drones out, but it sounds a little softer than before.

You hit his arm with your plush fox, hard. “You’re the worst.”

You glare at him through the dim light, and he meets it with amused eyes a little too soft for your liking. They are on you for another few seconds and you start feeling fidgety. The hallway seems to narrow further.

And then, of course, a clown drops from the ceiling.

You scream. Full volume. High and startled and humiliating.

He bursts out laughing.

It’s not mean, though. It’s bright, surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to be that loud. You swat his arm, mortified.

“Stop laughing! That thing fell from the ceiling!”

He’s still laughing like a maniac with his head thrown back a little. And you hate to admit it, but his unguarded laugh nearly makes the dark feel bright. “Jesus, doll,” he wheezes out. “I didn’t know you had that kind of range.”

You elbow him, hard enough to make him grunt, which helps your dignity approximately one percent.

Your cheeks are burning, and his grin is still catching what little light there is.

Your heart is still racing - and not just from the scares. There’s something about the darkness and the laughter and the way he’s looking at you now that has your hands start getting clammy.

You clutch your stupid fox tighter, lift your chin, and keep walking like your dignity isn’t trailing behind you somewhere near the jump-scare curtain.

He follows, still smiling. And you pretend not to notice.

You keep walking, faster now, hoping the next corner isn’t hiding anything with claws. The air feels colder. The whispers are getting creepier.

Another corridor. Another door. The hinges scream as you push it open. Inside, dim red light spills over a scene - fake blood on walls, broken furniture, a mannequin sitting at a dinner table with its head turned backward.

You stop dead with a grimace. “Oh god.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath. “Creative,” he assesses.

“Psychotic,” you correct.

And then a loud bang erupts from the wall beside your head, and instinct takes over before thought.

You grab his arm. Firmly.

He goes still. The air between you tightens.

It grows silent again, but your fingers don’t let go. They just stay there. Holding onto leather and his warmth.

You realize it a moment too late. You snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned. “That was reflex.”

“Of course,” he lets out, voice low and stupidly amused.

And then, without warning, a figure bursts from under the table - a guy in a half-rotted mask - and lunges forward. You yelp, stumbling back so hard you hit Bucky’s chest. His hands shoot out automatically, steadying you at your waist, going around you.

You freeze.

His palms are warm, his breath in your ear, and even through the fog and the flickering lights, you can feel the way he is looking down at you. The air feels thick enough to drink.

He doesn’t move either, his breath moving close enough that it grazes your temple. His voice drops to a whisper. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Fine. Totally. Great. Super haunted, love it here.”

He laughs quietly - not mocking, really - just this low sound that feels too warm for a place this cold.

And then you try to jerk away, but Bucky keeps close again, brushing up against you, and invading your personal space once more.

You throw him a look.

“Gotta make sure you don’t pass out on me,” he explains, deadpan, but there is more to his gaze than to his voice.

You shove him lightly, waking ahead, refusing to let him see that your pulse hasn’t settled at all.

And as you keep walking, the lights shift from strobe to dim amber. The path widens, and you think you hear Wanda laughing somewhere ahead. You don’t know when the others passed you, but it doesn’t matter because it seems you’re through the worst of it.

Further ahead, between the fog, you spot the glowing red EXIT sign - a salvation in neon. You’re two minutes from freedom, from fresh air, from laughing this whole thing off with half your dignity intact.

Your pulse finally starts to settle into something almost reasonable.

You think you’ve made it.

But it seems like you didn’t.

From nowhere - from everywhere - a door slams open beside you. The sound is a bang. And you don’t even have time to flinch when a figure lurches out of the darkness - taller than the others, mask slick with fake blood, voice distorted by a cheap speaker.

He moves fast, too fast, and suddenly he’s in your space. His gloved hand catches your arm, fingers pressing just a little too tight, too real.

“Gotcha,” he hisses, the word dragged out low and ugly and threatening.

You barely register the fake knife before it’s against your throat - cold, hard plastic pressing into your skin - and suddenly you are dragged back into a hard chest that smells like latex and fog machine and sweat.

It’s supposed to be an act. It’s supposed to be a scare.

You know that. You know.

But your body doesn’t.

Your pulse explodes, your lungs forget their job entirely, and the sound that leaves your mouth is somewhere between a gasp and a choke.

You twist, try to pull away, but the grip tightens. The guy says something - scripted, probably - low and menacing. “Don’t move, sweetheart.” A breath brushes your ear, but you hate the way it doesn’t feel like Bucky’s.

And that word - sweetheart - sounds too much like the one Bucky uses when he’s teasing you, except this one feels wrong.

For a second, your brain blanks. You can’t find the line between what’s pretend and what isn’t. The walls shrink. The lights contort. The sound distorts. It’s too much.

You try to wind your way out of the guy’s grip, but he has you locked against him, arms branded across your chest in some horror movie abduction bit that’s supposed to be funny, maybe, if you weren’t running on nerves.

“Hey,” a voice snaps, and you know it’s Bucky despite the way it doesn’t sound like him at all. It’s not the teasing kind of tone you know, it’s something colder, something iron. “Hands off!”

The actor hesitates, probably thinking this is still part of the show, but Bucky’s tone makes something in the air shift. He has lost all his playfulness.

“Let her go! Now,” he says again, stepping closer. His voice is quiet, but it’s somehow worse than yelling.

“Relax, man, it’s part of the show,” the actor mutters, but he still has you constricted to his chest, still has his arms tightly wound around you, still lets his breath fan your temple.

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice is dangerous. “Well, it’s fucking stopping now.”

And suddenly, you’re free and pulled firmly into another chest, but this time it’s Bucky’s. He holds you to him with one arm and shoves the guy back hard enough that the actor stumbles into the wall with a sound that isn’t scripted.

You’re still clutching the stuffed fox, breath coming too fast, eyes stinging. The world feels fuzzy at the edges, like someone smeared all the colors. You can smell fake blood and rubber and fog juice and underneath all of it, leather and something clean and comforting.

Blood roars in your ears, but the music seems to fade, and someone nearby mutters about calling a supervisor.

You can’t breathe properly until he finds your face. His expression softens instantly, the tension draining out of his shoulders.

“C’mere,” he mutters, his voice softened as though he flipped a switch only you have access to.

You shake your head, automatically. “I’m fine, Bucky.” You’re not, and you know he hears it. You can’t seem to catch your breath. Your hands are trembling, and the plush in your grip feels like it’s vibrating with your heartbeat.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just keeps his arm around you and glances toward a side door marked Emergency Exit, Staff Only. He doesn’t even hesitate. He pushes it open with one hand and guides you out into the cold night air with the other.

You know you’re trembling, and you’re embarrassed by it. But adrenaline still ricochets through you.

The door slams behind you and you flinch once more. Bucky’s grip tightens.

The night air is a shock. You blink and the fair sounds slam back into you. The muffled screams from inside fade into carnival sounds - laughter, carousel music, the slow creak of the Ferris wheel turning somewhere above, the scent of fried dough. Everything normal. Everything wrong.

You suck in a breath that feels too jagged, and tastes of sugar and smoke and shame.

Bucky watches you carefully, jaw tight, and guides you past food stalls and game booths.

You gulp the air down as though you’ve been underwater. The fair lights are smearing all around you - orange and violet and gold - and the noise of laughter feels a million miles away.

The only thing that reaches your awareness are Bucky’s guiding hands on you.

You don’t shake him off this time.

You don’t realize where he is taking you until the sounds of the fair start to grow thinner. Until the laughter, the thrum of carnival music, the mechanical groan of machines all dissolve quietly.

You pass rows of parked cars, the scent of gasoline and sugar thick in the cool air. The lights from the fairground stretch long and blurred across the asphalt, smearing themselves into the dark.

And then you spot his bike. Black and chrome, gleaming under the weak glow of a streetlight.

He stops beside it, turning to face you. The set of his shoulders is hard. His jaw is still tight. He looks as though he is chewing on words and choosing not to spit them out yet.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward his bike.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Sit,” he repeats, quieter this time, but with the same intensity.

“I’m fine,” you insist, but your voice wavers, traitorously thin.

He doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t tease or smirk. He just lifts the helmet off the seat, setting it aside, and keeps his other hand at the small of your back because you both know that your legs are about to give out. “I know. Sit anyway.”

You hesitate, then relent. Because the world still feels slightly tilted, and arguing suddenly takes too much energy.

Your knees wobble as you step forward and he steadies you without comment, his hands warm even through your clothes.

He helps you up, making sure you don’t trip on the curve of metal. You settle awkwardly onto the seat, the leather cool against the back of your thighs. The bike creaks slightly under the shift of your weight.

You clutch that stupid stuffed fox to your chest because apparently, that’s your emotional support now. The night air brushes against your skin as though searching for cracks.

Bucky stands in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint red reflection of the fair lights in his eyes. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just studies you quietly.

He crouches down in front of you, one knee on the pavement, the other bent. It makes your breath hitch a little. His eyes catch yours, worried and unbearably clear. The anger hasn’t left him - you can feel it vibrating under his skin. But he doesn’t let it out on you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod too fast. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Right,” he says dryly. “That’s why your hands are shaking.”

You look down at them - trembling around the fabric of the fox, small tremors that won’t stop. You sigh in defeat.

There is silence for a small while and it feels like a shift in gravity nobody warned you about.

You look away, a shameful heat crawling along the back of your neck.

Bucky digs a water bottle out of the side pack on his bike and hands it to you. “Drink.”

You obey because it’s easier than arguing. The water is cold and relieving. The bottle shakes in your hand.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly.

But you don’t know what to tell him.

“I’m-” you start, but your voice falters. “I’m just… embarrassed, okay? I shouldn’t- I don’t even know why I-”

He exhales through his nose. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You glance up at him, searching for mockery, because that’s his usual default - sarcasm and that crooked grin, but he’s not wearing it right now. His expression is serious. Careful.

And it feels worse.

Blinking hard, you look away from him. Your throat is tight. You wipe at your eyes before a tear can come loose, but the way Bucky’s brows come together in the middle makes it clear he notices what you’re trying to hide from him.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice a little rougher now. “Hey, it’s alright, doll.”

You sniff, not looking at him, defensive out of habit.

He watches you for a long second, then just shakes his head, that sharp anger from earlier showing a glimpse once more. “He shouldn’t have touched you. I don’t care if it’s an act. That’s not part of the job.”

Something in the way he says it - the grit, the protectiveness, the bite under his words - sends another wave of heat through your chest, something that’s circling around a guilty knot sitting in your chest for a long time.

You shrug weakly. “Guess he thought I’d play along.”

His mouth tightens. “Yeah, well, he’s lucky I didn’t forget I’m a guest here.”

You glance up in surprise. “You were gonna hit him?”

He doesn’t answer. Just raises an eyebrow, and that’s enough.

For a moment there’s more silence lingering between you, elastic and strange. The fair is still glowing in the distance, blinking behind him. And you can still hear people screaming for fun. It feels like another planet. Here, you’re sitting with a heart that’s still racing from a fear that’s half-real and half something else entirely.

You hug the plush tighter, half-laughing. “It’s still stupid.”

Bucky’s brows pull together once more. “What?”

“Getting scared like that,” you mumble. “I just- I overreacted. It’s not a big deal.”

A hand runs through Bucky’s hair and then settles on the bike beside you. Right beside you. He is brushing your legs with a finger. “Someone grabs you like that - it’s a big deal. You don’t have to be embarrassed, doll. That guy went too far.”

You shake your head, words tumbling out. “I knew it was fake, and I still-” Your voice is small. “I’m sorry. I hate that I freaked out. I mean, you must think I’m-”

He cuts you off with a deep frown. “Hey.” His voice is firm. Insistent. A little strained. The muscle in his jaw twitches. “You don’t gotta apologize, doll. And I don’t think anything. Except maybe that you’ve got guts for going in there at all.”

You huff out a laugh and look away, shame creeping up your back. “Right.”

“S true.” He smirks, but it’s gentle. He reaches out and tenderly tucks a strand of hair out of your face. The gesture is careful, as though he’s testing the air. You forget to breathe until his hand moves away again. “Most people who hate me don’t trust me enough to let me drag them through a haunted house.”

You look back at him, because somehow you always do, even when you don’t want to.

“I didn’t let you,” you murmur weakly. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hold yourself together. “And I don’t know a single person who hates you.”

The expression you receive from him makes you feel certain weird things, so you stop meeting his eyes again.

He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

With a clear of his throat, he leans back a little and glances at the fair glowing in the distance. Then he looks back at you. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

“What?” You blink up at him. “No- I- I’ll call Nat-”

He shakes his head, settling both his hands on either side of you on his seat. “She’s still inside. And I don’t want you waitin’ around for anyone. You’re coming with me. I’m taking you home.”

You frown, nerves twisting in your stomach. “I can- I can just call a cab, you don’t have to-”

“Ride’s already here, sweetheart,” he says, standing up and taking hold of his helmet.

You open your mouth to argue again but the word sweetheart comes out of his mouth differently this time - soft, caring, as though it’s been rinsed of every trace of teasing. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s the exhaustion sitting in your bones, but you only sigh when he slips the helmet over your head. He checks the strap that feels too careful for the man that he is.

You mutter a weak “fine” and swing a leg over the bike to make space for him.

He almost smiles down at you. Small and hidden. “You ever been on one of these before?”

You shake your head, nervous.

“Then here’s the rule,” he starts, tone turning lighter, and he settles in front of you. “Hold on tight.”

You look at him. “To what?”

“Me, unless you wanna test your flying skills tonight,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Don’t you need a helmet too?” you ask cautiously, a little unsure about him driving like that.

He throws you a little smirk before turning around again. “Think I’ll be fine, doll.” There is something in his tone you can’t quite make out.

And the world narrows to just you and him and the smell of leather and oil and the pounding in your ribcage.

You hesitate to touch him, afraid you’ll go up in flames. Long enough for him to glance back again, and there it is again, that glint of amusement trying to fight its way through his lingering frustration and something else that swims in the blue of his eyes.

“Both hands,” he adds, a little quieter than before, with something warm in his voice. “Feel free to squeeze the life outta me, doll. I’ll let you know if I can’t breathe.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

You roll your eyes, but your arms slide around his waist anyway. It’s stiff and awkward and cautious at first. The moment your fingers brush the fabric of his shirt beneath the leather jacket, your pulse jumps again.

He starts the engine. The sound is low and smooth, more purr than roar. But it vibrates through you, through him, through everything.

Then, without a word, he drives off - slow. Slower than you expected. The wind pulls at you, cool and clean, tugging away the remnants of the haunted house.

The fair fades behind you - just a blur of orange lights - and the road opens ahead, empty and quiet. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the pulse of the engine under your thighs.

He doesn’t show off, doesn’t drive sharp turns. He’s solid and patient in his motions, and it lets your heartbeat finally slow down.

You let yourself exhale, finally, deeply, really exhale, and he glances at you in the mirror, eyes soft, a pleased and suppressed smile lifting the corners of his cheeks.

You rest your helmet-clad cheek against his back and let your eyes flutter closed because it feels safer that way, because the world is still unsteady and he isn’t.

Your fingers tighten once when the road dips, and you feel one of his hands lightly rest against yours where they are wrapped around him. He squeezes once.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The world is a jumble of neon lights and October wind and the echo of both your heartbeats, and your breathing has a rhythm again.

You still hate that he saw you scared. You still don’t know what to do with the warmth suavely gliding in behind the shame. But sitting here, pressed against his back, leather warm under your palms and his voice still somewhere in your head - it doesn’t quite feel so awful to let him see you.

“Fear doesn’t shut you down; it wakes you up”

- Veronica Roth

"Hey, Bucky?" you called, looking up towards his chin. You watched his brow raise and his head slightly shake, not even giving you the benefit of the doubt.

"Yes?"

"Do you ever wish you were strong?"

His expression morphed into sheer offense. "I am strong."

You had to press your lips together to stamp down your laugh. "Yeah, but like—" a tongue slotted against your cheek as Bucky looked down at you under his arm "—really strong. Like... like as strong as Sam."

Bucky stopped you on the sidewalk, turning you to face him with both hands on your shoulders. He stared at you in incredulity and feigned concern.

"Are you okay? Like in your head—is your head okay?"

You took another bite of ice cream and knocked your head to the side. "It was just a question, Bucky."

His jaw ticked to the side. "You don't—I mean you know I'm stronger than Sam and, jesus, I can't believe you—you're laughing at me, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little bit," you giggled, ducking your head to avoid his pointed gaze.

Bucky groaned and yanked you forward, lips harshly pressed against your forehead as he tucked you back under his arm. His steps were faster now as he walked you home, and you had to stumble to keep up, your laughs bubbling past the struggle.

"You're too easy," you grinned.

"I think I'm a grown-up that can handle a shitty dinner once in a while."

"Sure," he shrugged. He turned back to the lit stove, stirring the contents of a pot. "But you don't have to. That's why I'm here."

A familiar pang worked its way down to the tips of your fingers. He always said things that made you feel... off—did things that made your breath get stuck in your throat. You typically ignored those feelings, too familiar with the hurt that came after.

Bucky always felt different, though. He always tried. Always. And you could tell that it meant something more to him. That when he looked at you, it felt like he was looking at the whole world wrapped up into one person.

It was too much.

He didn't seem to mind your continued feigned ignorance.

"No, you're here to pay half the rent," you countered, still shuffling into the seat at the bar despite your arguments.

"I'll do that too," he smiled—a cheeky grin that fit perfectly over his shoulder. He eyed you then, letting his gaze flit over your body as you sat. He turned back to the stove. "You didn't wear a jacket?"

He had a habit of not looking at you when he did things like this. It took you a while to notice. You figured it was his attempt at not scaring you off.

"Didn't really need one." You fiddled with the bowl on the bar counter, plucking at the fruit stickers on the apples. He'd got them at the farmer's market last week—walked beside you and held each bag. "It was only one class."

"Still freezing out there. I put your hoodie by the door so you could grab it."

Bucky turned with a bowl full of food, setting it down in front of you as he leaned on the connecting counter and became eye-level with you. He had a towel on his shoulder, and his arms flexed as he clasped his hands in front of him.

You gave him a sarcastic grin. "What are you, my keeper?"

He kept his eyes on you as you reached for the spoon he had laid out before you even got home. It was at the seat you always chose and right next to a glass of water you hadn't asked for. Bucky rolled his eyes. He tapped your chin when you ignored him more.