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.

When you got pregnant, everything was supposed to be good, a blessing. However, it wasn't at all. Things moved too fast, starting with a sloppy test in the bathroom of your boyfriend's house and ending with him kicking you out, screaming, refusing to accept that you were his.

You cried on the way to your parents' house, carrying boxes of your belongings, and you cried even more when they refused to let you in. At what point did you think it was a good idea to ask for help from your religious parents, who condemned sex outside of marriage.

Then you turned to him, your guardian angel, your unconditional best friend: Bucky Barnes.

The moment he opened the door and saw you, red-eyed, trembling, tears spilling from your eyes, he didn't even think twice; he let you in and set up his guest room for you.

—It won't be long until I get something— you hiccuped, your cheeks pink. He shook his head, adjusting the sheets on the mattress.

—Stay as long as you want, my house is your house— he said, his deep voice, usually lacking in warmth, comforting.

—I don't want to bother you— Bucky stopped his movements and stood up to look you straight in the eyes. You looked at him with an innocence that made his stomach turn.

—You could never bother me.

The apartment was small but more than enough. Bucky took care of you like your ex-boyfriend should have, going to every doctor's appointment, fulfilling your whims, massaging your swollen ankles, and giving you all the attention you needed. He had you in a bubble filled with soft pillows and midnight pickles.

He also took care of your ex; let's just say he'll never be able to walk again.

You couldn't find a job, no one wanted to hire a pregnant woman. It was so frustrating... Bucky rubbed your back as you sobbed against his chest.

He didn't pressure you, didn't even mention going back to work; it seemed like an unnecessary risk, and he liked having you home.

He'd been feeling lonely and bored for a while now. Steve was gone, and Sam was constantly disappearing on secret missions, which left him with a lot of free time. He liked being with you, taking care of you; it made him feel useful. He realized your company was all he needed. He opened up to you, confessing all his secrets. It was terrifying at first, but it ended up working better than therapy.

He liked stroking your bump when you lay on the couch watching a movie. He set up the baby's crib and researched every child safety device in the mall catalog.

And even though he was completely smitten with you, he never said it. He thought it was complicating things. You didn't even think about it; you were too busy trying to learn how to be a good mother and maintain your balance.

Still, there was a strange tension that surrounded you, in those silences at the breakfast table after a night when Bucky had woken up screaming in terror in one of his nightmares. You didn't talk about HYDRA much, just enough.

During the birth, Bucky was more scared than you were. He couldn't just stand there doing nothing, pacing the hallway while anxiety consumed him. What if something went wrong? What if you were in danger and he couldn't save you?

He couldn't stop thinking about everything that could go wrong, so he lied to the hospital staff, saying he was your husband so he could sneak into the room while you were giving birth.

You held his hand tightly as the contractions grew stronger.

And a few minutes later, you had a beautiful baby in your arms. You cradled him against your chest as if he were the last thing left on the face of the earth.

Bucky was mesmerized, watching you gently rock Lana. Full of tenderness, full of peace. Even though you were sweaty and disheveled, you were the purest image of heaven.

You offered him to hold her, but he refused and stepped back. He was afraid of hurting her if he touched her; she seemed so fragile, so angelic…

When you returned home, everything was different. Lana cried nonstop; it was frustrating. You had to get up all the time and couldn't sleep a wink.

But once, you heard her start to cry, but you were too tired to get up. You squinted, almost unconscious, and suddenly the crying stopped. Incredulous, you turned around and saw Bucky rocking little Lana with his robotic arm.

It was an image you wouldn't soon forget.

A while later, everything fell back into place. You found a decent-paying job, and Bucky watched the baby while you were away. He loved it—don't tell anyone the tough Winter Soldier loved playing house with a little girl—. He braided her hair, let her put stickers all over her face, made forts in the middle of the living room... you didn't know what you'd find when you walked through the living room door. Maybe walls covered in crayons, a slime explosion on the kitchen counter, or maybe just a tray of slightly burnt but delicious cookies.

Even so, you decided to go out with a few men, you know, just to try your luck. You figured Lana would need a father figure and that Bucky would soon tire of you. Because, why would he bother taking care of a daughter who isn't his? You felt like you'd abused his kindness.

Bucky hated it, though he never expressed his displeasure. You could do whatever you wanted, after all, but that didn't stop him from becoming somewhat distant the day after you came back from dinner. He didn't know how to handle the situation, let alone his feelings.

You had a date with Josh from your office, but he backed out when he found out about your personal situation. And the same thing happened with Hugh, Dean, Peter, Stefen, and Clyde.

You felt like a failure. And the worst part was, they were right. Who would want to date a single mother living with their best friend?

No one, that was the answer.

Bucky arrived with Lana in his arms; she was asleep. Her breathing was slow, her arms wrapped around his neck, dark raindrops dripped from her boots, and her raincoat was dirty. She'd probably fallen in the mud.

You sat at the dining room table, dark except for the warm light of a candle. With a messy bun, a glass of wine in front of you, and puffy eyes. But he couldn't see them in the darkness.

—Hey— he greeted you softly.

—Hi.

—She fell asleep in the car— he explained, stroking her long hair between his fingers.

—Did you have a good time?— you asked from a distance. He turned down the hall to carry Lana to bed, then came back and sat next to you.

—Yes, we picked strawberries. She loves the forest, she wants me to take her there every day.

You smiled tiredly but tenderly.

The silence was deafening, inexplicably tense. You wiped your runny nose with the back of your hand, and Bucky studied you with concern. All of his face changed.

—What happened?— His jaw clenched. You didn't dare look at him.

—Nothing.

—Don't lie to me— he said almost in a whisper, his voice firm but reassuring. You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. —Did they say something to you? Did they hurt you?

—No, it's not that— the lump in your throat tightened, preventing the words from coming out smoothly. You leaned your head on your hand, and Bucky leaned closer to you.

—What's wrong?— he tucked a strand of your hair that fell across your forehead behind your ear. His blue eyes fell upon yours, kind and gentle. It was a matter of seconds before you broke down.

—I'm a failure, Bucky— the sentence broke in half with a sob. Your body was shaking.

—That's not true— his hand moved to reach your cheek, stroking it in circles.

—Yes, it is. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't have my own apartment. I'm not a good mother...

His heart tightened in his chest.

—Don't say that, a great mother— he said abruptly. The truth was, he wasn't very good at comforting people, but he did his best.

—The other day I forgot to pick her up from daycare. What kind of mother would that happen to?— tears soaked his thumb against your skin.

—A mother who's tired after a long day at work.

—I can't even get a successful date with a man. No one wants a single mom…— you mumbled.

Bucky froze in his chair, internally debating whether to make his move or not.

—I do.

Your sobs stopped for a few seconds, and you looked at him, your eyes brimming with tears. Your pulse racing, you looked at him as if he'd said something crazy. Maybe you hadn't heard him correctly, or maybe you were the crazy one.

—What?— you asked, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. He cursed himself internally. He was pretty sure he'd screwed up.

He got up to pour himself a cup of coffee; he drank it all the time, and it was better to stay up at night than have nightmares about HYDRA kidnapping you and Lana.

—You heard me— he poured the pot with trembling hands but a calm voice.

—You don't mean it.

Bucky turned to you, his blue eyes piercing yours.

—You just feel sorry for me— you howled, your voice cracking.

He sat back down next to you after a long gulp and placed the cup on the table. He took your hands in his and forced you to look into his eyes.

—You're an incredible mother, and not only that, you're also strong, intelligent, and the most beautiful woman I've ever met— his words warmed your heart and your cheeks. He said it with more conviction than you'd ever heard him say anything. And I love you.

Your mouth opened unconsciously, and you let out the breath you didn't know you were holding.

—Bucky-

—I know we're just friends and maybe you don't feel the same, but I love Lana like my own daughter, and I'd like...

—Bucky— you insisted, not remembering when you'd stopped crying and started smiling.

He remained silent.

—What?

Your lips crashed against his in a tender kiss. Gentle. Deep, like the way you felt for each other.

Bucky's hands reached for your waist as if they were meant to stay there forever. You clutched the back of his neck, your fingers tangled in his hair.

—Buck, da?— Lana stammered, waving her short arms in the air. You both turned in surprise at the high-pitched voice of the little girl sitting on the floor.

He rubbed the bare skin of your torso as he slid his hands under your oversized pajama top.

—Have you locked the crib?— you asked the man, playing with his locks, still close enough to be impregnated with his scent.

—Shit— he snapped. You laughed softly and gave him a quick kiss on the lips before running out to scoop Lana into your arms and throw her back into bed.

—Yes, baby, Bucky, dad.