Untitled

As a technician in the Avenger’s tower, you always wore the white coat on your usual clothes so you didn’t have to think about your outfit in the morning.

Today was different.

Ever since Sam told you that he could be the perfect match for you, you panicked.

He was Bucky Barnes.

The Bucky Barnes.

The former Winter Soldier now turned into a perfect built of muscles and blue eyes. He filled the space involuntarily every time he was in a room. His smile, sweet and warm, made your heart flutter every time you looked at him.

“You know,” Sam told you bringing your usual coffee. “Buck is really a great guy,” he took a sip. “And very much interested in you…” he left the phrase hanging.

“Yeah,” you huffed. “Six feet tall, built like a wall and fluffy hair… my type…”

You snorted thinking of how it would be weird seeing you two together.

“Why are you so… like that?” He asked you, looking straight into your eyes.

You put down the screwdriver on the table. “Because,” you started. “He’s handsome and… I’m just me…”

“Have you ever thought that ‘just you’ is what Bucky needs in his life?”

You laughed again.

“I’m serious,” he put down his coffee and turned better toward you. “He spent years being controlled and after that tons of women wanted him just because he has an handsome face…”

“He is handsome…” you confirmed.

“Yeah I know,” he told you. “But you could be the one for what it’s worth…”

It was true, Bucky was handsome but it wasn’t just that.

He was gentle, kind and friendly. He took his sweet time to acknowledge the new world he was in. His dating life was practically non existen and Sam was also true, women only wanted him for the night completely forgetting him as the sun came out.

“Sam,” you sat better on the stool. “I know what you’re doing but… he’s not going to be my boyfriend. I mean look at me,”

“I am,” he took a step back looking at you. “Before thinking of you as an annoying little sister,” he snorted. “You knew I thought you were beautiful.”

Sam took you under his wing, treating you as a sister as he noticed how you were way more mature than what he was thinking. Sure he gave you a look the first time he saw you, but with no malice. Now he made as his personal mission, to be the matchmaker for you and Bucky.

He saw how you two interact with each other.

You smiled when he entered every room, after he did the same exact thing careful to avoid being seen.

He noticed how much you like liquorice so he packed the cupboard.

Some shy hello and goodnight in the lobby bumping into each other.

That exact same afternoon, Sam took the decision of talking to Bucky.

“Hey Buck,” Sam said, finding the super soldier in the kitchen. “How’s life?”

Bucky looked at him, while pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Good.” He murmured.

“Right… having coffee I see…”

“Like every day, Samuel.”

“Damn, government name…”

“Need something?”

Sam sat in front of him and looked at him, resting his face on his closed fist. “How’s the last date? Went well?”

“Please,” Bucky took a sip of coffee. “She was desperate. I tried to talk but she ranted about her life and how she wanted to be an actress… and she didn’t let me talk,”

“Sounds bad.”

“Terrible.” Bucky confirmed.

“So, you need another date to erase the old one?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Bucky whispered. “I don’t know if I’ll ever found someone for me…”

Sam looked at his best friend sweetly. “Maybe the one is close… closer than you can imagine…”

Bucky raised his head and looked at him. “Don’t joke please…”

“I’m not,” Sam smiled widely. “I’ve got the perfect lady for you… Y/N.”

Bucky chocked on his coffee. “Y/N? Are you out of your mind?” He whispered shout. “I can’t date Y/N!”

“Why?” Sam asked, clearly bothered by Bucky’s tone, arching an eyebrow.

“WHY? Sam,” he rested the mug on the table. “Y/N is too good and beautiful and kind and way out of my league…” he looked down. “What can I offer to someone so damn good?”

Sam breathed out relieved. “She’s not out of league,” he said remembering you telling him the exact same thing. “She’s warm so do you. She’s kind so do you…”

Bucky perched an eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up... you help that old lady crossing the street just two days ago.”

“Well, no one offered…” he blushed.

“So, you are kind too… and you have two amazing blue eyes which by the way may have already captured her… trust me…”

Bucky couldn’t believe it.

He had a big crush on you since day one.

Your warm smile, the way you perched on the table of the lab fully concentrated on the work you had to do. He noticed how you followed his movement, just as he looked and starred at you but in no way, you would be interest in him.

A broken former super soldier, scarred of the dark and with nightmares constantly keeping him awake in the night.

In his mind the thought of being in bed with you just cuddling, made his heart beat so fast.

“Even if this was true,” Bucky raised his index finger at Sam. “Don’t do anything… I can’t ruin our… relationship.”

“Buck,” Sam glared at him. “What relationship? You barely speak to her.”

“And that’s good. I can admire her from afar without being a trouble for her.”

Sam raised his arms in the air. “Alright,” he said smiling. “I’ll drop it. Don’t go cry when she’s gonna be with someone else.”

The thought made Bucky’s blood boiling.

Two days after that conversation, Sam decided to push the both of you.

He called you from the common room, asking you to went up from your lab. He then called Bucky, saying there was an emergency in the kitchen. Bucky grunted and picked up the towel from the floor, as he was training in the gym.

Once you were in the corridor, Bucky appeared. There was no point of avoiding him. You both looked down, while Bucky called the elevator. The moment the door close, everything stopped.

The steel box stopped his journey and a voice echoed in the small space.

“Sorry guys,” Sam told through the comms. “Must be the power… it went down for some reason.”

Bucky looked down, trying to made himself smaller in a corner. You rested yourself on the side of the elevator, completely far from Bucky. You had the impulse of covering your body but making that, your breast was a little crushed between your arm and Bucky blushed taking a quick look.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You looked down at your chest. “No problem,” you said feeling the warm raising on your face. “Hope it’s quick…”

It wouldn’t be quick.

After a couple of minutes, Bucky began to wipe his forehead with the towel. His natural scent along the sweat was a devastating combo for you.

After almost ten minutes, you began to relax. “So, you were in the gym… sorry if Sam interrupted you.”

“No problem,” he told you. “I finished already… and you?”

“Oh, I was in the lab,” you said pointing at the white coat. “Had to fix some hard disks…”

After fifteen minutes, you were talking like normal people.

“You like reading?” You asked Bucky.

“I love reading,” he confirmed. “Keeps me busy at night…”

“Can’t sleep?”

He shook his head no. “Listen,” he started talking. “Would you like to have a cup of coffee or dinner sometime?”

“Dinner?”

“Uh… yeah,” he immediately regretted. “But you don’t have if… you don’t want…”

“I want. I want having dinner with you Bucky.”

“Amazing,” Bucky tried to contain his excitement. “Tomorrow night? At eight? The Chinese restaurant around the corner?”

“Sounds good.”

You gave him your address and in that exact moment, the door opened.

“Guys,” Sam shouted happily. “See wasn’t so bad.”

You both blushed.

“Don’t kiss or sleep with a guy on your first date. Maybe a kiss on your third date is okay but that’s it.”

That’s what your mom told you every time you had a date.

“I know mom,” you looked at yourself in the mirror. “Time to get ready. Call you later.”

Standing in front of the mirror, you looked intensely at your figure.

The white and fluffy towel hugged your curves. The knot you did slightly pinched and lifted your breast and the soft fabric covered your tummy.

“Why can I go out like that?”

You immediately started to think on what you could wear.

Bucky asked you out, in public at dinner.

He would be embarrassed of you, a voice in your head told you.

No, you thought. It’s gonna be awesome.

You opened your closet and starred at it.

Pants? Too formal.

Skirt? There’s wind outside so, no.

Jeans? Too casual.

A dress? Could work.

You picked the dress you used during a failed date where the guy treated you so bad, you almost swore to never date again.

It was black, knee length. The waist slightly tighter but soft on the belly.

Enough high necked to leave you breathe but not enough to made the other person stare at your chest.

You blushed thinking when Bucky looked at you involuntarily and blushed.

You paired the dress with black stocking and a pair of heels.

“Bucky’s big guy… he could handle it…”

Eight o’ clock on the dot, you enter the restaurant.

You noticed Bucky in the corner of the restaurant, and you saw something that made your heart beat faster. In front of him, a bouquet of peonies. You took a look while he was fidgeting with his hands. Hair combed back, a black shirt and dark jeans. As he sensed your eyes on him, he looked up and waved his hand. You walked to the table and he stood, quickly circling the table to pull out the chair for you.

“Hi,” you said already blushing. “Thank you, Bucky.”

He pulled out the chair, waited for you to sit and then circled back, sitting himself again. “Uh,” he stuttered a little. “I got you this… Sam said you like those…”

“I love them.” You smelled the flowers. “Thank you.”

After giving you the bouquet, a veil of silence surrounded you both.

Bucky quickly coughed a little. “So,” he took a sip of water. “How’s your day?”

“Pretty good,” you replied omitting completely the absolute crazy and non-sense convo you had with your other best friend.

“I’m telling you, Y/N…” she said on the phone. “I don’t know him, but I can say he’s a gentleman… and he’s handsome too…”

“Y/F/N! You’re married,” you laughed.

“Yeah, but I have eyes girl!” She shut down for a second. “I know why you’re nervous… but he’s not like the other guys you went out with. He’s from another time and you told me he already treats you good.”

“Yeah, as a colleague but… we’re talking about a date and he’s so…”

“So?”

“So handsome and brave and handsome,”

“You said it twice…”

You heard the smile in her voice. “Yeah, because he is… and I’m just me.”

“Maybe you’re the one for him.”

“Did you talk to Sam? God, he said the same exact thing…”

“Listen honey… just be yourself. He asked you out… it means something…”

You smiled thinking back at the phone call.

“What’s so funny?”

“Uh,” you looked down at the elegant glass in front of you. “I was thinking about my best friend… she helped me getting ready for… this…”

“Sam’s gonna be so noisy about that…” he snorted.

“Yeah, I can picture it… but I was talking about Y/F/N… let’s say she’s like Sam.”

“Oh,” he touched his heart, faking offnce. “God, why are so doomed…”

During all dinner, Bucky was the perfect example of a gentleman.

First helping you with the chair, then some quick chat about the usual pleasantries. He made you so at your ease, you forgot you had a six feet tall super soldier with blue eyes and a deathly smile in front of you.

“What?” He asked you, noticing you were staring at him.

“Oh,” you woke up from your daydream. “I was curious about why you asked me out…”

You involuntarily looked down, ready to the same and old reply.

“Well,” he sat better on the chair. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Here, you thought. That’s when he tells me about how he would love to date in private but not in public.

“Wasn’t it obvious what?”

“That I like you… very much… and I wanna spend time with you…”

“What?” You yelled.

“Yeah,” he looked uncomfortable. “Am I missing something?”

For the first time, you were speechless.

Every man you went out with, always wanted you for the night or the weekend away without any witnesses. You knew how you looked.

Your tummy wasn’t flat.

Your eyes weren’t blue.

Your hair wasn’t blonde.

You looked down more, fidgeting with your fingers. “Why did you ask me to meet here?”

“I know you like Chinese and I thought you weren’t comfy with me knowing your house before anything…”

You were too stunned to speak.

“Yeah,” he grabbed his head, scratching the back of his. “I mean back when I was younger my ma would have absolute beat my ass for not picking up a girl… but I figured times changed and a guy knowing your address immediately would made you…”

“Uncomfortable…” you finished the phrase.

As the dinner went on, your hand was intertwined with his as you walked out of the restaurant. He of course forced you to accept him paying the bill.

“Put that goddamn purse away sweetie.”

You blushed so hard, resting your forehead on his back.

He kept the door open for you, taking his sweet time to glance at you. You turned as he closed the restaurant’s door.

“Wanna take a walk?”

“Sure,” he said walking behind you, letting you slide away the street. “Keeping you safe.”

He took your hand into his, letting his thumb caress your knuckles. He rested the bouquet on his shoulder.

Your heart beat faster.

Involuntarily, you found yourself right in front of your apartment. “Oh,” you looked up at your building. “Didn’t realise I basically walked you here…”

“Don’t worry,” he stood in front of you, towering over you. “It’s a nice building.” He snorted, moving a chunk of hair from your face.

“Wanna get in? You know for a sweat treat…”

“I shouldn’t.” He told you.

You looked down, quite sad.

“You know what?” He picked your chin in his hand. “Let’s have a sweat treat.”

You smiled softly, picking the key from your purse.

He moved behind you, protecting from potential danger. His hand rested on your hip lightly. In the small elevator, he tried to keep his hands on himself but failed the moment you purred against his chest.

“Doll,” he looked up at the elevator’s ceiling. “Please…”

The bing signalled the arrival at your floor.

Inside, your apartment was already cozy and warm. Bucky slid off the jacket and then promptly helped you with yours. His fingers delicately grazed your skin. He kissed your shoulder as you removed your heels.

In that moment, with that kiss, tons of doubts rose in you.

You froze. “Want a beer?” You tried to keep your tone normal. “You can have a seat, Bucky.”

“Sounds good.” He replied, sitting on the couch.

“Popcorn?”

“Absolutely, doll.”

You padded back from the kitchen, balancing a bowl of freshly popped corn in one hand and two movie cases in the other.

Bucky was already sprawled across the sofa, his long legs stretched out, his dark hair falling in soft, untamed waves around his face. As you approached, he looked up, a lazy, affectionate smile curving his lips. He immediately shifted over, patting the cushions beside him in invitation.

“Alright, doll,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling timbre that settled right in your chest. “What’s on the docket tonight?”

You held up the remote, pointing at the tv. Tons of options appeared on the screen, but before you could even pitch them, Bucky raised a hand in mock surrender. “Your call. You know I’m terrible at picking these things anyway. Anything made after 1945 is basically magic to me.”

You chuckled, setting the snacks on the coffee table. But as you turned to sit down, a tiny, familiar flutter of hesitation kicked up in your chest. You looked at the space he’d made for you, then down at yourself. Being a woman with soft, generous curves, a silly little thought always tried to sneak into your head.

You sat down a little tentatively on the edge, but Bucky didn’t give your overthinking a single second to take root.

With a soft chuckle, he reached out, hooked his strong arm around your waist, and effortlessly pulled you right into his lap. He didn’t just let you sit next to him; he scooped you up until you were firmly nestled against his broad chest, your hips resting comfortably against his thigh.

“Bucky, wait… am I squishing you?” you murmured, a light blush rising to your cheeks as you tried to adjust your weight.

Bucky let out a warm, rumbling laugh that vibrated straight through your back. He wrapped both arms securely around you. His left arm, cool and polished, resting comfortably across your waist to hold you steady, while his right arm draped over your shoulder to pull you flush against him.

“Doll, I’m a super soldier,” he teased gently, pressing a soft kiss into your temple. “I lift armoured vehicles for fun. You feel absolute perfection to me. Soft, warm, and right where you belong. Now hush and let me hold you.”

The quiet reassurance melted your worries instantly.

Cuddling with Bucky was an experience entirely unique to him. It wasn’t just comfortable, it felt undeniably safe. In a world that was constantly loud and demanding, being held in his impossibly strong, loving grip felt like stepping into a fortress. He radiated a steady, cozy warmth and the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear was a quiet rhythm that lulled all your lingering stress away.

As the movie played, your fingers absently traced the seams of his shirt and Bucky’s flesh and blood hand stroked gentle, loving circles over the soft curve of your hip. You shared the bowl of popcorn, trading quiet commentary and soft giggles, completely lost in the cozy cocoon you’d built together.

When the final credits finally began to roll, you let out a long contented sigh, sinking even deeper into his broad frame.

“Enjoy that one?” Bucky asked, his chin resting lightly on top of your head.

“Mm, loved it,” you murmured sleepily. “Best part was the company, though.”

Bucky hummed, a playful glint suddenly sparkling in his ice-blue eyes as he tilted his head to look down at you. “Oh, yeah? Even the part where you hogged the entire bowl of popcorn?”

You blinked, feigning offense. “I did not hog it! I offered you plenty!”

“Right, right,” he teased, his grin widening, showing those faint dimples that always made your heart flutter. “You offered me the unpopped kernels at the bottom. Very generous of you, sweetheart.”

“You are so full of it, James Barnes!” you laughed, turning in his lap to push playfully against his chest.

“Am I now?” He grinned.

Before you could react, his hands darted to your waist. His fingers lightly dug into your sides, and a jolt of pure laughter burst from your throat.

“Bucky! No… stop!” You squealed, squirming helplessly against him as he gently tickled your ribs.

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” he barked out a laugh, his face lit up with pure, unadulterated joy.

Determined to fight back, you reached out, trying to dig your fingers into his waist. But Bucky was far too quick. With a smooth, soldier’s reflex, his large hands clamped around both of your wrists, holding them lightly above your chest. He hovered over you with an insufferably smug, victorious grin.

“Nice try, doll,” he chuckled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re fast, but I’ve had a few decades of training.”

You were trapped, outmaneuvered, and breathless from laughing. You needed a distraction, fast.

Looking up at him with wide and innocent eyes, you softened your posture. Bucky’s smirk faltered just a fraction, his gaze dropping to your lips as he fell for the quiet cue. Taking your chance, you leaned up quickly and pressed a soft, lingering kiss right to the center of his cheek.

The effect was instantaneous. Bucky’s breath hitched, his grip on your wrists loosening as his eyes fluttered shut for just a second, entirely disarmed by the affection.

Gotcha.

The moment his grasp slackened, you yanked your hands free and immediately drove your fingers right into his ribs.

Bucky gasped, a loud, startled laugh bursting out of him as he instantly doubled over, twisting away to protect his waist.

“Hey! That’s… that’s cheating!” He wheezed, his hands coming down to block yours as he squirmed across the couch cushions.

The formidable super-soldier was reduced to a helpless, wheezing mess of laughter on a Friday night living room sofa. His deep, full-bodied laugh filled the room, as he tried to fend off your fingers while catching his breath.

Eventually, he managed to catch your waist once more, gently pulling you down flat onto his chest so you couldn’t reach his sides anymore. Both of you lay there, chest to chest, breathing heavily, the sound of your shared laughter slowly tapering off into quiet, happy sighs.

Bucky looked up at you, his face flushed, eyes shining with a warmth that could melt glaciers. He reached up, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with immense tenderness.

“You’re a menace, you know that?” he whispered, his voice soft, affectionate, and utterly devoted. “Can I kiss you?”

“Of course…” you whispered.

As you replied, his lips smacked on yours. He rose his head a little meeting your face.

His hands flew between your hair, gripping them. His other hand, the metal one, grabbed your lower back. He pulled you toward himself. No space between you.

“Bucky,” you tried to speak. “Bucky, stop.”

He stopped immediately. “Oh my god sorry… did I hurt you or…”

You snorted. “No silly,” you smiled at his panicked voice. “I’ve never been with a guy like this…”

“Me too honey… I usually wait but you’re so-”

You interrupted him. “No… I mean I’m… a virgin,” you looked down, pressing your hands on his chest. His arms remained around you. “I’ve never done anything like that.”

You blushed and he looked at you like you hung the moon. “Oh doll,” he hugged you tightly. “If it’s too much we can’t stop right away,” he kissed your forehead. “No pressure.”

“I trust you, Bucky.” You looked straight into his eyes.

Bucky growled and stood up from the couch, you squeaked.

“Wait,” you said, grabbing him tightly.

“Are you scared I’d let you fall?” He gripped your tights harder. “You dated little boys… I’m a man.”

And then he kissed you deeply.

Guiding him with your voice, between kisses, he entered your bedroom. He let you down on the bed, gently and sweetly like you were made of glass.

Your back dipped in the bed, sinking more when he rested his knees.

Bucky never stopped kissing you while his hands roamed on your body.

His fingers traced line on your legs, his tongue dove into your mouth and his hips kept you down on the mattress.

“Tell me to stop, doll.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

“Good.

He knelt on the bed, thighs around your hips. He slid of his shirt after opening the buttons. His chest appeared and you couldn’t avoid staring at it. The scar on his shoulder glowed under the lights of your bedroom.

“You’re so handsome, Bucky.” You said feeling the warmth rose up to your face.

“You’re the gorgeous one here.”

He looked at you, asking permission to take off your dress. You nodded blushing.

Sitting on the bed, he was still knelt on you lap. His hands went behind you and slid down the zip. He helped you taking off the dress, lifting your hips with his metal arm.

“So good… so damn good…” he breathed out.

Dress on the floor, his shirt near it. He took his time looking at you and you felt the urge to cover with your arms.

“No,” he delicately took your arms, opening them. “If we do that, I wanna see you…” he kissed you more on your collarbone where the bra stopped. “All of you…”

Convinced, you rested your arms on his shoulders pulling him toward you. He happily complied.

His mouth went down, on your breast. He took another look at you and when you nodded, his fingers slid behind you on your back. The bra felt in a second.

He cupped your boobs with his big hands, and you felt the contrast between his flesh one and his metal one.

Sucking on your nipple, he growled. “So soft…”

“Bucky…” you breathed out.

He followed a path on your stomach and stopped at the edge of the stocking.

“Can I?”

“Yeah,” you nodded quickly.

He smiled and looking at you straight into your eyes, he removed stoking and underwear.

You were now fully naked in front of him.

“A vision…”

He kissed your tight first, then the other one and when he felt your fingers through his hair, he dove down on your core.

Feeling electricity in the entire body, you arched your back as the tip of his tongue played with your clit.

“BUCKY! You yelled, grabbing his hair. “OH GOD… DON’T STOP…”

He remained silent, devouring you.

He didn’t stop until your legs were shaking.

As the pleasure rose and explode inside you, your core clenched.

“Just like that good girl…”

His fingers now pinched and played with your clit, walking you through all.

As your breath became normal again, he kissed the corner of your lips.

“Ready for more?”

“Fuck yes…”

He smiled and stood up.

In the heat of the moment, you didn’t notice he was still wearing his pants.

You turned your head and rested your body on your elbow.

“Like what you see?” He smirked at you.

“You know the answer.”

Looking at you without stopping the eye contact, he slowly unbuckled his belt. As he made it snatched out of the jeans loops, you flinched excited.

He took his metal hand and unbuttoned the jeans, sliding them down on his big thighs. The boxer made nothing to mask the erection he had.

“Yeah…” he looked down and then sweetly at you.

“Come here…” you pointed your finger at him.

He slid down the boxers and his cock sprang free. You gulped at the size.

Bucky snorted and knelt back on the bed. He kissed your legs and your stomach, about you weren’t uncomfortable anymore thanks to him, and positioned himself between your legs.

“It may hurts, doll…”

“Don’t care. I trust you.”

He dipped down kissing you and in the same exact moment, he slid the tip of his cock inside you. You opened your mouth while he was still kissing you.

“I know… I know…”

You grabbed him by the neck and kissed him more. “More please…”

He snatched his hips and inserted himself inside you completely. He remained immobile for a second, letting you adjust to the size. “Fucking made for me…”

He began to move when you nodded to him.

Never letting go the eye contact again, he began to move.

You felt every inches, every veins and even the warmth his big body irradiated.

He grabbed your face and kissed you more and deeply, suffocating every moans.

“Buck…”

“I know… me too,” he pushed harder. “Come with me, doll…”

Another wave of pleasure hit you. Bucky immediately followed you.

Coming down again, you were now exhausted.

“You did it so good, Bucky…”

“You did it so good too, doll…”

He slid his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.

After some minutes, he stood and walked out toward the bathroom.

You heard the water running when he came back.

Without talking, he picked you up in a second.

“Bucky?”

“Can’t let you sleep like that…”

You blushed sensing your whole body in the air, in the arms of Bucky.

In the bathroom, the shower’s water was already ready and steaming.

He opened the door with one hand and walked inside. He finally let your feet touch the floor.

“Don’t give me that look,” he told you looking down. “Your like a pillow in my arms… I barely felt your weight…”

“Bucky…”

“No,” hi kissed you. “You’re so goddamn hot and I’ll spend my life telling you that.”

He pinned you against the shower wall and kissed you.

You found out quickly Bucky Barnes was a serial kisser.

After the shower, in which he insisted was the only one licensed and good to wash your hair and back, he picked you up again and brought you back on the bed.

The morning sun filtered softly through the bedroom blinds, casting warm golden stripes across the duvet. Bucky stirred first, his gaze tender as he looked down at you. Pressing a trail of soft, feather-light kisses along the crook of your neck and up over your shoulder, he smiled as you slowly blinked awake.

“Morning, beautiful,” he hummed, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep.

You murmured a sleepy greeting, pulling the blanket higher as you snuggled deeper into his chest. As you lay together in the quiet lazy morning, your fingers absently found the skin where his flesh met the intricate seam of his metal arm. You gently traced the soft, raised patterns of his scar before leaning up to press a lingering kiss right against it.

Bucky went completely still. When you pulled back, his ice-blue eyes were glistening, glassy with an emotion so deep it left him breathless.

“You deserve to be loved, James,” you whispered softly, looking right into his soul. “You deserve all the good things.”

His breath hitched. Without a word, he cupped your cheek with his large, warm hand, his thumb brushing over your skin as he pulled you into a kiss that tasted like devotion and quiet reverence.

Then, with a sudden burst of mischievous energy, he flipped you smoothly onto your back. A delighted squeak escaped your lips, followed by a bright laugh as he hovered right over you, a wicked, handsome smirk playing on his lips.

Hours later, the afternoon light washed over the room while you two remained tangled in the sheets, blissfully glued together. The sharp ring of your phone shattered the quiet, displaying Sam’s name on the screen.

You answered on speaker, holding the phone between you while Bucky rested his chin on your shoulder, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

“Alright, you two,” Sam’s voice boomed playfully through the speaker. “Just checking in to see if James actually let you leave the house today, or if I need to send a rescue team.”

You and Bucky locked eyes, biting back triumphant grins.

“Oh, no rescue needed, Sam,” you replied, your voice smooth and innocent. “Bucky just came over.”

Bucky leaned his head closer to the microphone, a sly smile dancing on his lips. “Yeah, Wilson. I just came, too.”

A beat of stunned, dead silence stretched over the line as Sam realized he’d been completely out-maneuvered, leaving him zero room to tease. Before Sam could recover or offer a sputtering retort, Bucky reached out, tapped the screen, and ended the call.

The bedroom exploded into shared, breathless laughter. Bucky buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking with chuckles as you ran your hands through his messy hair.

When the laughter finally settled, he leaned up, looking at you with pure, radiant affection. He captured your lips in a slow, sweet kiss, sealing the perfect quiet of your afternoon together.

You'd been holding it since your lunch break, waiting for the precise moment when he was relaxed enough to be off-guard. You glanced down at your phone—still on the Home Screen, but he didn't know that— and cleared your throat.

"Babe."

"Mm?" He didn't look up from the TV.

"I think I just saw Sam on Tinder."

His fingers stilled completely against your skin. His head turned slowly, like a door hinge that needed oil. Then without warning, he burst out laughing.

"Sam?" He wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Oh, that actually tracks."

You blinked. That… wasn't the reaction you were expecting. "It does?"

"Sweetheart, it's Sam. He'd been waiting his entire life for an app that lets him judge people by a single photo and a witty one-liner." Bucky shook his head, grinning from ear to ear, fully delighted by the image. "I bet his profile picture is a picture of him with Redwing, shirtless at the beach, holding a fish he definitely didn't catch."

"He did have a fish," you said, scrambling to keep up. "And sunglasses."

"Of course he did." Bucky wiped at his eye, wheezing. "His bio probably says something like 'Former Air Force, current Captain America'. Or maybe just 'Looking for someone to do the talking at parties.' He's definitely got that smirk in his pictures, the one where he thinks he's being mysterious."

You were biting your cheek so hard it hurt. This was going off-script. "You're not… worried about him?"

"Worried?" Bucky scoffed, waving a hand, settling back into the couch with a smug grin. "Sam's a grown man. If he wants to swim in the shallow end of the internet, that's his business. I'm just saying—" He leaned back, hands behind his head, looking way too pleased with himself. "—the man's got the charisma of a used car salesman and the ego of a fighter pilot. He's probably out there collecting matches like Infinity Stones. I bet he swipes right on everyone to see what he catches."

He was having the time of his life, roasting his best friend, eyes bright with mischief, there was no shred of concern in sight.

"I bet he opens with some line about his wings," Bucky continued, warming to his subject. "'Hey baby, ever been with a guy who can literally sweep you off your feet?' Or maybe he just sends a picture of Redwing and says, 'He's trained, but I'm not'."

You lost it. A laugh escaped before you could stop it, and Bucky took it as encouragement, turning toward you with a boyish grin.

"And you know he's got his Spotify linked. It's probably all early 2000s R&B and one patriotic playlist he made ironically but listens to unironically."

He threw his head back and laughed, loud and open, completely unbothered and thoroughly entertained by the mental image of Sam Wilson navigating modern dating. And then, it was like a record scratch moment.

Bucky froze mid-sentence, his mouth still open on some joke about Sam's courting. His eyes narrowed, shifting from distant amusement at his best friend's expense to something much more immediate. He turned to you slowly.

"Wait," he said. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Why are you on Tinder?"

Oh, there it was.

You looked up at him with your best innocent eyes. "What?"

"You're on Tinder," he said, pointing at you like he'd just discovered a new form of betrayal. "You're sitting there, on my couch. In our apartment, wearing my clothes… and you're swiping?"

"I'm not swiping right now."

"That's not the point, sweetheart!" He was gesturing wildly, all his earlier smugness evaporating into panic. "The point is you've got an account. You're out there, in a database where other men can see you."

"And women," you added helpfully. "It's very inclusive now, you know?"

Bucky looked like he might swallow his own tongue.

"Who else did you see?" he demanded, taking a step closer. "Did you match with anyone? Did you talk to anyone? Is that why you've been on your phone all week? Have you been— chatting?"

"Bucky—"

"I thought we were exclusive!" He was fully shouting now, but it was the most wounded shout you'd ever heard. "We live together! I always buy your favorite cereal!"

"I know, but—"

"What does your bio even say?" He lunged for your phone, and you had to scramble to keep it out of reach, which only made him more feral. "Let me see it! Did you mention me? Did you use a good picture? If you used that one from the beach I took I'm gonna lose my mind, you know the one, the one with the—"

"Bucky!" You were laughing now, couldn't help it, curling into the corner of the couch with your phone clutched to your chest. "Bucky, stop!"

"Why should I stop?" He shifted closer, bracing one arm on the back of the couch behind you, all his looming energy collapsing into pure, wounded-puppy devastation. "You're out here, marketing yourself to the entire—"

"It's a prank!"

He stopped dead.

The rain kept hitting the window, the movie was still playing on the TV. And Bucky stared at you, chest heaving, his t-shirt was askew. He looked like a man who had just run an emotional marathon.

"What?" he said, very carefully.

"I'm not on Tinder," you continued, fighting your smile. "I don't have an account, I just saw this Tiktok and wanted to see your reaction."

The silence that followed was thick. Bucky's expression cycled through approximately twelve different emotions—relief, betrayal, confusion, more betrayal, grudging admiration.

"You are the worst person I have ever met."

"I thought it would be funny."

"You thought—" He cut himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I was right there, about to text Sam about it. I had roasts prepared… and you were— you were pranking me."

"It was really funny, though."

Bucky looked at the ceiling like he was asking God for strength. Then he moved.

You shrieked as he grabbed you, hauling you off the couch and over his shoulder in one smooth move. The world tilted upside down—your hair falling toward the floor, his vibranium arm locked tight around the back of your thighs, his flesh hand swatting your behind with a satisfying smack that made you yelp.

"Bucky! Put me down!" You were pounding on his back, but you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, kicking your legs uselessly as he straightened up.

"Nope." He started walking toward the bedroom, purposeful and unbothered by your squirming. "You wanna prank me? You wanna make me think you're out there swiping through the entire population of New York while you're wearing my clothes? Fine. But you're gonna make it up for me."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" you gasped out, not sorry at all, giggling into the fabric of his t-shirt.

"No you're not, not yet at least," he muttered, but you could hear the grin in his voice. He bounced you once on his shoulder to adjust his grip, and you squealed, clutching at his waist.

"I will be good, I promise I will be good!" You said breathless with laughter.

"Will you?" He laughed, swatting you again just to hear you yelp. "You're not gonna keep running around, giving me heart attacks?"

He kicked the bedroom door shut behind him and dropped you into the mattress. You bounced, trying to scramble away, but he was already climbing over you, caging you with his arms. He tried looking furious but instead he looked absolutely smitten, with that boyish grin that made your heart jump.

"Just so we're clear," he said low, pressing a kiss to your jaw. "That phone is mine now. Consider it confiscated by the century-old boyfriend whom you just tried to give a heart attack. And you're gonna make it up to me, starting now."

You were still giggling as he leaned down, but the kiss shut you up pretty quick, his fingers threading through your hair. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.

"No more doing pranks on me, okay? You can't go around giving me prank-induced arrhythmia for views."

You laughed, while your fingers traced the line of his spine. "I won't, I promise."

part 1 — autumn When old things fall away. The season of endings, of letting go, of learning that some chapters must close so others can begin.

part 2 — winter When the world grows quiet. A season of healing, fragile beginnings, and learning to survive the cold with someone beside you.

part 3 — spring When everything starts to bloom. New feelings, new roots, and the slow realization that hope can grow again.

part 4 — summer When everything feels alive. The season of warmth, belonging, and choosing the life you’ve built.

Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.

It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.

And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.

You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.

But those words stung.

Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.

When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.

Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.

Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."

You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.

"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."

You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.

"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."

You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.

You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."

Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.

You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.

And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.

You're happy for her, you really are.

You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.

The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.

The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.

"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."

The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.

"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."

"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"

"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."

You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."

Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.

You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.

"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"

Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.

"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."

"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."

He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.

You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."

She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.

"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."

Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"

"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."

"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."

"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."

Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."

Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"

"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."

He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."

"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."

Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."

He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.

You turn the first card: The Lovers.

Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.

"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."

Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"

Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.

You turn the second card. The High Priestess.

The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.

"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."

"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.

"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.

You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.

The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.

Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.

"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."

Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."

"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."

You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.

Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.

You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.

That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.

You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.

Exactly the same spread from earlier.

You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.

The dreams start three nights later.

You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.

You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.

You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.

You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.

You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.

In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.

You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.

The Tower. The Star. The World.

Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.

You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.

Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.

The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.

You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.

"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."

You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.

"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."

"Maggie—"

"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."

"They're just cards."

"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."

You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.

It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.

Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.

The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.

The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.

You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?

At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.

You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.

Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.

He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.

"You," he says it flat.

"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"

He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"

"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"

"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."

"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"

He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"

"Okay—"

"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"

The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.

"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."

"That isn't what I said— "

"Well, it's what she heard."

"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"

"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."

You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.

"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."

A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."

"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."

You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.

That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.

You wake up furious at your own mind.

The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.

You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.

"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"

"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."

"James," you repeat.

"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"

The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.

"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.

"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."

From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"

You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.

What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.

You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.

He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.

"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.

"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.

He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."

"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.

He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.

"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."

"Okay."

"For her," he clarifies.

"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.

In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.

"You didn't tell me you know James."

"Barely."

"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."

You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.

You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.

But there's no real conversation until now.

You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.

"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"Give me the litter."

"I've got it."

"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."

You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.

He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.

"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."

"You were rude."

"I was out of line," he repeats.

"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."

"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.

"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."

"Is that a prediction?"

You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."

"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."

"I know my aunt."

"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.

That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.

You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.

It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.

Then why does your heart feel so heavy?

By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.

"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.

"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."

"Fated."

"That's five."

"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"

Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.

Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.

He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.

"Traitor," you tell the cat.

"She respects the chain of command."

Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.

And you go still.

It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.

The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.

"You okay?" He's looking at you now.

"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."

It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.

When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."

You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.

"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."

You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.

"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."

Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.

"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"

"Sometimes what?"

"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."

The radio changes songs.

"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.

No, you think. It's worse than that.

"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."

He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.

"Okay," he says finally.

"O—Okay?"

"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."

It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.

It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.

When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.

"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."

"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."

"You do look tired."

"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."

His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"

You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."

Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"

You both know she's been listening to every word.

The walk to the café is silent.

The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.

It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.

"Would you mind if I ask you something?"

"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."

"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"

"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."

"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."

"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"

"Ambiguous?"

"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."

You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.

The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.

You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.

It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.

You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.

He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.

The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.

Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.

You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.

"Maggie's napping," you say.

His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.

"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."

You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"

"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."

"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"

"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."

You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B

"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.

"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."

Bucky lost his nerve.

"So, Friday… at seven."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.

"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"

"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."

He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.

When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.

He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.

"You look nice," he says when you open the door.

"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."

"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."

"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"

"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.

You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.

"Ready?" he asks.

"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"

"Not tonight."

"Then I'm ready."

Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.

"Fancy," you tease.

"I said it wasn't fancy."

"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."

He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.

You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."

"That's a promising start."

"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"

It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.

"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."

The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.

"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."

You laugh, but it comes out humorless.

"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."

Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.

"Bucky?"

He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"

"Should I?" you ask, confused.

He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."

"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.

It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.

March 10, 1917.

You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.

"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."

Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.

"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."

"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."

He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.

"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."

You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"You're quiet," he says.

"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."

"You fought in World War II."

"Yeah."

"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."

"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."

You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.

Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.

You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.

But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.

He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.

"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.

"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.

But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.

The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.

"I had a good time," he says.

"Me too."

He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.

"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."

"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"

And then he kisses you.

It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.

He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."

You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."

"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."

"Night."

You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.

The front door opens behind you.

"You're welcome," Maggie says.

You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"

She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.

"You were watching!" You accuse.

"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."

"Maggie!"

"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."

You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.

Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.

"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."

You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.

But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.

Disaster, then hope, then completion.

Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.

You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.

June.

The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.

You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.

The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.

"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.

A fortune teller machine.

It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.

Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."

"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."

"She's made of plywood."

"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."

He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."

"Fair."

You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.

You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.

And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.

You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.

"Huh."

"Your turn!"

"I don't need a card to tell me—"

"Your turn, Barnes."

He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.

It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.

The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.

"Bucky—"

"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"

Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.

"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."

It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.

It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.

"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."

You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."

"You're not naming him after me."

"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."

Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.

"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."

"Bossy."

"You love when I'm bossy."

He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.

The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.

"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.

Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.

"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.

"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.

The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.

When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.

And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.

"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."

"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.

You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.

"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"

Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.

"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."

"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."

"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."

You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.

"I do," you whisper. "I love you."

His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."

"You have terrible taste."

"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."

You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.

"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"

You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.

"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."

"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."

"Me too."

He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"That sometimes the universe gets it right."

You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.

You’re half-buried in your comforter, staring at the cracks in your ceiling, letting the silence settle over your small apartment. The city sounds outside are muted, almost comforting—a reminder that life moves on even when you feel stuck. Then your phone buzzes, slicing through the quiet. The screen lights up with a name you haven’t seen in months: Fury.

For a moment, you just stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button. You haven’t heard his voice since—well, since you stopped being you.

You swipe to answer, trying to keep your voice steady. "Fury, long time no see..." You try to sound casual, but your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. "I’m cutting it short. You can come home." His voice is gravelly, distant, like he’s calling from another universe.

"Wait, what?" The words slip out before you can stop them. Your heart stumbles, fingers frozen above your screen.

"It’s all clear here. You can come home." You blink, not sure you heard him right. For a second, the world feels blurry, everything muffled except the echo of that word—home. Like something you lost and almost forgot how to want.

"You still there?" Fury’s voice is like sandpaper, dragging you back to reality.

"I-I...yeah. I don’t know what to say. It’s been a year, you know?" Your voice is so small, barely more than a whisper. It sounds fragile, even to you.

"Pack your things. Jet’s picking you up tomorrow morning. You’re back on the team." He says it like it means nothing, like you haven’t spent the last twelve months being a ghost.

"Y-Yes, sir." But the line’s already dead. You’re left staring at the screen, heart pounding, the word “home” echoing around your tiny apartment like a promise and a threat.

A year ago, everything changed. You were declared dead—your own funeral playing out in headlines and haunted faces. Since then, you’ve been hiding, living on borrowed time and borrowed names. Fury’s words from a year ago haunt you, replaying in your mind every night.

“You have to fake your death.” You remember sitting in his office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, Steve’s meeting still echoing in the hallway. It was a delicate mission, and if you failed—people would die.

“I beg your pardon?” you’d asked, but your voice trembled and you gripped the edge of the chair like you could anchor yourself to this reality for just a little longer.

“There’s a group targeting the Avengers. If you ‘die’ taking out their headquarters, they’ll think their plan worked.” You couldn’t find words then; you just sat there, numb and silent, wondering how you’d gotten to this point.

“There isn’t another way?” you’d tried, but already you knew the answer.

“Unfortunately, no.” Fury’s voice was almost soft. “When you place the bomb, get ready to run. I have a side plan for you.”

You’d sagged in your seat, feeling all the air go out of you. “Yes, sir.”

And now, a year later, you’re being called back—like nothing happened, like you didn’t break yourself into pieces just to keep them safe.

You press your phone to your chest and let the tears come, silent and sharp. You don’t know if you’re ready to go home. You don’t even know if you’re still the same person who left.

But tomorrow, you’ll have to find out.

______________________________________________

The morning in the Avengers compound crawls in, grey and heavy. No sunlight, just the creeping sound of the rain tapping on the compound’s windows. Nobody really speaks anymore; breakfast is silent, a ritual everyone goes through on autopilot. It’s been almost a year, but the ache hasn’t faded—it’s woven into the walls, into every cup of coffee, every half-hearted smile.

JARVIS’s announcement ruptures the quiet like a thunderclap: “Nicholas Fury J has scheduled a meeting this afternoon. Your presence is required.”

Again. And again.

The words ricochet down the hallways, bouncing off closed doors and tired faces. Tony, hair wild and eyes rimmed red from another sleepless night, finally shouts: “OKAY, WE GOT THAT!” The AI falls silent, but the damage is done—the mood is even worse.

Since you died, the whole team has been splintered into pieces that no longer fit together. The compound, once alive with the sound of laughter bouncing off the walls, with movie nights that stretched until dawn and inside jokes that made even the darkest days seem brighter—now it feels like a mausoleum. You were the spark, the gravity that held everyone in orbit, the voice that soothed arguments and the smile that made the heaviness in their chests lift. Without you, the colors seem washed out, every room echoing with an absence that no one can fill.

Natasha still catches herself listening for your footsteps in the hallway, her head half-turned before she remembers you’re not there. Thor, out of habit, leaves an extra mug on the counter during breakfast, silence falling whenever his gaze lingers on it for too long. Clint opens the fridge and, for a heartbeat, looks for your favorite snacks—then closes it a little too hard, the memory stinging. Steve keeps a spare seat open during briefings, eyes flickering to it before he starts talking, like he expects you to walk in late with a sheepish grin. Bruce finds himself pausing in the lab, almost asking your opinion about a new experiment, fingers hovering over his phone before he remembers he can’t text you anymore. Even Tony, who pretends to be fine, will sometimes input your old code into JARVIS just to hear your custom notification chime echo through the living room, a sound that used to mean you were home. And Sam can’t bring himself to change the playlist in the gym, letting your favorite songs play on repeat, pretending it’s for everyone, but really it’s for you. He still glances at the door sometimes, waiting for you to walk in and mock his taste in music before grabbing the next set of weights.

The kitchen is quieter. The common room is emptier. Even the sun filtering through the windows seems duller, as if the whole world is grieving with them.

But it’s Bucky who carries your loss like a second skin. He moves through the days as though underwater, every motion slower, heavier, as if the air itself is thick with sorrow. Grief is etched in every line of his face, in the way his shoulders hunch, in the exhaustion that lives in his eyes. Sometimes Steve finds him by the window, gaze distant, unmoving for hours—lost in a world where you’re still here, replaying every moment he had with you, and all the ones he never got to have. For Bucky, time hasn’t passed at all. The wound is as raw as the day he lost you.

The night you died is always replaying in Bucky’s head. He remembers kneeling next to you, his hands trembling, desperately searching your eyes for truth.

“You good?” he asked, voice soft, like he was afraid the world would shatter if he spoke too loudly.

“Yeah, bit nervous,” you whispered, trying to sound brave. The jet was landing, its engines roaring, vibrating through the soles of your boots.

Tony forced a smile, masking worry with bravado: “Okay, folks, it’s time to kick some terrorist ass,” he called as the ramp opened, letting in cold air and the smell of rain.

You argued with Steve and Tony, insisting you had to go in alone. “I know the layout. I’ll be faster without backup.” The team hated it, but you were stubborn—always putting others before yourself.

Inside, chaos reigned. Gunfire rattled the walls, shouts echoed, alarms blared. You slipped through shadows, adrenaline pounding in your ears, heart racing as you set the bomb.

Steve checked the comms, voice tense: “Y/N, you good?” No reply. Static.

Tony tried again, urgency creeping in: “Hey kid! You okay in there?” Still nothing.

Bucky’s fear grew, his hand clenching the comms. “Please doll, say anything…” he whispered, voice breaking.

Suddenly, your voice—strained, desperate, barely audible over the chaos: “RUN AWAY, THERE ISN’T MUCH TIME LEFT! GO, GET OUT OF HERE!”

The team barely had time to react. Steve shouted orders, Natasha dragged Clint back, Thor shielded the others, Tony and Sam took flight. Five seconds later, the world erupted—fire and smoke, concrete splintering, alarms shrieking. The shockwave knocked everyone flat.

Dust settled. The silence after was deafening. Clint rasped: “Where’s she?” Tony and Sam swept the blast zone, panic rising. Natasha barked at FRIDAY to scan for your heat signature. Thor and Clint shouted your name. Hulk tore through debris, hands bleeding, desperate and wild.

Bucky stood frozen, numb. Steve tried to call him back, but Bucky couldn’t hear—couldn’t think. Then, driven by panic, he sprinted toward the wreckage, screaming your name, voice hoarse and raw.

Sam landed in front of him, blocking his path, eyes full of sorrow. “Buck, I’m sorry—”

Bucky shoved him, tears streaming, voice shattering: “NO, NO, PLEASE, IT CAN’T BE—” All the anger, all the grief spilled out, uncontained.

“She’s gone,” Steve said softly, broken.

The team was silent—no one moved, no one breathed. And Bucky fell to his knees, the world collapsing around him, mourning you all over again.

The kitchen is unusually busy for this early in the day. Tony is half-arguing with JARVIS over coffee settings, Natasha is perched on the counter, legs swinging as she scrolls through her phone, and Sam is humming off-key as he flips pancakes. The scent of breakfast fills the air, warm and sweet, and for a second, Bucky almost forgets the ache in his chest. He sits quietly at the end of the table, cradling his mug, letting the noise of his friends wash over him. Their laughter is softer than it used to be, but every now and then, a genuine smile breaks through the morning gloom. He watches as Steve nudges a plate of pancakes toward him, and he forces a small smile, murmuring thanks. But even as he sits among them, Bucky feels separate—like he’s watching through glass, the memory of you hovering at the edge of every conversation. He wonders if anyone else notices the way his gaze lingers on the empty seat, or how his hand curls protectively around his coffee, as if expecting you to reach for it and tease him for making it too strong. The world keeps spinning, the team keeps moving, but for Bucky, every shared breakfast is a bittersweet reminder: you should be here, laughing with them, lightening the room the way only you could.

“Any idea what Fury wants?” Sam’s voice cuts through the kitchen, half-hearted and brittle with the weight of too many mornings like this one.

Steve just shakes his head, rubbing at the tension in his jaw. “No idea. It’s new to me too.” He looks over to Tony, searching for a lifeline.

Tony sighs, staring into the depths of his mug as if the answer might float up from the bottom. “Negative. Haven’t heard from Fury in months.” He takes a slow sip, and the silence that follows is thick, a reminder that none of them have really been themselves since you left.

“Maybe it’s some urgent mission,” Natasha murmurs, fingers absently tracing the rim of her mug. Her eyes flicker up, but quickly drop again.

Clint pushes away from the counter, stretching his legs and grabbing an apple. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he mutters, voice rough. “I’m going to the gym—see you there.” He’s gone before anyone can answer.

Natasha slips down gracefully, Sam trailing after her, and the kitchen empties out, leaving only Steve and Bucky, as a photograph fades at the edges.

Steve leans in, voice gentle. “Bad day?”

Bucky doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods, eyes locked on the swirl of coffee still steaming in his mug. Its warmth doesn’t reach him, and the bitter scent is all wrong—too sharp, not enough sweetness. You always teased him about his taste, wrinkling your nose and stealing sips just to make him smile.

He finally manages: “It’s almost a year, Steve. But I miss her. I miss her so much.” His voice cracks, and he blinks hard, but his eyes shine anyway.

Steve’s hand settles on his shoulder, grounding him for a moment. “I know, pal. I know.”

“Go for a run, maybe it’ll help,” Steve offers, and Bucky nods, tossing away the mug—still nearly full, untouched. He forces himself up the stairs, every step heavy, every breath shallow.

He changes into his running clothes, fingers fumbling with the laces, mind drifting. The hallway is quiet, echoing with the ghosts of your laughter. He remembers the way you’d catch him before missions, tugging his sleeve and whispering “Good luck, sergeant” with a wink that made his heart stumble.

He steps outside, the air sharp and cold. He starts running—feet pounding the pavement, lungs aching, muscles burning. But he can’t outrun you. The memories crash into him, relentless, vivid, unyielding.

Flash—

You’re curled up on the couch, feet tucked under you, flipping through channels. “You ever gonna let me pick the movie, Barnes?” you tease. He grumbles, but lets you choose, just to hear you laugh. The sound is sunlight, golden, melting the frost in his chest.

Flash—

It’s late, moonlight spilling through the kitchen window. You steal his coffee, make a face, and hand him your mug instead—sweet, creamy, perfect. “You need to live a little, Buck,” you say, and he almost tells you right then. His heart thuds in his throat, words trapped behind his teeth. He just smiles, and you smile back, soft and understanding.

Flash—

Training in the gym. You circle him, a grin tugging at your lips. He pretends to be annoyed, but he loves watching you move, loves the way you challenge him, push him, make him better. “Don’t go easy on me, Barnes,” you demand, and he pulls his punches, afraid to hurt you, but mostly afraid you’ll see how much he cares.

Flash—

You, suited up before the mission, nervous but determined. “I’ll be quick, Buck. Promise.” You squeeze his hand, and he wants to say “Stay. Please stay. I love you.” But he just nods, watches you walk away, hoping for another chance.

Flash—

Static on the comms. “Y/N, you good?” Steve’s voice. Tony’s voice. Nothing. Bucky’s hands shake, fear clawing at his chest. “Say something, doll. Please.” The silence is unbearable.

Then your voice, frantic and sharp: “RUN AWAY, THERE ISN’T MUCH TIME LEFT! GO, GET OUT OF HERE!” And then— Fire. The world splits open, smoke choking the air, rubble everywhere. Bucky’s knees hit the ground, screaming your name, pain tearing through him like shrapnel.

Now, as he runs, the city blurs past him, but he’s not really seeing it. He sees you everywhere—your smile in the faces of strangers, your laughter in the wind, your touch in the warmth of the sun. His breath catches, tears prick his eyes, but he keeps running, running, running.

He never said it. He never told you how much he loved you. He thought he had time. He thought the world would wait for him to be brave.

But the world didn’t wait. And now, every mile is heavy with regret, every heartbeat a reminder of everything he lost.

The ache in his chest is worse than any wound, sharper than any blade. He loved you. He never got to say it. And now, he runs with nothing but memories and the echo of your name in his heart.

——————————————————————————

The jet hums beneath you, the vibration a steady companion as you huddle in your seat, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to the cool glass. Your reflection stares back at you—eyes smudged with exhaustion, jaw set against the tide of memories. Outside, clouds drift by in lazy swirls, the world below a patchwork you’re almost afraid to return to.

Your headphones shield you from the drone of the engines, your old playlist looping—each song handpicked for someone you loved. Every track is a key, unlocking a memory so vivid it almost hurts.

The gentle, finger-picked acoustic melody—Natasha’s song—fills your ears, soft as the whisper of her hands in your hair. You’re sitting cross-legged on the common room floor, sunlight pooling golden on the rug. Natasha is behind you, deft fingers weaving an intricate braid. “You’re safe with me, always,” she murmurs, her voice low and certain, and you believe her because she’s Natasha and she never promises lightly. You remember the warmth of her knees against your back, the way she’d squeeze your shoulder just before letting go, a silent reminder that you were never as alone as you felt.

A slow, contemplative piano—the kind Steve always chose for his records—draws you back to another night. You’re hunched over a cup of coffee in the kitchen, darkness pressed against the windows. Steve pads in, silent as ever, and sits across from you, sliding a steaming mug your way. “You don’t have to talk,” he says softly, wrapping his huge hands around his own cup. He just sits there, a quiet presence, sometimes reading aloud from his battered journal, sometimes just listening to the rain. You remember the steady comfort of him, how his patience made it easier to breathe.

An upbeat, playful tune with plucky strings—Clint’s favorite—makes you smile through the ache. The two of you sprawled on the rooftop, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a deck of cards between you. Clint shows you how to palm an ace with a magician’s wink. “Don’t tell Nat,” he whispers, and you both laugh so hard you nearly spill your mug of cocoa. You remember the way the city lights blinked around you, how you felt safe enough to lean your head on his shoulder and just exist.

A bombastic, orchestral theme—Thor, of course—rumbles through your earbuds, bright as lightning. The kitchen is chaos, Thor’s laughter booming as he waves you over. “The last pastry is for you, friend!” he bellows, brandishing it like a trophy. He claps you on the back so hard you nearly drop your tea, but you don’t mind—not when his joy is so infectious. You remember the way he always saved you a place at the table, how he’d tell stories of Asgard just to make you smile.

A soft, thoughtful indie track—Bruce’s music—seeps in like dusk. You’re perched on a lab stool, feet swinging, as Bruce explains the finer points of his latest experiment. “Does that make sense?” he asks, eyes hopeful behind his glasses. You tease him about his handwriting, and he laughs, the sound rare and precious. You remember the comfort of those evenings, the sense that your opinion mattered, that you were trusted and understood.

A slick, late-night groove—Tony’s song—brings a bittersweet edge. You’re sneaking down the hall at 2 a.m., Tony at your side, both of you ducking into the kitchen for clandestine bowls of ice cream. “For science,” he insists, grinning as you both ignore JARVIS’s chiding. You remember the night you finally admitted you were scared, how Tony—surprisingly—just listened, nodding, his usual sarcasm set aside. “You’re stronger than you think, kid,” he said, and for once you let yourself believe him.

An energetic, infectious pop anthem—Sam’s gym mix—bursts into your ears. You’re in the gym, sweat-slick and breathless. Sam tosses you a towel, cranks the volume, and shouts, “C’mon, Y/N, sing it with me!” You both belt the lyrics, so off-key even FRIDAY complains. You remember collapsing together in laughter, the echo of it bouncing off the walls, a reminder that sometimes joy was as easy as a song.

But then the playlist shifts, the music slows, and you know what’s coming before the first aching chord. Bucky’s song. A slow, haunting ballad—aching, raw, baring all the things left unsaid.

You and Bucky, side by side on the fire escape, the city’s heartbeat pulsing below. The air is cool, your knees almost touching. He stares out at the lights, metal fingers tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh. “You make it easier, you know. Existing,” he murmurs, voice rough with honesty. The words settle between you, delicate and trembling. You want to answer, to say, “Me too,” to tell him you love him, but the words catch in your throat.

You, returning late from a mission, bruised and aching. Bucky waiting for you in the hallway, eyes stormy with worry. He doesn’t say anything, just takes your hand in his, holding it like a promise. He stands guard outside your door all night, and you fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

You, spinning in the kitchen, barefoot, as Bucky watches from the doorway. You grab his hand, tug him in, and for a moment, you’re dancing, the world shrinking down to the press of his palm, the soft smile he only ever gives you. You almost say it then, almost—but almost was never enough.

The night before you left, both of you on the verge of confession, words trembling in the air. His eyes find yours, so blue and open. “Promise me you’ll come back,” he whispers. You promise, but the truth is, you’re already breaking.

The jet dips lower, wheels grinding down, the compound coming into view through a veil of gathering tears. The music swells, Bucky’s song still echoing in your ears, the memories crowding your heart.

Tears spill freely now, hot and silent, relief and longing mixing with hope so fierce it almost hurts. You press your palm to the glass, the words trembling on your lips, a prayer, a promise, a homecoming.

“I’m coming home,” you whisper to the sky, and let yourself sob quietly for all you’ve lost—and all you might just dare to reclaim

——————————————————————————

The conference room is thick with tension, a storm brewing beneath the fluorescent lights. Natasha sits at the end of the table, legs crossed, gaze sharp and distant. Steve stands near the window, knuckles white where his arms are folded, watching clouds drift by like they might offer answers. Clint fidgets with a rubber band, snapping it against his wrist, restless energy barely contained. Bruce scrolls through a never-ending series of lab notes, pretending he can focus. Tony props his feet on the table, sunglasses hiding red-rimmed eyes, but his facade is thinner than ever. Thor leans against the wall, arms folded, expression unusually somber. Sam paces near the door, earbuds draped around his neck, thumb flicking nervously over the play button.

Bucky sits farthest from the door, jaw clenched, thumb nervously tracing the scar on his metal hand. He doesn’t look at the empty chair beside him—your chair—but everyone knows he’s thinking about

JARVIS’ voice slices the silence like a blade: “Director Fury has arrived.”

A hush falls instantly, as if even the walls of the compound are holding their breath. The door swings open. Nick Fury steps in, his presence filling the room before he’s even spoken. Every detail about him—his long black coat, his deliberate stride, the weight in his single, sharp gaze—commands attention. For a moment, he stands just inside the doorway, scanning the faces gathered at the table.

He lingers on each of them: Natasha’s cool mask and folded arms, Steve’s rigid posture by the window, Clint’s restless fidgeting, Bruce’s tense shoulders, Thor’s anxious pacing, Sam’s thumb frozen above his playlist, Tony’s sunglasses hiding bloodshot eyes. His gaze catches on the empty chair at the table—your chair—before flicking away, but not before everyone notices.

He finally moves, boots echoing across the floor as he circles to the head of the table. He doesn’t sit; he never does.

“Glad you could all make it,” Fury begins, his voice gravelly, low and measured, carrying authority and something unspoken. “Let’s not pretend we’re here for pleasantries. I know these meetings aren’t exactly your favorite way to spend the afternoon. So I’ll get right to it.”

He lets the silence settle, the tension stretching and winding through the room.

“I’ve seen a lot in my time,” he continues, eye sweeping over the team, “and I’ve seen what loss does. I know what it’s like to carry a wound that doesn’t heal, to walk into a room and feel what’s missing before you even know who’s there. The compound used to be filled with laughter, with hope. You all kept that alive against odds that would break most people.” He pauses, jaw clenched, voice softer now. “But some holes can’t be filled. Some shadows are too deep. You’ve all tried to move forward, but you don’t move on from some things. Not really.”

Fury paces, hands clasped behind his back, letting the words land. Natasha’s fingers curl tighter around her pen. Steve’s shoulders draw up just a little more. Tony leans forward, sunglasses slipping down his nose. Sam can’t seem to sit still, thumb tapping out a silent rhythm against the table. Bruce stares at his hands, jaw working. Thor looks down, brow furrowed, silent for once. Bucky’s eyes burn holes in the tabletop, his metal fingers flexing restlessly.

“But sometimes,” Fury says, pausing by the window, “the universe isn’t done with us yet. Sometimes, what we think is lost isn’t as far away as we believe. Sometimes, stories we tell ourselves about endings… turn out to be just the start of something new.”

He turns to face them fully, and in the wavering afternoon light, he almost looks tired. Older. But there’s a glint there too—something the team hasn’t seen in a long time.

“We all carry ghosts. We all have unfinished business. But every once in a while, you get a second chance. A chance to let the light in again. A chance for the impossible.” He lets the silence stretch, the hope in the air fragile and uncertain, almost painful.

Steve’s hand drops from the window ledge, the realization hitting him with the force of a punch. He turns, blue eyes wide, searching Fury’s face for confirmation. His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it carries, sharp and trembling: “Sir… is this what I think it is? Is—are you saying—?”

For a split second, the room holds its breath. Then the tension snaps all at once.

Natasha’s pen clatters to the tabletop, her mask gone, eyes blazing with hope and fear. Clint nearly falls out of his chair, hands gripping the edge so tight his knuckles go white. Bruce’s glasses slide down his nose, mouth working wordlessly as he looks from Steve to Fury and back again, as if trying to solve an equation that shouldn’t be possible. Sam stands up so fast his chair skitters across the floor, fists clenched, chest heaving as he stares at the door.

Tony’s coffee cup shatters on the table, spilling cold dregs everywhere, but he doesn’t even notice, for once completely silent, jaw slack with disbelief. Thor’s chair creaks under him as he rises, eyes wide, thunder gathering in the stormy blue.

Bucky surges to his feet, metal hand slamming down hard enough to dent the table. “Fury, if this is some kind of twisted—” His voice is a ragged snarl, every word shaking with hope and terror and fury, veins standing out in his neck. “Don’t you dare do this to us—don’t you dare—”

The room erupts. Voices overlap—shouting, pleading, demanding answers. Natasha’s voice cuts through, sharp and trembling: “Just say it, Fury, say it!” Clint’s laughter is wild and desperate, a sound he barely recognizes as his own. Sam’s voice cracks, “No way—no way—” Bruce’s hands are shaking, papers spilling to the floor. Even Thor’s voice wavers as he calls out, “Speak plainly, Director!”

Fury stands silent at the head of the table, letting the chaos wash over him, his expression unreadable but his eyes impossibly bright. He doesn’t have to say another word.

The sound of heels pulses through the corridor, each step crisp and deliberate. The echo ricochets off marble and glass, slicing through the tense hush of the conference room. The Avengers all freeze, heads snapping toward the door—every sense straining, every muscle coiled in anticipation. It’s a sound foreign to the compound, too formal, too sharp, and yet, as it grows nearer, something in it feels achingly familiar.

The door handle turns with a metallic click. The room holds its collective breath.

The door opens. You stand framed in the threshold, haloed by the corridor’s cool light.

You look nothing like the ghost they’d been mourning, and yet you are so unmistakably, devastatingly you.

You are elegant—unapologetically so. A deep navy wool coat, cut to perfection, falls gracefully from your shoulders, the lining flashing silver as you move. Underneath, you wear pressed black slacks, a silk blouse the color of calm seas, and gleaming heels that announce your every step. A slim leather bag hangs from your shoulder. Your hair—once long, unruly, and often pulled back in a messy bun or ponytail—has been cut into a sharp, stylish bob. Sun-kissed highlights pick out the angles of your cheekbones, framing your face in a way that reveals new strength, new stories. The ends flick gently as you move, and the light catches on them like gold.

But it’s your eyes that truly silence the room. They’re not older or hardened—they’re vibrant, brimming with joy, shimmering with relief and hope. Despite everything you’ve endured and all the changes on the surface, the light in your eyes is unmistakable: the core of you, the spark that made the compound feel like home, shines brighter than ever. Seeing your found family again fills you to the brim, and that joy is written in every glance, every tearful smile.

They stare, every one of them, as if you’re a vision conjured by hope and grief.

Natasha’s breath stutters in her chest; her lips part, and the pen she’s been holding drops forgotten to the table, rolling away in the silence. Her eyes, always so controlled, are glassy and wide, tracking every change in you with awe and something like mourning.

Steve’s hand falls helplessly to his side. His jaw works, but no sound escapes. He looks like he’s seeing a miracle—like all at once, the weight of a year’s grief is both crushing and lifting.

Clint’s chair creaks as he leans forward, knuckles white, mouth opening and closing as he tries, and fails, to find words. His eyes dart from your new hair to your clothes to your face, searching for the friend he lost.

Tony’s sunglasses slide down his nose as he blinks, his eyes rimmed red. He stands frozen, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, as if part of him expects you to flicker and disappear. For once, he’s struck utterly speechless—no quip, no sarcasm, just raw disbelief and a vulnerability he almost never lets anyone see. His mouth opens, closes, and he shakes his head, tears shining in his eyes.

Bruce’s glasses fog as he blinks, tears threatening to slip free. His fingers tremble on the edge of his tablet, knuckles whitening, the relief in his eyes raw and overwhelming.

Sam’s hand is pressed over his heart, thumb tapping a frantic rhythm. His mouth twists into a smile, but his eyes glisten with tears, breath coming fast as if he’d just finished a marathon.

Thor’s usually vibrant presence is muted, his voice stolen, his blue eyes wide as they roam from your face to your clothes to your hair. He looks almost reverent, as if in the presence of a returned god.

You take a cautious step forward, the click of your heels impossibly loud. Your coat shifts, releasing a trace of your perfume—something subtle, clean, but somehow the same scent you always wore. Your hands twist together, nerves betraying you, but when you look up, you’re still Y/N. Changed, but unbroken.

Steve is the first to find his voice. It’s a whisper, hoarse and aching, as if the word itself is a lifeline: “Y/N…?” There’s hope, terror, disbelief, love—all tangled in those two syllables.

A tear slips down your cheek. You nod, voice trembling but sure. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Fury steps forward, the only one in the room who isn’t visibly shaken, though even his eye seems softer. His coat sways as he moves to your side, his voice low but ringing with certainty.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” he begins, scanning the room, “but it’s time you heard the truth. The mission you lost her on—it was all a cover. The threat against us was inside and out. The only way to beat it was to make the world believe Y/N was dead. Only a handful of us knew—she was pulled deep undercover, with a new face, a new life, no contact, no comfort, no home. She’s spent every day since then dismantling the organization that targeted the Avengers, risking her life over and over.” He glances at you, pride flickering in his features. “It was never her choice. She did it for all of you. And now, with the threat gone, she’s finally home.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and electric. The team stares at you in silence, the truth sinking in like sunlight after a long, dark winter.

Natasha is the first to move, her chair scraping back as she closes the space between you in three quick steps. She pulls you into a crushing hug, arms trembling. “You absolute idiot,” she whispers, voice thick with tears. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Steve’s arms wrap around both of you, his whole body trembling as he buries his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe it,” he chokes. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Clint is next, laughing and crying all at once, his hands shaking as he claps your back, then pulls you into a hug that nearly knocks the wind from you. “You better not be a ghost,” he jokes, voice breaking.

Sam’s eyes are overflowing, his smile radiant as he squeezes your hand, then pulls you into a hug, holding you tight. Bruce’s hug is gentle and tentative, but his relief is physical, radiating from his whole body. Thor, finally breaking the spell, sweeps you up in a bear hug, his laughter booming, tears streaming down his face. “By the gods, you have returned, little one!”

Tony looked you one last time, then, after a long moment, he scrubs a hand over his face and steps forward, pulling you into a quick, fierce hug. “Welcome home, kid,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Took you long enough

Through the chaos—through the laughter, the tears, the crushing embrace of your family—one thing is missing. Bucky.

He stands apart, rooted to the spot, every muscle rigid. His face is a storm of emotions—hope, anger, longing, betrayal, love—all crashing together. His eyes are fixed on you, searching, desperate, almost wild.

You take a step toward him, your voice soft, pleading. “Bucky?”

But he flinches as if struck, jaw tightening, hands curling into fists. His gaze drops, and without a word, he turns and storms from the room, boots pounding out a ragged rhythm on the marble. The door swings shut behind him, the echo lingering, sharper than the click of your heels.

The door slammed so violently that a picture frame toppled from the shelf and clattered to the floor. You flinched, your breath caught in your lungs, your skin prickling with cold. The silence that followed was almost worse than Bucky’s outburst—thick, suffocating, and heavy with memories no one wanted to revisit.

Steve was at your side in an instant, kneeling so his eyes were level with yours, his hand warm and grounding on yours. “Y/N…” His voice wavered, gruff with feeling he rarely showed. “Don’t think for a second that this is your fault. Buck hasn’t been himself since the explosion. He’s been… lost.”

You struggled to meet his eyes, tears already threatening. “I thought if I could just get him to talk—force him, even—he’d let me in. I didn’t know…”

Natasha settled beside you, her presence silent but fierce, her hand squeezing your shoulder. “You couldn’t have known. He won’t let anyone in. Not after what happened.”

Sam’s voice was raw, anger and sadness tangled together. “That night… When the alarms went off, Bucky ran into the fire like he didn’t care if he lived or died. He was screaming your name, Y/N. I barely got to him in time—I had to drag him out, kicking and fighting. I can still hear him begging me to let him go, cursing me for holding him back.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ve seen him take bullets without blinking. But that night, he was… terrified.”

Steve’s gaze grew distant, lost in the memory. “He searched through the wreckage for hours—his hands were bleeding, and he wouldn’t stop. When the first responders called off the search, he threatened to take the place apart brick by brick. He kept muttering, ‘She’s out there. I know she is. I should’ve gotten to her.’”

Natasha’s voice was barely above a whisper. “He didn’t sleep. He’d wander the halls like a ghost, every night, just waiting for you to come home. Sometimes I’d find him standing outside your room, staring at the door, clutching your dog tags. He wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t cry. He just… existed.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “And then the funeral. God, Y/N, I wish you could’ve seen it—but I’m glad you didn’t. He wouldn’t let anyone touch your things. He stood in the rain through the whole service, didn’t say a word. When they lowered the empty casket, he just turned and walked away. I found him hours later, sitting by your gravestone, soaked to the bone, whispering apologies like prayers.”

Steve’s voice broke. “He left flowers every week. White lilies. He’d sit there for hours, talking to you. Sometimes he’d tell you about his day, sometimes he’d just stare at the stone. Once, I heard him say, ‘If I could trade places, I would.’”

Natasha’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “He started wearing your dog tags. He never took them off, not even once. When he thought no one was watching, he’d hold them so tightly his hand would shake.”

Sam continued, voice trembling, “He’d freeze up whenever there was an explosion or loud noise. He’d call your name before he even realized it. The nightmares got worse—sometimes he’d scream for you, sometimes he’d just sob. I tried to wake him once and he nearly broke my wrist.”

The weight of their stories pressed down, each memory like a stone added to your chest. The guilt, the grief, the raw devastation—they’d all lived it with Bucky, but you hadn’t seen how deep it went.

Steve’s voice was gentle, but his words cut deep. “He never stopped loving you, Y/N. He just stopped believing he deserved to.”

You wiped your tears away, voice trembling but determined. “I have to find him. I can’t let him drown in this. Not now, not again.”

Natasha squeezed your hand, her own voice thick. “Go. He needs you more than he’ll ever admit.”

You stood, legs shaking but resolve burning bright. Whatever wall Bucky had built, you would tear it down brick by brick—because you finally understood: his anger was only the shadow of his grief, and his distance was just love, twisted by loss.

——————————————————————————

He couldn’t breathe.

The room had been too full—of voices, memories, expectations he couldn’t meet. Something inside him broke loose, and in the next instant, Bucky was out of his seat and running. He fled the meeting, the corridors blurring around him, every step echoing the desperate need to get away.

By the time he hit the cold, open air, the rain was a wall—hard and stinging, soaking him in seconds. He hardly felt it. He barely registered the slippery metal under his hands as he scrambled up the fire escape, lungs tight, vision tunneling.

The rooftop. Their place. It was where he always ended up when he couldn’t take the weight of the world anymore. The spot by the old ventilation unit, where he and Y/N used to talk away the sleepless nights, felt like the only safe place left.

Except now, as he collapsed to the wet concrete, knees to his chest, the air refused to come in. His breaths turned shallow and fast, panic blooming like fire under his skin. He clutched at his chest, trying to force the air in, but all he could feel was the memory—the fire, the alarms, the choking smoke.

He remembered coming here the night of the explosion. He’d staggered onto the roof, hands bleeding from tearing through rubble, his throat raw from screaming your name. He’d waited in the rain for hours, hoping you’d appear through the rooftop door, soaked and smiling, mad at him for worrying. But you never came.

He remembered the funeral, too. After everyone left, he’d climbed up here in his suit, rain pounding down, clutching your dog tags so tightly the chain left marks on his palm. He’d sat in the exact same spot, trying to feel something other than the hollow ache. He’d talked to you—begged you for forgiveness, for one more chance, for any sign at all.

Now, with you back and the relief crashing into the fear, it was too much. His heart hammered against his ribs, each breath a struggle. He squeezed his eyes shut, the rain and the memory and the guilt all blurring together, drowning him.

His hands shook violently. He pressed his metal palm to the ground, grounding himself, feeling the cold seep into his bones. He tried to focus on the sensation, tried to pull himself back from the edge as the panic rose, but every inhale still felt like it might not be enough.

He wanted to call your name, but he was terrified it would echo back to him, empty, the way it had so many nights before.

So he sat, shivering and soaked, the city blurred and endless around him, and let the panic and the memories take him—because for now, he didn’t know how to let anything else in.

——————————————————————————

After Natasha’s words, you didn’t hesitate for a second.

You tore from the room, urgency burning through every muscle. The storm outside was a blur as you burst through the doors, rain lashing your skin, soaking you immediately. All you could focus on was Bucky—finding him, reaching him, no matter what.

Your heels slipped dangerously on the slick metal fire escape, each step a battle as you gripped the rail for dear life. Twice you nearly fell, ankles twisting, but you pushed on, breathless and wild, ignoring the pain and the cold. Nothing mattered except getting to him.

You stumbled out onto the rooftop, lungs burning, rain pelting down so hard it stung your face. Then you saw him—crumpled by the old ventilation unit, knees drawn up, body hunched in on itself. He was shaking violently, gasping for air, panic twisting every muscle.

His metal hand was splayed flat against the concrete, fingers digging in so hard you could hear the scrape even over the rain. The sharp sound cut through the storm—a brutal, agonized screech as his titanium fingers gouged deep, jagged lines into the rooftop, chunks of concrete flaking under his grip. His other hand clawed at his chest, as if trying to open his lungs by force, breaths coming in short, shallow bursts—barely breathing, barely there.

“Bucky!” you cried, nearly slipping as you dropped to your knees beside him, heedless of the water soaking your clothes and slicing chill through your bones. He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. His eyes were wide, frantic, blank with terror, rain and tears streaming down his face.

You reached out, hands trembling, gently covering his metal hand first—feeling the tremor, the tension, the cold. “Bucky, you’re here. You’re safe. Listen to me—listen to my voice.” You pressed your other hand to his cheek, grounding him, forcing him to see you.

He gasped, entire body rigid, the metal hand scraping another jagged groove in the concrete. The sound was raw, desperate. His entire frame shook.

“Breathe with me, Buck,” you whispered, voice urgent and steady despite your own fear. You leaned in, forehead pressed to his, feeling the rain run down both your faces. “In… and out. Just match me. In… and out. Just us. Right here.”

For a moment, nothing changed—he was lost, trapped in panic and memory, digging his metal fingers deeper into the concrete as if anchoring himself to reality. But you didn’t leave him. You squeezed his hand, refusing to let go, repeating the rhythm of your breaths, your words a lifeline in the storm.

Little by little, his gasps turned to shuddering breaths. His grip eased, leaving deep scars in the rooftop. His eyes, wild and red, finally found yours—pleading, desperate, alive.

You wrapped your arms around him as he slumped forward, sobbing with relief, the storm inside him easing just enough for him to cling to your warmth. The rain hammered down, but you held him tight, soaked and shaking, refusing to let go.

“I’m here,” you whispered, again and again, rocking him gently on the broken rooftop where you’d both always found each other before. “I’m not leaving. I’ve got you, Bucky. I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, the world shrank to just the two of you, holding on through the storm—together, battered, but unbroken.

You held him until his sobs faded, your warmth anchoring him through the storm. When his breathing finally steadied, you cupped his cheek, brushing away rain and tears. “Bucky, you’re freezing,” you murmured softly. “Let’s get you inside and warmed up. We can talk after, I promise.” He nodded, still trembling but no longer lost in panic. You helped him to his feet, keeping a steady arm around him as you led him back down the slick stairs and through the compound’s halls, uncaring of the curious glances you drew. Inside your room, you handed Bucky a towel and gently nudged him toward the bathroom. “Shower first, okay?” you urged, your voice gentle but firm. “I’ll be right here.” He hesitated, but you squeezed his hand and gave him a reassuring nod. When the water started running, you sat on the edge of your bed, listening to the distant, comforting sound. When he emerged—skin flushed from the heat, hair damp—he looked steadier, wrapped in one of your soft robes. You took your own turn in the shower, letting the warmth wash away the chill and the ache from your frantic dash up the rooftop stairs.

When you returned, Bucky was sitting quietly on the bed, hands curled around your pillow. You smiled softly and excused yourself, promising to be right back. In the kitchen, you fixed two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, adding a sprinkle of cinnamon the way you both liked.

Bucky sat on the bed, cocoa forgotten, his hands clenched tight. The tension in the room was almost electric. Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking. He stared at you, eyes bloodshot and wild, hands shaking as he set his mug aside. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper, but it cut through the room like broken glass.

“Why?” His voice trembled with something deep and wounded. “Why did you fake your death, Y/N? Why did you let me think you were gone?” His hands balled into fists, metal joints creaking. “Why did you make me bury you?”

You felt the accusation like a slap. Guilt surged through you, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Bucky, I—I didn’t have a choice. The op was compromised. If the people after us knew I was alive, everyone would’ve been in danger. I had to disappear. I did it for the team. For you.”

His eyes narrowed, anger sparking through the grief. “Don’t say it was for me. Don’t you dare.” His voice rose, rough and raw. “You left me with nothing. No explanation, no warning. You let me believe you were dead. You let me lose you, Y/N.” His breath came fast, his hands shaking harder. “You have any idea what that did to me? I thought I could handle losing people after all I’ve been through, but you—” His voice cracked. “You broke me.”

You felt your own temper flare, the pressure of months of silence and regret boiling over. “It wasn’t about you!” you snapped, standing your ground though your voice shook. “It was about all of us. If anyone had even suspected I was alive, they would’ve come after the team. After you. I had to make it real. I had to disappear or the people we care about would have died. I didn’t want to hurt you, Bucky, but I had to.”

He stared at you, chest heaving, caught between fury and heartbreak. The silence between you was deafening, alive with everything neither of you could say.

Then, slowly, the fight drained out of him. He looked down at his hands—one flesh, one metal, both scarred. His voice, when it came, was stripped bare.

“You want to know what it was like for me? After the explosion?” He let out a sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “I lost it. I ran straight into the fire. Didn’t care what happened to me. Sam tackled me, tried to hold me back, but I fought him. I didn’t feel anything—didn’t care when glass ripped up my arm, when flames burned through my jacket. I just needed to get to you.”

He blinked, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I ripped through the wreckage with my hands—these hands.” He held them up: the flesh arm marked by angry, faded scars; the metal one dented, the plating scratched and warped at the knuckles and wrist. “Didn’t care if I bled or busted the arm. I threw myself at the rubble, punched through walls, ripped open doors. I didn’t stop until Steve and Sam dragged me away. Even then, I kept thinking if I just tried a little harder, you’d be there, waiting for me.”

He shook his head, voice breaking. “The medics had to stitch me up. My arm was sparking, locked up from how hard I’d forced it. But none of it hurt as much as knowing you were just… gone.”

He pressed his metal hand to his eyes, breathing ragged. “The funeral… I stood in the rain and listened to them talk about hope, about sacrifice, like it was something beautiful. All I felt was empty. I left before it was over and just… wandered. Couldn’t be around anyone. Couldn’t bear to see the team’s faces, or your grave. It felt like every good part of me died with you.”

He let his hand fall, finally meeting your gaze, voice trembling. “After that, I barely slept. Kept waking up in a cold sweat, thinking I heard you screaming. I’d go to the roof—our spot—every night, just to sit in the rain and talk to the darkness. I left flowers, talked to your grave, begged for forgiveness, for a sign, for anything. Sometimes I hated you for leaving, but mostly I hated myself for not saving you.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks now, unashamed, his voice the smallest you’d ever heard. “I wasn’t living, Y/N. I was just surviving—empty, angry, broken. I thought if I just kept hurting, it would mean I still had something left to lose. But there was nothing left. You were gone, and I was lost.”

He reached for you, hands trembling, needing you to anchor him—needing you to understand. “I love you. I always have. Please… please don’t leave me again. I couldn’t survive it a second time.”

The confession hung in the air between you, thunderous and fragile, every word a piece of his soul laid bare.

You could hardly breathe. Bucky’s confession crashed through you—every word, every tremor in his voice, the raw pain in his eyes. It was almost unbearable, knowing how deeply he’d suffered, how much he’d lost in your absence. You felt your heart break open, overwhelmed by grief, guilt, and a love so fierce it left you shaking.

Without another thought, you surged forward, hands reaching for him—one trembling on his jaw, the other gripping his metal shoulder, fingers digging into the cold, dented plating as if you could hold all his pieces together.

“Bucky,” you choked out, voice thick and desperate, “I am so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing—I thought I was protecting you, protecting everyone. But I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt you. I just… I needed you safe.” Your tears fell unchecked, mingling with his as your foreheads pressed together, breaths coming fast, your bodies trembling in sync.

He shook his head, chest heaving with sobs. “You are my safe,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I needed you here, with me. Not gone. You’re the only thing that ever made me feel human—made me feel hope.”

The words broke you both. You crashed together in a kiss that was frantic, bruising, and wild—a collision of grief and longing and love starved for too long. He clung to you, his flesh hand tangled in your hair, his metal hand gripping your waist with desperate strength. You poured everything you couldn’t say into the way your lips moved against his—all the nights you’d ached for him, all the pain and hope and love finally set free.

When you broke apart for breath, your noses brushed, both of you gasping, clutching each other as if you might dissolve without that contact. “I’m here, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice a vow. “I’m not leaving. I’m yours. I’ll always come back for you.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, tears streaking down his face, his arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world. “I love you, Y/N. I love you so much it hurts.”

You kissed him again, softer but just as intense, your hand still gripping his metal shoulder, grounding him in the present. You kissed his cheeks, his brow, the line of his jaw, whispering, “I love you. I love you. I’m here. You’re not alone. Not ever again.”

He buried his face in your neck, sobbing openly, every tremor of his body met by your steady embrace. You rocked him gently, your hand never leaving his shoulder—cold metal beneath your palm, a reminder of everything he’d survived, and everything you’d survive together.

In that tangled, trembling embrace, every scar and every nightmare began to lose their power, and for the first time since the world had fallen apart, hope felt real again.

The rain had faded to a hush outside, leaving only the sound of your breathing and the soft thud of Bucky’s heart beneath your ear. You lay together on the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if letting go for even a second would undo everything you’d just rebuilt.

He tilted your chin up, searching your face in the dim light. “Y/N, I need to know this is real,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Not just tonight. Not just until the nightmares stop. I want to be with you every day. I want… us. For real. Will you stay with me? Will you be mine?”

Your heart beat so hard you thought he could feel it. You reached up, brushing your thumb along his jaw, feeling the stubble and the heat of his skin. “Bucky,” you breathed, “I’ve wanted that every day since I met you. You’re my home. I want to wake up with you, fall asleep with you, fight and make up and just—live, with you. No more hiding. No more pretending we’re not everything to each other.”

He let out a shaky laugh, tears glimmering in his eyes, and pressed his forehead to yours. “God, I love you,” he said, voice breaking with relief. “I love you so damn much.”

Your lips met—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, pouring all the pain and hope and longing of lost months into that kiss. His arms tightened, pulling you flush against him, as if he could imprint your presence onto his soul. You felt his tears mix with yours, tasted the salt and the promise in every breath.

You fell asleep tangled together, bodies pressed close, your head on his chest and his metal arm a solid barrier against the world. Occasionally you’d wake, feeling the warmth of his breath on your hair, his hand tracing gentle circles on your back, and you’d tighten your hold, both of you silently vowing: never again.

For the first time in forever, neither of you dreamed of fire or loss. You only dreamed of each other.

——————————————————————————

One Year Later

The Avengers Compound was alive with the kind of joy that only came from family forged in the fires of hardship. Streamers in your favorite color crisscrossed the hall, and a banner stretched over the dining room: HAPPY NEW BIRTHDAY, Y/N!

The team was all there. Steve, eyes sparkling, led a round of applause as you entered. Tony, wearing a ridiculous party hat, delivered a toast that was both hilarious and surprisingly heartfelt. Natasha wrapped you in a fierce hug, whispering, “You’re the toughest damn thing I know.” Wanda and Vision brought flowers, and Clint’s kids made you a card covered in glitter and stickers.

You sat at the heart of it all with Bucky, his hand a constant, grounding presence on your thigh. He leaned close, murmuring private jokes that made you snort with laughter, the kind of laughter that made old wounds ache—in the best possible way.

Sam raised his glass, voice booming. “To Y/N! The only person stubborn enough to fake her own death, scare the hell out of all of us, and come back looking better than ever.”

Laughter exploded around the table—genuine, unfiltered, a sound that healed something inside you. Bucky pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering, his eyes shining with pride and gratitude.

When it came time to blow out the candles, you paused, looking around at the faces that meant everything: friends, teammates, found family. Your eyes met Bucky’s, and for a moment it was just the two of you—every hardship and every joy reflected in his gaze.

He squeezed your hand, voice low and fierce. “Make a wish, doll. But I think we’ve already got everything we need.”

You smiled, tears burning your eyes—but this time, they were happy. You leaned in, kissing him deeply, not caring that the whole team cheered and wolf-whistled.

As the evening wore on, the team swapped stories—some embarrassing, some heroic, all filled with warmth. Natasha told the story of the night Bucky almost broke down the medbay door searching for you. Steve recalled the first rooftop sunrise you and Bucky had shared as a couple, both of you wrapped in a single blanket. Tony even admitted he’d tried (and failed) to hack your “death file” just to get one more clue.

Later, as the party faded and stars glimmered outside, you and Bucky stood on the balcony together. He pulled you into his arms, breath warm against your ear. “You saved me, you know. Not just when you came back, but every day since. I didn’t know I could be this happy.”

You smiled, tears slipping down your cheeks as you pressed your lips to his, slow and deep and full of all the love you’d built together. “We saved each other, Bucky. Here’s to a thousand more new birthdays.”

He hugged you tighter, and the world felt impossibly right. The pain had become part of your story—but so had survival, and hope, and the fierce, unbreakable love you’d found in each other.

Your head whipped around, your eyes softening immediately after landing on your daughter, she’d already gotten herself dressed for the first day of school. She was wearing her favorite pink unicorn shirt that you got her, it may have something to do with the fact you said it had power that would make her brave and strong. It seemed to be just what Avery needed to hear when she realized she’d be going to a class with a new teacher and new students. 

“Please, Maria. We need this partnership to secure the deal. Just do what you can,” you finished firmly, hanging up the phone in the process and turning to face your daughter. 

What is it with kids looking like their father? You carried her for nine months, you made a bed next to the toilet for half of that, your body grew and shifted to grow her. And the universe had the audacity to have her come into the world with most of her father’s features. She was the only good thing Brock Rumlow had contributed to your marriage. Luckily, you had insisted on her last name being L/N so that your company’s future involved her, not Rumlow. This added more fuel to the fire. 

What made the situation even more lucky was that you had signed an extensive prenup with Brock when the two of you had gotten engaged. You didn’t see it then, you were head over heels with the smooth talking, flirtatious man. It took a few years of marriage and one child later to find out it was all a con. Especially when you walked in on him fucking the maid on your five thousand dollar couch. You settled on a custody agreement in the divorce, allowing Brock occasional weekend visits with Avery. He never showed. She was four. 

Some would say you have no weaknesses. In fact, you knew the reputation you’d garnered. To the rest of the world you were Y/N L/N, ruthless business executive and CEO of L/N industries who made men and women alike weep and kneel at your feet. Your friends and immediate family knew the truth. Your soft spot was and always would be Avery.  

“Thank you for reminding me, Avery,” you said softly, holding your arms out. Her little eyes lighting up and a smile forming on her face as she ran across the living room to give you a big hug. Your eyes filled with tears as you took in your daughter. She was a small little thing, just a little bit smaller than most six year olds, but man was she the cutest thing you’d ever laid eyes on. 

“I see you’ve got your big girl shirt on,” you stated with a soft look, a grin beginning to appear on your lips as Avery’s smile grew larger at the reference to her “magic bravery.” “Are you gonna be mama’s big girl at school today? Make new friends and be nice for your teacher?” you asked, running your hand lightly over Avery’s back as she nodded in response. 

Where Avery got her shyness from confused you. For a child with two of the most extroverted parents she sure made up for it with her introversion. There was nothing wrong with that though and you respected her decisions. Brock on the other hand would fuss at her if she didn’t speak to one of his colleagues or if she didn’t want to hug one of his family members. Just one of the other continually compounding reasons your marriage ended up in divorce. You would never force Avery to hug anyone she didn’t want to and the only time you would nudge her to speak to someone was if it were important. When she got over her shyness…that’s when you saw yourself in your daughter. Her attitude?? A copy and paste of your own. 

“Alright sweet girl, Uncle Sam is gonna be here soon to take us to school. You gonna tell him how excited you are?” You asked while patting her leg, your sign it was time to get up and help her put her shoes on. Avery nodded her head as she grabbed her pink converse and she began babbling all about what she wanted to do at school and how she hoped she’d make new friends. 

On the way to school she spoke animatedly to Sam. You and Sam had been best friends for years, ever since college really. He had taken over the role as your executive assistant and was in charge of handling your meetings and getting you to and from places on time. He preferred to drive you and Avery though. The second she was born he’d been wrapped around her tiny finger. He’d also been the one to attempt to wake you from Brock’s spell. Well, Sam and Wanda both tried. Nothing seemed to work just right until that night you saw for yourself just how uncommitted he was to your marriage. A marriage you’d been trying to salvage for years to, obviously, no avail. 

“Alright miss priss one and miss priss two, we’re here,” Sam announced as he pulled the car to stop. That seemed to put a halt to Avery’s excitement, she attached herself to your leg like a koala to a tree. A small frown appeared on your face, she was acting more skittish than normal. 

“Aves, tell Uncle Sam you’ll see him after school,” you prompted giving her a little nudge, hoping it would make her release her grip. But all she did was mumble “bye Uncle Sam” under her breath. 

You bent down to her level and made her initiate contact by lightly pulling her chin up. You could see the start of tears welling in her eyes. The sight making your heart begin to shatter. You took a deep breath, I swear kindergarten wasn’t even this hard you thought to yourself, before asking, “Avery Claire L/N. You. Are brave. You are strong. You are a L/N. What’s got you so scared baby?”

Avery’s lip wobbled as she whispered her response. “What if nobody likes me…and I don’t make any friends?” 

That sound? It was your heart shattering. You pulled your daughter close to your chest and tried not to let her see your tears. After discretely wiping your eyes you held onto her shoulders, looked her in the eyes and said, “Baby, anyone would be lucky to be your friend. You are a great person, you’re so smart. Not everyone is going to like everyone and that’s okay. All we can do is be nice to them and hope that they’re nice in return.” 

“Is that how you make all your friends at work, mommy?” Her question caused you to wince. Because that definitely was NOT how you made friends…but maybe you should listen to your own advice. Another time, we have to go, your inner monologue started up again but your daughter was waiting for your reply so you just responded with a nod of your head and a small smile, her shy one returning in response. The two of you headed to the office to get her teacher assignment. 

Mr. Barnes’ classroom was located at the end of the first grade hall and a line of students and parents extended out his door as he greeted the students and introduced himself to the parents. As the line got shorter and shorter, Avery clung tighter and tighter to your leg until the two of you were in front of Mr. Barnes. 

His attention was on Avery. Yours could not have been anywhere else except on him. He was gorgeous. The most beautiful man you had ever seen. Brock Rumlow was attractive when you met, still was except his cheating brought him down to a zero, but this Mr. Barnes? You wanted to cling to him like Avery was clinging to you. You bent down and whispered in Avery’s ear, “remember sweet girl, you are strong. You are brave. Say hi to Mr. Barnes like you practiced okay?” This prompted her to look up but immediately hide her face into your arm. The second he knelt down to her level? You were done. 

Damn. All it takes is one ounce of attention to my kid from a hot man and I’m already down bad?? I NEED to get laid. NOT HELPING BRAIN. Oh shit Avery’s retracting back. 

After introducing himself, Avery turned and looked at you, you gave her a nod of encouragement and a nudge of your hand and she turned around, puffed her chest out and shook her teachers hand with the most confidence a six year old could muster, making you snicker behind your hand. 

When she finally decided she wanted to go to class that was it. She was giving your legs a quick squeeze and throwing a “love you” to the wind before running into the classroom to meet her new friends. The introduction between you and Mr. Barnes felt…tense to say the least. It was like the second he heard your full name he froze. 

Damn. We really need to work on that…

You wanted to talk more but the next thing you knew your phone was ringing. It was Maria. You knew she was calling for the Odinson deal and that it was a call you needed to take. You bid your goodbye to Mr. Barnes and took off down the hallway, not even looking back. 

By the time you got to the car Sam was waiting for you patiently, but the second he saw the look on your face after getting off the phone he asked, “what’s got you all hot and bothered, little mama?”

You took a deep breath trying to calm yourself after the phone call and from being the mere presence of that gorgeous hunk of teacher. Then you answered, “I want to climb Avery’s teacher like a fucking tree, Sam.” All Sam could do was cackle and throw his head back in response. 

This is gonna be a long fucking year. 

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"hello… friend."

he gives a shy smile with a hesitant wave. there's a staleness in the air. a tension that makes you so viscerally aware of each and every move you make. each move is strained, rigid, forced like you're moving against tar. “how have you been?”

"good."

"good." bucky offers another half smile. it's impossible for him not to notice everything about you. it's only been a few months. time could only change a person so much. and you hadn't changed. not a bit. it's only because he notices everything about you that he realizes he still hasn't introduced the woman standing beside him when your eyes shift to just over his shoulder. he clears his throat, "oh, sorry, um, this is my friend."

"that's - it's wonderful." it doesn't take more than a split second to know that she's not just a friend. still, because you are just friends with him, you stick out a hand to her, "it's nice to meet you."

she smiles at you, a warm, genuine smile. for some reason, it only makes it hurt more. she looks at you, genuine curiosity shimmering in her eyes, "and you are?"

"um, we're - we're old friends." you're not sure what he's told her. you'd lost your old title. you were just friends now. you jut your thumb in the opposite direction. "it was nice to meet you, but i should go find sam. wish him a happy birthday."

his first clue should be the fact that he almost immediately goes after you. he barely tosses an explanation over his shoulder to his date to go after you. it's instinctive. it's natural. it's what feels right to him.

bucky catches up to you a quick moment later. he reaches for your arm, barely making contact with your skin before he remembers he lost that privilege some time ago. you turn around with a distant, tired expression. "hey, she is - she really is just a friend."

a huff of laughter leaves your lips, "you've been using that word a lot tonight."

"look, i'm sorry, i didn't know what to say," bucky stammers out. "the last time we spoke -"

"it's alright. really. that's what we are now. i mean, we are still friends, right?” that's what he said the last time you two spoke. you parted amicably. that was the story you purported. you and bucky were friends now. there's a long beat of silence. you've picked up the habit of chewing on the inside of your cheek again, bucky notices. “right?”

yes, you were friends. friends that were still hopelessly, desperately in love with each other. but at least you're still friends. at least he still had a place in your life.

he clears his throat, shakily nodding, "yeah, of course. we're friends."

you nod once, offering nothing more than a tight smile before you take off again.

"that looked... intense," sam interrupts as you walk away.

"just a friendly conversation. between friends." the word escapes bucky's lips like he's spitting out a mouthful of venom. friends. just friends.

sam quirks an eyebrow. "you're friends, really?"

bucky's eyebrows pull together as he defensively replies, "of course we are. we were friends before everything. we can be friends after too."

sam crosses his arms over his chest with a small shrug. "i still don't understand why there is an after."

"it just - it got complicated," bucky replies with a shaky sigh. "we called it before things got ugly, before we couldn't stand to be in the same room together, before we stopped -"

"loving each other?" sam finishes the sentence for bucky.

"sam." it's a short, clipped warning that falls from bucky's lips without a second thought. this wasn't up for discussion. that night was not one he was keen on reliving more than he already did.

"i'm just saying," sam raises his hands in defeat. "you stopped fighting before you even had to."

"it wasn't like that," bucky insists, still watching the doorway you left through.

"so what was it like?" sam wonders. "the right person, wrong time?"

"something like that."

"and now you're pretending to be friends."

"we are friends," bucky doubles down. "we've always been friends."

sam quirks an eyebrow. "and how exactly are you friends?"

“what do you mean?"

"you two don't hang out anymore. you don't laugh together anymore. you don't have anything in common."

"we have plenty of things in common.” like the fact that you’re both still in love with each other.

sam grips bucky's shoulder, offering a comforting, grounding squeeze, "all i'm saying, you were so worried about losing her. but take a look, buck, you lost her anyway."

there isn't anything that bucky can say to that. not as he ambles back to his date. sam's words hit him like a ton of bricks. isn't that exactly what he was worried about? losing you. and isn't that exactly what happened? friends to lovers. lovers to strangers. strangers masquerading as friends.

there's a longing look on his date's face that he's sure wasn't there just a moment ago.

bucky gives his date a sheepish, apologetic smile, "sorry, i had to-"

his date looks over bucky's shoulder to find you finally talking to sam. a wistful smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "that's her, isn't it?"

"huh?"

"the reason why we'll only ever be friends. it's her, right?"

for the second time tonight, bucky is rendered speechless. his mouth gapes for a moment, debating the merit of lying. it's not worth it. by the looks of it, his date has seen right though him. "yeah, that's her."

she juts her chin towards you. "you should go after her."

bucky quirks an eyebrow. "i should?"

"you should," she agrees. "i understand. and to be honest, you just reminded me that i deserve to have someone look at me the way you look at her."

"you do deserve that, but no, we, uh, we didn't work out. we're just friends now," bucky states, more as a reminder to himself than to inform his date.

she softly snorts, rolling his eyes, "i know i'm the stranger here, but i don't think you'll ever be just friends with her."

"i'm sorry."

she waves him off. "i'll be fine, but it looks like she's leaving, you should go."

it was the kick in the ass he needed and the second one he'd gotten tonight. bucky nods, "thank you."

the door slams shut behind you as you step into the nighttime air. your lungs painfully expand then clench as you take your first real breath of the night. something about watching the person you thought you'd have a lifetime with stand with another woman was just too painful.

it didn't matter what you promised him all those months ago. sure, you'd pretend. you'd keep up the facade. but you knew down to the depths of your bones that you couldn't be friends with someone you still loved with your entire heart.

"hey!" bucky calls after you.

you jolt at the sound of his voice, schooling your face into a soft smile as you whip around to face him. "what are you doing out here?"

"funny, i was about to ask you the same thing," he half heartedly chuckles, stopping less than a foot away from you. just out of reach. the corner of your mouth twitches up in the most sincere smile you can muster in this moment. it only makes his heart ache even more. "i'm really sorry about tonight."

"it's fine. we're friends, right?" your words are so stilted that you're not even fooling yourself anymore. there's a long, drawn out silence. the silence is your answer. you weren't friends. you couldn't even pretend. it was too soon. perhaps it would always be too soon. maybe you would always love him. but you and bucky would never be just friends. "we can't be friends, can we?"

he takes a long step forward. the familiar smell of your perfume wraps around him like a warm blanket on a blistery day. he looks at you and he can't even remember why he thought you could ever be friends. it doesn't make an ounce of sense to him anymore.

his hand twitches with the urge to touch you, to feel you once more.

how could he be so foolish?

how could you be friends when the taste of you still lingered on his lips? when he could still feel your warmth on your side of his cold bed? when his heart still called out to you with each rising morning and setting sun?

he finally caves to his most base, most desperate desire to simply touch you again. his thumb drags over your bottom lip. "no, we can't."

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

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Bucky was standing at the bottom of the walkway that led to the main doors of the school. Despite the warmth that came from the late spring weather, he still had on his leather jacket and gloves. He was far from the only person standing out and waiting for the final bell to ring, but he still felt like he stood out. No matter how much time went by that was a feeling he had yet to shake.

He pried his eyes off the cracked concrete beneath his boots when the bell rang, shortly followed by the front doors of the school being pushed open by dozens upon dozens of kids desperate to get out and head home. Many of them were sprinting off towards the buses, but some were making a direct line right where Bucky was standing with the rest of the parents and other family members. He kept his eyes peeled, but he still didn’t see who he was looking for.

A couple minutes ticked by and for a moment he wondered if he had shown up at the wrong place, or on the wrong day. He was about to take his phone out of his pocket when the front door opened up again. He breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw Morgan walking out, jacket tied around her waist and backpack settled on her shoulders. She was looking up at the woman next to her, the two of them talking as the woman balanced a child who looked like she was just barely old enough to be in kindergarten on her hip.

When Morgan looked away, she immediately saw Bucky. A smile broke out across her face as she threw a hand up to wave, an expression and gesture that he returned. He took a few steps so that he met her right where the walkways met. She walked right up to him, holding both hands out in closed fists. Bucky’s grin widened slightly as he held his fists out as well, tapping their knuckles together before the both pulled their hands back, making an exploding sound and gesture as they did.

Once they completed their ritual, Bucky turned his attention to you. You were smiling at the sight of the two of them, but he could see the questioning look still lingering in your eyes. “You must be Uncle Bucky, then?” you asked, although the answer seemed fairly obvious.

He chuckled, looking briefly at Morgan before he returned his attention back to you. “Yeah, but just Bucky is fine.”

He held out his hand for you to shake, and you did so carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping child on your hip as you gave him your name in return. “Hope you don’t mind me bringing her out.” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Just like to make sure that everything’s alright when someone new is picking up one of my students.”

“I tried to tell her you weren’t new,” Morgan interjected, her sarcasm making her sound so much like her father despite only being nine years old.

You shook your head with a knowing smile. “New to me, then,” you corrected.

“It’s fine,” Bucky said with a small shake of his head. “I get it.”

“I appreciate that.” You looked back and forth between the two of them, an odd but fitting pair. “I’ll let you two go. It was nice to meet you, Bucky.” You shifted your gaze to the young girl standing beside him. “And I will see you on Monday, Miss Morgan.”

Morgan was already saying goodbye and turning to head off towards Bucky’s care by the time the words left your mouth. Bucky, however, was still staring at you, looking at the way you were balancing the little girl on one hip while you had her backpack on the opposite shoulder, your own bag hanging in the crook of your arm. He knew that this was probably far from the first time you left the school building with your hands full but he still felt like it was wrong to not at least offer to help.

“Do you need help with—”

“I’ve got it,” you reassured him with a smile, taking a step towards the parking lot, “but thank you.”

He didn’t try to offer again, taking your word for what it was worth. Turning, he easily collapsed the distance between himself and Morgan in one stride, and the two of them started walking off towards his car. You heard the two of them talking as they walked away. Or, rather, you heard Morgan talking about her day and Bucky chiming in with a word of acknowledgment. You cast a couple brief looks at them as you walked over to your car, smiling at the sight of them.

You returned your focus to the task at hand as you tried to get your daughter into her booster seat in the back of your car. You weren’t too worried, since she had luckily been a heavy sleeper ever since she was born, but you still tried to be extra careful. You were clicking her seatbelt into place when you heard Bucky’s car engine rumbling to life.

You caught a glimpse through your own car’s windshield as they drove by, Morgan sitting behind the empty passenger seat of Bucky’s car. They were out of you line of sight as quickly as they’d entered it. When they were gone again you set both your bag and your daughter’s on the floor by her feet.

~*~

“Ew, no,” Morgan said as she shook her head, her and Bucky looking at each other through the rearview mirror, “he’s gross. All the boys in my grade are.”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Your dad will be happy to hear that.”

“I don’t even want a boyfriend.”

Bucky fought to the urge to give his knee-jerk response which would’ve been, “Well, yeah, you’re fucking nine.” Instead, he asked, “You tell him that?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “He went and asked Chrissy instead.”

“Worked out for you,” Bucky said, throwing his directional on before turning onto the main road away from the school. “You don’t need a boyfriend—you’re fine.”

“Dad says that you need a girlfriend.”

Bucky nearly choking on the breath he was pulling in. His eyes drifted from the road and back to the mirror to look at her. “What?”

“What?” she parroted back to him, blissfully unaware of why he reacted that way. “That’s what he said.”

Bucky was shaking his head, gaze fixed back on the road once more. “Yeah? Well your dad’s a—”

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” she asked.

Bucky chuckled, a genuine sound. “Ever? Yeah.”

“This century?”

His eyebrows raised, surprised but also not. “You gotta stop listening to your dad all the time.”

A wide grin blossomed across her face. “But have you?”

He shook his head. “I thought we were cool,” he said sarcastically.

Morgan laughed hard enough at that to usher them into another topic of conversation with the rest of the drive home. Bucky went the long way, swinging through McDonald’s on the way since he was told that was fine this time around. It killed a little more time anyway, which was really what he needed. The only reason that he has the one enlisted to go and pick Morgan up in the first place was because Tony and Pepper were both running late with work. Not terribly so, but late enough that they didn’t want to ask her teacher to stay and wait.

Even with the extra stop planned in, and the most scenic route as possible taken, it still didn’t take them very long to get home. Before either of them could think much of it Bucky was rolling into Tony and Pepper’s driveway.

Bucky had just put the car in park when Morgan jumped out of the car, backpack strap in one hand and happy meal in the other. Bucky shook his head at her, laughing as he got out of the car much slower than she had. He finally felt comfortable enough to take off his gloves, tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans as he walked towards Tony’s porch.

Morgan had left the door opened behind her, so Bucky walked through and closed it as he did. When he looked around the room he saw that Morgan had already made her way over to her father and gotten swept off the ground in a hug.

As Tony was setting her back down on the floor, he asked, “You got some extra fries for me, right?”

Morgan laughed. “No way.”

Tony faked deep offense at her response. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

Bucky piped in. “I didn’t get you any either, for the record.”

Tony smirked. “That much I expected.”

Morgan looked around the room a little more, and when she didn’t see Pepper, she asked, “Where’s Mom?”

Tony gestured deeper into the house. “She’s out back.”

Morgan tossed both her backpack and her McDonald’s box of food onto the counter. “I’m gonna go say hi!” She pointed at Tony. “Don’t eat my fries.” She turned and pointed at Bucky. “Don’t let him eat my fries.”

Bucky gave a small salute. “Yes ma’am.”

When Morgan had scampered out of the room, Tony’s full attention shifted to Bucky. “Thanks for picking her up—I know it was short-notice.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Went okay?”

He nodded. “Teacher came out to make sure I wasn’t some kidnapper, but yeah, it went okay.”

Tony chuckled as he opened the fridge. “Figured she would.” He grabbed a beer for himself and offered one to Bucky, when he declined he shrugged with a suit yourself expression and let the door fall shut.

“Why’s your nine-year-old telling me I need to get a girlfriend?” Bucky asked as he watched Tony pop the cap off the bottle.

Tony didn’t miss a beat. “My guess is because you need to get a girlfriend.”

“Tony—”

“You met her teacher then, right?” Tony shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “She’s single. And cu—”

Bucky’s tone shifted drastically as he repeated himself. “Tony.”

The hand that wasn’t holding the beer bottle was held up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying.”

“That why you sent me to pick her up? Is Happy even busy?”

Tony laughed. “Like Happy would ever be too busy to get Morgan from school.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Oh my fuc—”

“Watch it.” Tony lifted the hand he was holding the bottle with, pointing accusingly at him. “There are little ears in the house.”

Bucky sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t need you playing matchmaker.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the smooth dark stone-top of the island. “And I definitely don’t need you roping in your nine-year-old to help.”

“I actually didn’t tell her to say anything to you.”

“I don’t need you talking to her about my love life at all.”

“I was talking to Pepper about it. But hey,” he took another sip, “little ears hear everything.”

He watched as Bucky chuckled in disbelief. Tony knew that it wasn’t his place to say or do anything, that out of everyone he was probably close to the bottom of the list when it came to people who had the right to give dating advice. Even with that being the case, though, Tony had been watching Bucky muddle through and get along without ever really learning to get close to anyone since everything happened with Steve. He was gone now, and while Bucky might’ve accepted that, he still hadn’t really made any moves to let new people in. A girlfriend wouldn’t solve all of those issues, as Pepper had swiftly told him. But it probably also wouldn’t hurt, as Tony had told her in response.

“Gonna make me go to parent-teacher night next?” Bucky asked, his tone light enough to let Tony know that it wasn’t going to turn into an argument for the time being.

“Don’t be ridiculous—you’re not ready for anything more than an open house.”

He scoffed out a laugh. “Thanks.”

They both had plenty more comments to make about the topic but they let it drop as Morgan re-entered the room, Pepper in tow right behind her. Bucky and Tony exchanged a knowing look, one that confirmed that their conversation as on hold for now. Pepper caught it, but knew enough to know not to ask. Instead, she started a new conversation by thanking Bucky for picking Morgan up. He stayed long enough to make a little small talk before excusing himself, making sure to give Morgan another double fist-bump before heading for the door.

“I’ll walk you out,” Tony said, leaving his half-empty beer bottle on the counter.

Bucky knew exactly what Tony was doing, but didn’t say anything. The two of them slipped out the door, and Tony followed him down off the porch and all the way to his car.

When he realized that Bucky wasn’t going to say anything about any of it, he spoke up himself. “I could probably get her number for you.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? You don’t think she’s—”

“That has nothing to do with it and you know it,” Bucky cut him off. “Just leave it alone, Tony.”

“Mmm.” He shook his head. “Don’t think I can do that. Matter of national security at this point—you’re left unattended an awful lot.”

“And you think I need an elementary teacher to keep me company?”

“She knows how to wrangle kids and keep ‘em in line—sounds perfect for you.”

“Don’t say anything to her.”

Tony stared at Bucky for a long, hard minute. “Fine.”

Bucky didn’t believe it for a second but be also knew that continuing to argue about it wasn’t going to fix anything either. “Thanks.”

They exchanged a quick handshake and a brief goodbye, and soon enough, Bucky was on his way. The drive back to his apartment felt longer than usual, his thoughts wandering in the silence of the car since he didn’t make any move to turn the radio on. He thought about you, not that he would ever give Tony the satisfaction of knowing that, the way you smiled as you balanced your daughter on your hip. He thought about the apparent ease there was between you and Morgan. He thought about your dress and the way it fell just above your knees, the way the bright colors looked so nice and seemed so fitting.

Then he shook his head to dispel the thoughts. Tony was just in his head now, having him overthink about a woman he’d met for all of two minutes. The likelihood of him seeing you again wasn’t very high, not unless Tony started asking him to play chauffer for Morgan a lot more often, and somehow he didn’t really see that happening.

When he walked into his apartment, Bucky was immediately greeted by Alpine running up and rubbing against his legs. He chuckled, crouching down so that he could give him a light scratch behind his ears. Part of it was because Alpine was happy to have his owner home, Bucky was sure. But the other part was about the fact that it was definitely past Alpine’s usual dinnertime. Bucky understood all of that.

“I know,” his metal fingers can down Alpine’s spine, causing him to arch and purr, “I’m late.”

The next few minutes was just Bucky hanging up his jacket, giving Alpine his dinner, and then pulling something out of the freezer to cook for his own dinner as well. While he was waiting for the oven to finish pre-heating, the only sound that could be heard was Alpine crunching on his kibble as he stood above his bowl. Bucky watched him for a moment, a small smile on his face at the simplicity of the life he had now. Something that for a long time he didn’t think he would ever have.

It was a good life. It was quieter now than it had been for a long time—he was almost used to it. But maybe Tony was right, not that Bucky would ever tell him as much in so many words, but there might’ve been something to what Tony had been trying to tell him. A truth that was simpler to ignore because continuing on as he had been required far less work than trying to get to know someone, trying to let someone get to know him.

He pulled his phone out, tempted to search your name just to see what would pop up, what he would be able to learn about you. Then he stopped himself, shaking his head to try and dispel the thoughts. What good would it do? Why was he thinking like you were someone he knew already? Or like you were someone that already knew him? For all he knew, you’d forgotten him already. Hell, for all he knew you had no desire to get to know anyone, let alone someone like him. The beeping of his oven saved him from going down that spiral any further.

~*~

Sam was sitting on the stool to Bucky’s left. The music in the bar was loud, but not so much so that they had to shout to talk to each other. But once Bucky processed the sentence that Sam had just spoken to him, he instantly wished that the music was loud enough so that he couldn’t hear the other man at all.

Bucky pulled a long drink from the beer bottle in his hand, gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of it. “Can’t believe he got you in on this shit too.”

Sam shrugged, unfazed by Bucky’s blatant annoyance. “I’m just sayin’, I think the guy might have a point.”

“Since when do you agree with Stark?”

Sam laughed. “I’ll agree with anybody if I think they’re right!” He paused, studied the look on Bucky’s face and then added on with a laugh, “Well, yeah, not you. But other people.”

Bucky tried to keep his annoyed expression but then chuckled. “Fuck you.”

Sam wasn’t going to let the conversation get derailed. “Alright, so you don’t like the girl he was telling you about, so why don’t you—”

“I didn’t say—”

“They got apps for that now. Oh, sorry,” Sam held up his hand in a pausing motion, “Apps are things that you can put on your pho—”

Bucky’s brows knit together. “I know what apps are.”

Sam allowed himself a minute to laugh at his own joke before saying, “So it’s not the girl. Then, what? Afraid you left all your game back in the forties?”

He shook his head, eyes suddenly glued down to his beer bottle. “Sure, yeah. Something like that.”

“Want my advice?”

“No.”

Sam gave it anyway. “Get over it.” He ignored the increasingly annoyed look on Bucky’s face. “Go buy a girl a drink. Ask her for her number. Use whatever corny line you used back in the nineteen hundreds the last time you had to pretend to have some game.”

Bucky didn’t want to laugh but he couldn’t stop himself. Sam might’ve been oversimplifying but Bucky was also vaguely aware of the fact that he was overcomplicating things for himself. “I’ll think about it. But,” he paused to point at Sam accusingly while he grabbed a sip of his beer, “I didn’t have to pretend to have game. I had it—have. I have it.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Riiiight.”

The topic dropped, and they moved onto talking about other things. There were frequent pauses in the conversation, both of them turning to look at people coming into the bar. Neither of them ever thought they would fully break that habit, no matter how often they went out into the world as civilians.

The door let out a quiet chime, and Bucky’s head instinctively snapped in the direction to see who was coming in. His eyes widened and he stopped himself in the middle of the sentence that he was saying to Sam. There was no brain to mouth filter as he let out a quiet, “Shit.”

Sam’s face contorted in confusion as he turned to see what it was that had Bucky reacting that way. He looked over, his confusion immediately shifting into a smug grin when he saw you standing in the doorway. Bucky hadn’t even given Sam a description of what you looked like, but he could tell from Bucky’s reaction that there was no way that you could possibly be anyone else.

“Talk about good timing,” Sam joked.

Bucky was still staring at you, not that you’d noticed, as he spoke to Sam. “Shut up.”

“Now’s the time.”

He fought the urge to shove him off the stool. “I said shut up.”

You were only a couple steps inside the bar, you phone clutched tightly in one hand as you looked around the semi-tight space. The focused furrow of your brow said that you were looking for someone. The tight black jeans and lacy grey top you were wearing said that you were probably looking for your date. There were five million reasons Bucky felt his mouth go dry and none of them were doing him any good.

He saw the rise and fall of your shoulders as you let out a sigh. You typed on your phone for a moment before making your way over to the bar, carefully weaving your way through the clusters of other patrons. The closer you got, the more Bucky hoped that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. You were so focused on getting to the bar and snagging a rare empty seat, that you didn’t even notice that the seat was next to him until after you’d ordered your drink. You wouldn’t have looked in his direction at all if you hadn’t heard someone laughing.

When you turned, the first thing you saw was Bucky, the familiar face and leather jacket. The next thing you noticed was the man on the other side of him, the source of said laughter. You tilted your head as your eyes made their way back to Bucky. You allowed yourself a laugh of your own. “Bucky?”

He nodded, clearing his throat. “H-hey. Yeah, hi.”

“So funny seeing you here!” You paused, looking back and forth between him and the man next to him. “How are you?”

He nodded again, pulling the words up one by one. “Good. I’m good. You?”

“I’m, um,” you chuckled awkwardly, “I’m alright, I think? Supposed to be meeting someone here but,” you glanced around, “I don’t see them yet.”

The man on the other side of Bucky leaned across him and held his hand out. “I’m Sam, by the way.” He flashed you a charming grin. “Not the person you were looking for, but figured I’d introduce myself anyway since this guy wasn’t going to.”

You laughed as you told him your name. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

The three of you chit-chatted, and you tried not to think too much about the way that Bucky was looking at you. You were putting too much thought into it, you were certain. Maybe you were just projecting, taking all the growing disappointment you were feeling about your supposed “date” still not being there and channeling it into the way that Bucky seemed to be so attentively listening to you.

Taking another sip from the straw in your drink, you checked the time on your phone one more time. Letting out a deep sigh, you looked over at Bucky, and Sam too. “I’m glad I ran into you two tonight, because from the looks of it the person that I came out to see is not showing up.” You shoved your phone back into the pocket of your jeans with a shake of your head.

“He’s an idiot,” Sam chimed in without hesitation.

You laughed and nodded. “I appreciate the sentiment.” You finished off your drink and you didn’t try to dissuade the bartender who was grabbing your glass and heading off to make you another. Looking back at the two of them, you said, “My friends were the ones who convinced me to get on those stupid dating apps anyway.” You shook your head. “Lotta good it did, huh?”

Bucky nodded, shooting a pointed look at Sam as he said, “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

Sam was laughing, but Bucky noticed the way that he was moving to throw some cash down on the bar. He gathered up his jacket as he got off the stool. “Well, not to be the bearer of more bad news, but I gotta take off.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulders as he walked by. “But you two crazy kids stay out and have some fun. It was very nice to meet you.” He flashed the two of you another grin. “Call if you need bail money. Not me, but, you know, call somebody.”

You laughed as you and Bucky each said goodbye to him. The two of you watched him as he practically skipped out of the bar and out onto the street. Bucky was caught between wishing he could chase Sam down and tackle him, and wishing he could skip right out the door alongside him. There was no buffer between the two of you anymore, and Bucky felt so strangely exposed.

“Sorry about your date,” Bucky finally offered up.

You smiled good-naturedly. “I’m not that heartbroken over it,” you said honestly as the bartender set your fresh drink down in front of you. “My expectations were pretty low, but, you know,” you took a sip, “not so low that I assumed he wasn’t gonna be here.”

Bucky chuckled. “That’s fair.”

“Honestly, I’m just more pissed off that I wasted one of my few free weekend evenings on some guy who didn’t even bother texting me to cancel.”

“Few?”

You smiled as you said, “My daughter. Every other week she’s with her dad. I miss her when she’s gone, so I try to stay busy. Usually with friends, but every now and then it’s some pipe-dream of a date.” You took another sip. “They usually do show up, though, at the risk of making myself sound horrible desperate,” you joked.

Bucky laughed. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

Your smile softened a touch, but it was still there. “Well, thank you for that at least.”

You had every intention of finishing off your drink, paying your tab, and heading right home. You weren’t typically one for staying out all hours in a bar or a club somewhere, even when you were out with your friends. And, as nice as it was that you had a chance run-in with Bucky when everything else seemed to be going wrong, you were still ready to turn it in and go home. Back to your pajamas and fuzzy blankets.

That’s not what happened, however, despite your best intentions. Somewhere along the way you switched from cocktails to soda just for the sake of being able to stay longer without getting too much of a buzz as you talked to Bucky. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox, per se, and you hadn’t really expected him to be. The two of you managed to keep up a good pace of back and forth regardless of that. He did a little more listening than he did talking but it didn’t seem to bother him. It also made you realize that even though you had your friends, and your fellow teachers at school, there weren’t a whole lot of times when you went out to socialize with other adults. It also didn’t hurt that Bucky was so nice to look at, that he seemed to be just as interested in looking right back at you.

You’d both lost track of time as you sat there, and when you were both finally making your way towards the door of the bar, it was much later than either of you had bargained for. The two of you walked, and Bucky pulled the door open for you. The two of you were mid-conversation when you landed back out on the sidewalk. It was only then that you realized you probably weren’t going to be heading in the same direction.

Bucky watched as you motioned back over your shoulder, the opposite direction from the way he was heading. “I’m parked this way, but, it was really good seeing you. What are the chances, right?” You laughed lightly.

He smiled, nodded. “Yeah. It was, um,” he could feel the words that he wanted to say resting on the tip of his tongue and he was conflicted about whether or not he wanted to actually say them, “it was good to see you again.” He paused, hating every bit of hesitation that he was feeling. “Do you, um, I was wondering,” he was reaching for the pocket of his jacket for his phone as he fumbled his way through the question, “I mean on your next free weekend…”

You felt your face warm as he continued on. You knew where the line of questioning was going, and part of you knew that maybe you should put him out of his misery. But it was sweet, and you were enjoying that. Finally, you nodded. “That’d be nice.”

He let out a sigh of relief as he took his phone out. “Great. Okay, yeah. I’ll…I’ll call you. You know,” he managed a smile with a little more ease, “save you from all the apps.”

You laughed as you typed your name and number in. “You’re a lifesaver.”

In the back of his mind he knew that he should be making some sort of move now. Walk you to your car, give you a hug, something. But if asking for your number was as difficult as it had proven itself to be, he didn’t know what it was going to be like trying to manage anything else. So he took the win, and bid you goodnight.

Over the course of the next couple days, he was caught between wanting to tell both Tony and Sam separately that he’d gotten your number. He thought maybe it would help get them off his back. What he didn’t want, though, was for them to just get on his case about a whole new slew of things. He also didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they’d been right.

So, instead of reaching out to either of them, he texted you instead. It was casual at first, just brief messages here and there. Texting wasn’t his favorite way to stay in touch with people, but he at least recognized that it was what people did now.

He called you once, when he wanted to actually try and make plans to see you. That conversation wasn’t one that he wanted to have over text, and he told you as much. You also found that to be sweet as well. It wasn’t a long conversation, one taking place while you made dinner and your daughter was busy with her toys in the living room. But the two of you settled on a date, a time, and that he would come by your place to pick you up. You couldn’t remember the last time you smiled so much while making pasta.

~*~

“Tony is never gonna let you hear the end of this when he finds out,” Sam said as he sat down at Bucky’s kitchen counter.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky grabbed drinks out of his fridge. “That’s why I haven’t said anything to him about it.”

“Nothing?!”

“No!” Bucky said, breaking down into laughter after a moment. “You gonna tell him?”

“What, you think that we’re texting about you all the time?” Sam shook his head. “Get over yourself.”

Bucky was about to come back with something snarky as per usual when his phone chimed on the counter. Sam looked, too nosey to stop himself. The grin that spread across his face when he saw your name on the screen. At the look on Sam’s face, Bucky’s instinct was to reach and flip the phone over, but he stopped himself. Instead, he grabbed his phone and messaged you back before setting it down.

“You wanna call me while you’re getting ready?” Sam joked. “I’ll help you pick out an outfit. Tell you how to do your hair.”

Bucky chuckled. “Fuck you.”

~*~

He didn’t call Sam before the date. He also hadn’t heard anything from Tony which led him to believe that Sam had been kind enough to keep his mouth shut. That was all well and good, but he wished that it did anything to soothe the nerves that he was feeling as he stood outside your door.

He felt like an awkward sixteen-year-old again as he stood on your front step. He rang the doorbell, flowers clutched tightly in his hand as he waited. He’d spoken to you earlier, and you had seemed excited about it all still. That gave him hope. But again, it still wasn’t enough to eradicate the lingering feelings of anxiety he had.

Another few seconds passed by and then you pulled open the door. You were smiling at him as you were trying to do the latch on your necklace. “Hey! Sorry, I still have to get my shoes on and stuff. Please,” you stepped back and nodded for him to step inside, “come in. I’ll be ready in like, two minutes.”

He smiled as he somewhat nervously followed your instructions, stepping just past the threshold of your house. “Take your time,” he said calmly as he shut the door behind him.

He looked around while you finished putting on your jewelry and went to grab your shoes. He wasn’t sure what he had been picturing your house looking like, but what he saw felt fitting. It was tidy considering how young your daughter was. There were some toys scattered about in patches, framed photos on the walls and drawings tacked onto the fridge by magnets. It was a home in a way that none of Bucky’s places since he came back had ever been.

“Okay,” you said as you reappeared, smoothing out your blouse, “I’m ready. Sor—” you stopped short when you finally noticed the bouquet of flowers in his hand. The smile on your face was wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “Those are beautiful.”

Bucky’s eyes widened for a moment, like he’d forgotten that he had them. He held them out to you. “Just figured, you know…”

You smiled as you took them, flitting off to the kitchen so that you could put them in a vase with water. “Thank you.”

As the two of you drove, you could feel him slowly starting to relax. The two of you talked, and you could see the way that his grip on the steering wheel started to become less vice-like. There was something refreshing in the way that he opened the car door for you, and the door to the diner that the two of you had agreed on. He sat down across from you in the booth and you noticed the way that he still had his gloves on as he looked through the menu. You wanted to ask but you didn’t—if he wanted to say something about it you had a feeling that he would.

The conversation felt easy, the same way it had been that night at the bar. The only difference now was the feeling in the air. There was a different kind of tension now that hadn’t been there before. Sure, you’d been attracted to him even then, but that hadn’t been a date. Not like this.

Every now and then if one of you shifted in your seat and your feet or legs would brush. Neither of you said anything about it, but you could feel the upward curl of your own lips as it happened, the occasional pink flush of Bucky’s cheeks. Sometimes it’d make him stumble in his sentence and you’d do him the courtesy of not commenting on it.

The two of you were splitting a piece of pie for dessert, something you insisted on because you knew the woman who baked them for the diner. It wasn’t as though Bucky put up any great fight about it. The closer the two of you got to finishing it, the more you engaged in low-stakes warfare, dueling with your forks over the pieces with the best crust-to-filling ratio.

“You can have the last bite,” you conceded with a laugh, leaning back in the booth.

“Oh, come on,” he joked, “it doesn’t feel good to win by forfeit.”

You laughed, warmth blossoming up your neck and across your face. “It’s not forfeit. Think of it as, I don’t know,” you drummed your fingers against the tabletop, “me being nice since it was your first time here.” You paused, studying the amused look on his face. “That better?”

He shrugged, a smirk on his face. “Little bit.”

The two of you walked back out to his car, and you found yourself walking much closer to his side than you had been on the way in. Your arm brushed against his as the two of you walked, and you found yourself about half a step away from leaning into his side.

He reached to open the car door for you, but before he could you leaned back against it so that you were facing him. You let one arm hang by your side, with the other you brought your palm so that it rested against his chest, pads of your fingertips pressing lightly against the leather.

Bucky almost pulled away out of reflex, but he didn’t. “Yes?”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Nothing, nothing.” You let your hand drop, the pads of your fingers dragging for a moment before your arm was back at your side once more. You moved just enough so that he could open the door again for you. “Thank you.”

Bucky walked you up to the door of your house, and he felt like his heart was beating clean up into the back of his throat. He didn’t remember dating being this nerve-wracking before. You seemed perfectly unfazed, though as you sauntered up and slipped your key into the lock.

“You wanna come in?” you offered as you opened the door. “Have a drink?”

It took more effort to swallow than it should have. “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

You chuckled. “If you don’t want to—”

“I do,” he reassured, his voice earnest.

Your smiled grew. “Okay.” You stepped and waved him in with you. “C’mon.” You noticed the way that he still had his jacket and gloves on when you came back out of the kitchen with a bottle in each hand. You handed one over to him. “Nothing fancy, but it’s also usually just me drinking them, so…”

He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s fine.”

There were a few beats of silence, each of you sipping out of your bottles before you said, “You don’t do this a lot, do you?”

His eyes widened for a moment, slight panic. “What?”

Your smile was warm as you gestured with your hand that held the bottle. “This. Dates. Not…not your thing, is it?”

He held the bottle between both his hands. “I’m…out of practice, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “That noticeable?”

You shook your head. “Not really. You just seemed, I don’t know, a little nervous. And I don’t know why a guy who looks like you would have any reason to be nervous on a date other than…”

“Other than I don’t go on them,” he finished with a soft laugh.

Your face heated up as you smiled. “Kinda.”

“How’d I do?” he asked, mostly joking.

You stepped in closer to him, noticing a different kind of tension in his body. “You’re doing great.”

He huffed out a laugh but it was much softer than he intended, betraying more of his real feelings than he bargained for. “This part?” He made a small gesture between you. “This part I’m really,” he forced out a puff of air through his teeth, “yeah.”

There was a flutter of butterflies in your stomach, something you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Want some help?”

He laughed but he didn’t say no, didn’t move away. He swallowed hard as you took the bottle from his hand and set them both on the coffee table in your living room. He was fighting hard to say something—ideally something smooth but at this point he would’ve settled for just about anything. Within seconds you were standing close to him again, bodies a breath away from being pressed flush against each other. Your hands rested on his chest for a moment, and you waited to see if he would change his mind and pull away—you were giving him the chance. But then you felt his hands tentatively land on your hips and you smiled, your body easing against his. You brought one hand up to the side of his face, thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“Not so bad,” you asked softly, “right?”

He shook his head, finally forcing out a quiet, “No, it’s not.”

You smiled and leaned in, lightly pressing your lips to his. It was delicate, fleeting—you were pulling away as quickly as you’d leaned in. The sliver of space left between your lips and his was the silent ask for him to let you know if this was the end of the night or not. He could pull away from you, no harm no foul, or he could lean in and kiss you again and figure it out from there.

It felt like you were both holding your breath for a moment, faces just too close to be able to get a good look in each other’s eyes. You were about to pull back to really look at him when he leaned in and kissed you, more conviction than the quick gesture from before. You readily gave into him, hand sliding from his cheek to the back of his head to keep him pulled to you. As his lips moved against yours, one of his hands slid so that it was resting at the center of the small of your back.

The two of you stayed like that in the middle of your living room, all locking lips and wandering hands. You would’ve let the entire night fall away spent just like that and been more than fine with it. When the two of you finally came back up for air, when Bucky pulled away from you enough to really look into your eyes, you saw that more than anything he was surprised. Maybe it was at you, maybe it was at himself, but regardless it was there. Underneath that, though, you could see that there was something more. His hand that wasn’t on the small of your back came up to cup your chin, the leather of his gloves smooth to the touch against your skin. He tilted your chin just slightly and then your lips were back on his again.

Out of instinct you tugged down the zipper of his jacket. Your hands came up to his shoulders, getting ready to push his jacket down off of them. It was only then that he pulled away from you again, breathless as he desperately searched your face.

“What?” you asked gently, pausing your movements.

“Nothing, nothing. I,” he pressed his lips into a thin line for a moment. “I wasn’t expecting…I just…”

“If it’s too much,” you said, taking a small step back, “we can—”

“No,” he stopped you short, shaking his head. “It’s not that. I just…” He took a breath. “Do you know? Who I am?”

You chuckled. “You’re friends with Iron Man and Falcon. I,” you shrugged, “I connected some dots along the way.”

He laughed, a sound of relief. “A lot of people don’t…you know…”

“A lot of people don’t have people from The Avengers dropping off school snacks once a week.” You paused and let both of you laugh. Allowing your tone to get a little more serious, you said, “I know, Bucky,” you moved once more to push his jacket down off his shoulders, “and it’s okay.”

He allowed you to do it, allowed his jacket to drop to the floor. Even with the long-sleeve shirt that he had on underneath, you could see the difference between his arms. You brought your hands to his, helping him pull the gloves off next. He was holding his breath—you could tell. When his gloves were off you ran your fingers along each of his palms, skin and metal, with equal delicate care.

When you looked into his eyes again you saw the way he was looking at you—bewildered, eager. You brought one hand back to his face again, urging him back towards you. It was a cue that he gladly took, kissing you with fervor. His hands were on your sides, and when he felt the way your other hand was running up his arm, he couldn’t stop himself, from letting his hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt.

It’d been so long, he realized as his hands roamed your sides and back, since he’d last felt someone like this. When your fingers slid underneath the collar of his shirt, splaying across what they could reach where the nape of his neck turned stretched into his shoulders, he also realized that it’d been a long time since he’d let someone feel him like this too.

Your head whipped around, your eyes softening immediately after landing on your daughter, she’d already gotten herself dressed for the first day of school. She was wearing her favorite pink unicorn shirt that you got her, it may have something to do with the fact you said it had power that would make her brave and strong. It seemed to be just what Avery needed to hear when she realized she’d be going to a class with a new teacher and new students. 

“Please, Maria. We need this partnership to secure the deal. Just do what you can,” you finished firmly, hanging up the phone in the process and turning to face your daughter. 

What is it with kids looking like their father? You carried her for nine months, you made a bed next to the toilet for half of that, your body grew and shifted to grow her. And the universe had the audacity to have her come into the world with most of her father’s features. She was the only good thing Brock Rumlow had contributed to your marriage. Luckily, you had insisted on her last name being L/N so that your company’s future involved her, not Rumlow. This added more fuel to the fire. 

What made the situation even more lucky was that you had signed an extensive prenup with Brock when the two of you had gotten engaged. You didn’t see it then, you were head over heels with the smooth talking, flirtatious man. It took a few years of marriage and one child later to find out it was all a con. Especially when you walked in on him fucking the maid on your five thousand dollar couch. You settled on a custody agreement in the divorce, allowing Brock occasional weekend visits with Avery. He never showed. She was four. 

Some would say you have no weaknesses. In fact, you knew the reputation you’d garnered. To the rest of the world you were Y/N L/N, ruthless business executive and CEO of L/N industries who made men and women alike weep and kneel at your feet. Your friends and immediate family knew the truth. Your soft spot was and always would be Avery.  

“Thank you for reminding me, Avery,” you said softly, holding your arms out. Her little eyes lighting up and a smile forming on her face as she ran across the living room to give you a big hug. Your eyes filled with tears as you took in your daughter. She was a small little thing, just a little bit smaller than most six year olds, but man was she the cutest thing you’d ever laid eyes on. 

“I see you’ve got your big girl shirt on,” you stated with a soft look, a grin beginning to appear on your lips as Avery’s smile grew larger at the reference to her “magic bravery.” “Are you gonna be mama’s big girl at school today? Make new friends and be nice for your teacher?” you asked, running your hand lightly over Avery’s back as she nodded in response. 

Where Avery got her shyness from confused you. For a child with two of the most extroverted parents she sure made up for it with her introversion. There was nothing wrong with that though and you respected her decisions. Brock on the other hand would fuss at her if she didn’t speak to one of his colleagues or if she didn’t want to hug one of his family members. Just one of the other continually compounding reasons your marriage ended up in divorce. You would never force Avery to hug anyone she didn’t want to and the only time you would nudge her to speak to someone was if it were important. When she got over her shyness…that’s when you saw yourself in your daughter. Her attitude?? A copy and paste of your own. 

“Alright sweet girl, Uncle Sam is gonna be here soon to take us to school. You gonna tell him how excited you are?” You asked while patting her leg, your sign it was time to get up and help her put her shoes on. Avery nodded her head as she grabbed her pink converse and she began babbling all about what she wanted to do at school and how she hoped she’d make new friends. 

On the way to school she spoke animatedly to Sam. You and Sam had been best friends for years, ever since college really. He had taken over the role as your executive assistant and was in charge of handling your meetings and getting you to and from places on time. He preferred to drive you and Avery though. The second she was born he’d been wrapped around her tiny finger. He’d also been the one to attempt to wake you from Brock’s spell. Well, Sam and Wanda both tried. Nothing seemed to work just right until that night you saw for yourself just how uncommitted he was to your marriage. A marriage you’d been trying to salvage for years to, obviously, no avail. 

“Alright miss priss one and miss priss two, we’re here,” Sam announced as he pulled the car to stop. That seemed to put a halt to Avery’s excitement, she attached herself to your leg like a koala to a tree. A small frown appeared on your face, she was acting more skittish than normal. 

“Aves, tell Uncle Sam you’ll see him after school,” you prompted giving her a little nudge, hoping it would make her release her grip. But all she did was mumble “bye Uncle Sam” under her breath. 

You bent down to her level and made her initiate contact by lightly pulling her chin up. You could see the start of tears welling in her eyes. The sight making your heart begin to shatter. You took a deep breath, I swear kindergarten wasn’t even this hard you thought to yourself, before asking, “Avery Claire L/N. You. Are brave. You are strong. You are a L/N. What’s got you so scared baby?”

Avery’s lip wobbled as she whispered her response. “What if nobody likes me…and I don’t make any friends?” 

That sound? It was your heart shattering. You pulled your daughter close to your chest and tried not to let her see your tears. After discretely wiping your eyes you held onto her shoulders, looked her in the eyes and said, “Baby, anyone would be lucky to be your friend. You are a great person, you’re so smart. Not everyone is going to like everyone and that’s okay. All we can do is be nice to them and hope that they’re nice in return.” 

“Is that how you make all your friends at work, mommy?” Her question caused you to wince. Because that definitely was NOT how you made friends…but maybe you should listen to your own advice. Another time, we have to go, your inner monologue started up again but your daughter was waiting for your reply so you just responded with a nod of your head and a small smile, her shy one returning in response. The two of you headed to the office to get her teacher assignment. 

Mr. Barnes’ classroom was located at the end of the first grade hall and a line of students and parents extended out his door as he greeted the students and introduced himself to the parents. As the line got shorter and shorter, Avery clung tighter and tighter to your leg until the two of you were in front of Mr. Barnes. 

His attention was on Avery. Yours could not have been anywhere else except on him. He was gorgeous. The most beautiful man you had ever seen. Brock Rumlow was attractive when you met, still was except his cheating brought him down to a zero, but this Mr. Barnes? You wanted to cling to him like Avery was clinging to you. You bent down and whispered in Avery’s ear, “remember sweet girl, you are strong. You are brave. Say hi to Mr. Barnes like you practiced okay?” This prompted her to look up but immediately hide her face into your arm. The second he knelt down to her level? You were done. 

Damn. All it takes is one ounce of attention to my kid from a hot man and I’m already down bad?? I NEED to get laid. NOT HELPING BRAIN. Oh shit Avery’s retracting back. 

After introducing himself, Avery turned and looked at you, you gave her a nod of encouragement and a nudge of your hand and she turned around, puffed her chest out and shook her teachers hand with the most confidence a six year old could muster, making you snicker behind your hand. 

When she finally decided she wanted to go to class that was it. She was giving your legs a quick squeeze and throwing a “love you” to the wind before running into the classroom to meet her new friends. The introduction between you and Mr. Barnes felt…tense to say the least. It was like the second he heard your full name he froze. 

Damn. We really need to work on that…

You wanted to talk more but the next thing you knew your phone was ringing. It was Maria. You knew she was calling for the Odinson deal and that it was a call you needed to take. You bid your goodbye to Mr. Barnes and took off down the hallway, not even looking back. 

By the time you got to the car Sam was waiting for you patiently, but the second he saw the look on your face after getting off the phone he asked, “what’s got you all hot and bothered, little mama?”

You took a deep breath trying to calm yourself after the phone call and from being the mere presence of that gorgeous hunk of teacher. Then you answered, “I want to climb Avery’s teacher like a fucking tree, Sam.” All Sam could do was cackle and throw his head back in response. 

This is gonna be a long fucking year. 

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Alpine stubbornly sits in the room. She lies down and meows loudly.

“Alpine…” Bucky tries to get his cat to leave the room. He places a bowl with Alpine’s favorite food next to his cat. “You need to eat something.”

His cat ignores Bucky. The white furball lies on the ground, still meowing.

“She won’t come back,” Bucky murmurs as he slowly sits beside his cat. He pats Alpine’s head, feeling even sorrier for his cat. “It’s all my fault.”

It was a moment of anger driving you away. He doesn’t remember how the fight began, only the end of it.

“If you are unhappy, maybe you should leave and never return. I didn’t ask you to love me or take care of me. You knew that I’m damaged goods.”

He sighs deeply making Alpine meow even louder. The cat jumps back up to nuzzle Bucky’s hand. It’s like Alpine can feel Bucky’s pain.

“I don’t deserve her, never deserved her. I should’ve stayed away from her. I knew that sooner than later she’d find out that I was not the man she wanted. If only I wasn’t so ruined.”

The cat sits next to Bucky, curling in his side to get more pats. “Did you ever believe that I was good enough for her?” He drops his head, shaking it slightly. “I guess not. Everyone told her to not fall for me. I heard her friends talk about me more than once. She was too nice to tell me the truth.”

Bucky buries his face in his hands. He chokes out a sob as the words he threw in your direction echo in his mind.

“I can’t give you what you want, and I don’t want to. Why drag things out? Let’s just face reality.”

He sniffles silently. “She will find someone better, Alpine. It’s better this way, believe me, punk. We shouldn’t have asked her to move in with us.”

Alpine lifts her head, she looks at her owner and meows loudly before running out of the empty room.

“You too, Alpine?” Bucky huffs. “Of course, you’d love to live with her. I’d be the same if I was you. She always bought the best snacks and toys for you.”

He looks over his shoulder when Alpine begins to meow louder. Bucky slowly gets back up. He doesn’t want Alpine to suffer only because he fucked things up between the two of you.

“Punk, what’s wrong?” He calls for his cat. Bucky wipes his wet eyes to look around the apartment. “Alpine?”

He can hear his cat in the bedroom. Alpine purrs low in her throat, a sound Bucky only ever heard when you patted his cat. The white cat is a little bratty and believes she’s a queen most of the time, but he loves her.

“Alpine?” Bucky tiptoes inside the bedroom. He stares at the bed, eyes wetting with fresh tears.

“Aw, your fur is less shiny, baby kitten,” you coo while patting Alpine. The cat is currently curled in your lap and purrs loudly. “Did he forget to brush you daily? I bet he did.” You conclude. “I’m away for seven days and your fur looks awful.”

“I brushed her daily,” Bucky murmurs. He steps closer to the bed to watch you groom his cat. He smiles because you placed a bag filled with new toys and snacks for the cat on the bed. “She’s a little sassy lately.”

You look at the cat, not Bucky as he steps closer, and closer. “I was looking for a new apartment, a place to call home.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“I went from one end of town to the other, searching for a perfect place but,” you shake your head and sniffle, “my home is where you and Alpine are and…” You get something out of the bag, pressing it to your heart. “I don’t know if you wanted to know or not but…”

Bucky sits on the bed. He holds out his hand for whatever you want to show him. He inhales sharply when you place a pregnancy test in his hand. “I…I thought…they said I can’t… they said I’m sterile…”

“Obviously, you can give me what I want,” you dip your head to glance at Bucky. “I just don’t know if you want to be part of this wonder.”

He chokes on his tears while pressing the test to his heart. Bucky got so mad because he believed that he couldn’t give you a baby. Now everything changed and he doesn’t know if you will forgive him.

“You’re my wonder,” he sniffles. Bucky moves closer to take your hand in his hand. “Always were.”

“So…can we turn the room into a nursery?” You look at him, tears in your eyes. “If you don’t—”

He cups your face with both hands to kiss you softly. “I want to. More than anything…”