Author’s Note: I’ve been working on this, off and on for two months you guys :_) she’s so much better than I thought it would be. Now my favorite thing I’ve ever written, it’s shorter but I love her sm. dt: @superbassbuck my dad!bucky twin :) I’m really seeing how slowing down and writing for me has affected this fic for the better

ty to everyone who’s checked in on me and your sweet, sweet messages, I see them all and feeling the love <3

The scent of pine needles and damp earth clung to the exterior of your small cabin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the stone fireplace inside. 

Outside, the Pennsylvania woods were settling into a deep, winter hush, the kind of silence that only comes when the world is tucked under a blanket of frost. Inside, however, the air was filled with the chaotic, beautiful sounds of your family.

You sat at the large oak dining table, watching your husband finish the last of the dishes. His vibranium arm caught the firelight, the dark metal and golden grooves gleaming with a soft, dull luster as he dried a plate with a domestic grace that still, after all these years, made your heart ache with a quiet sort of pride.

He had come so far. From the frozen hell of Siberia and the jagged memories of the Winter Soldier to this: a dimly lit kitchen, deep in the silent woods, a wife who loved him, and two children who thought he hung the moon and stars.

“Stop looking at me like that,” He didn't turn around, but you knew he was smiling. He always knew when your eyes were on him.

“Like what?” you teased, leaning back in your chair with a yawn.

“Y’know whach’your doin’”

He placed the last dish on the drying rack and walked over to you, boots thudding softly on the hardwood floor. He placed his warm, flesh-and-blood hand on your shoulder and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “The kids are riled up because of the snow forecast. I’ve got bedtime duty tonight. You,” he pointed a finger at you, “are going upstairs. I went ahead and started the bath when you were putting up leftovers. There’s some of that lavender oil and salts you like. No worrying about the pantry, no thinking about the laundry. Just a bath. A long one.”

“Bucky, I can help,” you protested weakly, even as the idea of a hot soak sounded like pure heaven. “Ethan was talking about building a fort in his room, and Rebecca is in one of her ‘I won’t wear pajamas’ moods.”

Bucky chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated in his chest. “I survived the 107th, Hydra, and the end of the world. I think I can handle a six-year-old and a four-year-old. Go. That’s an order, Agent.”

You laughed, standing up and stealing a quick, lingering kiss from his lips. He tasted like the peppermint tea he’d had after dinner. “Fine. But if the house is standing by the time I’m out, I’ll be very impressed.”

“Have a little faith, Princess,” he whispered, the nickname a relic of your early dating days that he still used when he wanted to make your knees weak.

You made your way upstairs, stopping by the kids’ rooms first. Ethan was already in his pajamas—mostly, though his shirt was inside out—and Rebecca was currently wrestling with a pair of fuzzy slippers.

“Goodnight, my brave explorers,” you called, leaning in to kiss their little foreheads.

“Mama, Dad says he’s gonna tell us a story!” Ethan exclaimed, his blue eyes—so much like Bucky’s—wide with excitement.

“A good one!” Rebecca added, finally winning the battle with her shoes.

“Well, you’d better listen close then,” you whispered. “Sleep tight my bed bugs.”

You retreated to the bathroom, the steam already thick and fragrant. As you shed your clothes and sank into the scalding water, the tension of the week began to bleed out of your muscles. But despite your husband’s orders, you didn’t completely tune out. The cabin was small, and the acoustics were such that the sounds of the children’s room drifted up through the vents and the hallway.

You leaned your head back against the rim of the tub, closing your eyes, and listened as the man you loved with your entire being, began the nightly ritual.

-

In the bedroom, Bucky sat on the edge of Rebecca’s bed, which was currently being shared by her brother. Both children were tucked under a heavy quilt, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of a star-shaped nightlight spinning alight.

“Alright,” Bucky clapped, his voice dropping into that storytelling register—smooth, steady, and captivating. “Pick a book. We got the one about the fuzzy rabbit, or the one about the—?”

Rebecca pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “No, Daddy. No books. We know those ones.”

“We want a new one,” Ethan insisted. “A brand new story from your head.” He jabbed a finger into his own temple.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced at the bookshelf, then back at his children’s expectant faces. He wasn’t a writer. He was a man of action, a man of silence. But looking at them, he felt a pull in his chest—a need to give them something real, even if it was wrapped in a shroud of make-believe.

“A new one, huh?” Bucky murmured. He took a breath, settling into the rocking chair beside the bed. “Alright. But you have to stay under the covers. No jumping, no interrupting... well, maybe a little interrupting.”

The kids giggled and burrowed deeper into the blankets, linking arms.

“Once upon a time,” Bucky began, clearing his throat as his eyes drifted toward the window where the snow had begun to fall in earnest, “in a land very far away and a time very, very long ago... there was a Knight.”

“Was he a shiny knight?” Rebecca asked, her eyes wide. “Did he have a horse?”

“He was very shiny,” Bucky smiled. “He was young and brave, and he had a dark green cape that caught the wind. People in the village used to cheer when he rode by because he was handsome and fast with a sword. All the girls in the kingdom thought he was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. But the Knight... he didn't care much about the cheering. He mostly cared about his best friend.”

“Who was his friend?” 

“Was he a knight too?”

“Not yet,” Bucky answered. “His friend was a peasant boy. He was scrawny, and he was sick a lot, and he was much smaller than the Knight. People used to pick on the peasant boy, but the Knight never let them get away with it. He’d stand in front of him and say, ‘If you want to get to him, you gotta go through me.’ They were brothers, even if they didn't share the same blood.”

Bucky’s voice hitched slightly, but he kept going. “One day, a great shadow fell over their world. A war was coming. The Knight and the peasant boy, they wanted to help. So they joined the Royal Army. They went far away to the cold, dark mountains to fight the darkness.”

“Did they win, daddy?” Rebecca whispered.

“They fought hard,” Bucky continued. “But in one of the biggest battles, on a bridge high above a frozen river, the Knight made a mistake. He was protecting his friend, and he fell. He fell from the tall mountain, down, down into the white mist. Everyone thought he was gone.”

Ethan gasped, clutching the blanket to his chin. “But he survived, right? Because he’s a brave Knight?”

“He survived,” Bucky said, his voice growing lower, more somber. “But he wasn’t found by his friends. He was found by an Evil Witch who lived in a deep, jagged cave. The Witch was very cruel. He didn't want a Knight; he wanted a weapon. Someone to control. He took the Knight and he hurt him. He used a dark, icy spell to wipe away his name, his memory, and his heart.”

“That’s mean,” Rebecca whispered, her lip trembling.

“It was very mean,” Bucky agreed. “And then, the Witch did the worst thing of all. He performed a ritual that turned the Knight into a Dragon.”

“A DRAGON?” Ethan’s eyes lit up. “Like, with wings and fire?”

“A Dragon made of winter and steel,” Bucky described, his hand unconsciously clenching into a fist. “His scales were cold, and his breath wasn't fire—it was ice. The Witch put a collar on the Dragon and told him who to hurt. For a long, long time, the Knight was gone. There was only the Dragon. The Dragon did bad, bad things, Ethan. He burned villages. He took people away from their families. He forgot that he had ever been a man who loved a peasant boy or a kingdom.”

The room was silent, save for the crackle of the wood in the fireplace downstairs.

“Did the Dragon stay bad…forever?” Ethan asked quietly, now sucking his thumb.

“He thought he would,” Bucky whispered. “He was tired and he was sad, deep inside where the Witch couldn't reach he hurt. But one day, the peasant boy—who was now a Great Captain and a Brave Soldier—found the Dragon. They fought. It was a terrible fight. The Dragon tried to freeze the Soldier, but the Soldier wouldn't give up on him. He looked into the Dragon’s eyes and said, ‘I know you’re in there. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.’”

Upstairs, in the bath, your breath hitched. You recognized the words. You recognized the pain in Bucky’s voice as he wove his trauma into a tapestry his children could understand. You listened closer…

“After the great battle. The Soldier took the Dragon back to his castle,” Bucky continued. “Not to put him in a cage, or to hurt him, but to help him. But the Dragon was so scared. He still had his scales. He still had his sharp teeth. He thought he was a monster. He hid in the highest tower, growling at anyone who came near.”

“Did the Captain have a family in the castle? Did he meet a princess?” Rebecca asked, her voice hopeful.

Bucky cleared his throat, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He did, doll. In that castle, there was a Princess. But she wasn't like the ones in the other stories, she wasn't waiting to be rescued or finding true loves kiss. She was a warrior princess. She had worked for the King’s secret service. She was very smart, and she was so kind, and she wasn't afraid of dragons.”

“Did she have a sword?” Ethan asked.

“She had something better, son. She had patience. Every day, she would go to the tower. She didn't bring a weapon or a shield. She brought food. She brought books. She’d sit by the door and just talk to the Dragon, read to him. She’d tell him about the flowers growing in the garden, or how the sun felt on her skin by the harbor. The Dragon would growl and try to scare her away, each time she came, but she just…stayed.”

“Why?” Rebecca asked.

“Because she saw something nobody else did,” Bucky whispered. “The Dragon thought he was just a beast. He looked at his scales and his talons and he saw a repulsive monster. But the Princess... she looked past the scales. She saw the Knight who had fallen. She saw the man who was hurting.”

Bucky leaned forward, his eyes misty. “One day, the Princess did something very brave. She walked right up to the Dragon. The Dragon roared, baring all his teeth and fangs, trying to tell her to run before he hurt her. But she didn't run…She reached out her hand... and she touched his scales.”

“Did he bite her?” Ethan whispered, leaning into his sister.

“No,” Bucky cooed softly. “He froze. He was so surprised that someone would want to touch something so cold and ugly. And when she touched him, something happened. The spell the Witch had put on him... it started to crack. The warmth of the Princess’s hand was stronger than the Witch’s ice.”

Bucky’s voice was thick with emotion now, the story becoming less of a fairy tale and more of a confession. “Slowly, day by day, as the Princess stayed with him, the scales began to fall away. The Dragon didn't turn back into that shiny, perfect Knight he used to be. He was different now. He had scars. He had a metal arm where the Dragon’s wing used to be. He was quiet, and he still had bad dreams about the fire and the ice.”

“But the Princess still loved him?” Rebecca asked.

“She loved him more than the Knight, loved himself” Bucky said, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek.

“She told him that the scars didn't make him a monster. They just showed how much he had survived. She helped him find his heart again. And the Soldier—his best friend—he stayed by his side too. Together, they protected the kingdom. But the Knight... he decided he didn't want to live in a castle anymore. He wanted a quiet place. A place with trees and a soft bed, far away from the witches and the wars.”

“Like here?” Ethan asked, yawning as the sleepiness finally began to win.

“Just like here,” Bucky said, tucking the quilt tighter around them. “The Knight and the Princess found a little cabin in the woods. And they had two little... little squires. A strong, handsome boy and a beautiful, brave little girl. And the Knight... he realized that he wasn't a monster at all. He was the luckiest man in the whole world. Because the Princess saw him for who he really was... and she decided to stay.”

The room fell into a heavy, peaceful silence. Bucky sat there for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his children’s chests. Rebecca had fallen asleep with her thumb near her mouth, and Ethan’s head was lolled to the side, his breathing deep and steady.

Bucky let out a long, shaky breath. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, the metal of his thumb cold against his skin, but his heart felt warmer than it had in decades. He leaned down, kissing both of their heads one last time.

“Sleep well,” he whispered. “The Drag— Knight is on guard. Nothing’s gonna get you.”

He stood up, his joints popping slightly with protest, and moved toward the door. He clicked off the light, leaving only the soft glow of the hallway lamp to guide him.

As he stepped out and quietly pulled the door shut, he stopped.

You were standing there in the hallway. You were wrapped in your thick robe, your hair still damp and smelling of lavender. Your eyes were red-rimmed, and a single tear was wet on your cheek. You had heard everything.

Bucky froze, his breath hitching in his throat. He felt exposed, stripped bare by the story he’d just told. He rubbed the back of his neck again, looking down at his feet like a boy caught in a lie.

“H-hey, Princess,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I thought you’d be sleeping’ by now.”

You didn't say a word. You just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest. You could hear the steady, strong thrum of his heart—the heart of the Knight, the heart that had survived the ice.

Bucky’s breath left him in a heavy sigh as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight. His vibranium hand rested on the small of your back, and his human one cradled the back of your head. He buried his nose in your hair, breathing you in.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, moving over the grey stubble he’d grown since retiring. You leaned up on your tiptoes and kissed him—a kiss that held all the years of healing, all the battles won, and all the quiet nights in the woods yet to come.

“The Princess didn't just stay because she was brave, Bucky,” your voice steady and full of love. “She stayed because the Knight was the kindest man she’d ever known.”

Bucky closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. The weight he’d carried for seventy years—the guilt, the shame, the fear—seemed to lighten just a little bit more in the quiet of that hallway.

“You’re a really good storyteller, James Buchanan Barnes,” you whispered into his shirt.

Bucky let out a soft, wet chuckle, squeezing you closer. “I don't know about that. I think I just have a really good ending to work with.”

Bucky always knows you hate it when he leaves.

The little pout on your face and sad glint of your eyes as you cling to his waist, face buried into his chest like if you tried hard enough you could just stick to him like glue and never let go.

He wouldn't mind that, he thinks. Carrying you around next to him everywhere he went. It'd be better than this.

Anything would be better than this.

He puts on a strong face for you but deep down inside he's just as miserable about leaving as you are, maybe even more. You spend the whole day together, no farther than arms length away, always touching each other in one way or another. His hand at the small of your back, your fingers brushing between his shoulder blades, legs tangled up together under the bedsheets, skin pressed against skin as you try to remember what it's like to have a normal heart rhythm.

"Do you really have to go?" You ask, while you already know the answer something aches in you to ask again, in hopes that there's a different outcome.

He hums a confirmation into your neck, hands running up and down the sides of your waist and hips, mapping out every inch of skin until the swirls of his fingerprints have memorized every cell of your skin.

"How long will you be gone?"

"Coupla' days, three at the least, maybe five most."

You let out a pitiful whine, wrapping a leg around his waist and pulling him flush against you.

"I know baby," he murmurs into the soft spot under your ear, teeth lightly grazing the edge of your lobe. "I'll be back before you know it."

"No, you won't," you mutter, disdain laced through your words. Not for him. Never for him, just for the powers that be that take him away from you.

He doesn't answer, just kisses spot under your ear and pulls in a deep breath. He knows it just as well as you do, feels it just as much. Fear wells up in the back of your ribcage, swelling in your throat until its formed itself into a lump you can't swallow. If anything, this is part you hate the most.

The fear.

The worry.

The thought that this could be the last time you see him. It's irrational, you know that, but it doesn't stop the tears from pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Bucky feels the change instantly, his grip going vice around you as he holds you impossibly closer.

"Don't," he whispers. "Don't even think about it. You know I'll always come back."

You let out a shaky breath that trembles against his collarbone.

“That’s not something you can promise,” you murmur, and you hate how small your voice sounds. You hate that fear has teeth, that it sinks in and refuses to let go.

His hand slides up your spine, warm and steady, metal fingers splayed at the small of your back like he’s anchoring you there. Like if he holds tight enough, nothing in the world can pull you apart.

“I can promise I’ll try,” he says quietly. “Every time. For you.”

That’s the problem.

He always tries. He always throws himself headfirst into the line of fire. You’ve seen it — the recklessness disguised as bravery, the way he puts himself between danger and everyone else without a second thought. As if he doesn’t count.

As if losing him wouldn’t split you clean in two.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His forehead drops to yours automatically, noses brushing, breath shared. His blue eyes search your face like he’s memorizing it, the slope of your cheek, the way your lashes clump with unshed tears.

“You don’t get to talk like you’re disposable,” you whisper. “You don’t get to decide that everyone else is worth saving more than you.”

Something flickers across his face something close to guilt, maybe. Or understanding.

His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your eye before the tear can fall. “I’m not disposable,” he says, softer now. “Not to you.”

“Not to anyone,” you correct, because he needs to hear it.

A breath passes between you.

The fear is still there. It always will be. Loving someone who walks into gunfire for a living means making peace with that kind of terror, means swallowing it down and smiling anyway.

But right now, in the quiet hum of the room, with his heartbeat steady under your palm, you let yourself be selfish.

“Come back to me,” you whisper.

His lips press to yours—not rushed, not desperate. Slow. Certain. Like sealing a vow without speaking it aloud.

“I always do,” he murmurs against your mouth.

And when he pulls you back into his chest, you hold on like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him the weight, the warmth, the way he fits.

Just in case.

Just in case.

The phone buzzes against your nightstand just as you’re reaching to turn the lamp off.

You don’t even look at the screen before answering.

“Hey,” you breathe.

On the other end, there’s a pause filled with the faint hum of bad reception, distant city noise, something metallic clinking softly, and then his voice.

“Hey, doll.”

Every inch of you loosens.

You sink back against your pillows, dragging the phone closer to your ear like you can pull him through it. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” A beat. Softer. “Yeah. I’m at the safehouse.”

The word safe settles in your chest, even if you know it’s temporary. Even if you know “safe” for him usually just means four walls and a locked door.

You glance at the clock.

It’s late. Later than you told yourself you’d stay up.

“You should be asleep,” Bucky says, like he can see the time glowing red across your ceiling. “It’s past midnight.”

“I was about to,” you lie, though you’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes.

There’s a quiet huff of amusement. “You weren’t.”

“No,” you admit. “I wasn’t.”

You hear him move around—fabric rustling, the dull thud of boots being kicked off. He exhales, long and tired, and you can picture it perfectly: shoulders slumped, jaw shadowed with stubble, hair mussed from running his hand through it one too many times.

“You should get some sleep,” he says again, gentler this time. “Long day tomorrow.”

You roll onto your side, tucking the phone beneath your cheek. “Not yet.”

A pause.

“Why?”

Because the fear hasn’t quite left your bones yet. Because you need proof he’s still here. Because his voice is the only thing that makes the distance feel survivable.

Instead, you say softly, “I just like hearing you.”

It goes quiet on his end.

Not bad quiet.

Just… full.

“What should I say?” he asks after a moment, a little unsure, like he’s not used to being wanted for something so simple.

You smile into your pillow. “Anything. I just like the sound of it.”

You hear him shift again, probably sitting down now. Maybe at a small kitchen table. Maybe on the edge of a narrow bed in a room that doesn’t feel like his.

“Alright,” he says. “Well. Mission was simple.”

You hum, eyes already growing heavier.

“In and out. Recon first. Couple of guys on the perimeter. Nothing special.” His voice lowers a fraction, instinctively keeping details vague even over a secure line. “Training paid off. Sam would’ve been insufferable about it.”

You can hear the ghost of a smile.

“There was a shootout,” he continues, almost casually. “Not bad. Short. They weren’t as organized as they thought they were.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the phone.

“You’re okay?” you murmur.

“I’m okay.” Firmer. For you.

He clears his throat, and his voice softens again. “Found something, though.”

“Yeah?” Your words are slower now.

“Yeah. There’s this little market down the block from the safehouse. Closed when I passed it, but they had a table set up outside. Stones and little carved things. Probably for tourists.”

You picture him stopping. Brows furrowed. Hands in his pockets. Pretending he’s not interested.

“There was this smooth one,” he says. “Flat. Fits right in your palm. Kinda gray with a streak of blue through it.”

You smile sleepily. “You bought me a rock?”

He chuckles under his breath, low and warm. “Yeah. I bought you a rock.”

Silence stretches, comfortable.

“Thought you could keep it on the windowsill,” he goes on. “You know. With the plants. So when the sun hits it, that blue part might catch the light.”

Your heart does that quiet, aching thing it only ever does for him.

“I love it,” you whisper, even though you haven’t seen it yet.

“I’ll bring it home,” he says.

Home.

The word settles into you like a lullaby.

He keeps talking. About the safehouse creaky pipes. About the terrible coffee he tried to make. About how the mattress is too firm and the sheets smell like industrial detergent. About how he can’t wait to sleep in your bed instead.

Your responses get softer, and slower. Eventually just small hums of acknowledgment. On the other end, Bucky notices your breathing evens out.

There’s no more hum. No more whispered reply, just the faint, steady rhythm of you asleep. He doesn’t hang up, just lowers his voice instead.

“I’m coming home,” he murmurs, even though you won’t hear it. “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

It’s hours later when the apartment door opens quietly.

Bucky steps inside like a shadow, duffel slung over his shoulder, movements automatic and careful. The place is dark except for the dim lamp you must’ve forgotten to switch off completely.

He finds you in the bedroom.

Still curled on your side.

Still holding the phone.

His chest tightens. You didn’t even make it under the blankets properly. One arm is tucked beneath your pillow, the other loosely cradling the phone against your cheek like it’s him.

He sets his bag down silently and kneels beside the bed. Carefully, he eases the phone from your hand and places it on the nightstand. You stir faintly, brows knitting for a second, until his fingers brush your hair back from your face.

“It’s me,” he whispers.

Your expression smooths instantly. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips. Then another to your forehead. The spot just under your ear, the same place he kissed you before he left.

You sigh in your sleep.

He strips down to his t-shirt and sweats, sliding into bed behind you. The mattress dips with his weight, warm and solid and real. His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you close, exactly like he did before he left.

You instinctively scoot back into him, fitting perfectly against his chest. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt without waking.

Bucky exhales, nose buried in your hair.

A bedroom. The bed is made, more pillows than blankets. Piled on top of the blues and seafoam greens of the comforter, the fabric lays wrinkled like it knows it will just be mussed again in a handful of hours. Matching bedside tables flank the headboard, littered with personal effects and a novel each, one in near perfect condition, the other weathered and worn with its cover detaching at the spine.

There are photographs. Some faces he knows, some he can’t identify. He finds himself in many. Candids he doesn’t remember being taken. Achievements he has yet to attain. In the centre of them all, wearing a tuxedo, holding a woman draped in white. Hair shorter, grayer, his beard more salt than pepper. His smile lines deeper.

The space is tidy, but lived in. A sock or two left on the rug from a missed toss to the hamper, the closet door left slightly ajar. The rocking chair in the corner with the handmade blanket draped over the back still smells of pine, a bassinet tucked close to the side of the bed. The top of a dresser pushed against the far wall has mostly been converted into a changing table, diapers and wipes stacked next to a jewelry box and some fragrances.

A perfume bottle sits next to his usual cologne.

Bucky tears open the drapes and recognizes nothing of what he sees. A backyard on a rolling hill that sweeps down to an inlet, water sparkling where it laps lazily against the rocky shore. Garden boxes overflowing with flowers, sweet potato vines spilling over the edges, their bright green heart-shaped foliage bringing the world outside further into technicolor. If he craned his neck, he could just see the arm of a porch swing, just hear the chains creaking in the gentle breeze and the wind-chimes hanging from the rafters.

Not a soul in sight. Just the silence of open land and old bones.

Until he hears a voice.

A soft humming coming from somewhere else in the house.

The words are muffled, the accent one he can’t quite place. It’s a voice he swears he’s never heard before, but it settles into his bones like it belongs there, his pounding heart rate slowing to near-resting.

The sound draws closer with the groan of the floorboards until it is right on the other side of the door and he freezes, head snapping to watch as the brass knob turns and the woman from the photographs materializes in front of him.

Bucky’s heart hasn’t skipped a beat like that since 1942.

She wears faded blue jeans and a ratty old t-shirt with a baby nestled into her hip, barefaced and hair messy. There are bags under her eyes, but she smiles brightly.

She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

“Oh, honey! You startled me! You must have snuck past, I didn’t even hear you come in!” She slips past him into the bedroom, and as she does, places a kiss on his stunned shoulder. “I had no idea you had a half-day today. I would have booked us a sitter…” She was talking more to herself than to him as she dug through one of the drawers of the dresser, paying no mind to the gaping hole in the drywall where he had crashed through, pulling out another old shirt that looked suspiciously like one in his wardrobe at home.

Her bare feet planted, Bucky follows with his eyes as she looks him over from head to toe and back again, then sets the baby in the cradle and rounds the bed to the ensuite bathroom. “Keep an eye on her for a minute, please? Just going to change, that girl’s spit-up is no joke.”

And she vanishes again behind the rumble of a barn door, like all of the skeletons he kept locked away so tightly hadn’t just been ripped from the closet moments before.

She reemerges in seconds, hair loose and…yup, that is definitely his shirt. “Well, this is a treat. You look weary, love. It’s good you’re taking a break. I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, so you have perfect timing. Isn’t that right, little one?” she coos, tracing her pointer finger down the bridge of the baby’s nose before scooping her up again and resting her against her clavicle.

Against his better judgement, Bucky follows her like a rip current down the picture-lined hall, through a door that leads, not into another nightmare, but further into the house.

“I hope Bob didn’t give you too much trouble trying to get here,” she rambles, rounding the kitchen island and pouring a cup of coffee onehanded. “He’s a really sweet boy. Still got some things to work through, I think, but he has a good heart. They all do.”

Bucky blanches. “…How do you know about that?”His fingernails bite into his palm, shoulders creeping up toward his ears.

Her mouth curls into a lowercase ‘o’ in a flash of panic. “It’s alright, James. You’re safe here. This isn’t one of your bad memories.”

“No, this…This isn’t my memory at all, it’s…”he breathes. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”

She just smiles expectantly. “You will someday. Not long now.” She presses the mug into his palms, prying open his clenched fingers and wrapping them one after the other over the porcelain. Bucky’s brow tightens. It was made just like he always drank it: a heap of sugar and just a dribble of cream.

Bucky looks down at his trembling hands for the first time since he got here. Really looks. The skin around his fingernails isn’t inflamed and peeling where he usually picks at them from the compounding stress. His knuckles aren’t bruised or cracking. Etched right into the vibranium is a wide gold band that’s new, tucked up against the joint of his fourth finger.

“Those…The pictures…This can’t...”

A gust of wind in his general direction could have bowled him over as the pieces come together. Bucky braces himself on the closest chair back. His head swims, heartbeat in his ears and thoughts dying on his tongue. He shakes his head, drilling his eyes shut to make sense of what he is seeing, whether it would all disappear when he opens them.

It doesn’t.

A hand finds hold of his wrist. Featherlight. Steadying. He can feel her pulse hammering through her fingertips.

“Breathe, James,” she appeases. “Come sit down, alright? I’ll explain. Answer as many questions as you have.”

She manages to coax him into the open living room and places the infant into a baby swing, colourful rings and things dangling from the top bar. The little girl snuggles into the cushion beneath her without a fuss and shakes her soft toy contentedly, cooing to herself as it rattles in her miniature fist. The woman then settles at the far end of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, inviting but granting him distance.

Bucky still hesitates.

The sofa looks like it will swallow him whole, the cushions plush and deep. Another blanket is bundled in a heap on the armrest (there were blankets everywhere in this house it seemed). He reaches out to run the fringed edge between his fingers.

“This is all very strange, I know,” she breaks the silence. “We’re not sure how this happened, just that it did. It took you a long time to believe even that much. I wish I had a more satisfying answer for you. Bob is still getting a handle on his powers, but even now he has no idea.”

Finally. The first thing she’s said that’s made any sense. Bucky tries to rationalize it, but he’s grasping at straws. Time travel is not a new concept to him. He knows the consequences, that the past can change the future. Knowing too much alters the course of history or leaves it shattered in its wake. One small deviation and the world shifts on its axis. His head spins instead.

“There’s probably nothing I can say that will prove it to you, but you are supposed to be here, James. I was starting to wonder when you’d come around, but time’s been a little relative to me these days. Jamie asked me not to spook you when you arrived, though I think I kind of failed at that. It took me a second to realize that you weren’t…you.”

Jamie. He’s hung up on that. Nobody has called him that name in decades, and he can’t help but like the way it sounds when she says it.

“You knew I was coming?”

“Eventually. You and I talked about it not long after we met; what you saw, what it changed for you. Could never pin down what the date was so it was always going to be a waiting game, but I’m glad you’re here now. You look like you could use something peaceful.”

He continues to tread carefully. “Where is this?”

“Our house. Upstate New York. We bought this old fixer-upper on the bay and did all the fixing ourselves. Well, mainly you. I picked paint colours, watched you tear down walls and told you when you screwed cabinet doors on upside-down.”

The room they occupy has a wide bay window that spans almost from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with light. Houseplants thrive in every corner, nook and cranny. A cat tree is set up overlooking the front yard, a fluffy white tail swishing over the edge of the highest perch, unfazed by whoever this strange visitor is in the feline’s house. Bookcases are built into one wall, filled with sci-fi and fantasy and romance novels. More photos are displayed in small frames dotted across the shelving, between alphabetized authors and mementos. His turntable, the only real luxury he owns in his bare-bones DC apartment, sits proud on its shelf, worn by years of use but otherwise exactly the same. A collection of vinyls he could only dream of occupies its own shelf below.

“You built those bookshelves from scratch. I always tell people that we were sold on the house when we saw that wall because it was the perfect place for them, where we could start our library. Felt like we looked at dozens of houses but this place just felt right. Perfectly imperfect.”

“I’m reading again?”

“When you have the time. Right over there,” she points with her sightline to an armchair with a floor lamp curving over it, “with a cup of tea and your little old man reading glasses.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh through the fog.

Oh, her smile. “It’s a good life. Quiet. Your favourite thing to do is take a nap on the couch in the sun with the baby scrunched up on your chest. I want to say that we sleep through the night, but that’s kind of changed as of late. We smile. Laugh a lot.” The list keeps growing. Going to farmers markets on the weekends. Board game nights. Beach days in the summertime. “We try a new recipe every week for dinner and dance in the kitchen. I still step on your toes sometimes. We’re working on finishing the nursery for when this big girl grows out of her bassinet.”

“What’s her name?” he nearly pleads, voice so soft.

“That would ruin the surprise, Bucky!”

“How old is she, then?”

The woman absolutely illuminates with pride. “Almost 3 months now. Runs this whole house. You cried when you held her for the first time. She’s had you wrapped around her finger from the day she was born.”

“…Wasn’t sure if…they did something to me. Never knew if I’d even be able to have kids.”

“Neither did I. She’s our little miracle.”

His daughter’s bright blue, undeniably-Barnes eyes peer up at him without an ounce of fear for the man crusted in dirt and dust. Bucky doesn’t need to know her name to know that he’ll adore her, can’t take his eyes off of her. Something so small, so fragile, yet trusts him completely. To his daughter, he isn’t a soldier or a vigilante. He’ll just be Dad, when the only thing he’ll have to fight is the monster under the bed.

Bucky swears he sees her smile at him, and his ribs cave in.

“She just started doing that last week. All gums, smiling up atcha like you’re her whole world. I hope she never grows out of that.”

Neither does he.

Bucky marvels in it, this place, this safe haven that he had supposedly helped build, helped make warm and comforting and whole. Someone wanted him. For all the hurdles he crossed, all the evils he fought, someone saw this shell of a man and chose him. Built a life with him. Had a child with him.

But the more he looks around, he sombers. Shrinks.

“Hey, I know that look. What is it, James?”

“…I feel like I don’t deserve this.”

“Hey, none of that. You’re wrong. You have earned this and so, so much more, but for now this is what makes you happy. I’ll remind you as many times as you need me to.”

Tears begins to leech into his five-o’clock shadow as his shoulders begin to quiver.

This woman, this incredible woman, had been trying to keep her distance not to spook him. He saw how her fingers twitched, how she wanted to reach out and stopped herself. This time she couldn’t. The couch cushion to his side sinks as she gathers him in her arms.

And he lets her.

Bucky lets out a whimper like a wounded animal into her neck, his hands finding solace loosely on her hips. “I want to stay,” he whispers, any louder and his voice would begin to crackle. “I want to hit fast-forward. It’s selfish, I know, but I’ve spent so many nights wishin’ for a life like this.”

Her hold tightens around him. “And I would let you stay here forever if I could. You’ll have the rest of your life to enjoy this, but I can’t keep you right now. Your ragtag team of hellions still needs you. Yelena would never forgive me.”

He turns away from her, cheek pressed into her shoulder so she can’t see the contorted expression he makes to prevent a sob from leeching out, nose scrunched and teeth gritted, his hair falling into his face.

“You have more memories to go through to get to the others. Be brave, just a little longer.”

Bucky wants to get on his knees, to beg, plead and pray to any god he could conjure that this would in fact be real someday, that his life would turn out just like this. That all the pain, suffering, blood and sweat wouldn’t have been for naught. “What do I have to do to see you again? To make it real?” he croaks.

“Look at me, James.” She is so tender as she guides him to meet her gaze, pressing her forehead to his. “It’s already real. It’s already set in motion, just be patient. Keep doing what you feel is right. Until then, you’ll dream. Of what you want to call her, what she’ll call you one day. Of what you want to plant in the spring and what new project you’ll tinker with. Of me,” she titters, “if you want. Whatever it takes. And when it’s time, we’ll find each other. Don’t forget about us, okay? About this.”

He takes deep cycled breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth to the rhythm of her hand skating between his shoulders. “…They really need me?” he murmurs.

“They do.”

Bucky flicks away the lingering tears with his thumb, pulling back enough to just…look at her. Memorize the curve of her lips and cheeks, the colour of her eyes, the texture of her hair. Taking the moment to lock it away where no one could ever take it from him. His wife.

“…Okay.”

“You will be,” she assures him.

It takes every ounce of strength he has left to pry himself from her steadiness, but the floor feels solid beneath his boots.

The front door remains the only obstacle.

She hugs her torso and trails a few steps behind as he stalks up to it, whatever horror that waits on the other side suddenly not as daunting. The oak is solid, but the doorknob threatens to crumble under the vibranium. Bucky turns back for one last glimpse and inhales with a shudder.

“Thank you.”

With glassy eyes, she blows him a kiss.

He rolls his shoulder. Readjusts his grip. Turns his wrist a beat after the exhale…and puts one foot in front of the other.

It started with the song.

You didn’t mean to find it—just happened to be scrolling through playlists while cleaning the Tower’s storage room when it came through your headphones. That soft, echoing crackle. That voice. That ache.

“Kiss me once, then kiss me twice…”

Your breath caught in your chest. It’s Been a Long, Long Time.

Of course you knew the history. It was Steve’s song. But maybe… maybe it was Bucky’s too.

And maybe he’d never say it out loud, but you saw it—that quiet way his shoulders dropped whenever that song came on. That deep, aching silence like he was standing in a memory so old it hurt to hold.

He never talked about it. Not really.

He never asked for anything either.

So you started planning.

The sun was slipping below the skyline now, that golden-purple hour stretching out over the Tower’s patio like spilled paint. You tugged the old extension cord tight behind a planter, whispering a silent prayer that Tony’s forgotten record player wouldn’t explode the minute it started spinning.

Candles. Check.

Old record player. Check.

Your favorite person in the entire damn world?

Well—on his way.

You had to kick it twice to get it working. Not exactly elegant. But when the soft static buzzed to life and the record finally started turning, your chest filled with warmth.

A few candles flickered to life beside the player, their soft light glowing against the glass. It wasn’t fancy. No five-star dinner. No rooftop fireworks. Just a song, a breeze, and a small moment carved out for a man who never asked for softness.

You stepped back, heart thudding, just as the sliding glass door behind you opened.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice was rough from disuse, maybe from surprise. You turned.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair tied back messily, gray tee soft with wear, expression scrunched in confusion as he stepped out onto the patio. He blinked at the candles, the record player, the soft music now playing in full.

“It’s been a long, long time…”

His eyes locked onto yours. “What… is all this?”

You smiled, nerves fluttering in your belly. “A date.”

Bucky blinked again. “You planned this?”

You nodded, taking a slow step forward. “I know it’s not a roller rink or a rooftop picnic or a Coney Island roller coaster—”

“You remember all those?”

“I remember everything you’ve done for me.”

He looked stunned. And maybe a little… unsure. Like no one had ever given him back the kind of thoughtfulness he handed out like second nature. Like he didn’t quite believe he could deserve something so simple and good.

You held out your hand, palm up.

“Dance with me?”

He took it.

Without a word, Bucky stepped into your arms.

Bucky blinked. “This song…”

You knew what he was thinking. You knew exactly who this song made him think of. But you also knew it wasn’t about Steve. Not tonight.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I think… it was always yours too.”

His metal hand hesitated a moment, hovering near your back before gently settling there—featherlight. His flesh hand curled around yours. You placed your other hand on his shoulder, and together, you swayed.

Slow.

Quiet.

The kind of slow dancing no one teaches anymore. The kind where you’re just standing still, moving in tiny circles, listening to the song instead of the world.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Just held you.

The wind tugged at the hem of his shirt. The candles flickered beside the record. The city below kept going—but you didn’t. Neither of you needed to.

“I haven’t heard this in…” Bucky’s voice broke slightly. “God, a lifetime.”

“I figured,” you said softly. “But I thought maybe… maybe you missed it.”

He nodded slowly. Then he looked at you.

And oh, God, that look.

Not the one he gave you when you wore something he liked. Not the amused, crooked grin when you beat him at cards. Not the smirk when he teased you in front of the others.

No—this look was softer.

Older.

Like you were something rare. Something he never expected to have again.

“I used to imagine this, you know,” he murmured. “Back when I was… in the middle of it all. When I was out there with HYDRA, or on the run, or just trying to keep my head on straight. I used to imagine moments like this.”

You squeezed his hand.

“This isn’t just a date,” he said, voice thick. “It’s a piece of something I thought I’d lost.”

Your throat tightened. “Then I’m really glad I brought it back.”

Inside, through the glass doors, the Thunderbolts were shamelessly watching.

Yelena had her feet up on the couch, aggressively eating a bowl of cereal at 8PM like it was popcorn. “They’re so gross,” she whispered with a grin. “I want to cry.”

Bob had his hoodie half-over his head, hands tucked in the sleeves like a comfort burrito. “This is beautiful. I mean, really beautiful. Can we just—can we always be this soft?”

John Walker looked deeply uncomfortable. “Are we… supposed to be watching this?”

“You could turn around,” Ava said flatly, not turning away.

Alexei let out a grumble from the kitchen. “This is how real men love. Bucky Barnes, you are my son now.”

John opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Alexei. “You can’t adopt him, he’s 100 years old.”

“I have spoken!”

Back outside, Bucky leaned his forehead against yours. The music slowed.

“I thought my heart would die…

Didn’t I tell you…

You’d be back, and you’d be mine…”

His voice was barely a whisper now. “This is the best date I’ve ever been on.”

You smiled through the wetness in your eyes. “It’s just a song and a patio.”

“No. It’s you. You thought about this. About me. You… you brought something back I didn’t even realize I was still missing.”

You closed your eyes and held him tighter.

And for the first time in what might’ve been decades, James Buchanan Barnes let himself melt into someone’s arms.

Not as the Winter Soldier. Not as an Avenger. Not as a Thunderbolt.

Just a man.

A man who survived.

A man who learned how to love again.

And a man who, for the first time in forever, didn’t have to plan a single thing.

Because this? This was his moment.

And you made it just for him.

You felt Bucky smile against your temple as the last note of the song drifted off into the night.

For a long moment, the world stayed still.

Your arms stayed around each other, the record spun lazily to a stop, and the only sound was the rustle of wind through the railing and the faint crackle of the vinyl cooling down.

And then—

A very loud, very obvious whisper pierced the silence.

“OH MY GOD JUST KISS ALREADY—”

You both froze.

Bucky didn’t move his head from your shoulder, but you could feel him go completely still.

You blinked. “Was that—?”

CLANG.

The sound of a cereal bowl hitting glass.

You slowly turned your head toward the patio doors.

There they were.

Five adult disasters, all crammed in the doorway like a bunch of raccoons caught rummaging through someone’s fridge.

Yelena stood front and center, hands smushed against the glass like a toddler in a zoo exhibit. Bob was behind her, grinning so hard it looked like his face might crack in half. Ava had her arms crossed but she didn’t move. John Walker was pretending not to be watching while clearly watching. And Alexei was holding a half-eaten apple like he might use it as a dramatic prop.

“We weren’t watching,” Bob said immediately.

“I WAS rooting for the kiss though,” Yelena added unapologetically.

Bucky turned so slowly to face them. His hands never left your waist.

His expression?

Pure, stone-cold Winter Soldier Threat Level 10,000.

That blank, terrifying calm that said: I have fought aliens, Nazis, and my own brain. You do not scare me. But I will ruin you.

No one moved.

Not even Alexei.

Then—softly, calmly, in that voice that used to make grown Hydra agents piss themselves—Bucky said:

“You’ve got ten seconds to run.”

Bob screamed.

John tripped trying to turn around and crashed into the wall.

Ava vanished—literally—into thin air.

Yelena, ever the menace, just grinned wider. “You didn’t say which direction, Barnes.”

Bucky raised one eyebrow.

She immediately bolted.

Alexei didn’t move. “I do not fear you, Bucky. You are my tiny angry son.”

Bucky took one step forward.

Alexei dropped the apple and ran like hell.

The door slammed behind them, followed by a chorus of chaotic yelling and muffled laughter trailing down the hallway.

You turned back to Bucky, who looked only slightly regretful.

“They were trying really hard not to ruin it,” you said, amused.

He huffed. “And they still ruined it.”

You pressed your cheek to his chest. “I don’t know. I think you threatening their lives really added to the vibe.”

Bucky chuckled, low and warm in your ear.

He pulled you in closer and, without another word, began dancing again—no music this time. Just the sound of laughter echoing down the halls and the soft thud of his heart beneath your hands.

(You’ve got mail!) HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO my handsome, elegant, intelligent, charming, kind, thoughtful, strong, courageous, creative, brilliant, gentle, humble, generous, passionate, wise, funny, loyal, dependable, graceful, radiant, calm, confident, warm, compassionate, witty, adventurous, respectful, sincere, magnetic, bold, articulate, empathetic, inspiring, honest, patient, powerful, attentive, uplifting, friendly, reliable, ambitious, intuitive, talented, supportive, grounded, determined, charismatic, extraordinary, trustworthy, noble, dignified, perceptive, innovative, open-minded, composed, imaginative, mindful, optimistic, virtuous, noble-hearted, quick-witted, fearless, affectionate, expressive, emotionally intelligent, resourceful, delightful, fascinating, sharp, selfless, driven, assertive, authentic, vibrant, playful, observant, skillful, generous-spirited, practical, comforting, brave, wise-hearted, enthusiastic, dependable, tactful, enduring, tasteful, joyful, understanding, genuine, brilliant-minded, encouraging, magnetic, dynamic, radiant, radiant-spirited, soulful, radiant-hearted, insightful, creative-souled, justice-minded, tender, uplifting-minded, persevering, devoted, angelic, down-to-earth, golden-hearted, gentle-spirited, clever, courageous-hearted, courteous, harmonious, loyal-minded, beautiful-souled, easygoing, sincere-hearted, respectful-minded, comforting-voiced, confident-minded, emotionally strong, respectful-souled, imaginative-hearted, protective, noble-minded, confident-souled, wise-eyed, loving, magnetic-souled, expressive-eyed, brilliant-hearted, inspiring-minded, absolutely unforgettable AND GOLDEN GLOBE NOMINEE AND WINNER SEBASTIAN STAN !! 43 is such a sexy number 😩

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