The three of you had your own gravity, and for a long time, that bond felt unbreakable.

But after Lemar died… the gravity collapsed. The three-point structure you’d built your entire life around suddenly snapped down to one unstable line. 

You and John were still here, technically, but neither of you stood in the same place anymore. Grief changed people. But what grief did to John, and what it did to you, felt like being pulled in two different directions by invisible hands. And you couldn’t see him the same way, no matter how badly you wanted to see the version of him you remembered— the one who would’ve died for Lemar, not killed for him.

After all, you were there when it happened. 

You were close enough to hear the gasp leave Lemar’s throat as he hit the pillar, close enough to hear the sickening crack of impact, close enough to see the light drain from his eyes even as John screamed his name. The two of you rushed to his side at the same time, knees slamming against concrete as if pain could jolt Lemar awake again.

“Hey man—hey, c’mon.” You pressed your hand against Lemar’s cheek, trying to steady your own breathing. “Wake up. Come on. Just look at me.”

“Hey, hey.” John’s voice cracked, trying to slap him awake like you both used to do playfully when he fell asleep on the bleachers in high school. “Lemar, Lemar!”

He didn’t. 

He couldn’t.

Lemar’s body gave nothing back. His chest stayed still under your trembling palm. John was still calling his name, and you were still trying to haul him upright, even as hope had already slipped through your fingers faster than you could close your hands around it.

When the truth hit John, it hit like a detonation.

When it hit you, it was more like drowning.

You barely registered John stumbling to his feet, barely heard as he tore out of the room in search of someone, anyone, to blame. You didn’t chase him. Your world had narrowed to Lemar’s head slacking against your shoulder. You held him like he was still alive, still your brother in every way that mattered but blood.

Soon, your tears soaked into the fabric of his uniform. You brushed your thumb across his brow the way he’d once done for you after a bad tour, your voice a broken whisper against his temple.

“Lemar… I’m here. I’m right here,” you choked out, “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t see what John did next until much later. But you knew what he was doing. 

You didn’t see John bring the shield down on that man. But only heard the distant, wet sound of impact.

You heard the distant shouting, the panicked voices, the rhythm of violence. And then the silence afterward. 

That was when you realized that John Walker had transformed from a soldier into a broken man.

Later, much later, after Sam and Bucky wrestled the shield from John, Bucky came back to check on you.

Maybe he expected to find you standing over the body. Maybe he thought you’d moved on from Lemar’s side. But when he stepped into the room, he noticed you were still there, still holding Lemar as tightly as if letting go would make his death real.

Bucky didn’t speak at all. He didn’t try to pull you to your feet or tell you it was time to go. He simply walked over and lowered himself onto the cold cement beside you. The vibranium of his left arm scraped softly against the floor as he settled, but otherwise,he made no sound.

Your voice was barely audible now, no more than breath crossing your lips—“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”—on repeat, the words falling apart each time you said them. It was a confession of grief and guilt, until you didn't know where you ended and he began. 

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. You couldn’t tell. 

Eventually, when your fingers loosened just slightly out of exhaustion, Bucky reached out. He didn't do it to pull or to take Lemar from you, but to help you ease him gently onto the ground. 

You bowed your head, your hands still gripping the fabric of Lemar’s sleeve even as your body finally gave in.

When you did let go, it was surrender.

And after that moment, nothing between you and John could ever be the same. 

–

You didn’t go back to anything after the mission ended.

After the GRC debacle, after Sam stepped forward as Captain America, after Karli’s death, you disappeared into your room in the temporary barracks the government insisted on giving everyone. You weren’t sure what they expected you to do there. Grieve quietly? Be a good soldier one last time?

Still, you didn’t leave. You didn’t sleep. You just existed between four walls and let the hours pass over you like waves you were too numb to drown in. You didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear anything, didn’t want to feel anything. 

So when John came knocking, you didn’t answer.

“Hey… it’s me.” He tried.

Nothing. 

He knocked again. “You in there?”

You heard every word. None of them stirred anything in you.

“Look, we should talk.”

You stayed silent, pressing your back to the wall. Every instinct told you to run, to hide, to shove a pillow over your head and pretend you didn’t exist. But a part of you that had loved him like a brother once, knew that he wasn’t here to brag, to demand, to argue. He was here to face you.

He eventually jiggled the handle. When he failed, he sighed, then spoke through the wood in a tired voice. “Please.”

He sounded small. So small it almost sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Finally, you unlocked the door.

John stepped in cautiously, his eyes scanning the room like he expected to find a gun in your hand.

What he found instead was you, his sister in arms, hollowed out by a kind of grief he didn’t have the vocabulary to process. You didn’t even tell him to come in. 

“Christ,” John breathed. “You look—”

“Don’t.” Your voice wasn’t sharp, nor was it mean. “Don’t finish that.”

“I came because… I don’t know.” He swallowed, pressed a hand to his face. “I thought maybe we could figure things out.”

You nodded very faintly. He took it as permission to continue.

“No one’s heard from you.” He sighed, “you just shut down and—”

“Lemar died,” you said, but the words fell flat, landing like bricks. “The world should’ve shut down too.”

John flinched, and you just watched him struggle for words without emotion.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I know we’re both hurting, but we can’t—”

“You’re a piece of shit, John.” There was no anger or volume as you said it, the words coming out like a diagnosis. You were simply stating what everyone already knew but refused to admit.

He blinked, startled, and opened his mouth. “Okay. Fine. If you need to yell at me, then yell—”

“I’m not yelling.”

It unsettled him more than rage ever could have.

You stepped closer. It wasn't enough to be threatening, just enough that he couldn’t look away.

“I followed you to the ends of the Earth once,” you didn't pause or breathe. You laid it out as plainly as fact. “I believed you when you said the ends justify the means. You know that.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“We’ve done horrible shit in the name of our country,” you continued. “Things we don’t talk about because someone higher up said they were necessary. They told us it was patriotic. We knew it wasn’t,” You inhaled a slow and thin breath. “And we did them anyway.”

John’s hands curled into fists. “We did what we had to. We—”

“And now…” you interrupted whatever sorry excuse he had, “you killed a man in Lemar’s name.”

The silence in between made John wish you had screamed at the top of your lungs instead

“We are not executioners, John,” you continued. “We never should have been.”

John tapped his feet on the ground anxiously as if he could outrun the words. “You know why I did it. You know—”

“You killed the wrong man,” you said. “And even if you hadn’t, Lemar wouldn’t have wanted that.”

His breath caught.

“Some leader you are,” you said, still calm. “John, I followed you to the ends of the Earth and look where it led me.” Your looked down at your feet. “Look where it led Lemar.”

John staggered back a step. He was still waiting for your anger. He was still waiting for your screaming, for you to hit him, for you to break, because if you broke, then at least he could hold the pieces and say he was sorry.

He whispered your name like a plea. “Please… don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. Don’t—”

“I’m not shutting you out,” you said. “I just don’t have anything left to give.”

John let out a shaky breath, shoulders sinking. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I want you to leave.”

He stood there for another moment, as if waiting for a second chance, a change of heart, anything at all.

But you didn’t look away. And he understood.

John nodded once, stepping out into the hall.

You closed the door gently, and on the other side, you heard him murmur something you couldn’t quite make out. Maybe your name. Maybe Lemar’s.

It didn’t matter.

After that, you didn’t hear from John Walker again for a long, long time.

—

You didn’t go back to the life you’d known. You quit quietly enough that no one could argue or talk you out of it. You signed papers, requested your files to be cleared and accounts erased. And because you needed a new start, you moved out as soon as you were able to sign a lease.

The small apartment you settled for was in New York. The city felt anonymous, crowded, and brutally loud. It felt like somewhere you could disappear into the static of streetlights and taxi horns. The endless pulse of a city probably didn’t care who you were, or who you’d lost. Your new home was in the Lower East Side, a place with a brick facade and a rickety staircase, but it was yours.

You hadn’t expected anyone to show up to help or care. You had resigned yourself to stacking boxes alone, to carrying the weight of your own life from one address to another. 

But as you pulled up to your new address in the moving truck you rented… you saw Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes on your doorstep.

Sam lifted a hand in a little wave. “Morning,” he said, like this wasn’t completely insane.

Bucky just gave a chin tilt, his arms crossed, looking like he’d been drafted against his will but didn’t really mind.

You jumped off the driver’s seat. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

Sam grinned like the answer was obvious. “Helping you move.”

“Why?”

Sam and Bucky exchanged a glance.

“We just wanted to check in,” Sam said in that annoyingly sincere voice he probably used with his therapy circle at the VA. “Y’know, we wanted to make sure you’re alright. 

“Right,” you opened the back of the truck without even facing him

Sam opened his mouth again probably to say something diplomatic, but all you could see was Captain America.

That's who he was now, right?

You couldn’t look at Sam without seeing the shield. Sure, the metal would have no blood on it now, but you’d seen it once drenched, dripping red, reflecting a world that had tilted sickeningly out of axis. The shield that had taken a life in Lemar’s name. The shield John had held. The shield Sam now carried.

A hundred guilt-ridden, heartbreaking thoughts popped to your head, but none of them made it past your mouth. You just couldn’t look at him.

So, you snapped instead. “Oh, what—you think I need babysitting? You feel guilty or something?”

Sam sighed, not even defending himself. He just stood still, the smallest frown on his lips like you’d reached in and scraped nails down something tender inside him. “I'm not here out of guilt,” he said sternly. “I’m here because—”

“Save it.” You cut him off with a shake of your head. “I don’t want a lecture. I don’t want you.”

Sam swallowed hard. You knew it hurt him. After all, your words rarely landed softly.

But he respected your wishes, even when you were tearing at him like a wounded animal. “I…,” he started, “I’ll go.”

And he did. He turned, heading back toward the street without another word.

Bucky watched him leave, before coming back to you.

And you didn’t, couldn’t, say the same words to him as you did to Sam, not when he had sat next to you as you knelt over Lemar’s body, shaking and soaked in someone else’s blood. Not after he helped you lay Lemar on the floor. Not after he put a hand on your shoulder, because comfort wasn’t his language but he tried anyway, because he knew what it meant to lose someone who defined you.

You opened your mouth, maybe to apologise, maybe to ask him to leave, too, but Bucky cut you off with a grunt. “Don’t even think about kicking me out.”

Your head snapped up. “Bucky—”

He jerked his head toward the back of the moving truck. “Look at that thing.” There were boxes, furniture, and duffel bags stacked precariously.

“You need help with the heavy stuff,” he said, matter‑of-factly. “And let’s be real, you’d throw out your back before you asked for it.”

Despite your grief, your exhaustion, and your hollowed‑out insides, you almost laughed. Almost. 

Bucky didn’t push, didn’t comfort you or tried to pry. He just grabbed the biggest box and said, “Lead the way.”

Your new apartment wasn’t much. I was just one of those small places in New York with hardwood floors, high ceilings, windows that let in a little too much light.

And the moment you walked in, Bucky stepped inside behind you, wiping his boots on the mat. 

“I only live ten minutes down that way,” he said, nodding toward the street.

“How…” you started, “How did you even know I was moving here?”

Bucky shrugged, deadpan. “Like Sam said… we kept an eye on you.”

You snorted. “Stalker much.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolled his eyes. “Come on. Box goes where?”

There was no lecture, no pity in his voice.

And maybe that’s exactly what you needed.

—

The first couple of days in your new apartment was a blur.

After Bucky left that day, you didn’t unpack like you said you would. You didn’t even touch the boxes. You didn’t even step inside your bedroom unless you had to. The suitcases stood abandoned like a monument to your inertia, the few duffel bags left half-open as if they were still waiting for you to decide whether the world mattered enough to keep living in it.

You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t answer calls, texts, or messages, not that you had that many people checking up on you. The walls of the apartment became a cage and a coffin at the same time, and silence around you grew so thick you could feel it pressing in on your skull.

After two days of no contact, you heard a knock on your door.

For reasons you didn’t even want to articulate, you unlocked the door, knowing only one person could possibly have the balls to do it.

As you expected, Bucky was there. His metal arm was crossed over his human one, his eyes scanning the apartment with the exact combination of judgment and patience. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

It became evident to him that nothing had been touched. The boxes were stacked neatly, but unopened. The mattress was still rolled up in the corner. You hadn’t even plugged in the fridge in your kitchen.

“Deep shit, you are,” he said flatly, carrying a hint of humor that you almost hated him for.

“What are you?” you sneered, but closed the door behind him anyway, “Yoda?” 

Bucky ignored you. “Look at this place. You’re going to collapse on the floor one day and never get up again if we don’t fix this.”

Oh well, you wanted to say, but bit your tongue.

He didn't wait for your reply anyway. He just grabbed your brand new, vacuumed, rolled up mattress, and dragged it into the bedroom. “You’re laying down. Now.” He sounded firm, but not cruel. There was no argument in it, no room for negotiation. 

You didn’t resist.

After all, the exhaustion in your bones was heavier than pride in your heart. You even let him maneuver the mattress until it was flat enough to sleep on. 

The second your head hit the mattress, sleep claimed you entirely.

—

You didn’t even know how long you slept, only that when you woke up and willed yourself to stumble back to the living room, something had changed.

The sun had set, so you must’ve been out for at least four hours. Some of the boxes were open, the furniture arranged. The place no longer felt like a storage unit with your name on it. Instead, it felt like a home someone had arranged against your will. On the stove, was a pot of mashed potatoes simmered next to thick, pale gravy. 

The smell was absurdly domestic, incongruous with your grief.

You froze mid-step. “Where… did you even get that?”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “Brought some food from my place. Mashed potatoes and gravy is the only things I can make well. Got a 1940s taste palate, apparently.”

You stared at him for a while, then at the apartment itself. Everything he had touched, arranged, set in place was meticulously and carefully. Your books were arranged alphabetically on a now-assembled bookshelf, your shoes were stacked neatly by the door, the stupid polkadot umbrella you owned was hanging on the hook behind your door. And on the coffee table, framed among the little displays he had put together, was a photo.

It was a photo of you, John, and Lemar on the first day of boot camp. You were standing awkwardly in uniform, smiles plastered across your faces.

You all looked… alive.

You reached for the frame slowly, as if it might bite. And then you turned it face down.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, watching him plate the food before handing it to you.

“I know,” he admitted. “But I also know what it feels like to lose everything.”

“I…” you breathed out, “I don’t know what to say.”

“A thank you would be nice,” he added sarcastically, almost teasing, almost human.

You stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged, feigning indifference. “Yeah, yeah,” you dismissed, scooping a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Whatever.” You didn’t look at him as you put it in your mouth, not wanting him to see the small, reluctant concession of defeat.

The potatoes were perfect. 

You chewed slowly, swallowing the first bit of food you had in days. “You could have been a great 1940s househusband.”

Bucky scoffed, but didn’t push further. He just sat across from you in letting you eat, letting you breathe, letting the apartment become more than a tomb.

—

The next few weeks repeated into a strange kind of routine. You don’t remember ever agreeing to it, nor have you ever asked for it, but Bucky simply… created one around you. 

He didn’t hover, though. He didn’t smother, nor did didn’t treat you like you were fragile glass that might shatter at the next strong wind.

He just showed up. And, you let him.

Some mornings he arrived with groceries, saying “you’re gonna starve if you keep forgetting to eat again.”

Some evenings he’d sit on your couch, boots kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place, watching whatever mindless show you put on to keep the horrible thoughts away. 

Sometimes he cooked, terribly. Sometimes you cooked, also terribly. There had been burnt eggs, over-salted pasta, a near kitchen fire, and still, you both ended up chuckling dryly at yourselves like neither of you didn’t quite remember how laughter worked.

Still, you didn’t talk about Lemar. Still, you didn’t talk about John. Even after he told you about his past to try to coax out yours

Soon enough, Bucky became your only friend.

He always would nudge a glass of water toward you when your hands shook. He would wordlessly take the knife from your trembling fingers when chopping vegetables. Sometimes he’d just sit near you on the floor, leaning against the same wall, breathing slowly enough that you found yourself matching it without meaning to.

After all, there were nights the grief hit so hard you folded into yourself on the kitchen floor, gasping like you were drowning in your own ribs. And every time it happened during Bucky’s little visits, he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t give advice, like Sam would, or get loud like John would. He didn’t touch you unless you reached for him first. He would just sit, knees drawn up, his shoulders close enough to yours, yet still not close enough to cage you.

Over time, you got better at pretending.

You even joined a gym.

Bucky didn’t really celebrate it. He didn’t say I’m proud of you or good job. He just raised an eyebrow when you told him and said, “Try not to get kicked out.”

You went every morning before sunrise, when the place was nearly empty. You started hitting the punching bag like it had killed Lemar. You punched until your shoulders ached. You punched until your arms trembled, until your knuckles split and bled through the wraps.

Bucky noticed— it was impossible not to. 

One afternoon, he walked into your apartment as you were rinsing blood from your hands. You didn’t even flinch, since you gave him a key. You kept your eyes on the sink as rusted pink water swirled down the drain.

“You get into a fight with a brick wall?” he asked, leaning against the doorway with that dry tone he’d perfected over the weeks.

“Brick wall fought back,” you said.

“Ah.” He crossed his arms. “Did you win?”

You huffed half a humorless laugh, shocked he’d gotten even that out of you. “Depends on your definition of winning.”

Bucky just walked past you, into the kitchen, opening the fridge like a man who lived there, pulling out leftover mashed potatoes he’d made two days ago. He stuck them in the microwave without asking, without looking at you, without making it a thing.

Because he knew if he gave your pain too much space, you’d collapse beneath it.

If he treated it like it was normal, manageable, as if it was survivable… maybe you’d start to believe it was.

—

Before you knew it, reality caught up with you. This time, it came in the form of money.

Your savings began shrinking in small increments. The numbers ticked down every time you paid rent, every time an electric bill was auto-drafted, every time you opened the fridge and remembered you needed to go grocery shopping for milk. The rent wasn’t cheap, the utilities added up, and grief had a funny way of making you forget that the world kept spinning even when yours didn’t.

At first you ignored it. You told yourself you’d figure it out. You’d always been the “competent one” out of the trio, the one who could charm her way into anything, the extrovert who turned strangers into friends with nothing but a few well-placed jokes.

But that version of you felt like just another body added to the pile.

And now money was running out, and the world didn’t care that you were hurt. It never paused, never reached out a hand unless it was to take something else from you. Responsibilities kept coming, and you couldn’t hide from the fact that you needed a job.

But a job would involve people.

You could barely talk to the barista downstairs without feeling like your vocal cords were rusted from disuse. You, who used to hold whole rooms captive, couldn’t stand to be looked at anymore.

Besides, you had sold yourself to “serve your country”, whatever that meant. You had no civilian skills, nothing resembling a normal career path. Everything you’d ever been good at involved weapons or tactics or throwing a punch.

You thought about applying somewhere, anywhere, but each attempt ended with your chest tightening, hyperventilating. You’d have to shut the laptop and press the heels of your hands into your eyes until stars burst behind your eyelids.

So you went back to the only place you could breathe: 

The gym. Where your punching bag lived. The punching bag that couldn’t talk back.

And it was during one of those nights—when your fists slamming again and again into the canvas, each impact ricocheting up your arms— that you noticed it.

A red flyer, lazily to the wall like an afterthought, corners curling from humidity. You would have ignored it on any other day, but something in the bold lettering caught your eye— or maybe it was the promise underneath it.

FIGHT NIGHTS — CASH NIGHTLY.GOOD PAY. NO RULES.ASK FOR JACE.

Your eyes stuck to it longer than it should have, a strange numbness sliding through your chest. 

It wasn’t safe.

It wasn’t smart.

But it was something you knew how to do. You’d certainly find it familiar. All you had to do was survive and hit back.

The punching bag swung slowly in front of you, your last hit still rippling through it. Your fists throbbed, your knuckles split and bleeding under the wraps, and when you finally reached out and tore the flyer from the wall, the blood had dried. After showering, after taping your hands again, you approached Jace— the guy at the front desk.

He stood behind the counter, wiping down a set of dumbbells. When he saw you walking toward him with the flyer crumpled tightly in your hand, he didn’t look surprised. 

He’d been expecting you.

“I want in,” you said without hesitation.

Jace eyed you, gaze moving from your bruised wrists to your wrapped knuckles to the stiffness in your shoulders.

“You sure?” he asked finally. His voice wasn’t mocking or skeptical. Rather, it was weary. It's as if he'd asked this question too many times to too many people who’d lost too much.

“Yeah.”

“You know what you’re asking for?”

“Yes.”

“It’s underground. No doctors. No one will save you if you get in over your head.”

“I know.”

He sighed and nodded once. “Fine. First fight’s next Friday. Nine p.m. Don’t bring friends.”

You almost laughed. “Don’t have any.”

That was a lie. You had one. 

Jace passed you a small card with an address scribbled on it.

“You will after this,” he said. “Though I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

—

On Thursday night, the weather was miserable. Cold rain slapped against the windows like impatient fingers tapping at glass, and the whole building hummed with that metallic shiver old New York apartments got when the heating system was doing its best. 

Bucky let himself in without waiting for you to answer, two grocery bags dangling from his human hand, the smell of something vaguely Italian trailing behind him.

He kicked your door closed with the heel of his boot and announced, “I’m making dinner. Don’t argue. The last thing I saw in your fridge was a questionable yogurt cup and a bottle of mustard.”

You rolled your eyes, collapsing onto the couch like your bones were filled with wet sand. 

The comfort of him was dangerous, but you tried not to think about it.

Bucky put the bags on the counter. It had pasta, sauce (he never ever ever ever wanted to make his own again after what happened last time), and some overpriced artisan bread, because Bucky pretended he didn’t care about food but apparently did.

Before long, he was stirring the sauce. “Hey,” he started. “There’s a new pool bar opening down the street. Sam keeps talking my ear off about it. I was thinking…” He paused, spoon still in the pot. “I was thinking maybe we could check it out. Friday night. You know… if you want.”

Your heartbeat dropped into some dark pit in your stomach.

Of all the weeks, of all the days…

“No,” you said, like you were cutting the word from your own throat.

Bucky turned towards you. “Okay. Why?”

Fuck. What were you supposed to say?

Because if I go with you, I won’t make it to the fight. And if I don’t make it to the fight, I won’t make rent. And if I don’t make rent, everything falls apart. And I don’t know if I’d survive another thing falling apart.

But none of that came out.

“I…”

Bucky leaned against the dinner table just off the side, crossing his arms, giving you that annoying smirk he used as a pressure tactic. “You what? Got a secret date? Some fancy event? Do you moonlight as a magician on Fridays?”

He was teasing, trying to coax something real out of you, unaware of how close you were to shattering.

“Something like that,” you muttered into your sleeve.

“That’s not an answer,” he said, nudging your shin with his boot. 

You lifted your head and gave him a flat look, an abyss of tiredness that had no bottom.“None of your business, Barnes.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. For a long moment, Bucky didn’t say anything. Then he nodded, “alright,” he said. “I’ll drop it.”

You watched him turn back to the stove. His shoulders were tenser than before. 

You hated withdrawing from him, but you couldn’t possibly tell him that tomorrow night you’d be in a basement surrounded by screaming strangers, trading blows with someone twice your size because you needed the money, because you needed the pain to feel like something you could control, because life had taken so much that you had nothing left to lose except your own body.

—

On Friday, you went to a scribbled address to find a deceptively large basement by the docs.

It looked like a different world. It was hot, loud, pulsing with neon lights and sweat, and smelling of beer and blood. It was one of those places people came to lose themselves because the world had nothing left to offer, a place you’d once sworn you’d never go near.

Funny how promises rot faster than people.

The guy from the gym, Jace, guided you in with a hand on your shoulder, weaving through the crowd as if he’d been doing this since birth.

“Only two rules,” he said, raising his voice over the roar. “Tap out or get knocked out. Don’t try to be a hero. Heroes die broke.”

The deeper you went, the hotter the air became. The hallway buzzed under flickering industrial lights, the bulbs old enough that every flicker felt like they might give up and leave you in the dark.

When the corridor opened into the underground arena, the sound slammed into you, stacking on top of each other like a wave breaking over stone. A ring of lights framed the cage at the center of the room, the metal bars catching flashes of neon pink and electric blue that made the place feel like some hellish carnival.

People crowded the place shoulder to shoulder— sweating, shouting, holding plastic cups sloshing cheap liquor.

Jace placed a steady hand on your shoulder as he pulled you through the crowd

You noticed a row of VIP booths elevated above the rest of the mob, lined with bulletproof glass and flanked by security that looked ex-special service or worse. Inside, were men in tailored suits lounged behind the glass like bored gods watching a lower species fight to the death for their amusement. You recognised a couple of them there, including New York’s Mayor in a crisp white suit, sitting with two councilmen and a state senator whose faces you remembered from a press conference about “cleaning up the streets.”

Clean up the streets. Best way to do that was to fund the blood beneath them, right? 

The sign-in table was a dented metal slab balding under stacks of paperwork. The woman behind it had tattoos creeping up her throat like vines strangling her skin. “New?” she asked.

You nodded.

“Alias?”

You hesitated, then gave her the truncated field name you hadn’t used since a dust-covered hellscape years ago. 

She stamped your wrist with a red mark that burned faintly, then typed something into a tablet.

“Payout is seven percent if you win,” she said flatly. “Three if you lose.”

“That’s it?”

Someone behind you snorted.

“Yup.” She slid a clipboard toward you. “And the pot tonight is sitting at a hundred and thirty two thousand. And climbing”

A hundred.

And thirty-two.

Thousand.

You’d expected maybe a couple hundred bucks. Not enough for rent, maybe enough for groceries. But even if you lost, three percent of that much money could make your rent in one night’s work.

And if you won, you could pay every unpaid bill sitting unopened in your apartment.

Not that any amount of money could pry Lemar’s death out of your chest or undo John raising the shield like a butcher’s blade. Not that cash could undo the feeling of your own hands, clutching your best friend’s cooling body while your brother-in-arms lost his mind.

But money could keep the lights on. It could keep the landlord off your back. It could keep Bucky from worrying more than he already did.

“Fine,” you said. “Where do I go?”

“Locker room. Down the hall.”

—

The locker room felt sterile, metallic. Rusted showerheads drooped from tile walls, and the benches were bent enough to suggest someone had once been thrown across them.

You rolled your shoulders, cracked your knuckles, and began wrapping your hands.

The tape felt rough against your skin, digging into your calluses, biting into the places where your palms had split during training back in the service. Your reflection in the cracked mirror looked foreign. 

The speaker overhead crackled with static, then your alias was called.

—

The cage door slammed shut behind you like the lid of a coffin.

Your opponent stood across from you. He was tall, thick-necked, and looked like he had broken more bones than he could count. He rolled his shoulders once as shouts rippled across the crowd’s attention. People leaned forward, hungry.

You looked him straight in the eye.

“First time here?” he asked. He didn’t sound like he was just mocking you, just curious. A veteran sizing up another.

“Yeah,” you said, tightening the last wrap of tape around your wrist. “You?”

“Second season.” His grin widened. “Don’t worry. The first fight’s always scary.”

“I’m not scared,” you said.

He huffed a small laugh. “Everyone’s scared in here. Doesn’t matter how tough you—”

“Military?” you interrupted, looking down familiar scars down his arm.

He paused, surprised. After a beat, he nodded. “Two tours with the Navy. You?”

“Quit the army a couple months ago,” you said, mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. 

“Any achievements?” he asked.

“A Medal of Honor.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Shit. For what?”

“For doing something stupid enough I got promoted for it.” You shrugged, rolling your shoulders. “Anyway, that's nothing. Guy I used to work with got three.”

Talking about John made you sick, but you said it anyway.

The ref repeated the rules.

“Tap or get knocked out.”

Then, the bell rang.

He swung first. It was a fast, sharp hook meant to rattle your skull.

It connected.

Your jaw snapped to the side, your vision spiking white before the world steadied. You exhaled a shudder of relief.

There it is. A familiar pain.

He followed with a jab that slammed into your ribs, knocking air from your lungs. You staggered but didn’t fall, feeling blood dripping from your split lip.

You… laughed. “That all?”

He blinked, thrown off by the sound, shoulders rolling like you were finally waking up.

You moved an elbow up, sending a crack into his sternum, before driving a knee driving into his thigh. You followed up with a short hook against his ear that rattled him off balance.

He swung again, wilder this time, and you ducked beneath his arm, your breath hot against his shoulder.

“You hit like paperwork,” you whispered.

He barked a laugh, lending him one second of humor, before your fist buried itself into his gut. He folded, air exploding from his chest.

The crowd howled.

He went down on one knee, palm flattening against the mat.

“Tap out,” you warned.

He shook his head, teeth gritted. 

You drove your shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling. He grabbed your ankle, desperate, but you twisted free, pinning him with your knee on his sternum. 

His hand smacked the mat.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The bell shrieked overhead.

The ref grabbed your wrist, lifting it high as the crowd erupted. Your opponent wheezed beneath you before finally pushing himself upright, one hand clutching his ribs.

He looked at you, blood from his nose and respect in his eyes. 

“What the hell were you over there?” he asked with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Dunno.” You wiped blood from your chin. “Just felt like it.”

—

Bucky showed up on Monday like he always did, with no warning, no text, no knock worth a damn.

When he saw you, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes flicked to your lip, split at the corner, swollen a dusky purple. Then to your arm, where a bruise bloomed like spilled ink beneath the skin.

“The hell happened to you?” he asked. He didn't sound angry. It was just that soft, Bucky’s version of worried, which somehow hurt more.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

He stepped inside anyway. He laid a metal hand on your shoulder, turning you gently but firmly toward the kitchen light. He lifted your chin with the back of two fingers, inspecting the damage up close, the way you imagined he’d once been trained to look for shrapnel wounds.

“‘Nothing,’” he repeated flatly. “Looks like you got hit with a baseball bat.”

You shrugged. “Walked into a door.”

Bucky stared at you, long enough that you had to look away.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, but continued lying anyway. “It was a door.”

He exhaled through his nose, sounding displeased, but he didn’t push, didn’t corner you. Maybe he’d learned too much about what happens when you corner someone like you.

Instead, he moved past you, going straight for your freezer. He grabbed a bag of ice, wrapped it in a dish towel, and asked it carefully to your lip.

“You bruise easy now?” he muttered, eyes still narrowed.

“Guess so.”

“Bullshit,” he said, but the bite wasn’t there. He held the ice there until the sting dulled, until your shoulders loosened enough he knew you weren’t going to pull away. Then he set the ice on the counter and looked around.

And that’s when he noticed the cupboard door, slightly open, showing a lineup of groceries that hadn’t existed last week. There was a coffee maker you definitely hadn’t owned before, a couple new shelves. You had a new reading lamp, and an unwrapped stack of folded cotton towels.

“You went shopping?” he asked.

You shrugged again. “Figured I should.”

“That why you’re covered in bruises?” he asked, raising a brow. “Whole Foods parking lot get rowdy now?”

You fought the instinct to smirk, but didn’t quite win.“Maybe,” you said.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He walked toward the living room, metal fingers trailing the edge of the new table you’d assembled at 3 a.m., half delirious, hands shaking from adrenaline and fatigue. He tapped the corner of the new lamp. Opened your fridge again.

“Looks good,” he said finally. “The place. You’re really… spruced this place up over the weekend.”

You nodded.

He turned back to you, and sat on the couch. “Just because I’m giving you space,” he said, “doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.” He leaned back. “And it doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah,” you managed. “I know.”

He didn’t believe that, but he didn’t correct you, either.

Instead, he picked up the ice again, gently pressing it back to your lip.

“So,” he said. “Door, huh?”

“Big door,” you gave a small chuckle.

“Mm,” he said. “Must’ve been.”

—

The next time you signed up to fighting, your opponent was already in the cage.

He was bigger than the last guy. Still, he was lean in the way people get when their survival depends on speed, but broad enough that his punches would crack bone if he felt like it. His skin was mapped with old scars, the kind you earn rather than inherit.

He looked you up and down. “You’re the new one, right?” he asked, stepping closer until you could smell the smoke on his breath. “The one who doesn’t block.”

You popped your new mouthguard in and gave him a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Blocking’s overrated.”

He chuckled. “Or you’re suicidal.”

“Maybe.”

His grin widened. “Name’s Cal.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The bell rang.

—

He punched first, and you didn't even attempt to dodge or brace.

His first punch slammed into your ribs so hard your vision stuttered.

Perfect.

Your world lit up in white agony, foreign and familiar all at once. Your breath left your lungs, but you didn’t care. You wanted it to hurt. You needed it to hurt. You needed the pain to fill up the hollow places inside your skull.

He struck again, first your jaw, cheekbone, ribs,and you absorbed it all like a sponge,, your nerves on fire until the flames ran out of oxygen and collapsed into cold numbness.

A blissful nothing.

You grinned as blood dripped down your chin.

Cal hesitated, just shy of a heartbeat, but it was enough for you to launch.

The crowd howled as you collided with him, your fists slamming into anything soft enough to give, anything solid enough to bruise. You felt like a feeding frenzier piranha tearing into poisonous meat with no concern for what it did to your own body.

He grappled you, shoved you against the cage; your head cracked against steel, a ringing burst of stars exploding across your eyes.

“You’re slow,” you spat blood onto the floor.

He swung, you ducked, you surged forward and caught him with an uppercut that snapped his jaw back.

He staggered. You pressed harder.

Harder.

Harder.

At this point, both you and Cal were dripping sweat, both of you gasping, both of you bleeding and shaking and running on the last threads of adrenaline.

You both hit the mat, grappling like animals in the dirt, breath intermingling, fingers slipping in blood. yours, his, you couldn’t tell.

He hooked your arm.

You twisted.

You hooked his.

Cal struggled beneath your weight, your elbow locked your arm around his neck, your body shaking with exertion.

Then, he tapped the mat three times. “I’m done—fuck—let go—”

You released him, rolling onto your back.

When the announcer lifted your arm, you barely registered it.

All you felt was the ringing hum inside your head, the hum that meant you were alive, even if living felt like the most reckless thing you’d ever done.

Cal sat up beside you, wincing as he wiped blood off his chin.

He looked at you.

He stared at you for a long moment, then snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “You want a drink later this week? Off the clock?”

You didn't know why you said, “sure.”

—

Bucky showed up the next day.

You didn’t hear him at first. You were too preoccupied in the bathroom, staring at the bruises that painted your ribs in sickly yellow and deep violet, the newest ones still fresh and angry across your neck. You were pressing a cold rag to them when you heard the door open.

You debated locking the bathroom and pretending you weren’t home. You debated climbing out the window.

Instead, you opened the door.

He took one look at you, at your split lip reopening, a fresh scrape across your eyebrow, and his posture changed.

“What happened?” he asked. It was the same question as last time, the same attempt at being gentle.

“Gym,” you lied.

“You sparring with trucks?”

“Sure.”

He nudged you toward the couch. He reached into your freezer again and pulled out one of the ice packs he’d brought over on his last visit.

He pressed it to your cheek. You hissed, but he didn’t let go.

“You’re gonna run out of excuses eventually,” he murmured.

“No,” you said, leaning back, exhausted. “I’ll just get more creative.”

He didn’t laugh. He just held the ice there, his human hand steady on your shoulder, his eyes full of a concern he tried so damn hard to hide.

When he finally let go, he looked around the apartment again, to see more food, more furniture, despite the life draining from your eyes.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Something like that.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but closed it again.

He left it alone.

He left you alone.

For now.

—

Two days later, he was walking home from dinner with Sam when he passed the pool bar, the new one he’d asked you about. The one you said “no” to.

He didn't intend to look inside.

He just… did.

And through the large windows, he saw you, and you weren’t alone.

You were sitting at one of the high tables, leaning back in your chair, and letting out a small laugh. Across from you, was a guy with battered knuckles. You had matching bruises, though neither of you seemed bothered by it.

Bucky stopped walking.

Oh.

He had just bought a bouquet for you, since he was heading to your apartment. It was nothing fancy, just a handful of wildflowers he’d grabbed from a florist because they reminded him of your smile.

He looked down at them, then up at you.

The guy you were with leaned forward, saying something that made you shake your head. He said something else, and you smirked. It wasn’t warm, but it was… something. Bucky stood there on the sidewalk, flowers hanging useless in his grip.

He didn’t storm in or interrupt. He didn’t knock on the window or call your name.

He looked down at the bouquet again, turned, and walked away.

Eventually, he left the flowers on top of the trash can by the corner.

—

Inside, the bar smelled like chlorine and stale IPA, an odd combination that should’ve been unpleasant but somehow felt comforting, the way a dying motel neon buzzing was comforting. 

Cal was sitting next to you, the wood creaking under his weight. His nose looked freshly reset, eyes still bruised from the fight he lost to you. He grinned anyway, and you hated how familiar it felt.

He reminded you of Lemar in the way he carried conversations easily, like he’d never once questioned whether people wanted him around. And he reminded you of John in the way unhinged simmered right behind his teeth. As if he was restless and volatile, a spark waiting for gasoline.

You’d said yes to his invitation because that combination hurt. And you needed hurt.

Because if you were going to drown, you’d rather do it with someone who’d already tied their own weights on. Someone you couldn’t ruin any further. You didn’t want to pull Bucky into your undertow.

He laughed at a self-deprecating joke you made. “You’re real fun, you know that?”

You shrugged. You didn’t feel fun. You felt like a ghost trying to animate a corpse. But Cal was the same. He talked like a man dragging his own coffin around, making jokes to keep from tripping over it. 

He asked about your training. You told him. He asked if you always enjoyed pain that much. You didn’t answer.

Before you knew it, hours passed. You weren’t sure why you talked about what you talked about— violent stories, his dead wife and the struggles of being a single dad to a six-year-old, and you even mentioned your tours with John and Lemar without ever mentioning them by name. He was a car crash in slow motion. You were standing in the middle of the road.

At the end of the night, stumbling out into cool air that smelled like wet concrete, he reached for you.

His hand slid onto your face, thumb brushing the fading bruise Bucky had noticed days before. He just leaned in, and… kissed you.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t rough. It was a moment of pressure and heat that felt more like a dare than affection.

Your body froze before your brain caught up. After a suspended second, you stepped back, breath catching in your throat.

“I…” Your voice cracked, embarrassingly soft. “No. I—no.”

Cal blinked at you, drunk confusion twisting his features. “You seeing somebody else?”

“No,” you said. “Not really. Not—no.”

“Huh.” he looked down.

“I just…” You looked away. “I don’t feel like that. Thought this was a… friend thing, you know?”

You expected him to get angry. Men like him usually did.

Cal just let his hand fall, nodding once. “Yeah. I… yeah, I get it.”

He wasn’t hurt, because he recognised that you were just two people with empty chests staring at each other, realizing neither had enough heart left for two.

He stepped back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No hard feelings. Still wanna grab a drink sometime. Just drinks.” He lifted his chin up. “You’re good company, even when you’re sad as hell.”

You huffed something like a laugh.

He walked you to your building without trying to touch you again. You weren’t sure if it comforted you or unsettled you that someone else was just as hollow.

—

The next time Bucky came by, he tried to act normal.

You noticed something off the second he stepped through your door. His smile was a little too even, like he was trying to convince both of you that everything was fine. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his jacket, and he was breathing a little too loudly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

For a split second, his mask cracked. You saw a flicker under his carefully controlled exterior. Was it Anger? Concern? 

“Yeah. Fine,” he said, quick and clipped, like deleting a message you weren’t supposed to see.

Dinner was quiet at first. You cooked, halfheartedly. He watched, arms folded, occasionally sipping from his glass of water. He looked… smaller than usual, like trying to occupy less space in case the world decided to shove him.

When you finally set the plates down, he let slip, almost by accident, “I saw you the other night… with a guy.” His voice was neutral, but the way his eyes flicked to you for your reaction betrayed him. He knew, on some level, that you could do whatever the hell you wanted. That didn’t stop the little stab of jealousy that he felt.

“You did?”

“Was it… a date?” he asked carefully, trying to sound unconcerned.

You snorted, a little amused. “What if it is?”

He shrugged stiffly. “It’s fine.”

You shook your head, leaning back in your chair. “No. I don’t see him like that.”

“Then how do you know him?” His voice was calmer now, but the question was suspicious in the way Bucky always was.

“Coworker,” you said immediately.

He raised an eyebrow. “Where the fuck do you work?”

You grinned faintly, the kind of sarcastic look he knew too well. “I’m a crash test dummy at the door factory,” you said, calling back the joke you made a couple of weeks ago about running into one.

Bucky stared at you for a second, clearly unimpressed. “Not funny.” But then a little chuckle escaped him. He shook his head and muttered something under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to look too happy that it’s wasn’t a date.

—

Weeks bled into months, each one folding into the next like bruised pages in a book no one wanted to read. You were making friends in the fights now. It was not that many, but enough to feel camaraderie that didn’t come with interrogations. Cal invited you to drink with some of the others, and eventually, names stuck to faces, faces stuck to injuries, and you could tell each other, I get it. 

You’ve gotten a name for yourself in the ring, and perhaps you had become undefeated because you did not give a fuck if you died trying. Every fight, every tap-out, every close call fed a part of you that you didn’t know even existed.

Still, it was a secret to Bucky, even when saw you often. He stood in your doorway just long enough for you to sense him, just long enough for you to notice the way his teeth tightened whenever you came back bruised or tired, or when you laughed too hard or too little.

Little by little, you started being… affectionate with him. Not openly, nor obviously. But you started resting your hand near his on the counter when he handed you coffee, your shoulder brushed his as you passed, giving little touches on his arm that lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary. 

He noticed. To your surprise, he started responding. He’d bring you flowers, leaving them casually on the counter, wild ones you didn’t ask for.

One evening, after doing a whole lot of nothing, you sat in the corner of your apartment crying.

It was the first time you had actively asked Bucky to come over.

He arrive seven minutes later, he didn’t ask anything. He sat down beside you and let you lean into him, one arm around your shoulders, and you didn’t try to fight it. You just let yourself lean into him like you used to with Lemar’s shoulder, like you used to with John before everything went to hell. But this… it felt different with him. It felt more vulnerable with him.

Another time, you couldn’t get out of bed. Your body ached with bruises, and even swallowing made your ribs scream. Bucky didn’t ask. He came in and did your dishes, because moving your arms hurt like hell.

That day, he helped you to the bath, metal and human hands steadying you as you undressed. You’d complain, but you didn't have the energy to. 

As he helped pull your shirt over your arms, he saw the bruises. They were a mix of deep purples, fading yellows, dark reds that outlined your ribs, breasts, and shoulders and arms. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, lips sadly taking shape into that half-smile, half-grimace you’d grown to love.

“Door factory jobs must be rough,” he said, teasing, but you could tell he was worried.

You couldn’t help the laugh that came out.

He helped you climb into the bath he prepared. “You don’t have to do… whatever it is you do alone. I’m right here.”

You just stay there in the puddle, water running over the bruises, over your hair, over the places you hadn’t wanted anyone to see but him and whispered, “Hmm.”

Bucky had his suspicions— maybe you were training people at the gym, maybe it was private security. But no, you never intended to tell him the extent of it.

—

Tonight had started like every other night at work. 

“Clocking in?” Jace asked.

“Yeah,” you said, chewing your gum. You passed through the locker room, exchanging half-smiles with familiar faces, hearing the rhythmic slap of gloves on bags, the the bass in the arena floor, the faint metallic tang of sweat in the air. 

Everything felt almost normal. You greeted other fighters, nodded at the bartender, even managed a small laugh when someone joked about surviving the last fight without losing teeth.

Everything was alright up until you made your way to the cage.

Until you saw him.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Sam Wilson. 

He was standing near the back, his shield strapped across his back. His Captain America uniform looked like it glowed under the harsh neon lights, and you knew the exact second he noticed you were there, too. 

Suddenly, as you got locked in the cage, the world narrowed. Your vision pinched itself down into a tunnel centered on the red, white, and blue star that had haunted your nightmares for weeks. 

That shield.

That fucking shield.

The shield who was and still is a beacon of hope for many… was something entirely different to you.

It was the shield that John had carried when he took a life in exchange for Lemar. And now, it was on Sam’s back, and suddenly air didn’t reach your lungs the way it should.

All you saw was Lemar’s body. All you saw was John executioning an surrendering man.

You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. 

Your heartbeat kicked in like a jackhammer. The sound of the crowd, the roar, the laughter, the clinking glasses, the shouted bets, all faded to white noise, leaving only your own panicked heartbeat, the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue, the molten ache in your chest.

You had to fight. 

You couldn’t break down here, not now. 

You glanced at Cal across the ring, bouncing lightly on his heels, a cocky grin stretched across his face. “I’m gonna win this time,” he said, teasing.

But instead of seeing him, your brain decided to play a trick on you and just showed you a Flag Smasher.

The bell rang.

You moved.

And from the first second, you were no longer just yourself. You were fury made flesh. Each step, each punch, each pivot felt like it had been pure instinct and desperation. Cal’s ribs groaned under the impact of your fists, his forearm splintered under your elbows, but you didn’t pause. Pain didn’t exist. Fatigue didn’t exist. The world had dissolved into a blur of neon light and sweat-slick skin and the taste of blood already collecting at the corner of your mouth.

He tried to reach the ground to tap, but you couldn’t stop. 

All you could see was a faceless man and a shield that triggered your fighting instinct. You were in a feeding frenzy, knuckles raw, arms trembling, lungs burning, heart hammering like it wanted to escape. You were rage incarnate. Every strike screamed I exist, I exist, I exist.

Then…

After a quick one-two on his face…. his body collapsed. 

He looked limp.

What?

What?

“Cal?”

The world shifted around you as the announcer blared over the speaker— “Knockout!”

The roar of the crowd came crashing back into your ears. You froze, chest heaving, staring down at him. Black streaks danced at the edges of your vision. 

You had done it. You had gone too far. You had knocked him out. 

Did you… did you kill him?

Oh no.

You dropped to your knees, holding his face. “Cal,” you tried to tap his face awake, like John did to Lemar, “Cal. C'mon, Buddy.” You shook him, shaking harder, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. He’s got a life. He's got a daughter who depended on him.  “Cal. Cal!”

The ref’s hands were on your shoulders before you even realised, lifting your hand up to declare victory. 

You gasped, chest heaving, before you remembered where you were. 

Someone came in the ring and said something you didn't hear, before repeat-ting it louder. “He’s alive. He’s going to be fine.”

Relief washed over you and it nearly buckled your knees.

He was… alive. Your friend, Cal, was alive. You didn’t kill him.

And then… your eyes met Sam. He looked annoyingly, impossibly calm. And the panic returned.

The shield. That shield. Lemar. John. The guilt. The fury. 

Your stomach recoiled. You wanted to run. You wanted to dissolve into the floor. You wanted to hide in the wash of adrenaline and blood and sweat that had temporarily made you feel alive. And for the first time, you realized that no amount of victory, no amount of frenzy or punching or bleeding or winning, would ever be enough. 

—

You stumbled out of the arena into the cold night, sweat still cooling on your skin, knuckles throbbing. You hunched your shoulders, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to ignore the way your entire body still vibrated with adrenaline.

“You look… good in there.”

The voice cut through the haze like a bell. 

Sam. 

Of course he followed you outside. 

You froze mid-step, head snapping toward him. He was standing casually against the brick wall of the alley, shield slung across his back, hands in his pockets. The uniform made him impossible to ignore, made you want to disappear entirely.

You opened your mouth, tried to brush him off, but nothing came out right. “Yeah… thanks,” you said finally.

Of course, he remembered you in the fight with the Flag Smashers, remembered how you’d kept up. He knew you were good.

“What are you doing here?” you asked

“I’m investigating a senator,” he said, shrugging. "He was seen here last week. Figure I’d see if there was anything else worth noting.”

An air of silence settled awkwardly between you. You wiped your fist on your shorts and didn’t answer.

Then, quietly, he asked, “Does Bucky know?”

“No,” you said flatly.

“Ah,” he said, as if he already knew the answer. His eyes softened just a fraction. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him.”

You let that hang there, staring into the darkness, feeling the sting behind your eyes. “Appreciate it,” you repeated.

Sam sighed, sounding almost patient. “Look. You might not want my help, but I’m always here if you want to talk to somebody.”

You shook your head saying, “Whatever, man,” and turned slightly, pretending to tie your straps tighter, trying to close the conversation.

He didn’t push, but added. “I know you two have gotten close. Go Bucky tonight if you need to. Don’t spend tonight alone, okay? Not after what happened in there.”

Just like that, he left you alone to settle in the cold night air.

—

You stumbled through the streets, every step dragging, muscles trembling with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. Your fists hung limp at your sides, fingers still raw from the fight, from the punches you had thrown just to feel something other than the gnawing guilt. The city blurred around you, signs flickering against darkened windows, and all you could think about was Cal, unconscious in the ring, your hands shaking over his chest, the thought that you might have killed him.

When you finally made it to your apartment, you collapsed against the doorframe, braced yourself, and stripped off your fight gear. You shoved yourself into the shower, letting the hot water pound down on you. You scrubbed roughly, letting the water carry the blood down the drain, but the memory didn’t follow. It clung, sticky and sharp, inside your mind.

You dried off mechanically, wrapped a towel around you, and picked up your notebook. Bucky’s address was still there. He had given it to you, months ago, and you hadn’t gone. 

But tonight, you decided to take Sam’s advice.

Because tonight, the punching, the blood, the fight, it hadn’t given you the rush anymore. It hadn’t fixed anything. It hadn’t made the guilt smaller. The fear that you could hurt your friend, that you almost did, followed you like a shadow. You needed something else, someone else, to feel.

By the time you reached Bucky’s door, your legs felt like cooked spaghetti. You raised your hand, hesitated, then knocked. When the door swung open, he was there, and his eyes immediately tracked the blood and fresh bruising on your face and arms.

He didn’t say anything at first. 

You… hadn’t meant to do what you did next. But you were numb to the bone, and when you saw him, you saw the world.

And you simply needed to feel him.

You didn't even think. 

You pressed your lips to his, and it was rough, hungry, and desperate. The world shrank down to you and him and for a heartbeat, you thought… you think… that maybe he might pull away, maybe he’d finally reject you after all this time.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you back.

He shifted closer, his hands coming up to frame your face, tilting your head gently. His lips moved against yours with intent, letting you lean into him, pressing the heat of his body against yours. His chest met yours, and your hands dug into his shoulders instinctively.

You whispered breathlessly against his lips “I want you.”

He responded in kind. Not with words, but with pressure. His hands traced your jawline, slid into your hair, pulling you closer. His body curved around yours, and the tension between you crackled, like static.

Every nerve ending in your body lit up, every muscle tensed and then relaxed as he held you. The need was there but there was also restraint, a slow burn that made your heart beat in delicious agony.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. You could feel the tension coiling in him too, the restraint in his movements.

And then, after kissing the cut on your forehead gently, he trailed down and kissed your lips again, gentler this time, letting the tension build and linger, letting you feel it in every inch of your body. 

He pulled you in closer, shutting the door behind him. Months of restraint, months of unspoken words and half-touching glances, months of grief and rage and adrenaline and survival, all coiled up inside you, and now it unspooled all at once. 

Your hands fumbled, sliding under the hem of his shirt, feeling the warmth of skin and the plane of muscle beneath. He caught your wrists, guiding them, encouraging the exploration, pressing his body more firmly into yours. His metal hand found the small of your back, pulling you impossibly close, while the other, feeling the skin by your waistband, sent a shock of heat into your core.

Your lips moved against his again, tasting, claiming. You could feel him respond in every fiber of his body, every heartbeat echoing in yours, every sigh synchronized.

The air between you became humid with your combined heat, your breath mingling. Your hands roamed over him, tracing scars, tracing the texture of his vibranium arm. 

You whispered against him, trembling, “I need you.”

And he whispered back, a growl of a sound that made your knees threaten to buckle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You pressed yourself to him like you were trying to merge into his skin, like if you could just fuse with him, you might stop shaking, stop thinking, stop feeling the hollow ache of the fight. His hands roamed your sides. You needed more, and he sensed it. He guided you carefully toward his bedroom, one hand at the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head, peppering kisses all across the sensitive spots on your neck. 

Gently laying you on the bed, he lifted your shirt up over your head. But as he admired his eyes flicked down and then back up at your bruises. They were fresh and angry, and much worse than it was when he last saw your body. 

“What…” he kissed the dark spots on your body, hoping he could take the pain away, “What happened?”

“Bucky… don’t…” you gasped, pressing your palms to his chest. “Look at me. Look at me. I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt,” he said, worried. 

You laughed, a short, breathless laugh and kissed him again. “I’m not,” you said, chest rising and falling, still pressing against him. “I’m not hurt. I’m not—” You trailed off, biting your lip. “I’m not.”

His hands moved faster now, almost possessively, skimming under your pants, tracing bruises, brushing over the sensitive spots you didn’t even realize were tender until he touched them. 

You tugged at his shirt, tugged at the hem of his pants, urgently trying to feel every inch of him against you. 

Your bruises stung under his touch, but you didn’t care. His hand brushed over the cut on your temple again, and you gasped. “Don’t,” you warned, almost pleading. “Don’t… don’t make me think about anything else.”

His lips pressed to yours again, like he was telling you he got it. He got you. 

When you finally pulled back slightly, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads pressed together and skin to skin, you realized that you hadn’t been this alive in a long long time. 

You braced yourself on his shoulder and licked the shell of his ears, “You’re mine tonight.”

He laughed, tracing his fingers down your sternum, “Yeah… I think I’m yours too.” For hours, you stayed entwined, tangled, and consumed by each other. 

Finally, finally, both of you found release in each other. When you collapsed together, limbs draped over one another, he held you close, fingers tracing absent patterns along your back, your temple pressed into his chest.

—

The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds, dust mites drifting in the air. You woke to the ache of sore muscles. For a moment, panic crept in… you’d thought you were alone, but then you remembered you were not even in your apartment.

You were at Bucky's apartment, though he wasn’t sleeping beside you anymore.

You shifted out of the bed, and noticed your body hadn’t hurt as much.

Bucky had been tending to you while you slept. You were bandaged in places, and there were cool bits of ointment along your skin. 

You got up, put on one of his clean henleys, and found him on his couch in the living room, still in the loose T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in, a coffee mug in his hand. When he noticed you, he smiled sheepishly. “You’re up.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice hoarse. “Looks like you… did some work on me.”

He shrugged casually. “Couldn’t let you walk around like that.”

Without thinking, you leaned down, pressing your lips to his temple in a lingering kiss. He hummed, eyes closing briefly at the touch, and pressed a hand to the small of your back.

You sat on the edge of his couch. The heat of last night still lingered in your skin, in the memory of him pressed against you, of his hands on your body, of the way he’d let you come undone in his bed.

He watched you patiently.

“Is it okay?” you finally asked, “If… nothing changes?”

He tilted his head, the hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. He’d been holding back, holding you at arm’s length for months. He knew he couldn’t push you into a rigid relationship you didn’t want, but neither can he hide his disappointment. So he reached out, tracing your features with the pad of his thumb. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”

You looked at him, searching his face. “You’re sure?”

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing your hair behind your ear, “Whatever you can give, however you can give it, it’s enough.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around you, thumb tracing lazy circles on your arm.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed, resting his cheek against your hair.

—

Things changed.

And… didn’t.

The next couple of weeks were strange, like you were walking underwater and everyone else was on land.

You and Bucky still circled each other the same way, but now there were nights you ended up in his bed or he in yours, and mornings where he made coffee while you sat on his counter in one of his shirts, pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Pretending it meant everything.

He didn’t say the word I love you, because that was a line you had drawn. But he kissed your forehead every time he saw you, and you let him. You’d lean into him without thinking. You found you liked falling asleep against him, and eventually, he printed photos of the two of you and put them up above the mantle of his fireplace, right next to a photo of him, Sam, and Joaquin, at one of the Wilson’s family cookouts.

But the fights… your job, changed.

You still showed up, still clock in, still nodded at Jace, still talked to Cal and his buddies (who never blamed you for what happened), but the moment you stepped into the cage, something inside you froze. You couldn’t explain it. You’d see Cal’s face, or the way Sam looked at you, or the moment you thought you’d killed your friend, and your hands would freeze.

You threw punches, but they were hesitant, soft around the edges. You could hit, God, your still body remembered how, but your mind pulled your hand back at the last second, afraid of that terrifying moment where someone didn’t get up.

So you stopped trying to win.

In true Achilles fashion, your opponent hit land, absorbing each blow like a punishment you’d earned. You went from undefeated to losing more than winning. Getting knockout after knockout, lights-out after lights-out. You’d wake up in the back room with someone snapping fingers near your face, and you’d mumble that you were fine, you were fine, you were fine.

You cried sometimes, still— that hadn't changed. In stairwells. In the shower. At the corner store staring at rows of cereal. The grief would come in unpredictable spikes, remembering Cal, Lemar, John, the shield, the guilt, the shame. It all pressed down on you until you had to sit on the floor just to breathe.

And then, once you were done, you’d check your phone to see a message from Bucky.

You home?

Bucky always showed up like the universe had put a tracking chip in your sadness.

Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes flowers. Once, when you couldn’t get out of bed, he sat beside you and rubbed your back until you stopped shaking.

Your bruises multiplied. They were blooming, finger-shaped, fist-shaped, dark purple shadows that wrapped around your ribs and throat and hips. You’d catch Bucky staring sometimes, confused and angry in equal measure.

“Door factory’s rough this month,” he’d mutter, trying to sound amused. You’d laugh because he wanted you to.

—

This Friday was just another Friday at work.

You told yourself you needed the cash, you still needed the noise in your skull drowned out, needed the ache of impact to chase away the demons.

Jace clapped you on the back. “Big crowd tonight.”

You wrapped your hands alone, knuckles still tender from the last beating you let someone hand you. 

And then, on the way to the ring you saw the familiar red, white, and blue shield casually over someone’s back like it wasn’t a gravestone.

Sam Wilson stood across the room, dressed in full uniform as he leaned in to speak to some suit, no doubt the senator he was tailing, or someone who knew him. He was probably here for the investigation.

But when he looked up, his eyes found you instantly.

He nodded a quick hi to you, but you tore your gaze away quickly.

He was just getting another lead. He wasn’t here for you.

So you just ignored him and climbed in the cage.

The lights scorched down on you. Your opponent bounced on his feet. This was a new guy. He was young and eager. You almost didn’t pity him.

He smiled at you, perhaps excited. You tried to smile back but your body already felt wrong, like your limbs were filled with water instead of blood.

So you pulled your hands up, waited for the bell, and told yourself you could do this.

The bell rang.

He came in fast.

You threw a jab. It landed—barely. Soon enough, your arms didn’t want to lift again.

Then he hit you.

A clean, precise cross to the cheek that rattled your skull. Then another. Then a hook that made your vision flash white.

You staggered, but didn’t cover. 

The crowd roared.

You heard someone shout your name. Maybe Jace. Maybe Cal. Maybe Sam. Maybe someone in the front row who bet on you winning. 

He hit you again. And again. And again.

Your head snapped back, knees buckling, tasting blood in your mouth. Still, you refused to tap out because you thought this was all you deserved.

But that familiar numbness, the one you used to chase, didn’t come this time. Only that sinking, choking thought…

What if he doesn’t stop? What if I don’t get up this time?

The new guy wound up again.

You saw the punch coming, and you didn't even try to stop it.

The hit detonated against your cheek and your legs gave way, collapsing under you like cut wires.

The roar of the crowd dissolved into static.

You caught a glimpse of Sam as you head lolled to the side, forcing his way forward.

But the world was already closing in on you.

Your last thought before the blackout was stupid and childish. 

If he tells Bucky, he's going to be so pissed.

—

You came back to consciousness like rising through deep water. A dull throb pulsed behind your right temple. The air smelled like antiseptic and old wood as a single bulb flickered overhead.

And someone was humming a Marvin Gaye song.

You tried to move, and felt a cold pack pressed to the side of your head.

Sam Wilson sat beside you, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on your face like he was making sure you were still here. “Welcome back.”

You looked sideways and found him perched on an upturned crate, elbows on his knees, holding the ice pack gently against your head.

You flinched away weakly. He pressed the ice back anyway.

You groaned and tried to sit up. He pressed a gentle hand to your shoulder. “You took a hard hit. I’ve seen soldiers with bullet wounds look better.”

Your eyes adjusted. You were in the warehouse’s back room, an emergency cot pulled out. 

“What happened back there?” he asked, like he was asking for a secret. “You looked like you forgot how to fight.”

You swallowed. Your throat burned, but said nothing.

“And that doesn’t seem like something you’d forget how to do,” He added.

“Why does it matter?” you snapped. You didn’t look at him. “Why the fuck does it matter to you—or me—if I died in there?” Your voice cracked at the end. 

Sam let out a deep breath. “It would matter to Bucky.”

Right.

You winced.

Sam tapped the melting ice pack gently against your temple. “I’ve seen a lot of hurt people. Enough to know when someone’s trying to kill themselves without technically killing themselves.”

Your lip trembled before you dug your nails into your palms.

“When you went down tonight…” Sam started, “For a second I thought you weren’t getting back up. And I saw the look on that guy’s face. He wasn’t trying to kill you. But you didn’t care if he did, right?”

You didn’t answer, because what could you say? You were tired, so goddamn tired.

And he was right. There had been a flash where you had genuinely thought, If this is it, then fine.

Sam sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. “You’re not Achilles,” he reassured. “You’re not doomed. You don’t have to go out in some blaze of glory just because you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve anything else.”

Heat pricked behind your eyes. You bit your tongue to stop anything from slipping out.

“There are people who love you,” Sam said, more firmly now. “Might not be many. But enough. One, for sure.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t do this to him,” Sam said. 

You looked down at your hands. Finally, you muttered, “Whatever, man.” You didn’t want his lecture, didn’t want anyone to tell you you were too far gone or too reckless. You didn’t want to feel accountable.

Sam didn’t take the bait. He didn’t get mad, and didn’t leave. “You scared me,” he said quietly. “And if Bucky knew… well, you know how he gets.”

“Good,” you said, almost bitterly. “Glad I’m scary.”

“You’re better than what you’re doing to yourself,” he insisted. “And I know you don’t believe that right now. But borrow my belief until you do.”

You flinched. You wanted to argue, wanted to curl up and tell him he was wrong, but for the first time… you wanted to believe in him.

You swallowed hard. “And if I can’t?” you whispered.

Sam leaned closer. “Try anyway. You take one step at a time, yeah?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

“…I’m trying,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying, okay?”

Sam’s lips curved in an approving smile. “That’s a step,” he said. He stood, tugging gently at your shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you home before Bucky comes looking and tears this place down.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, and you let him guide you out. For once, you didn’t fight it. You didn’t resist. You let him help.

—

That night, Sam dropped you off at your building. You shuffled through the doorway and he followed just a few steps behind, like a shadow you didn’t mind.

You expected him to leave. You didn’t expect him to sit on your couch, to pour a drink, to ask how you were really doing.

You told him a little, carefully.

He listened like it mattered. You laughed a little at one point, and he smiled at the progress. After talking to him, it wasn’t hard to understand why he was Bucky’s closest friend.

By the time he left, you could probably, tentatively, cautiously, consider him your friend, too.

—

Bucky came over twice that week. You went to his place once.

Those nights that felt strangely gentle, with smooth vibranium fingers on your ribs. His human thumb brushed a bruise without speaking on it. You laid in his bed afterward, and you thought about telling him everything.

Fuck, you wanted him. Not just the skin‑to‑skin contact or the sex. You wanted the part of him that cared all to yourself. He wanted the part that loved you, apparently, if Sam’s words were to be believed.

So yes, you considered telling him about the fights. And the losing streak. And Sam hauling you out of your own graveyard of self‑destruction.

And honestly, fighting for as long as you did was lucrative enough that you could quit. You could down deposits, pay rent, eat for a year. You could stop letting people beat the shit out of you. You could stop chasing the punch that didn’t thrill you anymore. You could stop trying to die on the mat every weekend.

You could.

But you hadn’t told him.

You were scared he’d look at you differently, and perhaps scared he’d see what you saw in yourself.

—

Friday night came. And you had decided that day that you were going to fight again.

You were just grabbing your jacket, just about to head to The Basement to clock in for work, when someone knocked.

Who on earth could that possibly be?

You opened the door.

Olivia Walker, John’s wife, stood there holding her son against her hip like she was shielding him from the world. “I didn’t… I didn’t know where else to go.”

You froze. Olivia noticed.

“Is this a bad time?” She asked hesitantly, “Are you busy?’

You opened your mouth to say the words you wanted to say, perhaps I need to go to work, I can’t, I’m busy, but you didn’t. 

Because you couldn’t turn her away. 

Olivia wasn’t just John’s wife. She was your friend, too. She had laughed at your bad hair days in high school. She had been a popular girl in the cheer squad when you were too loud and too sarcastic, and yet she always included you. That's when you dragged her into the cafeteria to introduce to John, thinking, somehow, that maybe sparks would fly and everything would fall into place.

And for someone you cared about, and someone who clearly cared for you… you’d do anything for her.

“No.” you said, opening the door a little wider, “No… come in.”

—

After Olivia tucked her son into your bed, the same one you’d crawled into half-dead more times than you could count, she built a little baby‑gate out of mountains of pillows. She smoothed his hair, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and stood there for a while.

When she finally emerged from your room, her eyes looked older than you remembered. She hovered by your couch until you gestured for her to sit. She sat on the edge, hands knotted in her son’s blanket.

You both just… sat there, letting the silence stretch, letting her gather whatever shards of courage were left.

She inhaled. “I’m leaving John.”

It hit you like a punch, like one of those blunt, center‑mass strikes that knocked the breath out of you.

“You… y-you mean,” you croaked, thinner than you expected, “like… you’re done?”

Olivia nodded, the smallest nod imaginable. “I can’t stay.”

You stared at her. This was Olivia. Sweet, bright‑as‑sunshine Olivia. And John. Yeah, he had been complicated, hot‑headed, occasionally a bull in a china shop, but you’d see him in ways other people didn’t. You were there when he took her to prom. You helped him propose to her. You’d watched him wedding‑day nervous. You’d heard him talk about her like she hung the damn moon. 

“What… what happened?” you whispered. “He, John? He was…” Perfect, stable, whole. “…a good husband.”

“He was.” She swallowed hard. “He tried. I don’t think he meant to change. But… after… After Lemar, he got recruited by this woman, Val. I don’t even know who she really is, but John said she gave him purpose. She gave him missions. He was gone all the time, and… he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

She stopped, pressing the heel of her palm to her eyes before she completely broke. Tears started streaming down her eyes, and before you could say anything, she leaned on your shoulders and broke down completely.

“He started coming home angry, and bruised, and then detached… And I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want my son to look at his father and think that’s normal.”

Your heart sank.

So… John wasn’t a perfect husband. John was just like you. Self‑destructive. Running toward violence because standing still hurt worse. He needed the next hit of adrenaline, the next bruise, the next fight because it drowned out the voices in his head.

And the worst part was that you understood him more than Olivia could ever know.

Your voice came out small. “Olivia… he—he didn’t hurt you, right?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Never. He’s still John. But he’s… lost. And I can’t follow him into whatever he’s doing. I can’t drag our baby into that life.”

You nodded slowly. Little did she know, she wasn’t just describing John. She was describing you.

Your bruises, your secrecy, your spiral. The way the violence was a pressure valve and a prison at the same time.

Olivia took a shaky breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You rubbed your palms against your jeans, suddenly aware your hands were shaking. You wanted to tell her you were scared shitless, that you were standing on the same ledge John had fallen from.

But you couldn’t pile that on her. So instead, you reached out, covered her hands with yours, and said, “you did the right thing coming here.”

—

After microwaving a portion of Bucky’s mashed potatoes and giving it to Olivia, you caught her looking at hotel rooms, frantically searching for accommodation that had any rooms left at the last minute.

But she wasn’t doing that on your watch. You stepped aside and motioned toward your bedroom. “You can stay here tonight,” you said.

Olivia looked at you, surprise flickering across her face. “I… I can’t let you sleep on the couch in your own home,” she said.

You shook your head, a rueful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s okay, Olivia. I… I can stay with Bucky tonight.”

Her brow furrowed, almost knowing. “Bucky?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He doesn’t live too far.”

Olivia’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “I… okay,” she said, and the tension in her posture softened, just a little.

You gave her a small, reassuring smile, stepping back to let her settle in as you packed an overnight bag. 

Before you left, you looked at the picture of you, Lemar, and John in boot camp, and picked it up. 

For the first time in month, you could look at it without feeling like you had to throw up. 

—

Bucky’s apartment was lit only by the streetlamp bleeding in through the window. You stood outside his door for a good thirty seconds before knocking, bag slung over your shoulder.

The door opened almost immediately.

Bucky’s hair was damp, curls pushed back from his forehead, like he’d just showered. He was wearing sweatpants and a worn shirt that clung to his chest in ways you really, really shouldn’t be noticing right now.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, the way he always talked to you.

You swallowed. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His brows lifted slightly in surprise.

“What, no work?” he asked, leaning against the frame. “Door factory closed early tonight?”

You snorted despite yourself. “Bucky—”

“You work every Friday,” he said. “You always do.” He wasn’t accusing you, but he just knew you.

Your throat tightened. You stared at the floor. “I… I’m quitting.”

That made him tilt his head. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He could see the storm under your skin. He could always see it.

He opened the door fully. “Come in.”

You stepped inside. The familiar warmth of his apartment made you feel at home. You came to love the waterstain on the counter, the lingering steam from his shower, the hum of the old heater in the wall. It always felt like safety.

Bucky closed the door behind you, turning slowly, like he was giving you space to run. Or to stay.

You kept your eyes on the floor, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag.

After a long while, you finally said, “I don’t want any more secrets between us.”

Oh, Bucky thought.

You swallowed hard, your voice coming out afraid. “I talked to Olivia.”

His brows pulled together. “About John?”

You nodded, a shaky breath slipping out. “She came over with their baby. She… told me what he was like after Lemar. He… he pushed her away. He didn’t tell her everything.”

Bucky listened, guiding you to sit down on his couch. 

“I saw myself in him,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”

Bucky sat next to you, human hand holding yours now.

You forced the words out before you lost the courage. “I’ve been fighting underground.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to you. You could tell he was surprised, that he didn’t expect it. But in that moment, all your bruises, all your cuts started to make more and more sense,

You kept going. “I started after— after moving. I didn’t know how else to feel anything but grief. Or to shut it all off. I didn’t tell anyone.”

Your hands were shaking now, but Bucky held you, rubbing small circles on the palm of your hand.

“And when Sam found me…” you continued, “I was losing on purpose. I-I didn’t care if I got hurt. I didn’t care if I didn’t get up.”

You felt a tear fall, and wiped it quickly.

“I didn’t want you to look at me broken,” you whispered.“I thought you’d judge me. Or walk away. Or decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

You finally lifted your eyes.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you whispered.

Bucky sighed, lifting one hand to your cheek. His thumb brushed away the rest of the tears you hadn't bothered to hide.

“Sam knew,” he observed, not bitterly. Not jealous. 

You nodded, ashamed.

“And not me,” he said.

Your throat threatened to close. “I was afraid.”

“You should’ve told me,” he cupped the back of your neck, gently pulling your forehead to his. “You shouldn't've put me on some pedestal where I can’t reach you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m trying not to.”

His fingers slid into your hair. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m tired,” you whispered, voice breaking on every syllable, “I’m so fucking tired.”

“I know.” He said. “But look how far you’ve come.”

You let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I’m a mess, Buck.”

He shook his head, brushing his nose against yours. “I’m proud of you.”

“Why?” you whispered, desperate. 

“Because,” he said. “Because you are here telling me the truth even though it’s ripping you apart. Because I’m glad, even if it's not me, that you let Sam help. You let someone help.”

“I thought… you’d hate me,” you breathed.

Bucky pulled you into him, his arms around you, his metal hand spanning your back like a shield. You clutched his shirt, fingers curling tight in the fabric.

His voice dropped to a whisper against your temple.“I could never hate you.”

Your body shook as he held you tighter. 

“I don’t want Lemar’s death to turn me they way it turned John,” you cried into his chest. “I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want the violence to be the only place I feel alive. I don’t want to lose the only person I—”

Your voice cracked again.

“The only person I love.”

Bucky’s hand in your hair froze. His heartbeat kicked against your cheek, like you’d shocked him back to life.

“I... This… whatever this is—” You lifted your head, eyes burning. “No. I know what it is. It’s love. I love you.”

He lifted your chin in his hands. “I love you too,” he whispered, “You know I have loved you for a while.”

His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, You felt the world spin, the way it did when you first kissed him.

“Come here,” he breathed.

He didn’t yank you forward. He guided you, giving you space to pull away, right up until you closed that last distance yourself.

Bucky kissed you like he’d done so many times, your breath tangled with his. His hands slid from your jaw to cradle the back of your head. His other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you in until you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

His lips parted against yours, asking without demanding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him closer. He made a low sound in his throat, and you responded in kind with a sigh.

Bucky pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, both of you holding that breathless space between wanting and restraint, catching the moment before it could burn too fast.

And today, of all days, you understood what you had once done for Lemar, and for John, you’d do the same for Bucky. 

For him, you’d stay alive. 

For him, you’d face life as a worthy opponent.

-end.

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Masterlist

“Barnes, left!” you shout, voice hoarse over comms, boots skidding on black ice as you pivot, firing three quick rounds at the HYDRA agents spilling out of a side door.

Bucky doesn’t need the warning. He spins, metal arm raised, bullets sparking off vibranium. He moves like water, like violence and grace sewn together, eyes glacial calm even as everything burns.

You’re almost free. The quinjet is just beyond the next intersection. You can see Sam’s silhouette framed in the open hatch, hear Steve’s orders in your ear, clipped and tense.

“Move, move, move! That building’s gonna—”

You never hear the rest.

There’s a flash. Not the dirty orange of an explosion, but a vicious, sterile blue, ripping across your vision like someone has sliced the sky open. It comes from behind you, from the lab you just blew, from some device you didn’t even know existed until now.

You feel it before you see it—the way Bucky’s head snaps back mid-stride, the way his body seizes, metal hand flexing in a terrible, unnatural arc. The blue light wraps around his skull, around the silver of his arm, and for a heartbeat, his eyes glow with it.

“Bucky!” you scream, reaching.

The air shrieks. The world tilts.

Then there’s only white.

You wake to the beeping.

Slow, steady, maddening. The antiseptic air of the med bay stings your nose. Your throat feels like you swallowed a fistful of broken glass. Every limb weighs a thousand pounds.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is close, low, trying to be soft and failing. “You with me?”

You peel your eyes open.

Fluorescent lights blur overhead. Steve sits in the chair beside your bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles are white. There’s a cut along his cheekbone, steri-strips like pale caterpillars holding it closed. He’s still in his suit, the star on his chest dulled by soot.

“What—” Your voice cracks, barely sound. You swallow, try again. “What happened?”

Steve’s gaze searches your face, relief bleeding through his worry. “You got thrown when the device blew. Mild concussion. Some bruising. You’ll be okay.”

Device.

Your brain lurches back into motion. Blue light. Static on your tongue. The way Bucky’s body—

Bucky.

“Where is he?” you rasp, moving to sit up. Your head slams you with a vicious pulse of pain, dark spots sparking in your vision.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder instantly, pinning you with careful strength. “Easy. You’re still—”

“Where is he, Steve?” you insist, panic shredding its way up your throat. “Is he hurt? Is he—”

“He’s alive,” Steve says quickly. Too quickly.

Your chest tightens. “Alive,” you echo, the word wobbling at the edges. “But?”

Steve’s jaw works. He glances at the glass wall of the med bay, where a privacy screen has been slid closed. You can hear muted voices beyond it, lower registers, the faint clink of equipment.

“Bucky took the full force of the blast,” Steve finally says. “We didn’t know what that thing was. We still don’t fully. HYDRA’s files were… scrambled.”

You stare at him, heart beating so hard you feel it in your teeth. “Steve.”

“It was neural tech,” he says. “Some kind of… reboot device. They used it as a failsafe. If the Winter Soldier got too far off mission, if he went rogue, they’d trigger it. Wipe him. Start again.”

The room moves.

Your fingers curl in the thin blanket, knuckles aching. “But he’s not— they don’t—”

“He’s not theirs anymore,” Steve says sharply. “He’s not. But that lab… was old. It must have been rigged as a dead man’s switch. When you set the charge—”

“I know what I did,” you snap, the words landing harsher than you mean them to. Bile creeps up the back of your throat. “What did it do to him?”

For a long moment, Steve’s face is a muscle trying not to break.

“It reset him,” he says quietly. “Not all the way. Shuri’s tech is holding some lines. But his… short-term memories, anything tied to the last couple years off HYDRA’s leash… it’s like someone took a razor to them. He knows me. Knows Sam. Knows the broad strokes of being out. But the details are gone.”

You feel the bottom drop out of your chest.

“What about me?” you whisper.

Steve doesn’t answer, but you don’t need him to. The silence says everything.

You find him in the next room.

You don’t wait to be cleared. You don’t wait for Natasha’s quiet warnings or Bruce’s murmured cautions about your own concussion. The second your legs can hold you, you’re shoving off the bed, ignoring the way the world sways, ignoring the way Steve tries to call your name.

You shove the med bay door open and step into the colder, quieter space beyond.

Bucky sits on the edge of a second bed, forearms braced on his thighs, fingers clasped together so hard his metal knuckles creak. There’s a bandage at his hairline, another circling his bicep, white against bruised, winter-pale skin. His hair is mussed, falling around his face in dark waves that make him look younger and somehow more haunted.

He looks up when you enter.

His eyes find yours.

You have braced yourself for… something. Confusion, yes. But maybe also a flicker of recognition, a tiny spark, the faintest hint of the way he’s always softened when he sees you, the subtle easing of his shoulders, the way his mouth used to curl at one corner like he was being let in on a secret.

There’s nothing.

He studies you like you’re a stranger who has just walked into his room by mistake.

“Hey,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say, and because that’s what you always say to him. It sounds wrong now, thin, tremoring.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicks to the door behind you, to Steve hovering in the hall, then back to your face. His brow creases.

“You okay to be up?” he asks finally, voice low and rasped around the edges. Polite. Neutral. The way he speaks to civilians he saves and never sees again.

You swallow, fingers twisting in the hem of your hospital shirt. “Yeah. I, uh—” You step closer before you can stop yourself. “How do you feel?”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. His eyes dart away from yours, skimming across your shoulder like he’s afraid of looking at you too long.

“Like someone tore my head open and rearranged everything,” he admits. “Like I’ve got—” His hand lifts, tapping his temple with his metal fingers. “Static. Pockets of… nothing. Like there’s a house across the street and I know it’s mine, but I don’t have the key.”

Your throat closes. “Bucky—”

He flinches at his own name. Not visibly. Not a full-body jerk. Just the briefest tightening of his shoulders, the way his eyes darken before he schools them again.

He doesn’t like hearing it from you. He doesn’t know why.

“I’m told you were in that house,” he says instead, mouth twisting humorlessly. “Figuratively speaking.”

The way he says it—the distance in it, the careful, clinical phrasing like he’s reading from someone else’s file—slices through you.

“I am,” you say, voice shaking. “Was. I mean. We—we work together. We’ve been on a lot of missions. I… I’m your partner. In the field. And… outside of it.”

Something flickers behind his eyes at that. His fingers flex once, metal hand curling into a fist.

“Outside,” he repeats.

You nod, swallowing hard. “You… you live in my building sometimes? When you want quiet. And I make you tea you pretend you don’t like. And you steal my blankets. And you complain about my choice in movies and then secretly watch them again when you think I’m asleep. And you—”

Your voice shatters. The words crumble in your mouth, choking you.

You’ve held it together through the mission, through the wake-up, through Steve’s explanation, through the walk to this room. It all unravels now, every thread snapping at once.

The first sob punches out of you like someone’s driven a fist into your ribs. You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes squeezing shut, the world blurring through wetness.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

You can’t bear for him to see you like this and not know why you’re breaking, not remember all the nights he held you together with those same hands.

“I’m sorry,” you choke, turning away, fingers fumbling for the edge of the bed or the wall or anything to hold onto. “I just— I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

There’s a scrape of metal against linoleum. A quick intake of breath.

Then his hand—warm flesh, not cold metal—closes around your wrist.

The contact is electric.

You freeze. Your eyes open on a blur of white tile and gray curtain and his bare feet on the floor. His grip is careful, not tight, but there’s a tremor running through his fingers.

“Don’t,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Don’t apologize for… that.”

You drag your gaze up.

Bucky stands so close you can see the individual lashes spiking around his eyes, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. His expression is tight, strained, like there’s a war happening behind his face.

His thumb moves, just barely, sweeping once across the rapid beat of your pulse.

“I don’t remember you,” he says, and it’s a wound he’s offering you, open and bloody. “I don’t. I look at you and I see… a ghost.” He huffs out something like a laugh, mirthless. “Steve says you’ve been important. That I cared. That we—” He breaks off, like the next words feel too big in his mouth. “That there was… more.”

There was everything, you want to say. There was the universe in your hands.

“But when you walked in,” Bucky continues, low and hoarse, “and you started crying like that, I thought my chest was going to split open. I don’t know you. But it feels like— it feels like I should be on my knees, doing anything, saying anything, to make you stop looking at me like I’ve just died.”

Your breath stutters.

The ache in him is written in every line of his body, in the way his hand holds you like you’re something breakable he’s already broken once. It’s there, even if the history is gone: that bone-deep instinct to protect, to soothe you, to choose you.

The worst part is, you know that instinct has always been there. From the first mission, from the first time your hands shook after a kill and he wordlessly pressed a glass of water into them. From the first night you fell asleep on his shoulder in the quinjet and he didn’t move for three hours, afraid of waking you.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

He flinches again, this time at the sound of his name soft in your mouth.

You blink the tears out of your eyes, swallowing the jagged lump in your throat. Your free hand curls at your side, nails biting into your palm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, the words surprising you with their steadiness. They feel like vows; they taste like blood. “Not if you don’t want me to. Even if you never remember. Even if we have to start over from nothing. I’ll stay. I’ll… I’ll make sure you’re not alone in that house.”

You can’t tell if the flicker that passes through his eyes is fear or relief.

Maybe both.

“Why?” he asks, almost quietly. It’s not a challenge, not a dismissal. It’s an honest question from a man whose life has taught him that love is conditional and temporary and always, always dangerous.

Because I love you, you could say. Because you’ve survived every winter they built into your bones and I’m not letting you go through another one alone. Because I’d rather drown in the space between us than live in a world where I didn’t at least try to cross it.

Instead, you just take a breath that hurts all the way down and meet his gaze head-on.

“Because I already did it once,” you say. “And you were worth it the first time, so I’m betting you’re worth it again.”

Something splinters.

His hand tightens on your wrist, just for a second, like he’s holding himself back from pulling you closer.

Behind you, you can feel Steve hovering like a stormcloud, full of all the reasons this is messy and dangerous and maybe impossible. You ignore him.

Bucky swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Okay,” he says finally, voice raw. “Okay. Then… we start over.”

Starting over is worse than you thought it would be.

You’d expected pain. You’d braced for the awkwardness of sitting across from him at the kitchen table like strangers, for the way your hands would twitch with the urge to reach for him, to tuck that one errant strand of hair behind his ear or slide your fingers along the line where flesh meets metal.

You hadn’t expected how much it would feel like losing him in slow motion.

He moves back into the compound temporarily, at Bruce’s insistence. “We need to monitor his neural activity,” Bruce says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “See how his brain adapts. Shuri’s tech is still in place, but that blast… there’s a lot we don’t understand.”

The first night, you stand in the doorway of the room that used to be his and watch as he sets a duffel bag on the bed, eyes scanning the space like he’s walking through someone else’s life.

“You picked the paint color,” you say before you can stop yourself, gaze flicking to the deep steel blue of the walls. “Said it reminded you of—” Home. The East River at dawn. The sky over Brooklyn the first winter after the war. “Of the ocean,” you finish instead. “You wanted something that felt… open.”

Bucky’s fingers brush the edge of the dresser, over the faint rings from coffee mugs you both forgot to use coasters for. “Feels like a stranger’s room,” he says bluntly. “Like I broke in.”

Your heart stings.

“You could still stay with me,” you offer, voice too quick, too eager. “My apartment’s small, but you always said you liked—”

He’s already shaking his head. “I think… it would be better if I had some space. If I’m going to get to know you, I don’t want to do it while surrounded by things I’m supposed to remember and don’t.” His mouth twists. “Feels like cheating.”

You bite back the protest that rises to your lips. You want to argue that it isn’t cheating, that it’s just giving him context. That his hoodie is still draped over your couch, that his toothbrush is still in your bathroom, that the dent in your pillow still matches the shape of his head.

Instead, you nod. “Okay,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “Whatever you need.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, searching.

“Steve says you’re stubborn,” he says finally, faint amusement ghosting across his face. “I… don’t see that yet.”

You let out an ugly, half-choked laugh. “Give it five minutes.”

He huffs quietly. The sound almost, almost resembles the soft chuckles you used to drag out of him at three a.m. with your worst jokes.

It feels like looking at a photograph through frosted glass. You recognize the shapes, the shadows, but the details are smeared, unreachable.

He doesn’t ask you to stay. You leave before he has to.

They put him through tests.

Memory exercises, reflex drills, therapy sessions. Bruce and Helen Cho and a rotating cast of Wakandan scientists cycle through his days, measuring, prodding, questioning.

Sometimes you watch from the observation room, hands pressed to the glass, teeth aching with the effort of staying still.

In one session, they show him pictures; faces of the team, shots from missions, candids Nat took at movie nights and training sessions and random Tuesday afternoons.

Bucky gets most of them in broad strokes.

“That’s Sam,” he says, squinting at a photo of the two of them mid-argument, wings half-deployed, hair whipping in the wind. “I remember his laugh. And his singing. Unfortunately.”

“That’s Natasha,” when they hold up a shot of her perched on a table, smirking at something just out of frame. “She’s… dangerous.” A pause. “But kind.”

“That’s Wanda.” “That’s Bruce.” “That’s Clint, right? The bird guy?”

Then they hold up a picture of you.

It’s a grainy shot from last winter, taken through the glass of the common room. You’re curled up on the couch, feet shoved under Bucky’s thigh, oversized sweater swallowing your frame. There’s snow falling thick outside the window behind you, and you’re laughing at something, head tipped back, eyes crinkled.

Bucky stares at it for a long time.

The room on the other side of the glass is so quiet you can hear the hum of the fluoros.

“Do you recognize this person?” Bruce asks gently.

Bucky’s brow furrows. His tongue runs over his bottom lip, a gesture you know means he’s thinking hard, digging through the static.

“I’ve seen her,” he says slowly. “Around. Here.” His gaze flicks to the observation window, where he can’t see you but seems to feel your attention anyway, because his shoulders tighten. “She came to see me. In the med bay.”

“And before the incident?” Bruce asks. “Any memories associated with her face? Her voice?”

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows.

Your heart pounds against your ribs.

“No,” he says finally.

The word hits you like a bullet.

You don’t cry in the observation room.

You don’t cry when he gets frustrated during training, when his brain misfires and he forgets a move you drilled together a hundred times. You don’t cry when he accidentally calls you “ma’am” the first time you spar again, polite and formal and careful, instead of the amused, exasperated “doll” that used to curl off his tongue like it belonged to you alone.

You wait until you’re alone in the elevator, the doors sliding closed on the bright lights and sterile halls.

The sob punches its way out of you before you can brace for it. You clap a hand over your mouth and let yourself fold in on yourself for the span of the ride, shoulders shaking, tears hot on your cheeks.

When the doors open on your floor, you wipe your face with the cuff of your sleeve and step out like you’re not actively falling apart.

You told him you’d stay.

You didn’t say you’d stay pretty.

Winter settles in, proper and merciless.

Snow piles against the windows of the compound. The glass fogs with breath whenever someone leans too close. The grounds go quiet and muffled, the training yard transforming into an expanse of untouched white between sessions.

Once, last year, you and Bucky spent an entire afternoon out there, bundled in mismatched scarves and hats, pelting each other with snowballs until you were breathless, cheeks flushed, fingers numb and burning. He’d tackled you into a drift, metal arm braced beside your head to keep from hurting you, his hair dusted with snow, laughter bright and shocked on his face like he couldn’t believe it was coming out of him.

“You’re ridiculous,” he’d told you, while you attempted to shove snow down the back of his jacket and he grabbed your wrists with you squealing. “You know that, right?”

“Admit defeat,” you’d crowed, triumphant and giddy.

“Never, doll,” he’d said, and then he’d kissed you, snow melting against your skin, mouth warm and soft and a little clumsy, like he was still learning how.

This winter, he watches the snow fall from behind a window.

You find him there one evening, standing alone in the dim common room, one hand braced on the glass. The sky outside is the color of bruises, the ground a patchwork of gray and white. The city beyond is a softer blur, lights winking through the flurries.

He doesn’t turn when you enter.

“Hey,” you say quietly, stepping up beside him. You keep a careful distance, close enough to feel the chill radiating off the window, far enough not to crowd. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He huffs out a breath. “Seems familiar.”

You try to smile. It comes out wobbly. “Yeah. You’ve always been a night owl.”

“You told me that before,” he says. “In one of the… stories.”

You don’t realize he’s been counting them like that—stories—until now. Each memory you offer, each scrap of your history together, categorized and stored as fiction in his head because he can’t access it as fact.

You swallow. “Did you not want me to?”

His shoulders shift. “No. I mean—” He pauses, struggling. “I want to know. It’s just… strange, hearing about a version of myself I don’t remember being. A version of you I can’t see. It feels…”

“Unfair?” you suggest.

He glances at you, joints of his metal fingers glinting in the low light as he flexes them. “Maybe.”

You turn your gaze back to the snow.

“You used to hate winter,” you say after a moment. “Said it made your bones ache. That it reminded you of too many bad things.”

He snorts softly. “Sounds about right.”

“But then there was this one night.” You can see it like it’s happening again—the glow of street lamps on icy sidewalks, the bite of cold on your cheeks, the way your breath puffed in front of you as you laughed. “We got caught in a storm after a mission. Missed the quinjet pickup. Ended up walking four blocks back to the safe house, soaked and freezing. I was complaining the whole way, and you were just… quiet.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to follow the thread of the memory with you.

“When we got inside, you made tea,” you continue. “Real tea. Loose leaf. You were offended by the teabags in the cabinet. And we sat on the floor by the radiator, wrapped in one blanket, shivering. I kept complaining about my toes. And you looked at me and said, ‘It’s not so bad, you know.’”

He actually smiles, faint and incredulous. “I did?”

“Yeah.” You smile too, despite the ache in your chest. “I asked if you’d been body-snatched. You said… winter doesn’t seem so long when there’s someone waiting with you for the thaw.”

Silence settles between you, softer than before.

His metal fingers tap once against the glass.

“That sounds like something a better man would say,” he murmurs.

“A good man,” you reply. “Which is what you are.”

He shakes his head, a reflexive denial etched into him too deep for a wiped memory to erase. “You don’t know me.”

“I do.” The words come out fierce, sharper than you intend. You don’t soften them. “I know you better than anyone else here. Better than HYDRA ever did. Better than the files and the legend and the ghosts. I know the way you like your coffee. I know which nightmares you wake up from quiet and which ones pull screams out of your throat. I know the sound of your laugh when you’re trying not to let it out. I know—” Your voice breaks, but you push through. “I know you.”

He’s staring at you now, eyes dark and searching, like he’s trying to stitch together the man he feels like with the man you’re describing.

“Why does it hurt?” he asks, like you’d have the answer. “Whenever you look at me like that. Whenever you talk about… us. Why does it feel like someone’s taken a shovel to my ribs?”

Because your heart recognizes what your mind doesn’t, you think. Because it knows you love me and it doesn’t understand why it doesn’t have the memories to go with it.

“Maybe,” you say instead, voice softer now, “because some things are too strong to wipe. Maybe your brain forgot, but your stupid, stubborn heart didn’t.”

He huffs, but it sounds more like a breathless almost-laugh this time.

“That’s sentimental,” he mutters.

“You like sentimental,” you reply quietly. “You just pretend you don’t.”

His gaze lingers on your face, tracing over the lines you know he’s memorized before and is subconsciously trying to memorize again.

“You talk about him,” Bucky says slowly. “The me that knew you. Like he’s gone.”

You flinch. “I—”

“I’m still here,” he says, not unkindly. “I don’t remember. And maybe I never will. But… I’m not dead. I don’t want you to keep… mourning a ghost when the idiot is standing right in front of you.”

He looks away, like the next admission costs him something.

“And I don’t think I want to spend the rest of my life trying to measure up to a version of myself I can’t even see.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not—” You swallow. “I’m not comparing. I’m just… grieving what we lost.”

“I get that,” he says. And you think he does. All his lives have been carved up and taken from him piece by piece; he understands loss better than anyone. “But… if we’re going to do this—” His hand gestures between you, encompassing the fragile, undefined thing you’re trying to build. “If we’re going to… try… then I need you here. With me. Not back there with a guy who lived in your memories.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

“You want to try?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

It hangs there, bare and vulnerable between you.

Bucky’s throat works as he swallows. “I don’t know what we were,” he says. “I don’t know what we… did. What we promised. But I know that when you walk out of a room, I notice. That when you laugh, I want to know why. That when you cry, it feels like something in me is being… ripped apart.”

His metal hand lifts, hovers near your face, fingers trembling. He doesn’t touch you, stopping just shy of your cheek, heat radiating from his skin.

“I don’t remember loving you,” he says, and the words are a knife and a balm all at once, “but I believe you when you say I did. And I—” He sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly. “I think I could again. If you let me.”

The winter between you shifts.

It doesn’t melt, not all at once. The distance is still there, filled with missing years and stolen moments and a thousand things only one of you can recall. But it cracks, hairline fractures spreading through the ice.

“You’re not a different man,” you say, tears stinging your eyes. “You’re… the same man, just rewinding a bit.”

“Feels like I’ve skipped whole seasons,” he murmurs. “I went to bed in the fall and woke up in the dead of winter.”

“Then we’ll wait for spring together,” you reply, voice shaking. “Again.”

He searches your face for a long moment.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Then… start over with me.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

“Hi,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. Your hand lifts, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, light and tentative. “I’m—”

“Don’t tell me your name,” he interrupts, and your heart drops for a second before he continues, “Let me guess.”

You blink. “Guess?”

“Yeah.” There’s a ghost of a smile playing at his mouth now. “Feels like… something I should already know. Maybe if I’m wrong, you’ll laugh. And I… think I want to hear that.”

“You already know my laugh,” you murmur.

“Humor me,” he says.

You hesitate, then nod. “Okay. Go ahead, Barnes.”

He closes his eyes, like he’s listening for something inside his own head. His brow furrows. His lips move soundlessly, testing shapes.

Then his eyes open, lock on yours.

“Is it…” He swallows. “Is it the same name you used when you… yelled at me for leaving dishes in the sink?”

A startled laugh bursts out of you. “I—yes? I haven’t changed it since then.”

“Good.” His mouth curls, triumph and something softer flickering through his expression. “Then I think I remember this much: your name looks good written on coffee cups. And it sounds better when you’re swearing at me.”

Your breath catches.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “Do you—?”

He shakes his head, cutting you off gently. “Flashes,” he says. “Not even images. More like… impressions. Feelings. The sense of something. But if I spend the rest of my life stitching those together with what we build from here, I think… I think it might be enough.”

You’re crying again, silently this time, tears sliding down your cheeks. You don’t try to wipe them away.

His metal thumb moves, almost without his permission, brushing one of them from your skin.

The second he touches you, his entire body goes still.

For a heartbeat, it feels like the world has been struck silent. There’s only the sharp inhale he drags in, the way his pupils flare, the way his hand trembles against your face.

“What?” you breathe, afraid to move.

“It’s like…” His voice is barely audible. “Like déjà vu. Like I’ve done this before. A thousand times. Held you like this. Touched you here.” His thumb sweeps under your eye again, maybe chasing another tear, maybe chasing the shadow of a memory. “Like there’s a groove in my bones where you fit.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a sob, almost a laugh.

“There is,” you whisper. “There is, Buck.”

He flinches at the nickname, but it’s softer this time. Less pain, more confusion.

“We’ll get there,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “We’ll… we’ll take it day by day. Mission by mission. Winter by winter.”

He nods slowly, thumb lingering for one more second on your cheek before he lowers his hand.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “will you have coffee with me?”

You blink. “Coffee?”

He shrugs, a bit self-conscious. “Feels like a… starting-over kind of thing. No stories about the past. Just… you, telling me what you like in a drink, and me trying not to screw it up. We can… talk. About now. About… what you want. From me. From… us.” His jaw clenches. “If that’s still on the table.”

It hits you then, all over again, how brave he’s being. How much it must cost to ask that, knowing you could walk away, knowing you already did the falling once and might not choose to again.

“I want you,” you say, before doubt can creep in. His eyes widen, color flushing high on his cheekbones. “I want… whatever version of us we can make. Even if it’s not the same. Even if it’s… new. I’ll take new if it’s with you.”

His lips part.

“Then coffee,” he says, voice rough. “Tomorrow. Ten a.m.”

“Ten-thirty,” you counter automatically. “Or I’ll be late and you’ll think I stood you up.”

He huffs out a surprised laugh. “You’re really not a morning person, huh?”

“I am when missions demand it,” you say primly. “I just don’t believe in socializing before double digits.”

He shakes his head, smile lingering. “Yeah. I can see why he…” He stops, corrects. “Why I liked you.”

Your heart gives a painful lurch.

“You still do,” you say, because you need him to understand, because you need it written somewhere real. “You just don’t remember how much yet.”

His gaze locks on yours, unwavering.

“I’m starting to,” he says quietly.

Coffee at ten-thirty becomes a ritual.

The first morning, he’s waiting at the compound’s small kitchen island when you shuffle in, hair a mess, hoodie three sizes too big, yawning exaggeratingly. There are two mugs on the counter. One is filled with something dark and dangerous-looking. The other is… promising.

“You like it with too much sugar,” he says, as you pick up the second mug. “And oat milk. Because you’re a… what was the word?”

“A gremlin?” you offer.

“Hipster,” he corrects, lips twitching. “That’s the one.”

You take a cautious sip.

It’s perfect.

You meet his eyes over the rim of the mug. He shrugs, trying for nonchalant and failing.

“Guess some things survived the reboot,” he mutters.

You talk.

Not about the past—not much, not in detail. He asks small questions. What did you do before SHIELD? What’s your favorite book? Why do you hate mushrooms? You ask him about the music he’s discovering now, about the way the city looks to him after all these years, about the foods he’s trying, about the way therapy is going.

Between questions, there are quiet stretches where the only sounds are the clink of spoons against ceramic, the hiss of the espresso machine, the muffled hum of life elsewhere in the compound.

The silence is less awkward than you’d feared. There’s something… steady in it. Like slipping into a familiar rhythm, even if you both pretend it’s new.

Days stack on days.

You go on missions together again, slow at first, low-risk operations where he can relearn your combat rhythms. He flinches the first time you take a bullet for him, eyes going wide, fury snapping through his posture as he takes down the agent who fired. In the quinjet afterwards, as Bruce patches you up, he sits across from you, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticks.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, voice low and shaky.

“I’ll try not to get shot,” you say lightly, wincing as disinfectant stings. “But no promises. Occupational hazard.”

“I mean…” He trails off, hands curling into fists on his knees. “Don’t put yourself in front of me like that. You said you’ve watched me die enough times already. I don’t want to add to the tally by… watching you do it for me.”

You stare at him, throat tight.

“Then don’t make it a contest,” you reply. “We keep each other alive. That’s the deal. Has been from day one.”

He swallows, gaze dropping. “Day one for you,” he says. “Feels like… day seventeen for me.”

“Fine.” You tilt your head, meeting his eyes when they flick up. “Then this is day seventeen of that deal. You don’t get out of it just because you’re behind on the calendar.”

His mouth twitches.

“You’re bossy,” he mutters.

“You like bossy,” you shoot back.

He does.

You see it in the way he gestures for you to go ahead of him when you enter rooms, like his body remembers falling into step with yours. The way his hand hovers a breath from your lower back in crowded hallways, not quite touching but always there. The way his shoulders relax, infinitesimally, when he hears your footstep behind him.

You never call him on it.

You also see the way it hurts him, sometimes, the way people expect him to remember. Clint making a joke about that one time in Madrid. Sam referencing a stupid bet they had about karaoke. Nat tossing him a weapon and calling, “In your sock drawer, right where you obsessively keep it,” only for him to freeze, color draining from his face.

You see him watching you when you tell stories with the others, about the time you all ended up stranded in a motel with only one bed and three broken heaters, or the time Wanda accidentally hexed Tony’s suit into singing Christmas carols every time he flew. The way his gaze goes distant, locked on some point between you and the air, trying to connect dots without lines.

Once, you find him in the gym, alone, punching a bag so hard it swings on the chain like a pendulum. Sweat darkens his shirt, hair plastered to his forehead. His metal arm whirs with each hit, servos humming.

“You’re going to tear it,” you say quietly, leaning in the doorway.

“I’ll buy a new one,” he grits out.

He doesn’t stop.

You walk closer, shoe squeaks masked by the thud of fist against leather.

“Bucky.”

“Don’t.” The word cracks. His fist connects again, the bag groaning. “Don’t call me that like I’m… like I’m yours to call.”

You flinch. The air between you goes brittle.

He sags almost immediately, head dropping, breath sawing.

“I didn’t mean…” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Feel like you’re failing a test you never signed up for,” you supply softly. “Like everyone’s speaking a language you forgot.”

He looks at you, eyes bleak.

“There are whole years I don’t have,” he says. “Whole seasons. Steve keeps telling me it’s going to be okay, that people lose memories all the time and still live full lives, but he doesn’t understand what it’s like to… know that there’s someone you loved, right there, hurting, and you can’t remember a single goddamn reason why.”

He hits the bag one more time, weaker.

“I’d never forgive myself for that,” he says. “If I had all my memories. If I chose to forget you. But I didn’t choose. I… I hate that I don’t have to take responsibility for that. I hate that I get to be the victim when you’re the one who has to live with a walking reminder of what you lost.”

You step closer until you can touch the swinging bag, steadying it with both hands. It’s like grabbing hold of the storm between you and forcing it still.

“You’re not a reminder,” you say softly. “You’re… you. Still. Different, yeah. Hurting, yeah. But not… less. Not… half. I didn’t fall in love with your memories, Bucky. I fell in love with you. The way you are when you’re grumpy before coffee. The way you hum old songs when you think no one’s listening. The way you sit on the floor instead of the couch when you’re anxious because you like feeling grounded. That’s all still there. Even if the timeline got screwed.”

He watches you, jaw working.

“You say that like it’s easy,” he mutters.

“It’s not.” You huff out a humorless laugh. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Every time you call me ‘ma’am,’ I want to rearrange your brain with my bare hands. Every time you tense when I touch you, I feel like I’m intruding on my own life. But… I’d rather have this. I’d rather have you, broken and rebuilding, than the ghost of what we were.”

You swallow, fingers tightening on the bag.

“And if I’ve got to build a new life with you,” you add, voice steady despite the crack in your chest, “I will. Piece by piece. I’ll tell you the same stories a hundred times if that’s what it takes for you to feel like you belong in them. I’ll stand in this winter as long as I have to, if it means I get to see the first thaw with you. Again.”

His eyes shine in the dim light.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says, voice rough. “You shouldn’t have to do this again.”

“Maybe I was always going to have to,” you say. “Life doesn’t come with guarantees. People change. Trauma rewires. We forget things. All love is choosing the same person again and again, every day, even when they’re different. Even when you are. This is just… a more dramatic version.”

A huff of reluctant amusement escapes him. “Dramatic,” he echoes. “That’s one way to put it.”

He blows out a breath, then steps away from the bag. His hands drop to his sides, palms open.

“Come here,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Come here,” he repeats, softer.

You let go of the bag and go.

He wraps his arms around you.

It’s clumsy at first—he doesn’t know whether to put his right or left arm on top, doesn’t remember that you like to tuck your face against the side of his neck, that you like when his flesh hand spreads wide across your back. But his body remembers the shape of you, even if his brain doesn’t. Within seconds, your curves fit into the angles of him like they always have.

You curl your fingers into the fabric at his sides, nose pressed to his sweat-damp shirt. Your eyes sting.

“This feels… right,” he murmurs, voice rumbling against your ear. “Like something I’ve done so many times the muscle memory’s stronger than the wipe.”

Your fingers flex, bunching cloth.

“It is,” you whisper. “It was. It will be.”

He pulls you closer.

“I want to earn it,” he says quietly. “Your trust. Your… love. Again. I don’t want you to keep giving me trust I already broke and don’t remember breaking.”

“You didn’t break it,” you protest, muffled. “HYDRA did.”

“They aimed for me,” he says. “You got hit too.”

You can’t argue with that.

“So let me do it,” he adds. “Let me… fall. For you. Again. Not because you stayed. Not because you did it once already and it’s easier to pretend I still feel the same. But because I do. Because I choose you. Here. Now. In this… snowstorm of a brain.”

Your laugh is wet and shaky. “Snowstorm of a brain?”

“Shut up,” he mutters.

You pull back just enough to see his face. There’s a flush on his cheeks, whether from the workout or his own words, you can’t tell. Maybe both.

“You are,” you say, “so stupidly poetic when you don’t mean to be.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll never live it down.”

“I liked it,” you admit.

He groans louder.

Slowly, deliberately, you reach up and cup his face in your hands. His breath catches, eyes searching yours. You can feel the tremor in his jaw under your fingertips, the staccato thud of his heart where your chest presses to his.

“Then let’s start with this,” you say. “Present tense. No stories. No past lives.”

Something in him braces.

His hands tighten on your waist.

“Do you want to kiss me, Bucky?” you ask softly.

He swallows.

“I don’t know how it felt before,” he says. “I don’t know if I used to kiss you like a man drowning or a man praying. I don’t know if I—”

“I’m not asking what you did,” you interrupt gently. “I’m asking what you want.”

He stares at you, throat working.

“I’ve wanted to since the med bay,” he admits, voice barely audible. “Didn’t know why. Didn’t think it was fair. Felt like stealing from a man who wasn’t in the room.”

“He’s here,” you say. “He’s you. And I promise you, he’d want you to.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Then… yes,” he whispers. “I want to.”

You lean in.

It’s different from the first time and yet somehow the same. Back then, it was snow-melt and nerves and a hesitant press of mouths, both of you unsure if the world would shatter if you reached for more. This time, there’s weight behind it. History. Loss. Choice.

His lips are warm and a little chapped. He kisses you carefully at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid of breaking you—or of breaking himself open and finding too much there. His metal hand is an anchor at your hip, grounding, solid. His flesh hand slides up your spine, fingers splaying at the nape of your neck.

You melt into him.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft drag of his mouth, the wet heat of breath exchanged, the way his body fits against yours like it remembers, like it’s been waiting.

Then something shifts.

He makes a sound against your lips—half-groan, half-sigh—and the kiss deepens. His hand tightens, pulling you closer. Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging just enough to draw another, darker noise from his throat.

Images flicker behind his eyes—snow on eyelashes, your laughter, a radiator ticking as it heats, the taste of mint tea on your tongue. They’re gone as soon as they come, but they leave an imprint, a trail of warmth through the cold.

When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing hard.

“Anything?” you ask, searching his face.

He closes his eyes, brows knitting. Opens them again, gaze clear.

“Pieces,” he says. “Not enough to make a whole. But… enough to know that I want more. Enough to know that… this isn’t new. Not really. It’s… remembering with my body what my head hasn’t caught up to yet.”

Tears blur your vision.

“We can work with pieces,” you whisper.

He smiles, small but sure.

“We already are,” he says.

Spring comes late that year.

Snow lingers in gray piles at the edges of streets. The river steams on chilly mornings. The city shakes winter off slowly, grudgingly.

Inside the compound, you and Bucky move through your days with a new rhythm. Coffee. Training. Missions. Therapy. Movie nights where he sits close enough that your knees touch. Walks in the city where he lets you show him the little pockets of the world you love: the bookstore with the crooked shelves, the corner deli with the best pickles, the park bench where the light hits just right at sunset.

Sometimes he remembers things.

Not in a neat, narrative way. Not like in the movies, where a single phrase or song triggers a montage of moments. His comes in flashes, disjointed images: your face lit by candlelight as you blow out birthday candles; your hands stained with paint as you help him redo his bedroom; the feel of your head heavy on his shoulder as the opening credits roll.

Once, you’re standing in line at a food truck when he reaches out suddenly and plucks a piece of cilantro from your taco.

“You hate that,” he says, without thinking.

You blink. “What?”

“Cilantro,” he says, frowning at the leaf in his hand. “Tastes like… soap to you. You always pick it out.”

Your heart stutters. “You remember that?”

He looks startled, then slow wonder spreads across his face.

“Guess I do,” he murmurs.

You grin, sudden and bright, and launch yourself at him in a hug right there on the sidewalk. He catches you, laughing as you nearly knock both of you off balance.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, arms around you. “Guess I like being your… memory backup.”

“There’s going to be more,” you say into his chest, feeling oddly fierce. “I know it.”

“Maybe.” He presses his mouth to your hair, soft. “But even if there isn’t… I’ve got new ones. With you. That no one can take.”

You pull back, looking up at him.

“You’re not scared?” you ask.

“Terrified,” he says instantly. Then his eyes soften. “But not of forgetting. Not anymore.”

“Of what, then?”

He studies you for a long moment.

“Of losing you twice,” he says quietly.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble there.

“You’re not going to,” you say. “I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” he says, but he leans into your touch.

“No,” you agree. “But I can promise I’m going to keep choosing you. Even when you drive me insane. Even when you leave dishes in the sink and pretend you didn’t.”

“I don’t—” he starts, protests on reflex, then stops, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“See?” you say. “Progess.”

He laughs.

The winter between you isn’t gone. There are still patches of ice, places where his memory slips, where you have to steady him through a conversation he doesn’t remember starting, where he stares at a scar on your arm like it’s a riddle he can’t solve.

But there are more thaws now. More moments where warmth bleeds through, where the ground softens, where something green and fragile pushes up through the frost.

On an evening in late March, you find yourselves back on the compound lawn, snow mostly melted into soggy patches. The air is still crisp, but there’s a hint of softness in it you haven’t felt in months.

Bucky drops down beside you on the grass, metal hand braced behind him as he leans back, looking up at the sky. It’s a washed-out blue, streaked with thin clouds.

“Do you ever think about… before?” he asks, unexpected.

You glance at him. “Before… us?”

“Before all of it,” he says. “Before HYDRA. Before Steve pulled me out. Before…”

“Before me,” you finish quietly.

He shrugs, eyes still on the sky. “Sometimes. Feels like another man’s life. Another man’s winter.”

You turn your gaze upward too, watching a plane cut a slow line across the horizon.

“What about now?” you ask. “What does… this… feel like?”

There’s a long pause.

“Like standing in the middle of a frozen lake,” he says finally. “Listening to the ice crack.”

You stiffen slightly. “That sounds… terrifying.”

He huffs. “It is. But… it’s also the only way to know spring’s coming.”

You look at him.

His profile is sharp against the sky, jawline clean, mouth relaxed. There’s a small scar on his chin you remember from a mission gone wrong in Berlin, when you both dove for cover at the same time and he clipped the edge of a concrete barrier.

He doesn’t remember that.

But he remembers cilantro. And your coffee order. And the way your laugh sounds when you’re trying not to cry.

“Bucky,” you say softly.

He turns his head, eyes meeting yours.

“You know what I think?” you ask.

“What’s that?”

“I think…” You take a breath. “That love isn’t about holding onto every detail. It’s… about choosing someone, over and over, even when the details go blurry. Even when winter drags on. I think you loved me before. I know I loved you. And now… we’re just… proving we’ll do it twice.”

He smiles, slow and real.

“You’re really stubborn,” he says. “You know that?”

You grin back, heart aching in the best way. “Told you. Give it five minutes.”

He laughs, the sound warm and full in his chest, and it hits you like the first day of spring—the sudden, startling knowledge that you’ve made it through something brutal and cold and long, and that on the other side, there’s still life. Different. Scarred. But alive.

He reaches for your hand.

You let him take it.

His fingers twine with yours, the cool weight of metal offset by the warmth of his flesh. He squeezes once, a silent promise.

You squeeze back.

Between you, winter lingers at the edges, always a part of your landscape. But there’s something else now, too. Something tender and brave, breaking through the thaw.

You sit there together, hands clasped, watching the sky change colors as the sun sinks, feeling the ice beneath your feet crack, crack, crack—

And, for the second time, you fall in love with him.

And, for the first time, he realizes he’s falling in love with you.

----

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The two of you had gone into this mission expecting a quick sweep. It was supposed to be a routine in, out, clean extraction of information, the usual. You and Bucky had been dating long enough that missions felt almost domestic. With him it was comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. 

You should’ve known something was off when the warehouse was too easy to infiltrate. All you saw was heat rippling off rusted metal and the sound of your own breathing.

"Two on the ridge. I’ll take left, you take right," you whispered.

"Copy," Bucky answered, a little affection slipping through.

You smiled, and did your job. 

You managed to swipe the drive, and everything was going well… right up until the world spun around you.

The hidden shooter emerged from behind a half-collapsed stack of storage crates. You didn’t even see him until the muzzle flashed. The bullet tore into your ribs like a searing knife, sending you crashing onto the hard-packed sand.

You heard Bucky shout through the comms one second, and the next time you opened your dizzy eyes, he was there. His knees hit the ground beside you, hands pressing against your bleeding side.

"Hey—hey. Stay with me. Look at me," he begged, voice ragged and breaking in a million ways you’d never heard before.

You tried to say you were fine. You weren’t.

Besides, he didn’t give you time to argue. One second you were on the ground, the next you were in his arms, with his desperate grip around your shoulders as he carried you out of the ghost town. He ran like the earth was caving behind him, like every second you lost blood was a second he couldn’t bear.

He threw you onto the backseat of the getaway, climbed in front, and drove, recklessly, quickly, and terrified, all the way to the nearest motel thirty miles out with a dying neon sign flickered above the door. He dropped a wad of cash on the cashier to keep the receptionist quiet as he carried your limp body inside.

The mission was technically a success.

But as Bucky laid your unconscious form on the motel bed, he wasn’t so sure. 

—

You surfaced from the darkness of your slumber slowly, like swimming up through an ocean of tar.

For a good five minutes, you didn’t know where you were. The world felt like it had tilted on its axis, too bright on one side, too dim on the other. Your body felt heavy in a way that was sluggish and wrong. As you breathed in, you noticed a grinding pain flared under your ribs every time your lungs tried to expand.

Your eyes finally fluttered fully open.

You stared at the ceiling for a while. It was dingy, a water stain shaped vaguely like a cloud hovered above you. The buzzing neon light outside the window threw pinkish streaks across the wall, pulsing in sickly but rhythmic flashes.

You blinked hard, trying to piece together the night before.

What was the last thing you remembered?

You remembered hearing a gunshot.

You remembered dropping into sand. You remembered your back hitting the wall. 

You remembered your vision swimming as you heard Bucky’s voice breaking.

You vaguely remembered like your ribs were being pried apart.

You vaguely remembered his hands on you, shaking.

You willed your eyes to drift, moving slowly across the room. The first thing that came into focus was the nightstand.

And the bloodied bullet sitting on it.

It was dented and dripping dried flakes of your blood onto a motel napkin. From this angle, it looked deceptively small and innocent-looking. And yet it had torn into your body, rattled your bones, tried its best to bury itself deep.

You tried to shift, but the pain hit your nerves like a hammer, letting out a quiet strangled sound from your throat. You looked down and saw the thick, white bandages wrapped snug around your body, stained in places but clean around the center. It was freshly changed.

Did he…? Did Bucky fish the bullet out of you? Did he patch you up?

You blinked again, vision clearing enough to follow the smear of red across the floor, up the side of the bed, to the man sitting hunched beside you.

Of course he did.

Still, Bucky was almost unrecognizable under the dim motel light. His usually disciplined posture was shattered, as he sat on the edge of the chair like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. His head was hanging low, his shoulders curled inward, his hair falling into his face.

His metal hand hung limp at his side, but his human hand was shaking, and it was shaking violently.

In that hand he held a stained motel towel. He was desperately scrubbed at a smear of dried blood on his wrist, no doubt your blood, with frantic, compulsive strokes. The skin there was rubbed raw and flushed red.

He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet, too busy getting rid of evidence on his skin that you were ever hurt at all. 

You watched him for a moment, your foggy mind slowly catching up, stitching together the horror Bucky was drowning in front of you.

You soon realised that this wasn’t the aftermath of a mission, but rather the aftermath of almost losing you.

"B… Bucky?" you whispered, your voice broken and papery.

He froze completely. 

He lifted his head slowly, as if it weighed a hundred pounds. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollowed out with sleepless terror.

"You’re awake," he breathed, but it sounded more like a prayer than an observation.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head, pushing himself off the chair and reaching your bedside. His human hand hovered over your cheek but didn’t touch as trembling mid-air.

"It… it took you so long," he whispered, voice splintering into a million pieces.

You swallowed, trying to gather your scattered thoughts. "How long was I out?"

"Too long." His voice cracked. "Way too long."

He sat on the edge of the bed, metal hand bracing him, human hand still restless. His eyes darted to your bandages, to the bullet on the nightstand, back to your face.

"Bucky…" you tried again.

He didn’t answer. It was like he couldn’t force any sound out of his throat.

You studied the rigidness in his jaw, the way his lips were pressed so tight they were turning white, the way you started noticing a faint tremor running through his metal fingers too.

You reached for him, your hand barely brushed his wrist before he flinched, not away from you, but toward you, like he’d been waiting desperately for you to touch him.

He grabbed your hand in both of his, metal and flesh, pressing it to his lips as he inhaled shakily.

"It’s a miracle you're still alive," he finally whispered, voice barely more than breath.

You frowned. "What?"

"It missed everything," he went on, faster now, the words tripping and stumbling out of him like they’d been trapped in for hours. "Every major artery, every organ—anything important, that fucking bullet missed. Do you understand? It—God—"

He squeezed your hand, then your fingers, then your palm.

"You should be…" His voice faltered. He swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "You should be…"

You finished it for him. "I should be dead?"

His reaction was devastating.

"No." His voice came out strangled. "Don’t—don’t say that." He squeezed your hand tighter, "Don’t say that word. Don’t even, don’t ever—"

He bowed his head over your hand, shoulders trembling. "I can’t hear you say that," he whispered, voice cracking. "I can’t. I can’t."

Fuck. You hated this. You hated seeing him shaken, hated being the reason why.

So, stupidly, you brushed his concerns off even though you knew you shouldn’t have and said, "I’m fine."

Still, your voice sounded so thin, it might rip if you tried any harder. Bucky stared at you like you’d just told him pigs could fly.

His human hand clenched and unclenched, shaking so hard you could hear the metal in his arm creak with the tension unravelling through him.

"You’re not," he said, barely above a whisper.

You hated that tone. You hated being the cause of it.

So you did what you always did when it gets too uncomfortable — you made a joke.

"Fine-ish," you amended. "Fine-adjacent. You know, fine for someone who got—" you gestured loosely at your ribs, "—hole-punched."

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "That’s not funny."

"It kinda is," you insisted. "Little bit. Like, give me twenty minutes and I could probably whistle through it."

"Stop." His voice was clipped.

"I’ll save money on piercings," you tried again. "Nature just did one for fr—"

"Stop!" He gritted through his teeth.

But you couldn’t stop. Humor had always been the easiest, fastest way to soften the edges. Hadn’t it always worked before?

You pushed yourself to sit upright, even though your ribs were practically screaming.

"Look," you said, forcing a swallow. "See? Not dead on the outside, at least—" 

You didn’t finish because Bucky grabbed your wrist. He wasn’t rough, but rather desperate.

Your heart lurched in your chest and you saw wet tears streaming down from his eyes. 

"Don’t talk like that," he said.

"Like what?" you asked. "Like this isn’t my coping mechanism?"

"Like you almost—" He choked on it. "Like you almost d—"

"I mean, it almost happened," you whispered. "I’m just saying if I had died—" Your grin was weak, but you meant it.

Bucky went completely still.

"No." He inhaled a sharp breath. "Don’t joke about—Don’t… don’t even play with that idea."

You tried to ease the tension. "Buck, it’s okay. I didn’t. I’m not a corpse. No Weekend at Bernie's situation—"

Then, as if to prove your point, you swung your legs to the side and attempted to stand up.

Because you needed to prove you weren’t broken. You needed to prove you weren’t fragile. You needed to prove that he didn’t need to look at you like you were made of thin ice in summer. Even as you told yourself this, you weren’t sure if you were angry at him or at yourself for being fragile.

The second you got your feet under you, your world fell in over itself. 

Your ribs burst with scathing pain. Your vision sparkled at the edges. You swayed hard enough that your knees nearly buckled out from under you.

Bucky lunged for you in a panic.

"Hey—hey!" he shouted as he caught you, an arm around your waist. "What the hell are you doing?"

You blinked up at him, trying to smile despite the fact that you could barely stand. "Proving a point?"

"The point being you have zero self-preservation?" he snapped.

You let out a weak laugh, trying to take control of the situation. "I’m walking. Standing. Staying alive. Two out of three ain’t bad."

"This isn’t a joke!"

"Nu-uh," you croaked, wobbling in his arms. "It’s hilarious."

"It’s not," The plea tore from his throat, jagged.

You winced. Not from your ribs, but from the concern in his voice.

He was shaking.

"Bucky…" you murmured, trying to soothe him.

"No," he said fiercely. "You almost passed out!"

"I’m just a little dizzy. Happens to the best of us. Happens to the worst of us too. Happens to everyone, really—"

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Why are you acting like it’s nothing?"

"Because it is nothing compared to—"

"No," he cut you off again. "No, it’s not nothing. You were unconscious for over five hours. I didn’t know if you were going to wake up at all. I didn’t know—" His voice cracked. "I didn’t know if I’d have to—"

Unwisely, you tried to lighten the mood again.

"Well, if I didn’t wake up, at least you have good taste in flowers for the funeral. And you know, I’ve always wanted dramatic bagpipes—"

"STOP," he shouted this time, voice a mix of panic and fury. "STOP TALKING LIKE YOU’RE—LIKE YOU’RE—"

"What? Going to die?" You shrugged. The movement nearly made you black out. "You already don’t want me to say the word, so I figured—"

"You’re hurting yourself!"

"I’m fine!"

"You can’t even stand!"

"I am standing!" you insisted, even though your legs were trembling so hard it felt like the room was vibrating.

"Sit down," he said firmly, gently trying to push you down. 

"No."

"Sit. Down."

"No," you snapped back. 

"Why," he gasped, voice breaking so openly now, "why do you have to be so difficult?!"

"Because you’re looking at me like I’m already in a box!" you yelled back.

Oh.

His chest rose in a jagged breath.

You suddenly felt too hot. Too cold.

Your knees wobbled again, and Bucky immediately tightened his human hands on your waist.

"Please," he whispered now, nudging again. "Sit down. Please."

"I don’t need to—"

Your legs gave out before you could finish.

He lowered you mid-collapse, setting you to the bed like you might shatter if he breathed too hard.

You didn’t resist this time.

Your entire body was shivering. You couldn’t tell if it was from pain or adrenaline or fear or all of it together.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, hands on your knees, head bowed as if he was trying to get his breathing under control.

"You’re alive," he whispered, voice broken. "Don’t make fun of that. Don’t play with that. Don’t…"

His voice fell apart.

And for once, you didn’t have a joke.

—

At one point that night, Bucky eased you down from sitting down, to sleeping onto the motel bed.

At some point after that, he laid down too, but far on the opposite edge, as if the mattress had become Switzerland and he refused to violate the neutrality zone.

You listened to his uneven breaths, like even asleep (or pretending to be asleep) he wasn’t calm.

Eventually, you turned your face away from him.

Because you didn’t know how to apologize for scaring him. And you didn’t know how to admit you were scared too.

You just existed in tense, mutual stubborn silence until exhaustion got the best of you.

—

Morning was worse.

You woke up aching, disoriented, and mildly pissed.

Bucky was already up. When you opened your eyes, he was sitting rigidly in the chair again, elbows braced on his knees.

He didn’t look at you.

You didn’t speak to him.

You both pretended to get ready in silence.

He helped you bandage your ribs again, this time without a word.

You let him touch you, guide you, support you, all without you ever meeting his eyes.

Neither of you said anything as he slung your arm around his shoulder and slowly walked you out to the car.

Neither of you said anything as the motel door shut behind you.

Not a single word as he helped you into the passenger seat. Not a word as he started the engine. Not a word as the desert swallowed the road ahead.

—

The silence in the car wasn’t comfortable, nor was it companionable. I wasn't even the kind you could pretend was intentional.

It was more like the kind that made Bucky glance over at you every ten seconds like he was checking whether you still existed.

You stared straight ahead through the windshield, ribs throbbing beneath your bandages. He kept waiting for you to say something, anything at all.

Surprise surprise, You didn’t.

Finally, he let out a sigh.

"You’re really gonna do this?" he said. "You’re gonna give me the full silent treatment?"

You blinked once. 

"Oh, this is great," Bucky muttered. "Real productive."

You continued staring out the window like the desert scenery was infinitely more interesting than your boyfriend losing his mind in the seat next to you. And he knew why— you’d rather not talk at all then say the wrong thing again.

He gripped the steering wheel harder, the leather creaking.

"Y’know, most people, when they survive a wound like yours, they get nicer."

Your eyes stayed glued to the horizon.

"Oh my god," he groaned. "You’re not even gonna look at me?"

You didn’t.

Bucky huffed. "Amazing.You bleed all over a motel carpet, I don’t sleep properly for two damn days and now you want to even acknowledge me."

He still got nothing.

He looked at you again. "You know what? Fine," He huffed. "Be silent. Enjoy it. This is fine."

You leaned back to the seat.

"No!" Bucky slammed his palm against the wheel. "It’s not fine!"

You tilted your head slightly, finally.

He dragged his human hand down his face, whispering under his breath. "Jesus. I swear. You drive me absolutely—absolutely—insane. And I can’t believe—even after all this—I still wanna marry you."

Wait. 

Wait.

You whipped your head toward him so fast you nearly blacked out. "What?"

His mouth fell open in horror. "Oh. She speaks," Bucky attempted to deadpan, eyes wide with oh-fuck-I-messed-up energy, looking like he wished he could turn back time.

Your voice cracked. "Marry me?" you repeated.

He squirmed in his seat like you had thrown him into a spotlight. "Well, yeah, I mean—I wasn’t gonna say it like that. I wasn’t planning on—God, okay."

You stared at him for a full minute, trying to get him to elaborate. 

He finally blew out a breath.

"Fuck. I ruined the surprise."

"What surprise?"

"The proposal," he muttered. "The actual proposal. With… with a plan. And a ring."

"A ring?"

"Yes, a ring!" He gestured wildly. "An actual real-life ring! In the nightstand back at the tower. In a little pink heart-shaped box. And no, you’re not allowed to make fun of the box."

You blinked. "…You don’t want to propose anymore?"

"What? No—NO." He nearly swerved. "You’re missing the point. I still want to marry you. I want to… Even if you scare the shit out of me. Even if you joke about almost dying and won’t stop making fun of your bullet hole and, fuck, even if you ignore me for three hours straight." he let out a breath he didnt even realise he was holding. "No matter how hard this gets, I still want you. Okay? I still do."

You didn't know how to respond to them so you…. Just turned to face forward again.

And said nothing.

But this time, you looked…. thoughtful.

Bucky glanced to catch a glimpse of your full five minutes of silence after he dropped the bombshell, before looking at the road again. 

"Oh, now you’re quiet again," he snapped. "Excellent. I pour my heart out, and we’re back to square one."

You ignored him entirely, paying more attention to the road then before.

He muttered something in Russian that was almost certainly not polite.

Five more minutes dragged by, when you saw the sign that said you were not far from the heart of Las Vegas.

You leaned forward slightly in your seat.

And then, far to the right of the highway, just off a cracked little access road you saw it.

Yes. That's what you were looking for.

A small white building with faded pink trim and neon signs all over it.

"There," you pointed.

Bucky blinked, not quite following. "What?"

"Pull. Over."

Bucky stared at you like you’d just asked him to drive into the Grand Canyon on purpose. "Why—?"

You didn’t even turn your head. "BUCKY. PULL OVER, NOW."

He yanked the wheel to the right, tires screeching against gravel as the car lurched onto the shoulder.

The moment the car jolted to a stop, you shoved the door open.

"Whoa—" Bucky barely got a hand up as you practically launched yourself out. "Wait—wait, sweetheart—slow down—!"

But you were already wobbling out with pain flashed hot through your side, but you ignored it, slamming the door shut behind you.

Bucky stayed frozen for half a second, eyes wide, watching you walk away.

Then he scrambled out after you.

"Hey—HEY!" Bucky shouted, scrambling out after you. "Sit down! Jesus, you’re gonna hurt yourself—can you just wait a second!? You’re gonna bleed through your damn shirt again—"

You didn't turn around. In fact, you didn’t look anywhere except straight ahead, toward that little speck of a white building down the access road.You just kept walking, each step sending a sharp bolt through your ribs, but you refused to show it.

Bucky made a strangled sound. "Are you kidding me right now?!"

You stepped over a patch of scrub brush.

Bucky stepped over it after you, muttering, "Unbelievable," under his breath.

You ignored him.

You marched forward, steps uneven, breaths shallow, but determined.

"Can you not walk away in the middle of a desert?" he yelled. "Please?"

You didn’t answer.

Across the cracked road, past a dusty patch of gravel and a broken neon arrow, Bucky finally noticed a squat white building that looked like it had survived three apocalypses.

HOLY HEARTS WEDDING CHAPEL— OPEN 24/7 —

— WALK INS WELCOME! —

Bucky stared at the sign, then at you, then at the sign again.

He looked like a man having a stroke.

You stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to him.

"What—" he pointed aggressively at the building, "What?"

You took a deep breath. "You wanna marry me?"

He swallowed. "Obviously."

"Then let’s do it."

Bucky blinked. "…Right now?"

You nodded, trying not to wince on your side.

He stared at you, eyes slowly softening as you held your hand out. Bucky, for once, was speechless.

Then…

He laced his fingers with yours.

"Okay," he whispered. "Let’s get married."

—

The inside of the chapel smelled faintly of old roses, cheap incense, and the faint electrical burn of neon lights that should’ve been replaced ten years ago. Weirdly charming plastic cherubs hung from the rafters, as the glitter curtain sparkled behind a heart-shaped arch.

And standing at the front, in a white jumpsuit and rhinestones, was an Elvis.

This impersonator was an older guy with sideburns, sunglasses, and the most sincere grin you’d ever seen.

"Well now, lovebirds," he said as you and Bucky stepped forward, still catching your breath, Aain’t you two a sight. You sure you’re ready to take this ride down Heartbreak Hotel?"

You opened your mouth, then realized your lungs hurt too badly to deliver a sarcastic comeback.You glanced at Bucky.

He looked back at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, letting you lean on him as he held your side. 

That was all you needed.

You turned to Elvis. "Yes," you said.

Bucky squeezed your hip, as Elvis clapped like Christmas came early. "Then come on up, kiddos. The King is in the building."

Bucky helped you up the tiny two-step stage, one arm around your waist, terrified you’d collapse even though you kept insisting you were fine. (You weren’t. He knew. You knew he knew.)

The chapel assistant, a pink-haired woman named DARLENE, according to her glittery nametag, handed you paperwork. "Names here… and signatures at the bottom… don’t forget the initials…"

You both signed without hesitation.

When you handed the clipboard back, your hands shook a little, and Bucky noticed.

Elvis cleared his throat dramatically. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in this fine establishment of love, neon, and questionable acoustics… to join these two souls in the holiest of unions… here in Sin City."

For a second, you could've sworn he winked at you. Bucky, noticing the same, glared at him.

Elvis laughed nervously, regretting the questionable decision of angering a super soldier. "Uh… Now, do you two wanna say your own vows, or let the King take it from here?"

You surprised yourself when you said, "We’ll say our own."

Bucky tilted his head, but he didn’t object.

Elvis took a step back, hands folded, waiting.

You swallowed, lifted your chin, and looked at Bucky.

He looked exhausted… but strangely hopeful. And so stupidly handsome it made your ribs hurt worse.

"I just realized," your voice cracked, "that I never thanked you for saving my life."

Bucky rubbed his thumbs over your knuckles, and you kept going.

"And not just for yesterday. But every day. Even when I’m impossible. Even when I shut down. Even when I drive you insane." Your throat tightened. "I know I do. But you stay anyway."

His eyes glossed over, just a little.

"I love you," you whispered. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

The room went painfully still, before Bucky exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months. He stepped closer, thumb brushing the tear sliding down your cheek.

"You’re welcome," he said quietly. "For all of it."

You let out a small laugh.

He cupped your jaw, and you leaned into it.

"And I love you too," he said. "God, I love you more than anything. I just…" He pressed his forehead against yours. "I just wish you loved yourself the way I do. The way I always have."

Fuck.

You leaned into his touch, barely nodding. "I’m trying."

"I know." He kissed your forehead. "And I’m proud of you."

And you loved that about him. You loved that nothing had to be perfect to be true.

With you and Bucky, your vows weren’t promises, they were just a conversation, because every conversation is a vow. Every argument, every apology, all of it has always meant I choose you.

You looked up at him, and he looked at you, and somehow you both understood it at the same time: that you both have vowed to stay together through thick and thin way before you ever stood in that chapel.

Elvis wiped a dramatic tear from behind his sunglasses. "Well folks," he said, "I think we got us some true love right here."

He lifted his book.

"By the power vested in me, by the great state of Nevada and the spirit of rock ’n’ roll… I now pronounce you husband and wife." He grinned wide. "You may kiss the bride."

Bucky’s hand slid around your waist, careful of the bandages, but the moment he pulled you closer, something in both your souls snapped into place.

You looked up at him and he looked down at you, and you both realized it at the exact same time:

You were a pair of absolute disasters. But you were each other’s stupidly in love disasters.

His breath hitched as he let out a helpless laugh— like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“My wife is such a hot mess,” he whispered, the words brushing your lips.

You blinked up at him, heart aching in more ways than one. “My husband is worse.”

“Probably,” he murmured.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was needy.

His lips crashed into yours like he'd been holding himself back for hours. His metal hand tightened gently on your hip. His other hand cupped your face, human thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if he needed to feel you to prove you were alive under his fingers.

You made a small sound, a half wince, half wanting, and Bucky froze for half a second.

“Did I hurt you?” he murmured, nose brushing yours.

“No,” you whispered, tugging him closer by the collar of his shirt. “Not enough.”

He chuckled before kissing you once more. This time, it was quick and giddy, almost a laugh against your mouth.

Elvis applauded loudly in the background while Darlene took pictures with a polaroid camera, but neither of you noticed. You were too busy kissing again, too busy clinging to each other, too busy falling in love all over again.

The best part was that nobody on the team knew. Not until three months later, when Yelena opened the glovebox of the New Avengers’ getaway car looking for a granola bar and instead pulled out a polaroid of your and Bucky’s first kiss as a married couple with the Elvis cheering in the background.

That was an interesting day.

-end.

Request Guidelines

"....and that's a wrap, everybody. Nice work. Class dismissed."

Almost immediately, the simulation cuts away, holographic images slipping away in a blur of crystalline shimmer. A breath of, what had been for the last hour, a downtown hellscape of fire, brimstone and the end of the world, they slip into nothingness, the Danger Room sentineling back into its cold, sterile environment of a self.

Heavy doors kick open with a metallic bang, hydraulics snapping as air from the corridor jumps into the room. Harsh fluorescent light cuts through the opening, exposing the pristine stainless exterior of the corridor, which is wrought with such a silence it's enough to challenge the dead.

The class begins to funnel out of the room, muttering and chattering about the simulation. The overall tone is pleased with the exercise—they always are. Logan's classes are favorites among the Institute; highly rated, always attended.

Guys say he's an easy A. The girls think he's a heartthrob and an easy lay. Or so churn the rumors in the dark, when the lights of the mansion are low and Chuck isn't pressing his luck with reading the room. It's a small wonder the place is still standing, the grounds still viable —all considered.

Murmurs from the class descend down the hall, disbanding into whispers as the elevator chimes. Drops heavy at the foundation floor. Even from her place at the entrance of the simulation room, she can hear the students shuffle on. The press of a button, the whine of metal, and the car rallies up.

A low stitch of pain burns at her side, humming as her hand presses to the wound. Injuries weren't uncommon in the danger room, especially running offensive exercises and hand to hand—and she had been clumsy, foot catching on atmospheric brick. She'd hesitated enough that Logan had seen the opening, took a swipe at her with an arc that, oddly enough, she could still taste on her tongue.

Face twisting up in a grimace, she considers her hand. Palm slick with the warm blood that seeps from the wound, she's mildly grateful it's just a knick. Logan is capable of severing bone with the twitch of his small finger, walking off a demo with a small scratch is nothing. Had been nothing, a hundred times before.

He checks his shoulder for her, pointed toward the exit.

"You comin', darlin'?"

Even back to her, she can hear his fingers rustling through the front pocket of his leather jacket for a cigar, the Zippo he keeps against his heart, like it's a second chamber.

The scent of it explodes beneath her nose, even fifteen feet away—enhanced senses make it more pronounced than it actually is. Barely she can remember a time when scent was an idea, or an inkling; now each one is deep, intruding, aggressive. Hammers at her olfactory system like a knife, gouging away at logic and processing.

Sweet smoke camps in the front of her brain, takes up the moisture of her mouth before it falls away beneath the sharp scent of him. His sweat, testosterone. Whatever cologne he'd decided to wear a week ago, the sharp zing of the detergent that hangs out in the stich of his jeans. The brush of bike exhaust that seems carved in every line of his flesh. There's so much of him all the time, it's hard to breathe.

When she doesn't respond, he turns around. Pauses the drag he'd been primed to take on the cigar when he immediately registers the injury, her hand pressed to her side. Fat drops of blood on the floor at her feet. How her smile is soft, almost light, as she considers him standing there in jeans and a leather jacket, nonplussed that they'd just endured a Level III training episode.

"The hell happened here?" Cigar sagging in the corner of his mouth, he crosses to her in a series of hard, long strides, batting her hand away from her abdomen. "This ain't from me," he dismisses the idea like it's fantasy, "that ain't me, right?"

She shrugs a shoulder, eyes rolling with a tease as she brushes by him. "It's fine," a flapping hand backs off as she makes for the exit, working the zipper off her training jacket as she rounds the corner, "Give me a few minutes, won't even be able to tell."

He knows that better than anyone.

Weapon X had made sure of it when they'd pumped her biology full of whatever of him they could spare, flat out on a table like some carcass ready to carve, to mold. There are days she can still feel the precision cuts, all the way through her cells, of mutation slipping into her genome. Rattles her alleles. Changing the function of her existence, the genetic code by which the world demands of her.

Logan's fist hits the outside access panel, and the heavy doors to the room close with a bang and a release of compressed air. The scent of whatever blood she's left on the floor vanishes, and will be forgotten when the sterilization process wipes the room clean of any of their presence — as if they were never there.

She navigates the armory with a familiarity that will haunt her the rest of her life, commandeering one of the benches to drop her boots. Slowly she can feel her cells mobilizing to the wound—it's not really tangible, but the psycho-somatic bond she shares with Logan's own biology kicks up, tells her that even now, her abdominal wall is regenerating tissue. Kicking out inflammation, sterilizing, consuming bacteria.

She can feel the moment her flesh trembles, stitching back together.

Her healing process is slower than Logan's. Not by much, but enough that her legs are uneasy as she stands again, her head light as a barrage of blood exits the wound. Forced out by meat, by flesh, but new skin. Lifting away the Institute cooling layer, she balls it up and chucks it to the corner, beside all the laundry that's overdue.

Retrieving fresh clothes, Logan is at her side in less than heartbeats, crowding her against the armoire. One hand steady at her hip, big and warm against the skin that peeks out from her compression layer, leggings and a training bra.

The other hooks two fingers at the waist of her leggings, tugs to consider the affected lower quadrant. His head angles down and back for a better look, cigar hanging limp between chapped lips.

Intaking a sharp breath, she brushes back against the armor, the callous of his finger more than stimulating against the soft of her skin. Her jaw sets like stone, and any second she swears to God she'll taste the copper zing of blood on her teeth from where she's biting the pocket of her cheek.

Brow popped with amusement; she can't miss his effort not to smile. He doesn't, not really, but the catch of light in his eyes is enough to hint at amusement. She's known him long enough. He thinks this this funny.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Tone deliberately low, it drags like rough gravel across her skin, lighting up every hormonal marker her enhanced body possesses. He chuckles; it's a low rumble in the base of his throat. "Don't remember you bein' so sensitive."

Snorting, she bats his hand away and steps beyond his reach. "Traditionally speaking, you have to be familiar with something to remember it," over her shoulder, she lifts a foot to the bench, pulling on a fresh sock, "and of course I'm sensitive, you just basically cut me in half."

He snorts, actually amused. "It's a flesh wound, sweetheart," taking a long pull on the cigar, he watches her slip on the other sock, eyes linger at the cut of her hip in full display in leggings and a barely-there training tank. "I think you'll live."

Turning to face him, she smiles softly. "You're sweet," brushing by him again, she reaches for the bag she'd brought down with her, shoulder it roughly, "don't cry for me or anything, Logan, someone may think you actually care."

It's a tease. Meant to bounce between them flirtatiously and be forgotten—it's their thing. They joke, flirt. Have long talks over beer and whiskey that doesn't do anything for souls that repair on every heartbeat. She'd spent a summer following him on the cage circuit, living out of a pickup and a backpack and learning everything there was to know about the little he actually remembered about his life.

He'd kissed her one time, on the corner of her mouth. She thinks. It may have been a dream, a hallucination before Weapon X had racked her full of whatever it was in her body, now, that took up space in her bone marrow and blood cells. That was when whiskey actually mattered and left an impression—he'd driven her back to the hotel after slow dancing to Clay Walker and listening to her be a giggling mess of a drunk.

He grabs her arm as she brushes by him, firmly. His knuckles kiss with a milkwhite that implies effort but is more resolute than anything. He doesn't look at her fully. Just considers her from the corner of her eye, like she's unpredictable or may cut in in half like a practice abattoir.

She considers his hand on her arm with a flick of her eyes. Instantly the air between them changes—replaced with a thick heat that kisses low against her womb, the places she's been ignoring since that first night he'd driven her back to a flat tire she'd left on Highway 9 somewhere up in the Canadian Yukon.

Moisture jumps down her throat, making a swift exist from her mouth, and her tongue suddenly feels like the weight of the sun in the back of her throat as her breathing deepens, just enough to make the crest of her chest rise and fall visibly.

There's little control, but enough to tremble in her muscle. The low hum of yes laps at her spine, niggling in the base of it like it has for women for six thousand years, or more. Unmoving, she doesn't dare do more than breathe lest she break whatever seance this is, whatever delicious limbo they've fallen into.

"I care." It's low, maybe even a little heady. "Have been carin' since Laughlin City."

That long.

It hits like a jackhammer, spinning her out. Her gaze trips up to his eyes, brow slightly wrinkled with a confused furrow. With one heavy step, he walks her back against the armoire. She hits hard, the wood of the thing rattling as he steps into very personal space—sex space, space enough that she can taste the cigar on his breath, feel the rush of blood in his veins.

Somehow the backpack slips off her shoulder to her feet. She rises up on her toes, and for what reason she doesn't know—it feels right. Like trying to slip away but also beckoning him closer, an oxymoron of a thing that clenches down on her spine, that gummy spot in the low of her that burns every time he smiles at her, calls her name. Hangs his coat beside hers, or sits beside her at Charles' long table that's been bringing them together for over a year, now.

"You never said anything," her eyes flick to his mouth, and then back his own, which look down at her with a rough tenderness that is more disarming from him than anything she knows to think.

Swallowing back a thick breath of dry air that smacks of him and his heat, she tries to exhale slowly, but it's breathless. Shaky. Like mountains toppling at the feet of Christ.

"Didn't have'ta. You've been fuckin' me with your eyes since New Orleans—figured it wouldn't be right, takin' advantage of a sweet thing like you that wouldn't know what to do with a thing like me."

Her hand reaches for his, which has smoothed along her hip in slow, tight arch that burns with a pain that she will not be able to live beyond, that grounds her to the earth.

Taking his hand she presses it against the site of the injury, which has long stitched back together with the weight of his attention, the biology of him that races through her like a freight train of bad ideas and fate.

In a slow, languid touch, his finger drags along the slight curve of her stomach, the softness of it. It's sends a bolt of electricity down her spine that's so clear, so white-hot, that it skips her vision. Suddenly more alive and aware of her cellular structure than she ever had been beneath the knife that had ended her life, she bites back a low hiss as her toes curl against the floor.

Her hand smooths along his jaw, before her finger tips his chin just enough to look her in the eye.

"We aren't things, Logan," she edges forward enough to gently brush her lips against his, "I'm still me. You're still you. We're just...." the tether between them hums with a warmth she can't articulate—like honey, but less sweet than it is ferocious. A deep fury to have, to want, "This."

Her hand guides his back to the once-injury, the other finding his chest. Logan leans forward, considers her mouth like it is something perhaps to consume more than touch, and angles his head enough to brush his mouth over hers first, tasting. Probing. Wanting.

A heartbeat, maybe, and the world explodes in a lifeline of color that knocks her back on her instinctual heels, rattles the cages of her that have existed since she first realized what Stryker had taken from her, taken to her. Logan's tongue is heavy, thick, forceful along her lower lip to the point where she considers just consuming it entirely into the warmth of her mouth.

She can't breathe, but it cuts out of her sharply all the same as she fists her hand in the front of shirt, starving. Starving for air, for him, for closeness—it's one thing to share his biology, his mutation. The gift of God that had made him so deliciously Logan—but it's another thing entire to share him, share this, right now in this heartbeat.

She releases a sharp sigh that's more of a whimper, and that does him. She feels the bold of heat crash through him like a second skin, and he groans so deeply down her throat that it rattles her ribs a little, stutters against her lung tissue. The need to breathe disappears as he backs her up, hard, against the armor, sinking low to lift her beneath her thighs.

Her spine presses hard against the furniture, but she doesn't care.

A flick of strength, maybe, and her legs wrap around his middle, hands carding through his hair like it is the first time she has ever felt someone else's skin beneath her hands. Logan breaks first, dragging in air, forehead pressing to hers with an urgency that belies what little self-control the primal pulse of him may possess.

His eyes hold a gentleness that startles her, that she doesn't think she's ever seen in Logan before. He kisses her again, languidly—lazy suckles that taste sweet, that consider her taste as one of his hands come to press along the soft of her stomach, which now is all but trembling with the effort to control her breathing.

"Mm," he releases a low breath that makes her burn, "you're so fuckin' soft, darlin'. I forgot how soft you were," another kiss, this one harder, and her heart trips up with the psycho-somatic pull of him that tells her to feel everything, to notice him. "I don't remember the last time I got to have anythin' sweet as you."

Her laugh is breathless, a hand wrapping around the back of his neck to encourage him closer, if possible, as her legs pull him forward. Tighter, nearer. Barely able to process past the idea of what this means, what all of him is capable of doing to all of her, she teasingly bites at the plush of her bottom lip.

Don't ever let me go, Logan. I won't let you.

"I'm right here, Logan," her lips brush along the line of his jaw, before he angles to find her again in a hard, slow kiss that pulls a soft moan out of her that simmers low in the base of her ribcage, "I've been here all along, since Laughlin, since New Orleans, since wheneve it was you started wanting' more than you think you deserve."

"I don't deserve you," in a breath he turns them, the armoire falling away into dreamscape, and he lays her out on the bench, crowding over her like he's reading laylines. Establishing territory, knowing her. "I'll never deserve all of you." It doesn't stop him from smoothing back the curls from her face, holding her gaze like it is carving him from stone.

Taking his face in her hands, she smiles, softly.

"You don't have to deserve me, Logan. You never did."

The ceilings of the compound’s gym echo your breath back toward you, basically wanting you to choke on it. You still smell faint traces of fresh rubber and eucalyptus from the earlier team yoga class you skipped on purpose, because you have been home from a two-week mission for less than twelve hours, and socializing feels like lifting a cement truck with your teeth.

Now everyone’s in the city doing shots or doing karaoke or being alive in a way you currently refuse to be.

You don’t want joy.

You want the barbell.

You want the barbell because two weeks of a deep-cover op in Bogotá will do some serious brain frying to a person. You also feel like you still have mission dust in your hair and you hope if you sweat hard enough you will finally stop being a person who thinks too much.

You are alone in the gym at 11:37 pm on a Tuesday and every single bulb feels like it’s judging you.

You thought training would feel grounding.

It really doesn’t, but you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than that.

The fluorescent lights feel too bright suddenly, they seem to jab needles into your retinas. Mirrors mirror back a version of you you don’t recognize. A version that needs to recalibrate every joint in your body to remember she is real.

Your bones ache from the flight, your knee is still half bruised, your lower back is whispering threats. You don’t listen. Of course you don’t listen. You are annoyingly competitive with the version of yourself inside your own head. The worst opponent possible.

You pick up the barbell anyway, talk to your own reflection like a menace, and decide to go heavier than you should. You imagine Sam calling this late-night atonement energy. You imagine Natasha calling this the I don’t know how to rest disease. You imagine Tony calling this peak dumbass.

You grab the bar. You set your stance. You inhale fire.

Your muscles pull like reluctant rope.

You start your deadlift.

You lift like you are punishing the molecules.

And because the universe is a pretty little brat, your left pinky finger twitches at the wrong millisecond and the weight slips and gravity shows her claws and you make a sound.

You make a sound because the bar crashes directly onto the very top bones of your right foot. Not enough to pulverize, but enough to send every neuron in your leg into a perfect barbershop quartet of pain.

You go still.

The pain is radioactive. The pain is hilariously specific. It’s like your foot is attempting to write a novel in morse code.

You inhale through your teeth so violently you think you might vomit. Your soul briefly leaves your body, files a complaint, and then returns only to scream.

FRIDAY’s soft, neutral voice materializes overhead.

“Agent, you appear to be in acute pain. Would you like me to alert Sergeant Barnes?”

The humiliation is instant.

Absolutely not.

You would rather limp forever. You would rather cut off the foot with kitchen shears. You would rather crawl into a vent and hibernate.

You will not let Bucky I said that out loud? Wow real sorry Barnes find you helpless on the gym floor.

He would smirk once. Once. And then he’d get that smug quiet face. That sergeant face. As if he’s a patient father of a toddler.

No. You can’t do this. You are a superhero. You once bench-pressed a truck. Small truck. Flatbed. And Steve might have helped a little. But still.

“No,” you wheeze, trying to sound composed. “No notifications. This is a private moment. A stupid private moment.”

You grip the iron and shift it away, and your vision whites out like someone turned the saturation all the way up.

Your mouth hangs open like a glitching tab in a browser, and you are trying to breathe with just the top half of your lungs because the bottom half is currently replaying your poor life choices.

You slowly lower yourself onto the mat and clutch your foot like a widow clutching her pearls.

It throbs so intensely you are convinced the bones rearranged out of spite.

“Your injury metrics are not insignificant,” FRIDAY offers again, very calmly.

“I’m fine,” you lie to the ceiling, to the AI, to the ghosts of your own pride. “I don’t need him of all people.”

The gym buzzes with fluorescent indifference.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your eyes from watering.

You genuinely might vomit.

“Friday,” you whisper-yell, shaky and wrecked, “this stays between us.”

There is silence. And the glimmer of a camera diaphragm narrowing somewhere behind a tinted panel.

You close your eyes.

You stay there, trying to breathe through the sharp pain, refusing to acknowledge the part of your stomach that dipped when FRIDAY suggested him. The part you would sooner die than admit.

Because if Bucky Barnes walks in here right now and sees you like this, you will never hear the end of it.

You stay seated on the cold gym floor for exactly fifteen seconds before panic kicks in.

Because logically, rationally, historically; Bucky never actually mocks you when you get hurt. Not once. He is surprisingly gentle in those moments. Weirdly soft-spoken then. His eyes do that serious, scanning thing and he starts troubleshooting silent solutions like a one-man tactical medic unit.

And yet.

You are absolutely convinced that this particular flavor of idiotic self-injury will turn him into the smuggest man alive. This is different. This is embarrassing. This is textbook hubris. You can practically hear his voice in your head.

really?

the bar fell on your foot?

Your pride is choking you like a boa constrictor of your own stupidity.

You haven’t even seen him yet tonight. You stepped off the quinjet, showered, lowered your cortisol enough to pretend to be a functional human, and then came here to sabotage yourself with iron. Classic. Meanwhile, the rest of the team went out to some bar in Brooklyn because they apparently enjoy friendship and daylight and the dopamine of communal beverages.

Bucky stayed behind. That’s nothing new. Bucky never goes with them. He does not do sociable frivolity. He does the exact opposite. He haunts the hallways like a large, beautiful housecat with too many knives.

And you could hear him earlier.

When you were changing in your room, you heard the solid thud-thud-thud of his boots pacing in the hallway you both share. A restless zig-zagging that made the wood subfloor complain just enough to announce his existence. Like he was waiting for his thoughts to quiet. Or for something to happen.

And now the risk of him appearing is non-zero.

You very carefully begin the slow-motion process of standing up on your one functional foot. The pain radiates catastrophically, like a small nuclear detonation in the cluster of metatarsals you once trusted. You hiss under your breath, like a dying teakettle.

You limp.

It is not dignified.

You are trying to disguise it as a casual limp. A sexy limp. A limp that implies you are aloof and ethereal and maybe you just did something mysterious and glamorous. You are trying to make this limp seem like a lifestyle choice.

FRIDAY thankfully doesn’t call you out on it.

You take another hobbling step toward the door.

Your foot screams like a siren.

You grit your teeth and tell yourself fiercely, that you’re going to make it to your room like a stealth operative. You are not going to encounter him in the hallway. The universe loves you. It is rooting for your dignity.

The universe, of course, does not answer, and the hallway that leads away from the gym feels like a mouth about to bite down.

It is a dim, blue twilight ribbon of motion sensor light. You commit to the bit. You commit to the limpless limp. You commit to an Oscar-worthy performance of nothing is wrong here, I am merely walking like a normal person with normal bones that have not betrayed me.

You try to glide past the kitchen as though you are not a person in agony but instead a hologram of a person in agony.

You are almost safe, but then you see him.

Bucky is standing at the kitchen counter in a soft gray T-shirt, hair damp like he just showered, stirring honey into a mug of tea with an absent expression that looks almost thoughtful. Or irritated. Or both. His face always sits somewhere between those two coordinates.

In the overhead LEDs he looks like a man who’s been alive too long and somehow still cares enough to steep Earl Grey.

He glances up at exactly the wrong or right second.

His eyes catch yours fast, as if he expected you.

You tell your face to perform. Placid. Composed. The girl who has two functioning feet and never did anything as embarrassing as dropping iron on her own bones.

Your right foot is an electrified balloon.

“Hey,” he lets out gruffly.

You blink in the same startled way a raccoon might blink after being caught in someone’s garbage.

“Hey,” you say, voice too casual. Casual like a person trying to launder their own voice through a filter of charm.

He looks too awake for this hour. Damp hair pushed back, shirt soft and lived-in, sleeves loose on his shoulders.

He glances at you in that slow, data-logging way he always has. His jaw makes a tiny shift.

“You’re back.” He says it as though it’s information he already had. Stored away. It’s as close as he’ll get to I was aware of your absence and the knowledge of that makes your chest go fizz.

“Yeah,” you answer, absolutely planting both feet to the ground in a stance that looks stiff and unnatural. Both feet touch the ground, technically, but all your weight stays on the left leg. Your right foot is barely skimming the tile, like a very nervous hovercraft. “Got in earlier. Crashed for a while.”

Bucky studies you for one long second.

He has that look that reads people like a list of ingredients.

“Rough trip?” he asks, with that deep and throaty voice.

You swallow. “Kind of.”

He takes a sip. Eyes stay on you. Calm. Reading you like a page with underlines.

“You want tea?” He nods vaguely at the kettle. He doesn’t even say it as a question. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. Communicating in half-offers so he can pretend he doesn’t have feelings.

You try to pivot and your right foot brushes the tile a little too forcefully and your soul leaves your body, briefly. “No, thanks.”

He nods once, takes a sip. “Others are out in Brooklyn.”

“Yes,” you echo, as if you had just invented geography. “Bars. People. Laughing. All that.”

He hums. “You didn’t feel like joining?”

You shrug, hoping the casual movement distracts from the fact that your right foot has become a private expanding sun of pain. “I was tired. I wanted some peace and quiet. And a shower with real water pressure and products that don’t smell like industrial lavender.”

His mouth tugs at one corner. The hint of an almost-smile.

But he doesn’t stop studying you.

He taps his spoon on the rim of the mug, lightly. “You good?” he asks with a small tilt of his head. This is his version of leaning closer without actually leaning closer.

Your heart rate spikes so abruptly you nearly wobble onto your injured foot. Your stomach does a weird flutter, and your mouth lies on autopilot.

“Yeah,” you say too fast, too bright, too defensive. “Just tired, still”

Bucky hums, setting his tea down. He taps his metal thumb on the counter twice. It’s a little thinking tic you’ve catalogued without meaning to.

You plant your feet deeper into the floor to make it look more natural, but that was another stupid decision. Lightning surges up your right foot. You keep your expression intact, hopefully. But your small smile feels strained and brittle, like a sticker coming off in the wrong direction.

Bucky squints at you subtly. He does not buy it. He does not not buy it either. He is in the investigative purgatory of maybe.

“You sure?” His voice drops half a register. Not teasing. Sincere. Some microscopic muscle in his jaw flexes.

You nod. “Yeah, totally.”

He stands there, still, like a statue that thinks it’s a shadow.

“You’re standing kind of weird,” he assesses.

“Weird how?” you ask nonchalantly, but you feel the sweat at the nape of your neck starting to sting.

Both feet remain on the ground for demonstration and you think you might faint from the flash of pain but you do your best to keep your face movie-perfect. It doesn’t really seem to work but all you can do is try. You need to leave before the pain makes you involuntarily scream.

He stares at your posture. “Don’t know.” His voice is faraway, reflective. However, his eyes are a little too focused for your taste.

You decide you should leave before he witnesses the collapse of your whole performance. You start to pivot - warily, guardedly, like a spy tiptoeing through a field of pressure plates.

“Okay well, I’m back in my room, trying to get some sleep in,” you start, feeling nervous but doing your best not to let it seep into your tone. “Guess you should too.”

He watches you turn, watches you aim your body toward your bedroom hallway like a wounded gazelle refusing to acknowledge the predator in the room.

“Good night.“ His voice is quiet.

You can feel his gaze between your shoulder blades. You can feel him trying to parse the strange thing you are doing with your joints. You can feel another single step might make you whimper.

But you keep going.

Because you are determined.

Because pride is something too important to lose.

Because you would rather fall down in an empty hallway and crawl to your room like a tragic mythological creature than let him see you hurt yourself in the stupidest way imaginable.

You try to keep moving. Every step is sending an array of pain through your body, and you’re glad your back is turned to him so he doesn’t see you grimace.

You clear the kitchen doorway. One more corner and you can hide in the blessed anonymity of your room. But as you turn the corner, the pain detonates. White behind your eyes.

Your right foot tries to touch the ground and your entire body says absolutely not.

You slap your hand onto the wall for support, breath hitching like your lungs just skipped frames. Your injured foot is instantly lifted off the ground. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale through your teeth, because if you make a noise you will cry and if you cry you will dissolve.

“You shouldn’t walk on that foot.”

You startle again. And then freeze like one of those wildlife documentaries where the deer hears something in the wind.

But honestly, you should’ve expected him to follow you.

When Bucky Barnes finds something suspicious, he’ll dig deep, and he’ll get to the bottom of it.

You exhale every lie you were planning to use.

You turn to him a little, trying for nonchalance again. You swallow. Your pride tries to creep into your esophagus and choke you out. Your back is pressed to the wall. Your right foot is levitating like a hostage.

And Bucky takes you in.

A microsecond scan. That mouth like it knows things. Those eyes like they were born knowing how to observe damage.

His face goes blank in that specific Bucky way. Not cold, not warm - just laser discipline clicking into place.

“It’s not a big deal,” you try.

He doesn’t bother arguing your version of reality. He just gives you that look that could bisect molecules. The one that says I’ve been alive a hundred years, doll, I can spot bullshit from space.

His hand - flesh, this time - lands gentle and firm just above your elbow. Irritatingly tender.

“C’mon,” he says, almost whisper-soft, but directing. “Sit.”

Your body obeys before your ego can intervene. You grind your teeth as you move your foot because it feels like stepping on broken glass and electricity. He guides you to the nearest bench in the hallway's alcove and helps you lower yourself down on it.

The sudden absence of your own weight from that foot makes your whole nervous system sag in shaky relief.

Bucky kneels in front of you and the gesture makes your breath hitch. His hair shifts forward a little as he ducks his head to see, that dark, wet-soft strand falling near his brow.

“Let me see,” he utters, extending his metal hand, palm up.

You hesitate. His eyes move up and pin you.

You offer your injured foot in a slow movement.

He eases your shoe onto his palm, deliberate and mindful. That gentleness always shocks you. You keep forgetting the metal arm is the part used for breaking things, not the man.

He presses carefully along the outside of your shoe, testing for reaction.

You hiss, involuntarily, like air bursting from a tire.

His mouth goes grim.

“What happened?”

There’s no edge to it. Just dead-serious need for accurate data.

You scramble for an excuse. “It’s nothing- mission- just a little-”

He cuts you a short, dissecting glance.

“You weren’t limping off the jet twelve hours ago.”

Your stomach drops.

You stare at him.

He doesn’t blink.

You didn’t even know he saw you come off the jet. You didn’t see him watching.

Your brain does that glitch thing. A stutter-step of surprise. An emotional pothole.

“I didn’t know you were there,” you note, voice a little thinner than you wish.

He doesn’t correct. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t get embarrassed.

“You weren’t limping,” he simply repeats. “So, try that again,” he adds in the same tone, flat but also nonjudgmental.

He continues evaluating your foot, thumb soft.

You are suddenly eight years old and caught with crumbs on your face and cookie-thief written across your forehead.

“It was nothing, just-” you start. You stare at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then your own disastrous sense of dignity. “I dropped a weight on it,” you mumble into the void.

There. It’s out.

Bucky pauses.

Then, he exhales through his nose. The closest thing he has to a sigh.

“You dropped a weight on your own foot,” he repeats, as though he’s documenting the incident in some internal report.

You slap a hand over your face. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

He lifts your foot slightly to examine a different angle. His voice is subdued and infuriatingly calm. “I’m not. I’m trying to make sure you didn’t fracture anything.”

You grip the edge of the bench.

“Which plate,” he asks, pragmatic. As if he’s logging injury metadata.

“Twenty-five,” you mutter.

He frowns, lifts his eyes to yours. You are drowning in the blue of them. “You went for a PR while you were still jet-lagged.”

You want to fling yourself into a recycling bin.

“Needed to get my mind off things,” you admit slowly.

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just fixes his gaze back to your foot, pensive.

“I need to remove the shoe, doll,” he tells you, voice deeper, tone gentle. “Won’t be able to see the damage otherwise.”

“Okay,” you say, small.

“Alright.” His tone is even but also soft-spoken in a way that makes something jump in your chest. “Don’t move.”

His fingers find the knotted lace. He works it loose with scientific delicacy. He moves slow enough that you can tell he’s preparing for pain spikes. He knows the math of injuries. He’s done field trauma on five continents. He’s probably triaged broken feet in tundras and deserts and alleys.

Your breath goes shallow.

He eases the heel of the shoe back a millimeter at a time.

Your vision fuzzes.

Your body goes rigid.

He pauses.

And after waiting for your next intake of breath, he slides the shoe off, along with your sock.

The air hits your swollen skin and you suck a sharp breath in because the sensation is a category 5 hurricane.

He sits back a bit. Flesh hand holding your shoe. Metal hand holding the underside of your foot. The coolness of his hand is somehow both grounding and electrifying.

You tilt your chin and pull your bravado on like a thrifted sweater.

He looks at your foot. Looks at the bruising that has bloomed purple-black-green like a chaotic galaxy.

He exhales, slow. A low whistle folded in one long breath.

His expression is grim, so quietly fixed in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and then crawl back in again. His grip remains secure. He keeps cataloguing pain points.

“Yeah, you’re not waking on that,“ he comments decisively. “Not until we ice it.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I can walk.”

His eyes cut to yours again.

“You can pretend,” he corrects. “That’s different.”

He shifts his hold gently, supportive, as if he’s already planned the next three steps.

You get off the bench, reaching for his arm because you are trying to be a reasonable adult. But your foot doesn’t even touch the ground and gives a little spark of fresh agony.

And before you can redirect, or negotiate, he is already sliding an arm behind your back, another under your knees, and lifting you.

Like a damsel.

Like a problem to be redirected.

You gasp, palms flying to his shoulders.

“Bucky- hey- no, put me down-”

He doesn’t even dignify your panic with a reply, he just adjusts you against his chest as though you weigh the mass of a warm towel and starts walking.

It is the least graceful moment of your adult life.

You are hyper-aware of everything. His bicep under the fabric of his shirt. The faint scent of cedarwood shampoo. The fact that your thigh is pressed to his torso in a way that feels obscene for this late hour on a Tuesday.

“This is humiliating,” you complain under your breath, face on fire.

He snorts. “You can feel humiliated while sitting down.”

“Bucky-”

“Stop arguing,” he remarks, and he isn’t condescending. He almost sounds concerned. “You’re injured. I’m not letting you load that foot.”

You stare up at him, mortified and also completely overwhelmed by the fact that his arms are around you and he smells clean and warm and a little like the tea he just had.

Then you try to look anywhere but his face because your heart is beating rude and loud.

The med freezer alcove is small, clinical, stainless steel surfaces and that cold antiseptic smell of professional athletic medicine.

He sets you gently on the padded trainer table and kneels again like earlier.

Except now you’re sitting, and his face is close enough you can count the faint freckles on his cheekbones. You are fully in his gravitational forcefield.

You feel ridiculous. Tiny. Exposed.

He extracts an instant ice pack, cracks the inside unit with a short metal-thumb pressure, shakes it once, then cups your ankle again.

You’re sure the couch in the living room and a simple ice pack from the kitchen would have been enough. But Bucky’s always been a little dramatic.

You wince as he applies the ice.

He watches your expression, careful. Adjusts pressure. Finds the threshold between helpful and too much.

“Next time,” he notes quietly, voice a little rough, “ask someone to spot you.”

You feel heat edge all the way to your scalp.

“I didn’t expect this level of stupidity,” you argue, defensive, self-deprecating.

His mouth almost curves. Not a smile, just a flicker of wry acknowledgment.

“Accidents happen,” he replies, voice level but sympathetically warm.

You scoff. “Not ones this dumb.”

He looks up, a longer look. “S’ not dumb, doll.”

You look away from him. His sincerity freezes you more than the ice.

Your throat goes tight.

He holds the ice pack in place.

You clear your voice, small. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” A simple statement.

He adjusts your foot again, more secure. His metal hand brackets the underside so the ice stays even.

“And yet,” you murmur, almost whispering.

He doesn’t look at you.

He just keeps his focus on your foot. His voice is calm, but there’s no exit, no loophole, no weakness in it.

“You wouldn’t have done it yourself.” Another verdict.

And you hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows you so well.

He keeps the ice there until the initial stabbing pain dulls into a deep, sullen throb. Your whole body is humming like a machine red-lining.

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he shifts the pack aside and carefully cups your heel again. His touch is slow and precise and light enough to heat up your skin.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft. “I need to see how bad it is. I’m gonna check range.”

You nod. Your throat is a mess.

He cups your heel with the metal palm - cool straight through your skin - and with his warm organic hand, he supports the arch.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he instructs quietly, gruffly.

He lifts your foot a hair, rotates it a tiny bit. His eyes never leave your face.

You want to die and also be like this forever.

“That hurt?” he inquires, careful.

You swallow. “No. I mean- yes. Kind of. I don’t know.”

His lips jerk the ghost of a laugh. “Okay. What about this.”

He shifts the angle two degrees right.

A tiny lightning strike of pain arcs straight to your skull.

You suck in air through your teeth.

He freezes.

His jaw clenches.

“That’s a no,” he concludes with a scowl. His thumb traces along the bone line with that careful pressure that feels like a spotlight.

Then he angles your foot inward.

You inhale sharply once more.

He holds still. Eyes on your face. “Top? Side?”

“Top,” you whisper, like shame is oxygen.

He nods once. “Alright.”

He lowers your foot back down with so much tenderness it almost offends you.

“Are you enjoying this?” you ask him with a small teasing curve of your lips.

He gives you a look.

“No,” he states plainly. “I’m trying to see if your metatarsals are intact.”

You blink.

He is so serious. Expression pulled so tight.

But he’s watching you with his face growing a centimeter softer, eyes doing that thing where they go half-warm.

Then he shifts your foot again. He uses his flesh hand to gently lift your toes - just a few degrees - just enough to check something internal and intangible and soldier-logic.

Pain punches through your entire leg in a clean bright line so harshly, you choke on your breath.

Your whole torso jerks back.

Bucky flinches with you. His brows slam together in a hard grimace.

He goes stone still.

His jaw goes hard.

“Okay,” he mutters, almost under his breath, as though he’s already adjusting his internal assessment. “That might be a break.”

Your stomach drops through the table.

“Are you sure?” you nervously ask.

Bucky grinds his jaw, still keeping his gaze on your foot, his hands holding it still. “Yeah. I’m guessing you might’ve fractured something.”

You curse under your breath.

“This is such bad timing,” you groan, instantly nauseous. “I’m scheduled to leave again in three days.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and the look is very Bucky Barnes you’re not doing that energy.

“No you’re not.”

“I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” you insist, anxiety rising like steam. “If I bail, Fury will-”

He scowls. “Fury can’t send you anywhere like this.”

You cringe. Because you know Fury’s response would be well then get un-broken.

“Fury’s not known for compassion, Bucky. Especially not for something this ridiculous,” you say roughly.

Bucky’s jaw cements. “I don’t give a damn what he’s known for,” he bites out. “He’s not putting you on a plane like this.”

You sink your fingers into your forehead. “He’ll make me regret it.”

“He won’t,” Bucky utters, tone flattening to steel.

“Bucky-”

“You can’t even put pressure on your foot, sweetheart. Your job is to come home alive. Not to impress anybody with how much punishment you can absorb.” His voice is so low, it almost sounds like a threat.

You stare at him. Speechless.

He places the ice back on your foot, softly. Checks your expression again.

You deflate. Shoulders cave inward. Because you know he’s right. But it’s an awful feeling.

You look at your foot. The black-purple galaxy bruise swelling like cursed bread dough.

“When do you think I can go again?” you whisper, trying to sound casual and totally failing.

He angles his head, considering. He studies your foot again, but his expression softens. He is doing timelines in his head. Calculating bone health, trauma recovery, mission requirements, your ego.

“Depends,” he explains softly. “If it’s a partial fracture - five to six weeks minimum. If it’s a clean break - might take a while longer.”

You make a miserable noise.

He watches your face.

And then, very gently, he softens his tone.

“Look,” he offers, quiet, searching. “This happens, doll. You’re not indestructible. And Fury shouldn’t expect you to be. You’ve been stacking mission after mission, overclocking your system.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

He continues, softer still, eyes pinning yours like a hand on your sternum.

“Maybe this forces you to stand still for a while. And I think that’s not the worst thing. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

You huff a laugh that’s mostly sad.

“I don’t even know how to stand still.”

He smirks, barely. Almost invisible.

“Sitting still, then,” he revises dryly, glancing at your foot, “because you’re absolutely not standing on that.”

You let out a burdened sigh.

“I could hop,” you try again, because apparently, your brand is relentless denial.

He deadpans, not even looking up. “You can hobble into a worse injury. That’s all hopping gets you, doll.”

“You’re very bossy,” you grumble.

He lifts his eyebrows at you, a tiny glint of amusement lining up behind his eyes.

He shifts the ice pack a millimeter - just enough to reduce pressure - and you breathe out like a dying accordion.

“This isn’t a setback, doll,” he tells you empathetically, tone so soft. “It’s just downtime. Think it will be good for you. You stay put. You rest. You let your body catch up. And next time, you let me spot you.”

You blink at him with your eyes stingy because the word downtime feels like a permission slip you didn’t know how to write for yourself. Because the way he’s talking to you makes your spine light up in neon.

He looks down again - checking swelling, repositioning the ice once more - and the whole moment is so gentle you don’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll talk to Fury,” he announces, firm and resolute.

You blink at him.

“What?”

He shrugs one shoulder, not looking up at you. “You’re not taking heat for this. I’ll handle it.”

Your chest goes fizzy weird and unsafe.

You keep staring at him.

This man would go to war with an entire intelligence apparatus rather than watch you limp into one more dangerous thing.

And it’s too much to process so you look at your foot again because it’s easier than looking at him.

“You don’t have to, Bucky,” you reply, almost breathless. “I can deal with it.”

“I know.”

And yet.

“The hardest thing is to give up control when you’ve spent your whole life thinking it’s what keeps you safe.”

- Brené Brown

One thing about you and your boyfriend, Bucky, was that the two of you were probably the most stubborn people on the planet. Your friends joked about it constantly. Sam, especially, loved to poke fun, saying things like, "You two are so stubborn, it’s a miracle you’re even together."

He always meant it lightly, but every time the words came up, Bucky would scoff and roll his eyes before replying with the same refrain.

"She’s the only person who can understand me."

He said it often enough that you believed it. And in truth, he was the only one who understood you, too.

So when an argument flared, and he threw those very words back at you—stripped of their comfort and used against you like a weapon—what happens then?

You stood there, still and broken as his words rang in your ears, deafening and cruel.

"You never understand me. You never could!"

The words were sharp as a knife, cutting through everything he'd ever said to you before. His chest was heaving up and down, and for a moment, you saw the flicker of regret passing through his eyes.

But his pride and pain kept him from swallowing the words back down.

"You don't mean that, James..." you said, already broken.

"You think you know me?" his voice rose, splintering your softness. "You don't. You can't. You can't possibly know me—no matter how hard you try. You just can't."

His voice was broken and vulnerable, sounding more like a plea to himself rather than an attack on you.

But still, they hurt.

God, it hurts.

You stood in front of him, your heart ripped out of your chest as the love of your life watched you, fists clenched at his sides and his jaw clenched in anger. He had to physically pry his gaze off of you, grabbing his jacket off the hanger, turning his heel and walking out of your apartment building.

When the door finally shut closed, the tears flowed freely. And you brought your hands up to your face as you cried to yourself.

People always talk about the pain during an argument—the anger, the regrets—but it’s the aftermath that truly shatters you. The silence. The emptiness. That’s what breaks your heart the most.

Sam was right. The two of you were impossibly stubborn. But when your chest feels hollow and your heart is in pieces, it stops being about pride. It becomes about the weight of his words pressing you down, keeping you from facing the day, from stepping outside.

It keeps you from... moving forward at all.

You always knew Bucky always needed his space after a fight, and no matter how much it ached, you couldn’t chase after him right away. You had to let him breathe.

He said you didn’t understand him—but in this, at least, you did.

In the quiet moments of time when you’re left alone, you couldn't help but wonder how Bucky was coping.

You wondered if he was hurting just as much as you were.

Bucky sat slouched into Sam's couch, arms laying limp by his sides, eyes fixed on some distant point past the living room.

Sam stood across from him, rambling on about the details of a mission that Bucky was not paying attention to.

"We'll hit the docks at five. I'll have Torres cover the south side. I'll take the lead, and you'll..."

He stopped mid-sentence, narrowing his eyes at Bucky.

"What's up with you, man?"

Bucky blinked, slow and unfocused before dragging his gaze back to Sam. "I'm fine."

"Fine?" Sam scoffed. "You look like hell. You didn't hear a damn thing I just said."

"I heard you," he lied straight through his teeth. "Torres west. Docks at five. I've got it."

"Torres south," Sam corrected. "Jesus, Buck. I really need you to pay attention, but your head's clearly not here, so where the hell is it?"

Bucky clenched his hands into fists at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking and straining. Sam was right—his head wasn’t here at all.

His thoughts, his heart, every piece of him was with you.

He didn’t want to keep crashing on Sam’s couch after missions. He wanted to go home to you. To see you waiting by the door, to feel the warmth of your kiss. To have you fuss over his wounds with gentle and soft hands, holding him like he was a big fragile baby.

He wanted all these things, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t force his feet to carry him to your door and beg for forgiveness. Not when he knew how broken he had left you. How lonely you must have felt. He didn't even know what to say.

How could you possibly forgive him after everything he had said to you?

"It's nowhere," he forced himself to say.

"Is that why you've been sleeping on my couch for the past two days?"

"It's for the mission," Bucky immediately shot back.

"Oh, is it?" Sam crossed his arms. "The same mission you're not even listening to right now?"

Bucky's jaw clenched. "I am listening."

Sam exhaled, long and heavy before shaking his head. "Fine. Whatever, man. Just make sure you get your head in the game by tomorrow. We can't afford any mistakes."

Bucky only gave him a short and curt nod, watching as Sam left him in the living room. He settled onto the couch, letting out a long sigh as he pulled his phone out.

No matter how bad things were between you, he always sent you a message before every mission. It was a way to let you know that he was still here, still breathing, and still thinking of you.

Bucky: Leaving early tomorrow for a mission again.

The words were stiff, as they always were. But after the fight, they read colder and emptier. Maybe he could've tried wording it differently, but he was never really good at texting to begin with.

He stared at the screen, waiting, hoping you'd answer this time.

Delivered.

Read.

He shouldn't have expected anything more. But either way, the small acknowledgement meant something—proof that you hadn't shut him out completely.

But God, it wasn't enough. His chest ached for more.

Bucky: You doing okay?

Delivered.

Read.

His fingers worked as he typed out another message, testing his luck.

Bucky: Come on, baby. Give me something.

He stared at the screen, waiting for the stupid dots to appear, the ones that meant you were typing. His chest tightened. He told himself to leave it alone, to give you space, but his fingers betrayed him yet again.

"Please, just tell me you're okay." He typed it, deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it. "I didn't mean it. You know I didn't." Stupid text messages weren't enough. They never could be.

With a defeated sigh, he typed out again, slow and trembling.

He had to at least let you know this.

Bucky: I love you.

He stared at the screen in the dim living room, waiting for you to read the message.

Delivered.

But the status never changed.

You stared at the messages Bucky had sent the night before, your eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Lying on your side in the empty bed you once shared, the ache in your chest deepened with every unread line. Leaving him on read hurt you as much as it must have hurt him.

But after the way he'd cut you down—and no matter how much you missed him—you refused to let yourself give in over a simple text message.

But at the same time, you missed him.

God, you missed him so much. The thought of him lying awake somewhere, waiting for a reply that never came, broke your heart in ways you could barely stand.

The apartment was still and silent without him. You sat curled on the couch, slouched back and staring blankly at the television, trying to keep your mind off of him.

That was, until your phone began to ring.

It was rare for Bucky to call during a fight, but knowing he was in the middle of a mission, you felt you had to pick up—just in case.

"Hello?" you greeted quietly.

"...Hey," his voice came through, quiet and rough like he hadn't slept in days.

You swallowed. "Hey."

There was a pause. You could hear the faint sounds of voices in the background, the shuffle of boots against concrete.

"I... uh," he cleared his throat. "I’m heading out soon. Thought I’d call before we left."

"Okay," you replied, trying to sound casual despite your voice shaky. "Thanks for checking in."

Another awkward pause. It was painfully clear there were things you both wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. For a second, you considered hanging up and ending it there, but you couldn’t bring yourself to, and Bucky clearly couldn’t either.

"The mission’s been going smoothly so far," he said finally, voice stiff. "If everything goes right today, we should be able to wrap it up."

"That's good," you said curtly.

He hesitated before speaking again. "Then I can come back home. How does that sound?"

Your grip tightened on the phone. Was he being serious? After days of sending you half-assed text messages, after leaving you alone with your broken heart, he thought he could just call you out of the blue and talk about coming home?

Like as if you weren't hurting because of him, all while aching for him every second he was away?

"Hello?" he asked, his voice getting shakier. "Are you still there?"

You felt your throat burning as tears begin to swell. "I don't want you to come home, James."

"W-what...?"

"Every time we fight, I've always given you space," you explained, voice trembling. "I've let you take as long as you needed, because I knew that's what you wanted."

You paused, trying to compose yourself to continue.

"But right now, it's your turn. I need you to give me the time I need. This time, I'll come to you when I'm ready."

Bucky sucked in a sharp, ragged breath at the other end. "Doll, I—"

"No," you interrupted firmly, but your chest was tight with pain. "You were right. I don't understand you... not in the way I thought I did. And you know what? Maybe you don't understand me either. But what I need—what I'm asking—is for you to leave me alone."

The line went quiet, save for the faint static of his breathing. It was always like this when you two fought. He would go silent, shut down, while you waited, searching for some sign of him.

A word.

A look.

Anything.

But this time, you weren't going to wait. Your thumb hovered over the screen. Your chest was so painfully tight—you couldn't stand it anymore.

"Goodbye, James."

And you pressed the call to an end.

Goodbye, James.

It was just two words.

Two stupid little words, but it was enough to send Bucky in a spiral. By the time he was on the docks, suited up and following Sam's lead, his mind wasn't on the mission at all.

It hadn't been since the fight. It hadn't been since you hung up. Every step, every order from Sam—it was all detached, coming in through one ear and out the other.

"Buck, what the hell are you doing, man?" Sam barked, frustration rising in his voice.

Bucky was so out of it. He felt guilty for dragging the mission down, but how was he supposed to pull himself together when he couldn't even do it for the one person who held is heart?

He needed to talk to you. To show up, to let you know he still cared, even if he had no idea where to begin.

Because he knew all too well what pushing someone away for "space" really did. It only made the distance deeper. It only made things worse. How could two people possibly heal when they keep pulling farther apart?

If things went smoothly tonight, he'd make sure to come home to you. He would tell you everything he's been holding back, all the words he couldn't say, all the feelings he tried pushing down because of his stupid proud.

Even if they came out a tangled, broken, incoherent mess, at least you would finally hear them.

By the time was mission was over, Bucky felt like he could stand on his feet.

Sam insisted that he gets checked out by the medics, but Bucky waved him off with some shitty excuse saying, "I've got better things to do."

He couldn't sit still through a debrief.

He didn't want to get lectured by Sam.

He needed you.

By the time he reached your building, his shirt was already damp with blood and sweat. His breaths were shallow as he clutched his stomach.

After treading up the grueling steps of the complex, he finally made it outside your apartment door. He stood there, forehead pressed against the wood. His chest ached, knowing that you were in there, alone.

And even though he stood outside the door, hurt and bloodied, he knew you have been hurting just as much as he has.

He raised a trembling hand and knocked softly. No answer.

He tried again, a bit harder and desperate.

"Doll," his voice cracked, broken. "It's... it's me."

There was a long silence on the other side of the door, and each second you left him unanswered dragged like an eternity. But then, he was finally blessed with your voice.

Soft, strained, and muffled through the wood.

"James... I told you to leave me alone."

His throat tightened before swallowing it down, pressing a weak palm against the door.

"I'm sorry," he rasped painfully. "I can't."

There was another brief pause before the door finally peeked open, the creaky wood sounding like a blessing to his ears.

You stood there, looking exhausted and broken, but still beautiful.

"What do you want—"

But the words died in your throat the moment your eyes met his. He looked ashamed as he stood there in front of you, battered and bloodied. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, but he did not want to stain you with the mess he brought to your door.

"Oh my god," you gasped, your expression changing as you stepped towards him. "What the hell happened, James?"

"It's nothing," he said, voice hoarse and breath uneven. "I just needed to see you—"

"Nothing?" you snapped, slipping an arm under his before he could push you away. "James, you're bleeding through your damn shirt."

"I'm sorry," he grunted, letting himself get dragged.

"Sit," you ordered, guiding him toward the couch. Your worry overpowered your anger now, that familiar instinct in your body telling you to care for him, no matter how hurt you still were.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, tugging at his jacket and peeling the blood soaked fabric away from his side. Your hands worked frantically, your eyes glued to the damage on his chest and stomach.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said quietly, "for what I said... for all of it. I didn't mean it—I just..." he swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry."

You quickly grabbed a clean dish towel from the kitchen, meeting him back at the couch. You pressed the clean cloth against his wound, and he winced, hissing through his teeth.

"Don't talk right now," you mumbled, keeping your eyes on his wounds. "Just let me fix you up."

Before you could press down again, his hands found your wrist, gently stopping you.

"No—listen to me," his voice trembled. "I need you to hear this. I know I'm not good with words, but I can't keep pushing you away. I... I can't stand it."

His breath hitched, his eyes glistening as he forced himself to continue.

"I don't want space. I don't want distance. And what I said before... about you not understanding me, I didn't mean it. Fuck, I didn't mean it," his voice cracked, guilt heavy in his voice as he spilled through every syllable.

"You're the only person who's ever really understood me. And I... I took those very words and threw them right back in your face. I'm so damn sorry."

"James, this isn't important right now—" you shook your head, trying to move your hand back to his wound.

But his grip on your wrist tightened, because he did not want to lose the chance to speak. His words continued to spill out, broken and desperate.

"It is important. More than these wounds, more than my own blood—I can't let you live on another second thinking those words were true. I can't let you believe for a second that you don't know me, because you do. You always have."

His bottom lip was trembling, as he sat there—broken and vulnerable. You wanted to answer him, to give him something, anything, but the words refused to come out.

Instead, with a shaky hand, you lifted the clean towel and pressed it gently against his stomach again, focusing on keeping him clean just to keep yourself from breaking down in front of him.

Then his voice stooped to a soft whisper, all fight drained from it.

"Can you just... hold me?"

"You're bleeding—"

Bucky's arms moved before you could even finish, strong even through his weakness. He pulled you into him in one sudden movement, shuffling around on the couch until the two of you sank back together.

"Please," he begged as his head dropped against your chest, body heavy and trembling. "Just... please. Hold me."

The sound of his voice—stripped bare of all it's usual gruffness, almost pathetic in its desperation—shattered you completely. He never spoke like this, never spoke in a way that sounded like he had nothing left to give.

You hated it. You never wanted him to feel this way again.

“I’ve got you, baby,” you whispered, cooing softly as your hands slid up his broad back, rubbing small and soothing circles.

A soft sigh, almost a whimper, escaped his lips as he shuddered underneath your touch. His large, rough hands wandered all over your body, feeling all the warmth he'd been starved of during the days and nights apart.

"I'm sorry," he muttered against your chest, his words muffled against the fabric of your shirt. "I'm so sorry, doll. I'm sorry for all the things I said. I'm sorry for all the times I shut you out when all you ever wanted was to love me."

You felt your heart cracking in your chest, each crack getting bigger after every word that spilled from his lips. It wasn't the words that hurt, it was the sound of him that crushed you.

"It's okay, calm down," you whispered, trying to soothe him. "It's okay, baby."

"I don't deserve you," he choked, his breathing getting heavier and sporadic, his hair brushing against your chin as he shook his head.

"Not after... after the way I hurt you. But I can't—I can't lose you. You're it for me, babydoll. You're the only thing that makes any of this worth it."

He finally lifted his face, his blue eyes shimmered with wet tears, wide and pleading like a wounded little puppy.

"I love you," he whispered. "More than anything, more than I know how to say. And even if you can't bring yourself to forgive me, just please. Don't leave me. Don't push me away."

"Oh, Bucky," you sighed softly, your hands coming down to cradle his cheeks, your thumb brushing softly against his bruised skin. "I love you so much, you know that. But I can't keep doing this, I can't take you shutting me out every time we argue."

Your voice started to tremble, your fingers pausing their gentle strokes as a frown tugged at your lips.

"And when you said I don't understand you... it hurts. It makes me question everything I thought I knew about you—about us."

Bucky shook his head quickly. forcing himself to sit up despite the pain. His hands rose, clammy and trembling, covering yours where they cupped his face.

"No, baby. That's not true. You do understand me. I was angry, I was stupid, and I said something I didn't mean. But I swear to you—you know me better than I know myself."

He pulled your hand down, pressing kisses to your knuckles.

Your breath got stuck in your throat, and before you could stop yourself, tears began to spill down your cheeks.

Bucky's heart clenched at the sight. He reached up, thumbs brushing gently at your tears. "Hey, hey... don't cry, babydoll. Please. I can't stand to see you cry."

A broken whimper escaped your lips. "I'm just... so tired, Bucky. I'm so tired of fighting with you. After every fight, it feels like I'm losing you."

His big arms came around you, strong and careful—like you were the most fragile being in the world. He tucked you against him and kissed your temple, your hair, leaving soft whispers against your skin.

"You're not losing me," he soothed. "Not now and not never. I've got you, baby girl. Let me take care of you."

He rocked you gently, his rough hands running up and down your back in slow and calming lines. Tangled together, you buried your face against his chest as the sobs finally broke free—hot, unrelenting.

He kept murmuring softly against you, words of promises and comforts slipping from his lips.

"Everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart."

"I love you, pretty girl."

"Please don’t cry."

He held you all while pressing feather-light kisses into your hairline. Your cries became soft and uneven. Every little tremble that left your body only made his hold tighter, your ears pressed against his chest as you listened to the steady beat of his heart.

Here, in the quiet and vulnerable moment of your shared space—him bruised and bleeding, you emotionally broken—you simply lay in each other's arms.

Bucky managed a single, tight smile. “Good to be.”

Sam clapped Bucky’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Show you your room before Stark starts the grand tour slash guilt trip.”

Tony raised both palms. “Guilt trip is scheduled for tomorrow. Today we’re pretending to be functional adults.”

The group moved through glass corridors—past the lounge, the kitchen, the new med bay Stark had installed after Lagos. Bucky clocked every exit, every camera. Vision floated by, offered a polite “Sergeant Barnes,” then drifted off like a polite phantom.

They reached the residential wing. Steve broke off to grab something from his own quarter while Sam kept talking about the gym schedule. Bucky was only half-listening when he caught a flicker of movement above the mezzanine rail. Someone stood on the upper level—motionless, arms folded, leaned against the railing. Dark clothes, expression unreadable. You watched the procession with the detached focus of a sniper sighting. Natasha spotted the stare, followed it up to you, and smirked. “Ignore her. She’s part gargoyle.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

“Work associate,” Natasha corrected. “She bites.”

“Good to know.” He looked back and you were already gone, melted into the shadowed hallway.

Sam whistled low. “Man, everyone in this place has drama.”

“Focus,” Tony cut in, opening a door. “Barnes, this is you. Fresh linens. No oppressive Stark tech inside—per your very specific rider, Rogers.”

Bucky stepped in. The room was neutral: grey walls, a dresser, a large window overlooking the training yard. Simple, almost Spartan. He set the duffel down. “Thanks,” he said, voice rough from disuse.

Steve reappeared in the doorway, tossed Bucky a StarkPad. “House rules, emergency numbers, Friday’s protocols. Dinner’s at nineteen hundred if you’re up for it.” Bucky nodded. The others filtered away one by one. When only Steve remained, he finally exhaled. “You okay?” Steve asked.

“Ask me tomorrow,” Bucky muttered, staring out the window. Somewhere in the compound’s maze of halls, the silent watcher—you—was probably back at whatever perch you called yours.

Steve clapped his shoulder once. “It gets easier.”

Bucky wasn’t sure that was true, but he nodded anyway. Outside, the sun dipped behind the treeline, casting long shadows across the training yard—just enough darkness for old ghosts to hide in, and maybe for new ones to feel at home.

---

The compound had mostly quieted down. Footsteps echoed less, lights were dimmer. Dinner had come and gone—Wanda had cooked something surprisingly edible, Sam made sarcastic commentary the whole time, and Bucky mostly observed. He didn’t speak much. Still adjusting. Still scanning.

You entered the room just as Sam was leaving. He nodded to you but didn’t stop. Natasha was on the couch, feet tucked under her, scrolling through something on her tablet. Bucky looked up when you passed. His posture stiffened slightly—more out of habit than discomfort. You didn’t acknowledge him, at least not directly. You just walked to the far counter where the coffee machine sat and poured yourself a cup. Black with no sugar. Natasha glanced up. “You’re late.”

Natasha glanced up. “You’re late.”

“I’m not required to show up,” you said simply, not looking back.

“I was being polite,” Natasha smirked. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You took a sip and finally turned your gaze toward the room. Your eyes lingered briefly on Bucky before moving to Natasha. “You vet him yet?”

Natasha tilted her head. “Steve brought him in. Sam co-signed. I trust them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Natasha held your stare for a moment, then glanced toward Bucky. “He’s fine.”

You didn’t respond, just looked at Bucky again for a half-second longer than necessary. Cold, neutral, evaluating. He raised an eyebrow. “Something you wanna say?”

“Nope,” you said flatly, sipping your coffee. “Just watching.” You left the same way you came—silent, efficient, no wasted movement. The click of your boots faded down the hall.

Natasha snorted under her breath and looked at Bucky. “She’s warming up to you.”

“That’s her warming up?” Bucky asked.

“Mmhm.” Natasha returned to her tablet. “She hasn’t threatened you yet. That’s progress.”

Bucky stared down the hallway where you’d disappeared. He didn’t say it aloud, but something about you had stuck in his mind—quiet but sharp, unreadable, like a blade hidden in plain sight. He was used to shadows. But you weren’t one he could read yet. And that alone made you interesting.

---

Bucky was up early. Not unusual—old habits, ingrained discipline, a brain that didn’t let him sleep past dawn. The gym was empty, sunlight filtering in through the tall glass windows. He worked through a set of pull-ups, dog tags swinging slightly with each motion, when he caught movement in the reflection of the mirror. You entered quietly, already in black workout clothes, hair pulled back, earbuds in. You didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t pause—just headed straight for the sparring mats.

He dropped from the bar, breathing steady, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. You were already stretching, back turned to him with fluid, calculated movements. Everything about you was sharp—like every inch of your body was still on alert. He watched a little too long. "Staring’s not polite," you said suddenly without turning around.

Bucky blinked. "Didn’t realize I was."

"You did."

He gave a low chuckle, rubbing the towel over the back of his neck. "Old habits."

You finally turned to face him, expression unreadable. "You looking to spar?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Thought you don’t talk to anyone but Romanoff and Rogers."

You shrugged. "I’m making an exception."

"That right?"

"For now." You stepped onto the mat without waiting for his answer. When the sparring started, he noticed you moved fast. Controlled. You didn’t waste energy, and you didn’t hesitate. Bucky recognized the style—it was some blend of SHIELD, Red Room, and something uniquely yours. Efficient, brutal, and smart.

He grunted as your elbow connected with his ribs—light enough not to bruise, but heavy enough to warn. He pivoted, grabbing your wrist and twisting, but you slipped out before he could lock it. "You're not bad," he said.

You tilted your head. "You're slower than I expected."

He smirked. "I'm rusty."

"No excuse."

Another strike. Another block. Sweat was starting to build between you both. The kind of silence that existed only between people testing each other. Then, your boot slid behind his and you swept his legs. He hit the mat with a solid thud, one arm bent behind him before he could get up. You hovered above him, face impassive. "You're an idiot," you said calmly.

Bucky stared up at you, chest rising slowly with exertion. "You just figuring that out?"

You released him with a small shove and stepped back. "No. I just like saying it out loud."

He sat up, wiping his face again, watching you as you grabbed your water bottle. “You always this friendly in the mornings?”

“I don’t do friendly.”

He smirked, still sitting on the mat. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

You gave him a long, unreadable look. Then turned and walked out, as silent as you came in. Bucky stayed on the mat a few seconds longer, then laughed quietly to himself. Yeah. You were definitely interesting. And he was in trouble.

---

The team was gathered around the large TV, some baseball game playing quietly in the background. Wanda was curled up on the couch, while Vision was awkwardly attempting small talk with Rhodey and Tony, who were engaged in a heated argument about flight maneuvering. Bucky stood by the kitchen counter, eyes scanning the room. Steve approached him quietly, handing him a bottle of water. "You doing okay?" Steve asked softly.

Bucky stood by the kitchen counter, eyes scanning the room. Steve approached him quietly, handing him a bottle of water. "You doing okay?" Steve asked softly.

Bucky shrugged lightly. "Adjusting."

Steve followed Bucky’s gaze—it landed on you, perched on the farthest corner chair, one knee drawn up to your chest, quietly observing the room with detached indifference. "She’s still giving you trouble?" Steve asked, lips curling faintly.

"No," Bucky shook his head. "She’s fine."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You know, she’s not as harsh as she seems."

Bucky snorted softly, taking a swig of water. "Pretty sure she’s exactly as harsh as she seems."

Steve chuckled. "She’s had a rough go. Trust issues."

"Join the club," Bucky muttered dryly.

Across the room, you briefly caught his gaze, your stare lingering half a beat before returning to the TV. Natasha sidled up next to your chair, nudging your arm gently. "You’re staring again," she teased lightly.

"I’m observing," you replied flatly.

Natasha smirked knowingly. "Same difference." You didn’t respond, you just shifted slightly and kept your eyes trained on the screen.

---

Bucky wandered into the kitchen, the aroma of fresh coffee drifting warmly through the air. He paused when he saw you standing there, pouring coffee into two mugs. You barely glanced up. "Morning," he said quietly.

You hummed a faint acknowledgment. "Barnes."

He hesitated, then nodded at the second mug. "Company?"

"No," you replied simply, sliding the mug toward him without another word. He blinked, surprised, reaching for the mug cautiously.

"For me?"

"Unless there’s another Barnes lurking around."

He lifted the mug, sipping slowly. Perfectly black, just the way he liked it. "Thanks." You didn’t reply, but something in your posture softened almost imperceptibly.

Sam walked in then, stopping abruptly when he saw you both standing quietly together. "Well, isn’t this cozy?"

You glared at him briefly, expression flat. "Don’t."

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, glancing at Bucky. "Watch yourself. She’s moody this morning."

Bucky took another sip, mouth curving faintly. "I’ve noticed." You rolled your eyes slightly, pushing off from the counter and silently leaving the kitchen.

Sam leaned in, speaking in a mock whisper. "Careful, man. She’s warming up to you. Might even start tolerating your presence."

Bucky shook his head, suppressing a smirk. "Let’s not get carried away."

---

The sun had set, leaving the training room bathed in dim, artificial light. The only sound was the heavy thud of fists against a punching bag. Bucky moved fluidly, strikes precise and rhythmic. He sensed you before he saw you, turning slightly as you approached silently from behind. He paused his movements, breathing steady. "Late night?" he asked quietly.

"I like the quiet," you replied evenly, stepping toward the bag next to him and tugging on a pair of gloves.

He watched as you delivered a series of controlled, powerful strikes. You didn’t speak again, neither did he, but there was comfort in the silence. After a while, he finally broke it. "Steve told me you've been here a while."

You paused mid-swing, glancing briefly in his direction. "Yeah."

Bucky nodded slowly. "Why stay?"

You hesitated for the briefest moment, then resumed hitting the bag. "Needed somewhere to go. Steve offered."

"And you trust him?"

You stopped again, lowering your hands slowly and meeting his eyes directly. "Enough."

He held your gaze carefully. "But not me."

You tilted your head slightly, expression still guarded. "Not yet."

Bucky huffed softly, nodding. "Fair enough."

He turned back toward his own bag, resuming his training. You watched him quietly for another moment before slipping off your gloves and heading toward the door. "Barnes," you called out softly over your shoulder.

He paused, looking back at you, brow raised slightly. "Yeah?"

You hesitated, then gave a slight nod of respect. "You’re getting better."

He smiled faintly. "Thanks." You left without another word, but somehow, the silence felt just a little less cold.

---

Rain drizzled quietly against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Most of the team was strewn about the common room in various states of productivity—or lack thereof. Steve and Sam were arguing over something football-related, Tony was tinkering with a new handheld device on the floor, Natasha was lounging in the corner, flipping through a thick paperback, and Vision and Wanda sat at the dining table playing chess.

Bucky walked in, towel around his neck, hair still damp from a shower, and glanced around. His eyes scanned instinctively—then landed on you. You were seated alone by the window, curled in a chair with your boots on the cushion, legs drawn up. You weren’t reading or looking at your phone, just staring out at the rain, arms crossed. Classic. Bucky wandered over and leaned against the window frame a few feet away, not saying anything at first. You didn’t look over, but your eyes flicked toward him briefly. "Don't hover," you said calmly.

He smirked a little. "Wasn't hovering. Just... existing nearby."

You gave him a slow blink. "Loudly."

Bucky let out a short breath of laughter, clearly amused. "This is loud to you?"

You finally turned to face him fully. "Compared to the rain? Yeah."

He nodded, conceding the point. "Fair." For a few seconds, it was just quiet again. Then Bucky added, “I like the rain too.”

You quirked a brow. “Didn’t ask.”

He just chuckled and leaned more comfortably against the glass. “Nope. But I said it anyway.”

---

Natasha and Clint were sparring in the ring while Steve and Sam were running laps. Bucky was leaning against the wall, water bottle in hand, watching with quiet amusement. You entered the gym silently, heading to the mats to stretch. You didn’t acknowledge anyone, but Bucky noticed the subtle tilt of your head when he looked your way. He wandered over eventually, offering a slight nod toward the weights. "You spot or me?"

You glanced up from your stretch. "Don’t drop it this time."

"I didn't drop it," he muttered as he followed you.

"Almost did."

"You're never gonna let that go, huh?"

"Nope," you said flatly.

But you stood behind him anyway, arms folded, waiting. Bucky dropped to the bench press, trying not to grin. "I like your coaching style," he said, lifting the bar easily.

"You’re weak when you talk."

He laughed through a rep. “That’s rich, coming from someone who only speaks in insults.”

"Motivational insults," you corrected.

“Is that what those are?”

You just smirked slightly. "Keep lifting, Barnes."

---

The compound was mostly dark. A few motion lights flickered dimly as Bucky padded barefoot into the kitchen, hoodie pulled over his head. He reached into the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and shutting the door softly—only to find you standing there by the counter with a mug of tea in your hand. “Jesus,” he muttered. “How do you move that quiet?”

You sipped your tea. “Practice.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You always up this late?”

You shrugged. “Usually.”

He opened the bottle, then leaned his hip against the counter. “Why?”

"Can’t sleep when it’s too quiet."

"Huh," he said, nodding slowly. "Opposite for me. Noise throws me off."

You turned slightly, raising a brow. “So the whole ‘Brooklyn’ thing doesn’t apply to your sleeping habits?”

He smiled faintly. “Apparently not. Too many car alarms and teenagers yelling outside bodegas.”

You gave the smallest hint of a smirk before it faded back to your usual deadpan. “You want toast or something?”

Bucky blinked. “Toast?”

“I’m not making it for you,” you clarified. “I’m just saying I’m using the toaster, and if you want in, now’s your chance.”

He laughed quietly, setting his water down. “Sure, I’m in.” You popped two slices of bread in. Bucky leaned beside you again, his arm brushing yours. “…You always this generous after midnight?”

“Ask again and I’ll stab you with a butter knife.”

He grinned wider. “There she is.”

---

The team had gathered to watch a movie. You were on the far end of the couch with Natasha. Bucky was on the floor, back leaning against the couch by your legs. His proximity was closer than usual, he didn’t even comment when your knee brushed against his shoulder. You didn’t move away either. Halfway through the movie, he twisted around and looked up at you. “Want popcorn?”

You looked down at him. “No.” He held the bowl up anyway. You took a handful without breaking eye contact. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary before turning back to the movie.

Across the room, Sam whispered to Steve, “okay, they’re definitely gonna make out soon.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Leave it alone.”

Tony sipped his drink. “Give it three weeks.”

Wanda looked smug. “Two.”

Vision tilted his head. “Are we… wagering?”

Natasha sighed. “You’re all children.”

From your spot on the couch, you tossed a piece of popcorn at Sam’s head without looking. “Eyes on the screen, Wilson.”

---

Tony was messing with the espresso machine again, sparks flew once and then again. Sam took one look and decided to grab a bottled coffee from the fridge instead. “You’re gonna blow the damn machine up,” Rhodey muttered from the island, already scrolling through his tablet.

“I built the machine,” Tony said. “It doesn’t blow up. It enhances violently.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said, cracking open his drink. “Tell that to the last one.”

The back door opened, and you walked in, headphones around your neck, hoodie zipped halfway up. You scanned the room briefly. Bucky was by the sink, rinsing a mug. He gave a quick, crooked smile. “Morning.”

You didn’t smile back, but you gave a small, acknowledging nod. “Hey.”

Tony raised a brow at you, watching the short interaction like a hawk. “Wait. Did you just use a normal tone?”

You grabbed a protein bar from the counter. “Don’t get used to it.”

Rhodey snorted. “Back to normal.”

Bucky walked past, brushing his shoulder lightly against yours as he reached for a towel. “You on training rotation this morning?”

“Yeah,” you said, tearing open the bar. “Sparring with Nat.”

“Don’t break anything,” he murmured, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

You glanced at him. “No promises.”

Tony gave Bucky a suspicious look. “Are you two flirting?”

“No,” you and Bucky said at the same time—yours flat, his amused.

“Sure,” Sam mumbled. “Totally convincing.”

---

You were on the bench, unlacing your boots after drills. Bucky finished his round on the bags and grabbed a towel, dropping down beside you. “You okay?” he asked.

You gave him a slow glance. “Yeah. Why?”

“You punched the heavy bag like it owed you money.”

“It did,” you said simply, tying your shoe.

He smiled faintly. “You always work out angry?”

“It’s efficient.”

He bumped your shoulder lightly. “You know there’s music for that, right? You ever listen to anything while you train?”

You shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Lemme guess—classical?”

“Dead silence,” you said flatly. “Keeps me focused.”

Bucky let out a soft laugh. “You’re unreal.”

You finally turned to him, deadpan. “Says the hundred-year-old cyborg.”

He grinned. “Touché.”

---

The sky was clear, stars out for once. You were leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching the horizon. The door slid open behind you. Bucky stepped out quietly, holding two mugs. “You still up?” You nodded. He handed you a mug without asking. It was black tea—exactly how you liked it. You didn’t ask how he knew. He just... did. You took a sip, the silence between you both comfortable now. Bucky leaned next to you, elbows on the railing. “Hell of a view,” he murmured.

You glanced at him. “You’re not looking at it.”

He smiled. “I was talking about the sky.”

You didn’t reply. Just sipped your tea and let the silence stretch again. Then, softly, “thanks.”

He glanced over, surprised. “For what?”

You shrugged. “The tea.”

His smile grew a little softer. “Anytime.”

Behind the glass, through the window, Natasha leaned closer to Steve and whispered, “they’re gonna kiss eventually, right?”

Steve shook his head. “They’re not in a rush.”

Clint snorted. “They’re both emotionally constipated.”

Tony tapped a finger to his chin. “Fifty bucks says she kisses him first.”

Wanda raised a brow. “Make it a hundred.”

---

The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the windows, casting long golden streaks across the floor. A low hum of conversation drifted through the lounge, where half the team was scattered across couches and chairs, unwinding after the morning’s training rotation.

Bucky was nursing a bottle of water at the far end of the room, leaned back in an armchair, gaze flicking idly toward where you sat cross-legged on the floor, a tablet propped in your lap. You were reading, completely silent, headphones in, eyes sharp and unmoving. Bucky had noticed—though you'd never admit it—you always sat where you could see the exits. He smirked softly to himself.

Natasha dropped onto the couch beside you without warning. You didn’t flinch, just adjusted the tablet so she could see too. "That good?" she asked, nodding to the screen.

You gave a quiet, flat hum. "Boring. I’m halfway through."

“That’s your version of five stars,” Nat muttered, sipping her coffee.

Across the room, Tony peered over the top of his laptop. “Y/N voluntarily sitting in a group setting without a threat or a paycheck. Incredible.”

You didn't even glance up. "I’m not here for you."

"Ouch." Tony clutched his chest. "Wounded."

Sam walked in from the kitchen, holding a sandwich in each hand. “Who’s wounded?”

“My ego,” Tony replied dramatically. “Y/N’s weapon of choice is indifference.”

“She’s not indifferent,” Bucky said calmly from his seat. “She’s just selective.” You glanced at him, one brow raising slightly. A beat passed, then he winked.

Rhodey passed through the room, glanced between the two of you, and muttered to no one in particular, “someone’s catching feelings.”

“Someone's projecting,” you replied without looking. Sam coughed to cover a laugh.

---

Bucky was at the shooting range when you stepped in. You watched from the doorway for a second, arms folded, before approaching the lane next to him. He looked over, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t think you liked target practice.”

“I don’t,” you replied, pulling your own weapon and setting it up. “I like accuracy.”

He let out a low laugh. “Nice.” The next ten minutes passed in near silence, only the distant pop-pop-pop of firing and the clink of magazines reloading. He stole a glance at your target—tight grouping, dead center. “Damn. You ever miss?”

You holstered your weapon smoothly. “Once.”

Bucky tilted his head. “When?”

Your tone stayed dry. “Trusting someone.”

He paused, lips twitching. “Well, that’s deeply unsettling.”

You gave a small shrug. “You asked.”

He shook his head, grinning. “I think I like your version of small talk.”

You didn’t smile—but you didn’t walk away, either.

---

Wanda was sitting at the island, talking quietly with Vision while Natasha chopped vegetables. You were seated on the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up, sipping something dark from a chipped mug. Bucky entered behind you, took one look at the knife in your hand, and walked over. “You cooking?”

“No,” you said flatly. “Guarding.”

“Who’s the target?”

“Tony’s ego.” Natasha snorted, tossing you a slice of pepper.

Bucky leaned on the counter beside you, nudging your knee lightly with his hand. “You always carry a knife when you hang out in here?”

“Only on days ending in ‘Y.’”

“Thought so.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly, voice soft. “You two are becoming... comfortable.”

You glanced at her. “It’s not contagious.”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But it’s rare.”

Bucky gave a quiet laugh, still watching you. “She grows on you.”

You sipped your drink. “Like mold.” Tony strolled into the kitchen right then, wearing red-tinted lab goggles and holding some device that was buzzing faintly. “Whatever you’re doing, stop,” you said immediately.

Tony paused. “That’s your instinct when I walk into a room?”

“Yes.”

Natasha nodded. “Fair.”

---

You walked back from the gym, towel slung around your neck, earbuds in. You didn’t hear Bucky until he was right next to you. “Hey.”

You blinked, pulling one earbud out. “You sneak.”

He grinned. “You zone out.” You started walking again. He fell into step beside you. “Good workout?” he asked.

You nodded. “Needed to hit something.”

He smirked. “And everyone survived. Impressive.”

You slowed as you reached your hallway, turning to him. “Why are you always around?” you asked.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because I like being around you.”

You stared at him for a second, unreadable. “That’s dumb.”

He smiled. “Yeah. A little.”

And for once—you didn’t argue. Just walked away, headphones back in. He watched you go, shaking his head softly. Behind him, Steve stepped out of the shadows, coffee in hand. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Buck.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“She doesn’t do feelings.”

“She doesn’t do yours,” Bucky corrected. “Mine, she tolerates.”

Steve exhaled. “Just... don’t get your heart broken.”

Bucky’s smile turned crooked. “Too late.”

---

“You couldn’t at least worn something… else?” Tony asked, looking at your suit.

“I’m wearing heels,” you replied flatly.

Tony blinked, processing. “Okay, but... you’re also wearing all black, a tactical coat, and at least three visible knives.”

You adjusted one of said knives at your thigh. “I compromised.”

Wanda drifted past in a crimson gown, pausing only long enough to glance at you. “You look terrifying. It’s good.”

Natasha grinned as she walked up, wearing something sleek and vaguely threatening. “She looks hot. Let’s not lie.”

You ignored them both and reached for a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “This whole event is a waste of time.”

“It’s diplomacy,” Steve offered mildly from behind you.

“It’s a buffet with small talk and lies,” you muttered.

Sam strolled over, already halfway into a conversation you hadn’t agreed to. “What I want to know is who bet on how long Y/N would last at this thing before bailing.”

“Thirty-five minutes,” Clint said, appearing from absolutely nowhere. “I set a timer.”

You deadpanned, “make it twenty.”

“Please,” Sam said. “You’re already clocking in more social time than your entire year combined.”

Bucky walked up right then, fixing his cufflinks and looking criminally good in a black suit. “Hey.”

You nodded at him, expression unreadable. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” he said with a smirk.

Tony looked between you two and raised an eyebrow. “You coordinated.”

“No, we didn’t,” you and Bucky said at the same time.

Steve tried not to laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

Bucky stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough. “You clean up nice.”

You sipped your drink. “You say that like I tried.”

“I say it because it’s true.”

You gave him a long, slow look. “I still have three more knives hidden.”

He grinned. “Even better.”

Rhodey walked up just in time to catch that. “Am I the only one genuinely afraid of her?”

“Nope,” Sam replied. “That’s the correct emotional response.”

Vision tilted his head thoughtfully. “I am... intrigued.”

Tony clapped his hands. “Alright, freaks. Time to go pretend we like politicians.” You all filed into the gala space—lights dim, voices low, money and suits and quiet tension everywhere. You lingered near the back wall, sipping another drink, watching people move like chess pieces.

Bucky drifted to your side after a few minutes. “You look like you want to set the place on fire.”

“Only a little,” you replied.

“You should smile more,” he teased under his breath.

You side-eyed him. “I will stab you in front of witnesses.”

He smirked. “Worth it.”

Across the room, Sam leaned toward Natasha and whispered, “they’re not flirting, right?”

Natasha didn’t look up from her phone. “That is their flirting.”

Clint took a picture from behind a decorative column. “I’m putting this in the group chat.”

“Don’t,” Steve warned.

“Already sent,” Clint said, grinning.

Back near the corner, Bucky watched your eyes track the exits again. “You’re not even trying to pretend to socialize,” he said.

“I’m dressed up. That’s enough.”

He laughed softly. “Come dance.”

You blinked at him. “No.”

“Come on. Just one.”

“No.”

“You literally fought eight HYDRA agents last month and took a knife to the shoulder. But a dance is where you draw the line?”

You stared at him. “That’s correct.”

He offered his hand anyway. “I’ll owe you.”

You stared at it then sighed, downed the rest of your drink, and muttered, “I hate you.” But you took his hand.  He pulled you gently toward the center of the room. You moved stiffly, heels silent against the polished floor, already regretting this decision. Music floated softly in the background—low, classical, unoffensive. The kind of music that made you want to crawl out of your skin. "Relax," Bucky murmured, his hand settling lightly on your waist. "You look like you’re being held hostage."

"I feel like it."

"You picked the shoes."

"You dragged me to the floor."

"Tomato, tomahto." You let him lead. You weren’t graceful, but you were coordinated—precision had always come naturally to you. After a few beats, your movements synced up, and you stopped looking quite so homicidal. "You’re good at this," Bucky said casually.

"I had to learn."

He tilted his head, amused. "What, for missions?"

"No. Finishing school."

Bucky blinked. "You went to finishing school?"

You stared at him. "I was raised to infiltrate royalty, Barnes. Not flirt with war criminals."

"Okay, that’s the hottest sentence anyone’s ever said to me." You snorted. Actually snorted. Quiet, surprised, but unmistakable. Bucky’s eyes crinkled. "Is that your laugh?"

"Don’t push it."

Across the room, Natasha elbowed Sam sharply. "Look at them."

Sam squinted. "Is she actually smiling?"

Tony leaned in from behind them. "No. Her face just glitched."

"She's smiling with her eyes," Wanda added.

Steve sighed into his drink. "Leave them alone."

"No one’s bothering them," Clint said, pulling out his phone again. "We’re documenting a miracle."

Back on the floor, you shifted your weight, glancing up at Bucky under your lashes. "You gonna keep staring at me or look where you're going?"

He grinned. "I’ve already memorized the room. You’re more interesting."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. "You’re exhausting."

"You’re tolerating me."

"For now."

The song ended and you stepped back instantly. "That’s it," you said.you said.

"Just one?"

"That was the deal."

Bucky smiled. "Fair enough." You turned to walk away, but he caught your wrist gently, just for a second. You paused, glancing back. "Thanks," he said softly.

You looked at him for a long beat. Then nodded once. "Don’t make it a habit."

He let you go. And you walked off without looking back—heels clicking, head high, jaw sharp.

Bucky just stood there, smiling to himself like an idiot. And yeah, maybe he was. But he was an idiot with a plan.

---

Tony was halfway through a triple-shot espresso when you walked in, hair slightly damp from a shower, hoodie on, no makeup, dead-eyed. "Well, someone had fun last night," he drawled, raising his mug. You opened the cabinet, pulled out your usual chipped mug, and poured a cup of coffee without responding.

Rhodey looked up from his protein shake. "She looks the same as usual to me."

"Exactly my point," Tony said. "I just think it’s suspicious when the scariest person in the building willingly dances at a gala."

You sipped your coffee. "I was bribed."

Bucky wandered in next, sweat still clinging to his forehead from the gym. He tossed his towel onto the island and grabbed a bottle of water. He nodded toward you, grinning. "She threatened to stab me if I asked for another dance."

Tony snorted. "So... a typical Tuesday." You ignored them both, grabbing a piece of toast and leaning silently against the counter.

Wanda walked in, braiding her hair loosely. “Morning.” You nodded.

Vision followed. “Did you enjoy last night’s event?”

You answered with the same tone one might use to discuss a root canal. “It happened.”

Natasha stepped in last, flipping through something on her tablet. "She's just mad nobody tried to assassinate anyone."

"I had knives," you muttered into your mug.

Rhodey smirked. “That’s what everyone wants to hear over breakfast.”

---

Later in the day, Sam was half-asleep on the couch, tossing popcorn in the air and missing half the time, Clint was sitting on the floor trying to fix a crossbow with duct tape, Wanda was reading, and Steve and Bucky were playing chess near the window. You sat alone at the long table by the bookshelf, dismantling and reassembling one of the compound's sidearms for maintenance. There was a calming rhythm to it. Tony leaned over your shoulder without warning. “Is this therapy for you?”

You didn’t look up. “You’re in my light.”

He shifted slightly. “Better?”

“No.”

He snorted. “You’re a joy.”

You reassembled the gun, checked the slide, and placed it neatly to the side before starting the next. Bucky glanced over from the chess board. “You clean guns like people do puzzles.”

You shrugged. “They make more sense than people.”

Sam pointed at you without looking up. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”

Clint tossed a screwdriver into his toolkit. “Wait, did we ever figure out where she’s actually from?”

“Classified,” Natasha said casually.

Steve looked confused. “Wait, is it?”

You said nothing, just kept working. Bucky raised a brow. “Seriously?”

You glanced up once. “You don’t need to know everything, Barnes.”

He held his hands up. “Okay, okay.”

Vision tilted his head. “Her clearance is higher than most of ours. I believe even I’m locked out of portions of her file.”

Tony blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said.

Sam sat up, grinning. “Nah, see, now I am worried.”

You flipped the safety on the reassembled weapon and stood, voice deadpan. “If I disappear for a week, it’s probably not personal.” Everyone stared as you left the room, gun in hand, completely calm.

Clint looked around. “Okay but... is anyone else terrified or is that just me?”

Bucky grinned. “I think she’s growing on you.”

Tony sighed. “She’s definitely not growing on my blood pressure.”

---

You were stretched out on one of the oversized chairs, legs tucked under you, a tactical manual open in your lap. Sam walked in holding a pizza box, followed by Wanda and Clint. “We’re doing movie night,” Sam announced. “And by ‘we,’ I mean all of us. Mandatory.”

You didn’t look up. “No.”

“Yes,” Sam said, flopping down dramatically. “It’s team bonding.”

“I already did my part. I wore heels.”

“You glared in heels,” Wanda corrected. “Different.”

Clint pointed at you. “You’re on the couch by the time I open this box or I’m replacing your knives with plastic ones.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t.”

He smirked. “I would.”

You closed the manual with a sigh and stood up slowly. “Fine.”

Sam fist-pumped. “Progress!”

Bucky appeared from the hallway just as the opening credits rolled, glancing over at the group. You had taken a seat on the floor with your back to the couch and arms crossed. Still tense, still annoyed, but there. He walked past, nudging your shoulder gently as he passed. You didn’t move, but your eyes followed him. Tony leaned over to Steve. “She shows affection the same way cats do. Like, she’ll sit near you but you better not acknowledge it.”

Steve smiled. “It’s working for her.”

Natasha threw popcorn at both of them. “Shut up and watch the movie.”

By the time the movie hit the halfway mark, your head had tilted just slightly onto the couch cushion behind you. Barely there, but just enough to brush against Bucky’s shin where he sat. No one said a word, but Sam silently updated the group chat:

Sam: she’s still denying she likes us but she’s leaning on barnes leg right now Clint: screenshot it Tony: i’m way ahead of you Wanda: be nice. this is big for her Steve: It’s kind of sweet. Natasha: don’t ruin it idiots

---

Tony was pacing at the front of the room, holding a clicker and dramatically pointing at a holographic display behind him. Most of the team looked somewhere between bored and asleep. "This—" Tony gestured wildly, "—is the third time someone has logged onto the main system using someone else’s login. And before anyone says anything—no, Rogers, I don’t believe it was a glitch."

Steve, seated with arms crossed, looked up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” Tony said. “Loudly.”

Rhodey muttered under his breath, “This is about the time Bucky tried to play solitaire on the tactical table, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t know it was the tactical table,” Bucky replied, sounding slightly defensive.

You were seated near the corner, arms crossed, leaning back in your chair. “You touched three different buttons labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH.’”

Bucky turned toward you. “Which is suspicious. Why have them if they’re not doing anything?”

Tony pointed at Bucky dramatically. “Exactly! And that’s why this—" he motioned to the screen, "—is now password protected, retina-locked, and armed with a mild electric shock.”

“You electrocuted the table?” Steve asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“A mild shock,” Tony said. “It’s like... motivational.”

Vision blinked. “That seems unnecessary.”

“Someone here tried to order twenty pounds of gummy worms through StarkNet,” Tony added, pulling up a receipt.

Clint raised a hand lazily. “Okay, that one was me.”

You deadpanned, “You don’t even live here full-time.”

“I snack professionally.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “So what’s the point of this meeting? Public shaming?”

“Partially,” Tony said. “Also, to announce that we are doing mandatory digital security training.”

Groans filled the room. You stood immediately. “I’m leaving.”

“It’s mandatory,” Tony called.

You turned, already halfway to the door. “I already know how to erase identities and scrub hard drives. I’m not sitting through a slideshow about phishing scams.”

“She’s got a point,” Natasha murmured.

Steve looked at Tony. “Maybe just the ones who’ve caused problems.”

Bucky leaned forward. “So Clint, me, and... Clint.”

Clint raised both hands. “I’ll bring snacks.”

“Not from StarkNet,” Tony warned.

---

The kitchen was a mess. An actual mess. There was flour on the counter, a cracked egg near the sink, and an open cookbook with jam on the corner. You stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. “…What are you doing?” you asked flatly.

Bucky was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, mixing something aggressively in a bowl. Wanda stood beside him, looking unsure. Sam was leaning against the fridge, sipping a soda like he’d given up helping. “Baking,” Bucky said confidently.

“That’s not what baking looks like.”

Wanda gestured to the flour on her arm. “There was an incident.”

Sam looked at you. “You think you can salvage this?”

You stared at the bowl. “That’s pancake batter.”

Bucky frowned. “No it’s not.”

“Yes,” you said, “it is. And you’re putting it into cupcake liners.”

Wanda blinked. “Wait. Really?”

Sam snorted. “I told you it wasn’t cake batter.”

Bucky looked at the bowl like it betrayed him. “Huh.”

You grabbed a dishtowel, tossing it to Bucky. “Clean that up. You’re banned from the oven.”

He caught it, grinning. “You’re really bossy, you know that?”

You just gave him a long look. “I don’t let people burn the kitchen down. That’s not ‘bossy.’ That’s common sense.” You turned and walked out, muttering something about “idiots with spatulas.”

---

Everyone was spread out across the furniture, quietly working or scrolling through phones. A movie played in the background, ignored. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharpening one of your knives. Clint was watching you nervously from the couch. “You do that a lot,” he muttered. “The knife thing.”

You didn’t look up. “It’s relaxing.”

Tony raised a brow. “You know what’s relaxing? A bath. Or therapy.”

Natasha sipped her drink. “Let her be.”

Sam leaned over to Steve. “You think she ever does, like, normal hobbies?”

Steve looked at you. “Do you?”

You paused, then shrugged. “I fashion illustrate.”

There was a stunned silence. “Wait. Really?” Clint asked.

“No,” you said.

Tony burst out laughing. “Oh, she’s a menace.”

Bucky looked over from his chair. “At least she’s consistent.”

You went back to your knife, expression unreadable. But your lips twitched. Just slightly.

---

Later that night you outside once again on the roof, legs dangling off the edge with a notebook and tablet sitting to your side. The air was cool on the roof, the breeze light but steady. You sat near the edge, legs dangling, a notebook resting on your thigh and your tablet beside you—its screen dark. You flipped a page absently, pencil tapping against your lip. The door behind you creaked open. You didn’t turn.

Bucky stepped out quietly, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He didn’t say anything at first, just walked over and stood a few feet away, looking out over the compound grounds. After a minute, he glanced down at you. “I think you’re lying.”

You didn’t look up. “I don’t lie.”

“You said you don’t have normal hobbies.”

“I don’t.”

“You said you don’t fashion illustrate.”

You paused. “That was the truth.”

“No,” Bucky said, stepping closer. “It wasn’t.” You flipped the page again, slower this time. He tilted his head. “So? What’s in the notebook?” You didn’t answer, just stared at the lines on the page like they might bite. Bucky lowered himself to sit beside you, letting his legs hang off the edge like yours. “You don’t have to show me. Just say I’m right.”

You exhaled slowly. “You’re annoying.”

“That’s not a no.”

Another pause. Then, with an irritated sigh, you handed the notebook over—one hand still holding the spine tightly. “Don’t wrinkle it.”

He took it, carefully flipping it open. The first page was clean, structured lines, figure templates, posed forms in motion, wearing layered looks. Jackets, dresses,  gloves with hidden seams. Some of the sketches were shaded, some were marked with notes—fabric types, cut direction, stitching detail. Bucky blinked. “…These are really good.” You didn’t say anything. He flipped a few more pages. Some designs looked functional, others like something out of a Paris runway show. All had a kind of sharpness to them. Beautiful, but calculated. Like armor. “You design these?”

“No,” you said flatly. “I break into Nordstrom after hours and trace their mannequins.”

He grinned. “Knew it.”

You took the notebook back, placing it in your lap again. “If you tell anyone—”

“I won’t,” he said. “Swear.” Silence fell again. Then, gently he asked, “why not share them?”

You shrugged. “Don’t need to.”

“You’re allowed to do things just because you like them.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You sound like a therapist.”

“Been to enough of them to know the script.”

That got a faint twitch at the corner of your mouth. “I do like it,” you said after a moment. “It’s not for anyone else.”

“That’s fair.”

You looked out over the trees. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not,” Bucky said, stretching his arms behind him. “But if you happen to ever sketch me into something stylish, I’m not gonna stop you.”

You snorted. “You don’t have the shoulders for a good suit.”

He looked personally offended. “I have great shoulders.”

You gave him a blank look. “You wear Henleys like a cartoon lumberjack.”

“First of all, thank you. Second—rude.”

You didn’t respond, just flipped another page and started sketching again. After a minute, Bucky leaned slightly, trying to peek. You angled the notebook away without looking at him. “Boundaries, Barnes.”

He laughed under his breath, leaning back. “Right. Noted.” The wind moved gently again. Quiet settled between you—less sharp this time.

---

You sat near the end of the long table, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the holographic display as Steve paced slowly at the front. The rest of the team was half-listening—Sam texting under the table, Tony sipping coffee like it was a hostage negotiation, Natasha twirling a pen between her fingers. “We’ve had intel come in from a SHIELD contact,” Steve said. “There’s been unusual movement near the Latvian border. Remote area, mostly woods, few cabins, no confirmed outposts. Could be Hydra. Could be someone new.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You want recon?”

Steve nodded. “In and out. Minimal footprint. Just eyes and ears.”

Tony gestured lazily. “So who’s going?”

Steve looked directly at you, then at Bucky. “You two.”

You straightened slightly. “Why?”

“You’re the best fit,” he replied simply. “Stealth, tactical analysis, survival skills.”

“Also,” Natasha added without looking up, “you’re both quiet. Won’t blow the op with bad jokes.”

Sam pointed at her. “That felt personal.” Natasha shrugged in response.

Bucky leaned back in his chair. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Steve said. “You’ll be dropped off two klicks from the site. Gear’s already packed.”

You were silent for a beat. “Fine.”

Tony raised a hand. “Not to question Captain Morally Correct, but are we really sure it’s a good idea putting our two broodiest agents on the same mission?”

You looked at Tony. “Would you prefer I bring Clint?”

Clint, half-asleep in the corner, perked up. “Wait—am I going somewhere?”

“No,” everyone said at once.

“Rude,” he muttered, slumping back down.

---

You were tightening the straps on your thigh holster when there was a soft knock. You opened the door to see Bucky holding a folded map and a protein bar. “You forgot this,” he said, holding out the bar.

You took it. “Didn’t forget. Wasn't planning to eat it.”

He shrugged. “Just in case.”

You paused. “Thanks.”

He handed you the map next. “Marked some alternate escape routes. Terrain’s steep in parts.”

You studied it silently for a second, then nodded. “Smart.”

“You good?” he asked.

“Always,” you said, already stepping back.

Bucky watched you for a second, then gave a quiet nod. “See you at 0500.”

You closed the door behind him and locked it, glancing down at the map and the bar. Tucked into the corner of the paper was a small note, scrawled in neat handwriting: “Try not to kill me.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t throw it away.

---

You crouched low in the brush, goggles reflecting dim moonlight, hand raised in a silent halt. Beside you, Bucky mirrored your stance, eyes locked on the same thing: a small structure nestled in a clearing, heat signatures faint but active. Two, maybe three men. Bucky leaned closer, whispering, “looks like they’re packing up. Data crates.”

You nodded. “Hydra. Or someone who wants to be.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We grabbing the crates?”

“No,” you said. “We document. We don’t engage.”

He smirked faintly. “You sure? I could use a warm-up.”

You didn’t look at him. “You want warm? Go stand in the clearing and get shot.”

He chuckled under his breath. You pulled a small camera from your pouch and started quietly snapping infrared photos. Bucky adjusted his comm to a low frequency, recording time-stamps and murmuring coordinates. It was clean, efficient work—two ghosts moving through shadows. At one point, a guard stepped outside to smoke. You both froze. The man looked around, oblivious, then wandered off. Bucky slowly turned to you and mouthed, “idiot.” You didn’t respond. Just continued photographing. Twenty minutes later, the building was empty, the figures gone. You gave a nod, and both of you retreated into the trees without a trace.

Mission complete. Zero engagement. Full recon. No errors.

---

You stepped inside first, sweeping the dusty interior with your flashlight. “Clear.”

Bucky closed the door behind you. “Charming place.”

The one-room cabin was barely more than four walls, a heater, a kitchenette, and a single bed pushed against the wall. Dusty windows. Power still worked—barely. SHIELD must’ve used it for quick drops or surveillance years ago. You set your pack down and immediately started checking the perimeter, window locks, potential escape paths. Bucky wandered over to the heater, flipping the switch. “This thing’s gonna make noise all night.”

“I’ve slept through worse,” you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “That was optimistic. Are you okay?”

“I’m tired,” you said. “Not dying.”

He held up his hands. “Fair.” You unzipped your jacket and set your weapons aside carefully, then paused as you turned toward the bed. Bucky was already standing in front of it, eyeing it like it might grow teeth. “I’ll take the floor,” he offered.

You blinked at him. “Why?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Didn’t want to assume.”

You grabbed the spare blanket from the shelf above and tossed it onto the mattress. “We’re adults. We sleep. No weirdness.”

“Copy that,” he said, raising an amused brow.

You sat down first, pulling off your boots. He did the same on the other side. There was about a foot of space between you when you both finally lay back, staring at the wooden ceiling. “You snore?” you asked.

“No,” he said. “You grind your teeth?” You didn’t answer. “…That’s a yes,” he muttered.

You turned your head, barely able to see his profile in the dim light. “If you get handsy in your sleep, I’ll break your wrist.”

His smile was audible. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” you said flatly.

Another beat of silence. Then Bucky murmured, “for what it’s worth... I trust you.”

You didn’t move. But your voice was soft when it came. “I know.” The heater kicked on and the wind scratched at the window. You didn’t say anything else, neither did he. But both of you stayed awake for a little while longer. Just listening. Just... close.

---

Bucky lay flat on his back, arms folded beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. His breathing was slow, steady… forced. His eyes, though, were sharp and unblinking. You shifted slightly beside him, the mattress creaking. “If you breathe any louder, I’m going to put a pillow over your face.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Didn’t realize I was keeping you up.”

“You’re not. The heater is. And maybe your thoughts screaming.”

Another pause. “I don’t sleep much,” he said quietly.

You turned your head, eyes adjusting to the dim light. “…Why?”

He hesitated, then exhaled. “Nightmares. Usually.”

You blinked once. “That’s original.”

His lips twitched. “Didn’t ask for pity.”

You sat up slowly, legs crossed under you, looking at him. “I’m not giving it,” you said. “You’re an idiot if you think I would.”

Bucky turned toward you, face half-shadowed, mouth pulled into a tired smirk. “That’s more like it.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with something you hadn’t expected. You didn’t break eye contact and neither did he. Then, slowly, carefully, you leaned in. Your lips brushed his—not tentative, not unsure, but not soft either. Sharp, like a line you were both willingly crossing.

He kissed back instantly. And once the dam broke, it shattered. His hand slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. Yours fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer, until his body was pressed to yours and nothing else in the world seemed to exist. You pulled back just long enough to murmur against his mouth, “still not pity.”

He laughed, breathless, chasing your lips again. “Didn’t think it was.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him—really looked. He was too close, breathing a little too shallow, jaw tight like he was trying not to move, not to reach. You shifted, slow, deliberate, pushing the blanket down slightly. Your hand moved, touched the edge of his shirt—barely a brush—then you leaned in again, kissed him with a little more weight. Your fingers dragged up the front of his chest, settling at his collar. His lips parted against yours.

He made a sound—soft, low, and surprised. Your body moved first. You swung a leg over, climbing into his lap, settling down slow over his hips. He didn’t stop you, just watched, wide-eyed and stunned. His hands hovered like he wasn’t sure where to touch you. "Don’t look so shocked," you murmured, voice rough as your fingers tangled into his hair.

A shaky laugh left him, barely audible. “No, it’s just… I didn’t think you…”

"You think too much," you whispered, and kissed him again, harder this time.

His hands finally settled, tentative at first—then firm—one bracing your back, the other trailing along your thigh. You felt his breath hitch against your mouth when you rolled your hips gently down. Your fingers threaded deeper into his hair. "Still thinking?"

Bucky groaned softly, head falling back to the pillow. "Not a fucking word in my brain right now."

"Good." You leaned down, kissed under his jaw, then lower, your breath skimming his throat. His hands flexed at your waist.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice frayed at the edges.

You pressed another kiss just beneath his ear. “That a prayer or a request?”

He huffed, tried to smirk, but it faltered. His hands were gripping now, not tight, but like he was grounding himself. You shifted, just slightly—enough to drag friction between you. His breath caught. "Wait."

You froze. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean. You looked at him, his eyes were open, fixed somewhere just past you with his jaw tight again. Not with want—this time it was hesitation, maybe even fear. You pulled back, but didn’t move off him. “What?”

Bucky swallowed, throat bobbing. “I haven’t—” He stopped, eyes flicking to yours. “In a long time.”

“How long’s long?”

He hesitated. “Since before. Before everything.”

You didn’t react, at least not outwardly. You just stayed where you were, straddling his hips, your hands resting lightly on his chest. “Okay.”

He blinked, surprised. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” You tilted your head. “Do you want to stop?”

His hands were still on you. Still gripping, like if he let go, he might float away. “No. I just—”

“We can go slow,” you said. “If that’s what you want.” He looked up at you like you’d said something unbelievable, like he was waiting for the punchline. “No one’s gonna laugh at you,” you added.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” A pause, but the silence wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Real. You shifted again, gentler this time, your weight solid over him. “Look. You tell me what you need. We don’t have to prove anything tonight.”

He let out a breath—shaky, raw. “I want this,” he said. “I do. I just… don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

You leaned in, your forehead brushing his. “Then we fuck it up together.” That got him to laugh. Quiet, breathy, but real. Your hands slid down his sides, not demanding—just there. Just touching. “Let me take care of you,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You kissed his throat again, slower this time. Dragged your mouth along the line of it, felt the shiver run straight through him. His hands stayed firm on your waist, but his thumbs had gone still. Not absent, but tense, like he was holding a breath he didn’t want you to notice.

You leaned back just a bit, fingers catching the hem of your shirt. You pulled it over your head without fanfare, dropping it to the side, your chest rising with each breath as you watched his eyes flicker—first to your mouth, then lower. His gaze caught and held, but he didn’t say anything. “Take yours off,” you murmured, voice low, warm, not a challenge—an invitation. He hesitated, then he sat up, arms brushing yours, pulling his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. And for half a second, he didn’t look at you.

Your eyes tracked every mark on his skin. Scars mapped across his chest like someone had tried to erase him in pieces. Some were jagged, some faint, but they all told a story, and none of them made you flinch. Your fingers reached out slowly, brushing along his ribs, then across the plane of his chest. You felt him twitch under the touch, muscles going taut. “You okay?” you asked, voice soft now.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just—cold.”

You didn’t call him on the lie. You didn’t have to. Instead, you leaned forward, kissed just below his collarbone, then lower. Each kiss deliberate, slow, trailing across the faded lines and damaged skin like you were tracing constellations only you could read. His breath caught. You kissed the long scar running across his side, just above his ribs. Then another—just under his heart. Bucky didn’t speak, but his hand came up, gently cradling the back of your head. You shifted again, your mouth pressing kisses up his chest, your voice nothing but a murmur against his skin. “You don’t have to pretend.”

He let out a breath, shaky, not quite a sigh. His eyes found yours—dark, unreadable. “I’m not pretending,” he said quietly. “I just… forgot what this felt like.”

You leaned up, brushed your nose against his, your mouth barely an inch from his. “Then let me remind you.” Your mouth brushed his again—soft, warm, slower now, like a promise instead of a spark. His breath hitched as you pulled back just enough to whisper, “lie down.”

He did, without question, eyes locked on you the whole time. You slid off his lap, just to your knees, and reached for the waistband of your pants. He watched, dead silent, jaw tense as you hooked your thumbs in and eased them down over your hips. You weren’t teasing, just moving with intent, peeling away the last bit between you. His eyes dragged over every inch of skin you revealed like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—like he didn’t think it was for him.

You crawled back over him, straddling his thighs. Your fingers went to the front of his sweats, nudging them down just far enough. His cock sprang free, already hard, flushed, thick. The sight of him made your mouth go dry. You didn’t say anything, you just reached down, wrapped your hand around him—slow, firm, deliberate. He gasped as one hand shot to your thigh, gripping, grounding. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “That’s—Jesus—”

You leaned forward, kissing the edge of his jaw as your hand stroked him slow, base to tip and back again. His hips shifted under you, just barely. You felt him trying not to thrust. His breath stuttered. “You—if you keep—” His voice broke off into a groan when your thumb dragged over the head, smearing the slick already leaking there.

You smiled against his throat. “Yeah, I know.” You adjusted your knees, lined yourself up over him. His eyes blew wide, jaw clenched like he was holding on by a thread. Then his hand moved, down between your thighs, his fingers brushing up the inside of your leg, tentative but hungry, like he couldn’t help it. You caught his wrist—gently, but firm. He looked up at you, confused, breathless. “Not tonight,” you whispered, your tone not cruel. Just final. “Next time.”

He blinked. “But—”

“I said next time.” You kissed him, soft and slow, your mouth barely brushing his. “This one’s for you.”

His chest rose sharp, his eyes dark and wild, like he wanted to say a hundred things but none of them were right. So instead, he gritted out, “fuck,” and let his head fall back to the pillow. You held his cock steady, angling just right—and sank down, slow, steady, every inch stretching you open. He gasped—no, moaned—a raw, guttural sound torn straight from his chest.

His hands gripped your thighs, tight enough to bruise. And you didn’t stop. You took him inch by inch, your breath catching as your body stretched around him—tight, hot, aching in the best way. Bucky’s hands trembled where they held your thighs, like he didn’t trust himself to move. “Fuck,” he rasped, eyes wide, jaw clenched. “You feel—God—” You rocked your hips gently, adjusting, letting yourself settle flush against him. His head dropped back, a broken sound leaving his throat. “Fuck—don’t move, just—just give me a second—”

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest. “You okay?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, blown wide, lips parted. “I’m—yeah. Just trying not to come like a goddamn teenager.”

You smiled, small and warm. “Take your time.”

He laughed—barely a breath of one—but it eased something in his shoulders. His hands slid up, tracing the shape of your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. You started to move, slow and careful. Just a slow drag of your hips up, then down again, a rhythm building with heat instead of rush. Bucky groaned, hands tightening, trying to keep his grip loose even as his whole body begged for more. “Jesus, you’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re killin’ me.”

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re still thinking.”

He let out a choked laugh. “Can’t help it. You’re—fuck—”

You rolled your hips again, a little faster this time, dragging a moan out of him. Your own breath was shaky now, every brush of his cock inside you pushing a little deeper, a little sweeter. The tension coiled low, hot and fast, your thighs starting to tremble. Bucky’s hands moved to your waist, trying not to take control, but you felt the strain. He wanted to, desperately, but he was holding back. “You can touch me,” you murmured, breath hitching. “Just don’t rush me.”

That got a growl out of him—low, guttural. His hands tightened and pulled you down just as your hips rolled again, the shift in angle hitting deep—perfect. You gasped, your hands flying to his chest. “Right there?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah—fuck, right there—” You rode him harder, hips meeting his now in a messy rhythm that made you both gasp. The heat built fast—your stomach coiled tight, your body fluttering around him. “I’m—shit—I’m close,” you breathed.

Bucky’s hands gripped your ass now, pulling you down, meeting every thrust. “Come on, sweetheart—come for me, come on—”

You cried out, your body locking up as your orgasm hit, sharp and hot and overwhelming. Your thighs trembled, your nails dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, breath punched out of you in a broken moan. He didn’t last a second after. “Fuck, fuck—fuck—” His whole body snapped tight, hips jerking up once, twice—then he came with a groan, low and ragged, spilling into you, his hands buried in your skin like he was scared to let go.

You collapsed onto him, chest heaving, heart racing. Neither of you spoke right away. Just tangled together, his cock still twitching inside you, your fingers idly dragging along the sweat-slick line of his collarbone. Eventually, Bucky’s voice came—quiet, hoarse. “…Told you I forgot what that felt like.”

You smiled into his neck. “Glad I could remind you.”

---

The Quinjet hissed as it touched down, ramp lowering with a mechanical groan. Tony stood off to the side with Sam and Natasha, arms crossed, waiting. You were the first one off—bag over your shoulder, expression unreadable as always, eyes scanning the compound like you'd never left. You gave Steve a nod as you passed him, not stopping. Behind you, Bucky stepped out. His bag was slung lazily over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped, and he was… grinning? Natasha's eyes narrowed. "Why does he look—" she glanced at Sam, "—weird?"

"Weird how?" Sam asked, squinting.

"Happy."

"Gross," Tony muttered.

Bucky walked up, casually clapping Steve on the shoulder before glancing over at the rest of them. "Afternoon."

"You sleep on the jet?" Steve asked.

"Not really," Bucky said, but his tone was way too easy.

Tony narrowed his eyes. "You look like you slept. Deeply."

Natasha tilted her head. "Where's Y/N?"

Bucky jerked a thumb toward the building. "Went inside already."

"She didn't say anything," Sam noted.

"She never does," Bucky replied, already turning toward the compound entrance.

Natasha watched him go. "Okay. What the hell was that?"

"Did he just—smile?" Tony asked. "Like an actual smile?"

"Something happened," Natasha said immediately.

Sam raised both hands. "No way. She’d kill him if he tried."

Tony looked intrigued. "What if she didn’t?"

"Please don’t start this," Steve muttered, rubbing his forehead.

---

You were sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, flipping through something on your tablet like nothing had happened. Clint was across from you, fiddling with a drone. Wanda walked in, did a full double take, then slowly sat beside you. "You… good?" she asked cautiously.

You didn’t look up. "Fine."

"You look fine."

"I am."

Bucky walked in, holding a bottle of water, and headed straight for where you sat. Without a word, he reached over and gently brushed his knuckles against your shoulder in a quick pass as he passed by. You didn’t react, but Wanda definitely saw it, and her eyes narrowed immediately. Bucky dropped onto the armchair beside the couch, slouching comfortably. He looked content. Relaxed. Clint looked between you both. “Okay, what’s going on?”

You raised a brow. “In English, Barton.”

“You two,” Clint said, gesturing between you and Bucky. “This energy? It’s weird.”

You sipped your tea. “You’re imagining things.”

“I am definitely not.”

Wanda stared at you for a second longer, then slowly stood. "I'm getting Nat." Bucky smirked behind his water bottle. You didn’t say anything.

---

The team was scattered around, eating or drinking, pretending not to be whispering about you and Bucky. Tony leaned against the counter. "I'm just saying—it’s possible."

"She’d never go for it," Sam said. "Not unless she blacked out or lost a bet."

Rhodey snorted. "You do remember who we're talking about, right?"

"Exactly," Sam said.

Natasha leaned in. "He touched her shoulder. She didn’t stab him."

“That’s a high bar for you people?” Steve asked, exasperated.

Wanda looked toward the doorway. “They’re hiding something.”

Tony grinned. “Ten bucks says they’re sleeping together.”

"You're on," Clint said instantly.

Rhodey sighed. “This is going to spiral.”

Steve muttered, “It already has.”

And down the hall—far away from the chaos—Bucky leaned against your doorframe with a lazy grin. "You know they’re all losing their minds, right?"

You looked up from your laptop, completely calm. "They’ll get over it."

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "Think we should tell them?"

You shook your head. "Let them suffer a little longer."

Bucky smiled, stepping closer. "God, you're mean."

You didn’t look up. "You like it."

His grin widened. Yeah. He did.

A hum slips past your lips as you gaze beyond your gilded window. You can see horses pulling lavish carriages from where you’re perched. Nobles of varying degrees were rolling into the palace walls despite the fact the sun was still high in the sky. 

You’re thankful your father never pays attention to you. As a result, you bear no responsibility in entertaining the early arriving guests. Though you were certain that the king would not miss you during his birthday celebration, you knew you were causing one person anxiety over your lack of urgency. 

“Your Highness, you must get ready soon. Please, allow me to call on your maids.”

Sir Barnes had insisted on the same matter at least four times now– sounding more desperate with each repetition. You couldn’t blame him though. You’d been awake long before the sun had reached its peak in the sky, and you were still dressed in your nightgown. No progress had been made towards the normal pampering that a royal should receive. In fact, you might not even be fully done by the time the ball rolled around. Perhaps you could even skip it completely. 

Besides, no one would take account of your absence.

His voice cut through your thoughts, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Your Royal Highness. You will be late if you do not get started soon.”

You decide to prolong the matter even longer. 

“Are we not alone?” you ask, watching as more nobles wheel on by. Some of the women are in a different style of dress, some still in the same fashion from last season. A pity– they will soon leave the palace in embarrassment. 

There’s a lack of response from the knight, but you can feel his eyes on you. His gaze is fire against your skin, leaving scorched marks where his eyes trail your body slowly. You’ve felt this more times than you can count, each time burning hotter than the last. At first, you thought it was a mere assessment, a lookover to ensure your health was still intact. You wrongfully dubbed the action as protectiveness. It didn’t take long for you to figure out its true name– desire.

“Well?” you question, giving him a sidelong look. He’s standing stiffly by the door, hands behind his back. His shoulders are squared off, and you can’t help but appreciate the expanse of his body. Strong muscles are hidden beneath his gear, along with years of memories that he will never speak to you about no matter how much you poke.

“Yes, Princess. We are alone,” he confirms. He nods, just once. The small action creates a smile from your lips– your continuously diligent knight was too difficult to break out of his shell. You hope to make decent headway today. 

You continue your interrogation, “Didn’t I say you must call me by name during times of rest?” 

His lips part, words escaping him for a brief moment. A long breath is pulled in through his nostrils, giving him some time to think about his response– the rejection you already know is on the tip of his tongue.

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Highness.”

“James,” you say, turning to look at him fully. Heavy, tired eyes meet yours almost instantly. There’s always a weight that shows in his gaze– the burden of life coming with constant struggle to survive. Though exhausted, he was never too worn down for you. Long ago, you had pity for the man. These days, you don’t dare feel that emotion. You replace it with respect instead.

In fact, you hated him only a handful of years ago. 

Sir James Barnes was the first and last gift your father had given you, citing the need for a personal knight when you had turned the ripe age of sixteen, and he in his twenties. Even if half of the blood that ran through your veins was dirty, you still carried the King’s genes within you.

You knew what the gift really was. It was a means to placate you. To silence you. To ensure you never wished for anything more as your knight was born from filth itself. 

He had an extensive record– one that many soldiers in training looked up. Despite being so young, Barnes had fought in several of your father’s wars in efforts to expand his kingdom. Thanks to your knight, the battles were easily won. Men that he led were still alive to tell the tale of a valiant soldier that ripped through the battlefields like frost on a winter night. 

Sir James Barnes should not be your knight. He was destined for greater things– to be the Captain of the King’s Guard. He was simply an unlucky man. A son to parents that were taken in as prisoners of a war that had taken place long before you were mistakenly conceived. 

The knight was forsaken for blood he did not choose, then tossed to you, a daughter that came to be from an affair with a palace maid. You were two of the same kind. Rejects. Strays that had no place to truly call home. No matter what either of you did, respect never followed. 

You used to fight him. Demanded that he leave your side immediately to find work elsewhere. There was nothing that you wanted from him, nothing that he could give you that would truly make your life easier. 

Then again, you were a simple girl at the time. One that still threw tantrums filled with rage and despair. He saw right through you. After all, he was once you.

These days, Sir Banres spent his time guarding you from within the rooms you occupied. No longer did he wait in the halls, ears perked up to pick up every single sound that came from your direction. He claimed that it was safer for him to guard you where his eyes could see you. 

You used to think he had been cursed by a sorcerer or wizard– someone that could give him the senses that he had. There were many nights where he listened to you cry into your pillow, certain that you were being silent enough. When morning would come, you’d see fresh food waiting for you at your tables– delectable items that had never been delivered to you until he came to your service. 

Slowly but surely, the knight had wiggled his way into your heart. The stone cold man had a softer exterior than you had originally thought. Or perhaps it was just you that had the ability to melt it.

You take in his appearance once more– looking over the man who was stiff with anxiety and anticipation. His first name rarely left your lips, though it was becoming a frequent habit as of late. 

“James,” you repeat once more, eyes turning back towards the windows. More and more carriages. It’s a wonder that the head maid hadn’t stormed into your room yet, demanding to know why you were still in your sleep attire. 

This time, he answers you. “Yes, Your Highness?” 

“My name, James. Or should I call you Bucky like the other knights do? I know Sir Rogers says it often.”

He clears his throat, then wets his lips. “If that would make you happy, then by all means.”

“It would make me happy if you called me by name.”

It goes silent between the two of you. For a moment, you believe that this conversation will end like all the other times. A change of topic, a request for you to see to your day’s schedule. Your own request would become one with the wind, lost to time itself. 

“The hour of the banquet draws closer. Allow me to call the maids for your bath,” he says, and swallows thickly. You’re just about ready to resist, to state an excuse when your name passes from his lips. Your head snaps up towards him quickly, only to find him nervously looking elsewhere. “Please.”

A smile breaks out onto your face as you move to stand, abandoning your leisure activity of people watching. “Very well, call the maids.”

Your knight releases a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging forward ever so slightly. He’s gotten more comfortable around you. Then again, what did you expect from the man who you spend all your time with? He was the closest thing you had to a friend, but as the days continue to pass, you find yourself wondering if he views you the same way.

When your hand brushes against his, he flinches. When escorting you around the palace, you wander closer to him, only for him to stiffen. There have been times where you met his eyes unexpectedly, forcing the fearsome knight to lower his gaze. 

At first, you didn’t understand him. You had grown sad, actually. It didn’t make sense to you why he looked away, why he shied from your touch until you registered his ears were turning the shade of roses. 

Teasing him became your new favorite pastime. 

“Have the maids deliver the water and the scents, then have them leave,” you add onto your order.

Your knight pauses in his steps, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “Your Highness?”

“You’ll help me bathe today, James.”

The look on his face only made your smile grow wider. A mixture of disbelief, shock, and embarrassment was written all over his features. His lips open and close more than twice, but no words seem to find him.

“Is that going to be an issue?” you challenge, standing from your spot on the window ledge. You’re already making your way to the bathing chamber, his eyes following your every move. 

“This— this is wildly inappropriate, Your Highness,” he manages to stutter. “It would not be proper for me to—“

“Who’s to say what is proper and not?”

“Your Highness,” he pleads. There’s a slight whine in his voice, and he almost sounds breathless. It only drives your determination further. 

“Does the hour of the celebration not draw near?” You look at him over your shoulder, giving him a polite smile. “I should bathe soon, yes?”

James can only draw in a tight breath, and nod once. “Yes, Your Highness. I will call on the maids.”

It doesn’t take long for the servants to scurry both in and out of the bathroom, much to your joy and his displeasure. All the while, you wait at the tub’s edge, nightgown bunched up to your thighs with your legs soaking in the freshly drawn water. 

Your knight closes the door behind him, and slowly removes the layers of his uniform. The cape and tunic are discarded to the side, showing the thin linen he wears underneath. He pushes his sleeve up his arms, and your eyes drop down to the revealed skin. 

Tanned skin, muscles that seem to ripple with every small movement. Scars decorate his body, telling the tales of all the battles he’s survived. Everything about him was carefully built, smoothed to perfection, then worn down to show his resilience. 

You aim to crack that same strength— eager for it, really. 

His sword is the last piece to come off. The sheathed weapon is placed against the tub, ready to be drawn at any moment lest your knight is caught unaware. James stands almost awkwardly beside it, hands twitching by his side, unsure what to do. 

“Well?” you ask, glancing up at him briefly. “I cannot unlace my own gown.”

Your nightgown is impossibly thin, courtesy of the warm summer nights as of late. It also means there’s little that stops you from slipping off the garment on your own. There is no bodice that requires lacing. You simply were making demands that he could not refuse— not that he had any true complaints. 

His jaw flexes. A steady breath is drawn, almost as if he’s attempting to steel his composure. He moves closer to you, gathering all of your hair with one hand to place the locks over your shoulder. 

Ever so slowly, his hands trail down the form of your gown, fingertips brushing against the fabric. As he gets to your waist, his hands reach for your dress, slowly pulling upwards.

“Please raise your arms, Your Highness,” he murmurs, his voice creating goosebumps all along your body. 

You follow his direction, and your dress soon lifts over your head. Left exposed, you can feel his eyes wandering the bare skin of your back. 

After a few beats of silence, a few moments of utter stillness, you finally move. You fully submerge yourself into the warm bath, the rippling water doing little to cover up what James has exposed. 

Without another word, James takes his place behind you, reaching for the various items the maids left behind. He washes your hair first, slow and precise. His fingertips knead into your scalp gently, but you can’t help it when your eyes fall shut in delight. 

Brief surprise fills you as he tilts your chin upwards, and his eyes meet yours. Face to face with him, you can see it– desire swims heavily within him, his pupils engulfing the blue-gray of his eyes. 

A small, water filled basin is raised over your head. James tips the container, allowing the water to run down your hair. Within a few repeats, he’s completed his first task. Gently, he loosens his grip on you. Your head is brought back to its neutral position, but he still feels the need to massage your neck muscles before moving on to the washcloth hanging on the side of the tub.

Neither of you say a word as he begins to lather the soap onto your body. He starts at  your shoulders, scrubbing down your back slowly. Unlike his appearance, his touch is soft. There’s hardly any pressure as he cleans you, forcing you to toss a glance back to him as he lifts one arm out of the water to wash.

“Not even a child would be clean with this ghost of a touch, Sir Barnes.”

“I do not wish to harm you,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes fixed onto your back. There’s a vein popping out at his neck as he continues to hold his restraint. 

“Harder, James,” you demand. “Like you mean to touch me.”

James looks helpless. 

A staggering breath enters his nose. There’s a war going on through his mind– honor, duty, and loyalty. There are lines that he cannot cross, boundaries that are meant to be maintained. Yet here you are, tempting him like the Heavens wouldn’t tear him apart for straying from his path. He cannot disobey orders given to him by you– orders that feed into the devil within his heart. 

You hide a smile as quickly as you can, lowering your eyes to the water’s reflection. He’d fallen from the Heavens long ago, but tonight he seals his sentence. 

The soaps the maids usually use weren’t submerged into the bath prior to your entrance– soaps that allowed the water to cloud up with scented bubbles. Truth be told, your maids hardly ever had their eyes on your bare form. James must’ve burned the sight of you into his mind.

From this point forth, every time the knight dared to close his eyes, he would be haunted by you. The swell of your breasts cresting over the water’s surface. Wet hair draping down your shoulders and back, doing nothing to provide James the solace of peace he craves. You, resting so peacefully within the porcelain tub, letting out soft sighs of approval or pleasure as he runs his hands all along you. 

When both arms are completely clean, you become mildly amused at the situation. He’s to move to the side of the tub, unless he would rather fully hover over you from behind. 

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he utters, the words barely being picked up by your ears before he’s shifting around the tub. His eyes are kept downcast as his arms dip into the water, dampening his rolled sleeves. 

An ankle is taken within a hand, your entire leg exposed to the chill of the air. He holds the weight for you, not allowing you to use any of your own strength to aid him. The soapy cloth is dragged down the length, all while he keeps his gaze away from your torso. There’s only so much for him to do before he switches legs and continues the process again– slower this time. You don’t hesitate to point it out.

“You’re stalling.”

“Of course not,” he denies, though his jaw tenses once again. 

“Remind me again how many times you stand guard at my bathing chambers?” you question, raising an eyebrow at him. 

James swallows, and shakes his head. “That’s different… I… I am here to protect you, to–”

You cut him off quickly, continuing to voice your thoughts before he can fight against your words. “This is not the first you’ve seen me in this state, nor will it be the last.”

“How do you expect a man to remain strong whilst in the presence of you?” he whispers, his eyes finally meeting yours. 

“You tell me,” you shoot right back at him. Your head tilts slightly, almost in a challenging way. You don’t miss how his shoulders round out, making himself look smaller. “Are you not the King’s strongest soldier?”

His answer comes quick and honest, “I am nothing compared to all that you are.”

For a moment, you find yourself filled with surprise. With the Knight’s Oath, he is unable to lie even in the face of death. A farce, truly, yet the most honorable of men continue to hold the vow close to their hearts. James is one of them. 

He’s truthful in his view of you. From his eyes, you are nothing short of good, holy, and all things benevolent. Your word is law to him. Whatever comes from you must be right. He’s already submitted himself whole heartedly to you.

“Continue with the bath, James. And we’re alone, if I must remind you.”

“I am more aware of our lack of audience more than anyone,” he mutters beneath his breath, followed by an even softer whisper of your name.

Next time, you’ll ask him to repeat himself louder. For now, you’ll allow it to pass. You can’t seem to focus on teasing him as the washcloth moves over your sternum. 

James drags the cloth lower, the fabric brushing against your nipples and waking them as he circles your breast. This time, your knight does not look away. He doesn’t close his eyes. He watches as your body reacts to him, freshly hardened nubs pressing into his palm and greeting him. 

The cloth continues downwards as if nothing happened at all. As if his breathing did not get heavier, and his body wasn’t radiating heat that felt warmer than the water you sat in. 

He gently scrubbed at your stomach, still intent on cleaning you before his hand paused on its journey right below your naval. You didn’t move, didn’t dare to breathe a word of jest in fear he would back away completely. 

Much to your surprise, he moves his free hand, pushing your knees apart. With your legs spread, he dives lower.

James is slow in his approach. 

Cloth brushes against your folds, doing little to put out the ache building with you. He rubs the fabric against you more than a few times, eliciting a soft whine from your lips. The sound makes him stop, hand cupping right over both the washcloth and your sex. 

“Tell me to stop, Your Highness.” His words come in a whisper, shaking and dripping with need. He’s betraying his thoughts, desperately hoping for his Princess to be more rational than he. 

You lock onto his gaze, heart thumping in your chest. “Continue, Sir Barnes.”

A curse tumbles from his lips as his fingers explore, pressing the cloth harder against you. The texture of the fabric along with the feel of his touch only makes you close your eyes, tension budding deep in your core. 

Through the cloth, he finds your clit— slowly swelling with desire, eagerly awaiting his touch. James doesn’t waste time, pressing down against the nub. He watches in delight and awe as your body reacts nearly instantly. A sharp breath sucked in through your teeth as your hips tilt ever so slightly.

Tight, small circles are slowly rubbed into you. It doesn’t take long before you’re biting down on your bottom lip, trying to contain the sounds-

James cups the side of your face, thumb swiping down gently on your lips. He watches as your lips part freely before returning his eyes onto yours. 

“You’ll hurt yourself,” he murmurs, eyes nearly glazed over. Though his words are casual, he is anything but. 

From where he kneels, you can see him shift his weight around. A heavy imprint rests along his inner thigh, sending a jolt of excitement throughout your body. Your hips grind into his fingers with a pathetic noise escaping you. 

You don’t even need to tell him to get rid of the barrier between you two. If anything, he seems more eager to push it to the side, thick fingers moving to spread your lips open for him. 

A single digit is pressed into your core. Your eyes meet the back of your skull as you melt into the tub further, your entire being keenly focused on his ministrations. 

James moves slowly, finger plunging in and out of you with a steady rhythm. The feel of your soft, velvety walls swallowing him in is nearly enough to do him in. That is, until he realizes he can finally look. 

His Princess right before him, legs spread with his hand between your thighs. You’re watching him, watching as his finger enters and exits you, soft, needy whimpers bouncing off the ceramic tiles of your bathing chamber. 

The gentle prodding of a second finger catches your attention immediately, and you can only gasp as it fills you next. Your mouth left agape, there’s no words you can say as he massages you from within. Your knight, however, says all you have in mind. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, nearly delirious as if he was on the one at the brink of pleasure.  “You’re so soft everywhere— so tight and warm— here, especially.”

“James,” you manage to whimper. You’re lost in it, in his touch. There’s little you can process when he’s spreading you open with his fingers, dragging them so painstakingly slowly through you. “It’s not enough… I need— Please.”

“No need to beg, sweet Princess,” he answers immediately. “I will give you all you desire.”

You can only let out a cry of relief as his pace quickens, the sound being music to his ears. It’s difficult to focus as his fingers curl within you, gently scraping against your walls and sending shocks throughout you. 

The water trembles around you as your breathing becomes labored. One hand grips the edge of the porcelain tub, the other quickly grabbing at his wrist. Your body and mind aren’t in sync– you’re unsure whether to press him closer to your body or push him away to release yourself from his hold. 

A whimper claws its way from your throat when his thumb joins, pressing right on the sensitive nub. Heat wraps around you, and you know it’s not from the warmth of the water– it’s him. His actions. His fingers. The way he allows his gaze to roam all over your bare form like you’re on display specifically for him.

“Shh, Princess,” he hushes softly when another moan bounces off the tile. James leans over the edge of the tub, pressing an unfamiliar but welcome kiss to your temple. His voice lingers in your ears, the hair on your neck standing up as he whispers. “The maids are not too far down the hall. It was difficult to convince them to fully leave.”

“You’re–” James pulls another sound of pleasure from you, courtesy of his slower moving fingers thrusting within you against the quick paced rubs of his thumb. You attempt to swallow, chin falling to your chest. You have no strength left, completely succumbing to his ministrations.

“I’m what, Your Highness?” he questions. He almost sounds amused. You don’t fault him for it. You’ve been teasing him, pressing his buttons for months on end. It’s the first time he’s fully gotten you to silence yourself.

You don’t answer him. At least, not with words. 

A near wrecked noise fills his ears as your nails dig into his wrist, your body tensing as a sudden onslaught of pleasure erupts within you. All the while, he doesn’t let up, almost as if he’s afraid this is the last time he’ll have you like this. He forces you to ride out your high, trembling at his touch as you fight to gain control of your body once again.

It’s only when you begin to weakly push at his forearm does he pull away. You can only watch through half lidded eyes as he brings his fingers to his lips. He shuts his eyes, a long sigh exiting his nostrils as he tastes the fruits of his labor. It’s only when you meet his gaze again does the silence between you two disintegrate.

“Shall I call on the maids to help you dress, Your Highness?”

James meets you out in the hall once you’re dressed. He’s in his formal attire, freshly washed with the stubble on his face nowhere to be seen. Part of you feels disappointed. You’d daydreamed more than once what it would feel like between your thighs, but you’re sure you would be able to convince him at a later time. 

Not that there would be much convincing to do. 

He offers his arm to you, and lowers his head in an informal bow. “Shall we, Your Highness?”

You hook your hand around his elbow, offering him a smile. “The scenic route, please.”

“I’m afraid not, Your Highness.” The knight shakes his head as he begins to lead you throughout the palace. “Too much time has been eaten away from your bath. There’s little time to enjoy the scenery.”

“Pity,” you reply. James smiles at your tone– you don’t mean it. “I suppose I did take an extra long time to wash up. Do you believe anyone will care?”

“None shall find fault in you. I will present their head on a silver platter if they dare.” From his tone, you know he means it.

You can only pat his bicep a few times, in hopes of soothing him. There was no need for bloodshed tonight. That is, blood that wasn’t your own, staining your bedsheets after granting him your innocence.

The rest of the Royal family is already lined up by the time you arrive at the correct hall. Both your brother and sister look disgusted by your appearance, though your sister’s eyes slide over to James within a few moments. When she takes in the sight of your hand on his arm, the repulsion returns. 

If his upbringing did not matter, you know your father would have arranged for the war hero to wed his oldest daughter. Blessed with both beauty and strength, James would have been the perfect present for your sister. You had mere luck to thank that your knight was raised in dirt.

“You’re late,” the Queen, your stepmother, snapped. 

You release James’ arm, falling into step behind the rest of them. No words of retaliation leave your lips. You can only pray you’ll get through the rest of the night without any incident. 

Within just a few more heartbeats, the large doors push open and someone announces the arrival of the royal family. Music is played in grandeur while nobles clear the center of the venue, allowing for ample space for your family to walk towards the dais. They bow their heads, but not to you. You don’t miss the sneers and looks of mockery all over their faces.

You know James doesn’t miss it either, his eyes burning into your back. He won’t miss a single moment of any of it. By the next week, you’re sure to hear news of the more offending nobles to have some sort of misfortune brought upon them. 

The King’s birthday speech is long. You don’t pay attention to a single word that comes from your father’s lips. Instead, you blanky look forward, waiting to be dismissed into the rest of the party. You won’t be able to leave right away without your stepmother noticing. You’ll have to wait until she gets a few glasses of mead in her system. 

You don’t wait around at the top of the dais once the king’s flowery words have ceased. Even if you wanted to stay, neither your family nor their advisors would want you to. Keeping you too close to the king’s proximity would show favor– something they did not want translated to the kingdom’s nobles.

James follows you from a distance as you make your way through the party. The music resumes, couples dancing along the center of the ballroom. There are social gatherings divided into hierarchy around the room– women gossiping with each other while men speak together in hushed tones. Servants are constantly moving around, slipping by everyone undetected and prepared for any request thrown at them.

You exchange pleasantries with the more daring of nobles, ones that smell of lard and sweat. These families are backed by the Church, able to openly show their disdain for the royal family by associating with you. They believe that you’ll turn over, allow them to use you as some sort of pawn in their political game. 

You’ve heard their true intentions more than once— a bastard princess without favor should preen with delight from the attention of another. An easy target, you must be. In the end, all they’ve achieved is lessening their favor with the king. 

Once the nobles realize they’re getting nowhere with you tonight, you’re left alone to your own devices. In your humble opinion, the party is both too flashy and too dull at the same time. 

There’s nothing here worth staying for. After all, you do not have a place within the social scene of this kingdom. You simply bide your time, allowing slow gulps of wine to slide down your throat in the safety of a corner of the room.

Your knight speaks to his friends, Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson, though you feel his gaze shift over to you every few moments. He probably wished for you to call him to your side, desperately trying to catch your eye each time he looks. You never look back.

James spends his early mornings with the other knights. They train together in various forms of technique— sparring, weapons training, endurance. It’s not often your knight has a chance to truly socialize with the men he trusts his life to. Even if you’re bored, you won’t take away the joy out of his night. 

By the time you finish your second glass, you are approached once again. This time, it’s not someone you’ve spoken to before. However, you still know him. You’d be a failure of a noble if you did not upkeep on the surrounding families. 

“Quite the party, yes?” John Walker asks you, taking a long drag of his drink before turning to you. 

“Indeed, Your Grace,” you reply, careful to keep your tone light. 

The duke examines you for a few moments, and raises an eyebrow. “You do not seem pleased.”

“Oh? I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You plaster on a smile, praying for the man to take the hint. 

“Well, regardless— I’ve come to alleviate you from your pain.” Walker’s smile is relaxed, as well as his stance. The look in his eyes tells you what he truly thinks. You’re less than him. A pitiful woman exiled from the rest of the party, yet still beautiful enough for him to chat with. The man hadn’t even addressed you properly. No bow, no blessings to be said. There wasn’t an ounce of respect in his bones for you.

”I’m afraid you’ll find yourself disappointed, Your Grace. I’m quite alright on my own.”

”But what if you didn’t have to be?” He was pushing, attempting to tug on your heartstrings. 

From across the room, you see your sister giggling with her ladies in waiting. Side glances are being thrown at you before they continue to chat amongst themselves, fans covering their mouths lest they have anyone read their lips. It’s almost laughable. You know what they are talking about, and you know why Duke Walker is in your company. 

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time,” you say, releasing a sigh right after. “Remove yourself from my vicinity or find yourself moved.”

The duke bristles, entire body going tense. A shiver even courses through him, prompting him to slowly turn around. There, behind him, James stood with glowering eyes.

“Barnes,” Walker spoke through gritted teeth.

Your knight offered no reply, continuing to stare with the intensity of a thousand suns. 

Walker clears his throat, then glances back over to you. “I will be taking my leave now.” 

You aren’t given a chance to respond before the duke rushes away, heading straight to where your sister and her entire group wait. James doesn’t follow his figure, instead choosing to step closer to you. With the threat gone, he stands before you with his head bent low as if he was waiting for you to scold him for his behavior. 

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he mutters. 

Your eyebrow raises as you take in the sight of him– a puppy that has been reunited with his owner after fighting for territory. It’s almost laughable. “My life was not in danger.”

“That asshole is the danger.” 

If you didn’t know any better, you would think James was one more comment away from causing a scene in the middle of the party. Thankfully, he’d never do that. He has an abundant list of ways to make Walker suffer without having to show his face to him ever again. 

“I think it’s about time that I depart,” you say, changing the topic. “If you’d like to stay and continue to socialize with the other knights–”

“Your jokes aren’t funny, Your Highness.”

The two of you make your way out, abandoning the celebration. Music and chatter slowly dissipate into the sound of your shared footsteps against the marble floors. Soon enough, you reach your hall.

James’ mood worsens at the sight of the darkened hallway. “The maids did not light the candles.”

“The moonlight is more than bright enough,” you dismiss, a sigh escaping you.

“It’s about respect, Princess,” he grunts. “Danger lurks at every dark corner, and to put you at risk–”

You halt, and he only takes two more steps before stopping himself. You meet his eyes with a frown, eyebrows pulling together. “What possible danger is there when you are by my side?”

“None,” he quickly answers. “But preventative measures should always be taken–”

You cut him off with a raise of your hand. He silences himself immediately, lips sealed tightly. James is the only one who would take your orders whole heartedly. The sudden reminder makes your chest ache. 

“James.” You’re careful to keep your voice soft, almost comforting. The effect is immediate– his shoulders drop, and his eyes no longer hold the rage he so suddenly acquired. “I’m alright. Nothing bad happened tonight. I don’t understand why you’re so on edge when I am safe.”

“It is my duty to be on edge,” James says, almost stubbornly. 

“You need to relax.” You move towards him, resting your hand on his chest. When you push, he takes a step backwards, once again succumbing to your wishes. You don’t stop until his back is firmly planted against the walls, and he has nowhere to go with you standing directly in front of him. “Shall I help you?”

He blinks, lips parting as he registers the words spoken to him. “Your Highness…” 

“My name,” you say with a smile, patting his chest a couple times before you slowly sink down onto your knees before him.

Panic overcomes him immediately, his hands closing around your shoulders to stop you before you touch the ground. His words spill out quickly, nearly frantic, “Your Highness, you are not to kneel before anyone other than the King or God–”

You push his hands off of you, and settle before him. “There is no king here, there is no God,” you hum softly, reaching for the waistband of his trousers. “It’s only you and I, as it always has been.”

Shaky breaths exit him as you undo the buttons. “Your Highness…”

A frown paints your features as you look up at him. “If I have to remind you to call me by name one more time, you’ll receive punishment,” you say, palming over the thick imprint of his pants.

A choked moan fills your ears as you continue to fit the length in your hand. “I… You deserve the utmost respect,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Referring to you without your title is–”

“Huzzah, Sir Barnes.” Sarcasm drips from your voice as you push down the fabric, watching as his cock springs to life before you. “You respect the one person that the rest of the royal family would prefer to see die. How noble you must feel.”

“Your High—“

”Is it wrong to want to see your point of view, Sir Barnes?” you ask with a heavy sigh, continuing to pet him. Your dress pooled awkwardly around you, your knees against the bare marble. Somehow, you don’t seem to mind it. “You’re always bent on a knee for me, willingly, might I add.”

“There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.” James swallows thickly, hands shaking at his sides. “I urge you to stand, this isn’t—“

He seems to choke on his words as you wrap your hand around the base of him. You take a moment to admire him— the thickness of his cock, the way it seems to respond to just the lightest of your touch. You haven’t even done anything other than hold him, and he’s pulsing like you’ve been at this for hours.

”Interesting,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I am the one on my knees, yet I still have power over you. Why is that, Sir Barnes?”

James does not respond to you. Rather, you don’t give him the chance to.

One experimental tug later, and you’re watching him brace his hands back against the wall. Glancing up at him, you find his jaw clamped shut, but his eyes directly on you. It’s almost predatory, the way he looks at you, as if you’re one wrong step away from being devoured by a beast.

Except you know he won’t stop you, won’t push you away, won’t deny you of what you want to do to him. The best he can do is offer suggestions through gritted teeth as he pretends to truly be concerned for the gap in hierarchy.

You don’t pull your eyes away from him as you open your mouth and lean in, licking up the bead of precum that had leaked out of the thick tip. It’s saltier than you had imagined it to be, but no less satisfying as you watch him struggle to take a breath. 

“Please…” he whispers, voice thick and heavy with both desire and restraint. 

You ignore him, continuing to focus on wetting his cock with your saliva. You allow your spit to drip from your lips, the warmth of it meeting his cock. You spread the liquid down his shaft with slow jerks of your hand, listening to his breathing get heavier and harder. 

When you finally close your mouth over the head, he can’t contain himself.

A hand flies to your hair, knocking off the small tiara the maids had placed atop your head just a few hours prior. His fingers weave through your hair, stopping at the crown of your skull. There’s no pressure, no pushing or pulling, just the feel of him holding you in attempts to prevent losing himself in your hands.

An odd sense of pride fills you as you lick at the underside, feeling a thick vein against your tongue. The idea of the strong Sir Barnes falling apart by your actions is too tempting to pass up. You want to watch him break before you, want to see how far you can take him until he’s begging you for mercy. 

You take him deeper into your mouth, flattening your tongue and allowing more salvia to pool around him. Your jaw relaxes as much as possible, and you hum around him. The vibrations reward you with a groan from above, prompting you to look up at him.

It’s the first time you’d ever seen his face like this. 

Oftentimes, he’s too stoic. There was as weight carried in his eyes that came from years of battle, tormenting him until his last breath. James holds his secrets close to his heart, though you know he’d speak if you asked him to. Perhaps it was your own respect for him that kept the question from leaving your lips. 

Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you with a sense of longing. You were someone he could not obtain, no matter what he did. You were the treasure in the dragon’s den. You were a flower growing from the side of a cliff. You were someone that he could only admire from afar, never having the courage to take you away for his own needs.

James had never tried to possess you, despite all the times you saw him watching. He had never attempted to sway you just as many others had tried. Never once did he strive for something more, only settling for the unfair life by your side. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise you to see the emotion on his face. Desire was there, yes, but something deeper. Something too personal and warm to call predatory. No, this was a feeling that you had no experience with— one that you did not cultivate throughout the entirety of your life. 

You don’t wish to acknowledge this feeling. You’re undeserving. You’re unable to provide him with what he is meant for. 

So you tear your eyes away from him, allowing them to fall shut as you focus on the weight of his cock in your mouth. You sink deeper against him, nearly gagging as the tip hits the back of your throat. Your hand moves where you cannot reach, and the pace is leisurely. With the size of him, it’s unclear whether or not you can move faster than this. 

Whether or not James has an issue with your speed, he does not voice his complaint aloud. His hand tightens in your hair, and the muscles of his abdomen strain as he bends forward slightly. Another hushed moan falls from his lips—

Along with your name. No title, no hierarchy. Purely just the name given to you upon your birth, laced with affection and wrapped in love. 

Before fear paralyzes you, warmth spills into your mouth, your knight choking on his moans. It’s too much— the size of him along with the new addition of his pleasure shooting out. You can feel it begin to pool in your mouth, attempting to escape where your lips still connect on his shaft. 

You swallow around him in a feeble attempt to lessen the volume—

James’ hands are underneath your armpits, having hoisted you up with one fluid movement. You don’t get the chance to gulp down the rest of his cum, one of his hands moving to grab your chin. He tugs downwards, thumb pressing against your bottom lip in attempts to pry your mouth open.

”You— you musn’t, Your Highness,” he manages to say with labored breaths. “This is dirty. You… By the Gods, open your mouth.”

When your lips part, revealing the mess he left behind, he let out a distressed noise. Without another thought, he surges forward. He slots his mouth against yours, hand moving to the back of your head to pull you in deeper. You can feel his tongue on yours, the wet muscle sliding over yours as he searches and claims. James is overheating, yet he does nothing to stave the warmth. If anything, he welcomes it, pressing impossibly closer to your body as if he could not get enough of you.

Your hands rest on either side of his neck, in desperate need of grounding. The knight holds your hostage, an arm wrapped around your waist to carry most of your weight. Your slippers hardly scrape along the marble floors beneath you. 

His throat bobs up and down beneath your fingertips, the motion repeating every few moments. It’s only then that you register what he’s doing– he’s actively shoveling his own release into his mouth. James means to devour you, but the thought of contaminating you with his own sin is unforgivable. 

Only when he’s certain you’ve been thoroughly cleaned does he part from you, leaving you lightheaded and dizzy. Hot breaths mingle together in the little distance you have from him, though you have little to find complaint in. Each shared breath brings him closer, not allowing even air to slide between you. 

”Do not do that again,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours. His forehead rests against yours, and his eyes shut. “Such things should not be allowed to taint you.”

”Are you saying I am dirty now, Sir Barnes?” you whisper back. You can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. 

His eyes fly open in a panic, pulling his head away so you can see his expression— honesty is too clear on his face. “You could never be filthy, Your Highness. All that you touch and desire is cleansed by your hands. Not even the Church could compare its holiness to yours.”

Your eyebrow raises as you huff a laugh of disbelief. “I am no saint, James. My blood has been muddled from the night the stars aligned for my birth. All that I touch is disgraced.”

“Nothing you do is laced with fault,” he argues. 

”What are you, my dog?” you ask, taking in every single twitch and movement of his body. It’s a rhetorical question, one meant to be brushed away with a laughYou expect discomfort. Defiance. Instead, he offers you submission.

”I am your mutt, Your Highness,” James corrects you, dripping with sincerity. “I live to serve you and you alone— you are my God and my savior. I will do anything you ask of me.”

You should know better, and stop him here. He’s clearly too far gone to realize the weight of his words, still caught in the afterglow of his pleasure. Still, your thoughts can’t help but be spoken out loud.

“And if I tell you to fetch me the Crown?” Your voice is soft, almost too quiet to be heard. In fact, if he wasn’t so close, you’d be certain that none would hear of your treasonous words.

James does not flinch. He holds your gaze, unwavering in his devotion. “Then I will make you Queen, and kneel before you as you take over this land.”

You can only laugh in response.

Words of betrayal so easily left his lips, echoing down the hall for all to hear. James could be dragged away, thrown into the dungeon as he awaited trial. The title he had worked so hard for would be stolen from him, and his name would be written into your kingdom’s history as a traitor rather than the valiant man he is. The worst part of it all is how much faith you have in him.

You swallow, tearing your eyes away. “It is getting late, Sir Barnes. I wish to retire to my quarters.”

James does not allow you to pull away from him. Your feet no longer touch the ground as he pulls you into his embrace, a hand beneath your knees and the other on your back. If the action winds him, he does not show his struggle. His footsteps are light— not even a mouse can be as quiet as him against the marble floor. 

And you do not fight against him. 

He carries you all the way down the hall towards the safety of your room. The doors shut with an echo, kicked behind him as he continued deeper into your personal chambers. James deposits you onto the plush bed without a single hair on your head falling out of place.

Your Knight removes himself from you, your body warm where he had just touched. Before you can begin to complain about the absence, he is falling to a knee, then shifting his weight onto both. 

He looks up before you, relief clear on his face. “This is how it is meant to be, Your Majesty,” he whispers, your eyes widening. 

Your back straightens, suddenly so aware of your surroundings— though you know no one enters your quarters without being summoned. 

“That is improper, Sir Barnes,” you hiss at him, heart thundering in your chest. “The King and Queen are still alive, and the eldest son is next in line for the throne. Had anyone heard you refer to me as such, your head would no longer be on your shoulders.”

“There is none here to find such fault,” James says, reaching for the hem of your gown. “Unless you wish to see my head roll, I am still safe in your presence.”

The fabric gathers in his hands as he lifts up the skirt, slowly exposing the skin of your legs to him. Still, he keeps his eyes on you. Perhaps he waits for your rejection. Maybe an order to cut his own hands off for daring to touch what you have not allowed. However, his silent question is met with the lack of denial.

Pleased, he rests the layers of your dress against your hips, then places his hands on your knees. He pushes them apart, just as he had done only a handful of hours ago in the tub.

“This is how it is to be,” James repeats, leaning forward. A kiss is placed upon the inside of your thigh, lips trailing upwards. “It is I that shall be on my knees, not the other way around.”

You’d seen him beneath you many times. The first time was during your first meeting. Him, at twenty-one years of age, assigned to guard a princess that none had wished to protect. For all the wisdom you had, you assumed his greeting was one of pity. Mockery. You did not return his pleasantry, choosing instead to walk away. 

Yet he did not stand until you ordered him to rise. When you passed by your chamber’s drawing room, the knight was still there. Resting on a single knee, a hand pressed over his heart. Your maid at the time informed you he had been there since his arrival. 

As time went on, the view of him on his knee became more scarce. At your orders, of course. He only fell to a knee when the occasion called for it, or when others had eyes wandered to the two of you, James was always quick to show you were someone worthy of respect, someone that commanded rather than obeyed. 

Many times he bent down on a knee for you. 

This was the first time it sent excitement shooting through your body. Shivers of anticipation ran down your back as he trailed higher up your thigh. 

“You smell delectable, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your skin.

You lean back onto your hands, eyes still fixated on the sight before you. A strong man, one that had changed the tide of wars he was called to, a man who had built his future from nothing, kneels before you as if he were a sinner in church. 

His nose brushes against your undergarments, eliciting a soft exhale from your lips. Gently, experimentally, he presses a kiss against your core. Fabric be damned— you can feel everything. 

Still, you wish for more. More stimulation. More of his touch. More of him. James doesn’t fail to notice. 

The barrier between you two is pushed to the side and secured by a hand. Your knight wastes no time in ravishing you, his tongue flattening as he takes a long drag between your folds. 

Silk sheets wrinkle in your fists. You find yourself opening your legs more, inviting him to take more space against you. He does, pulling your legs to hook over his broad shoulders as he presses himself closer to you, 

The wet muscle slowly parts your folds over and over again, testing what makes you sing the most for him. He circles your clit slowly, moaning at the taste of you while you whine above him. 

“James…” you whine from above him, chest heaving. You’ve fallen to rest back on your elbows, no longer having the strength to fully hold yourself up. Still, your chin presses to your chest, entranced at the sight before you. 

James finds pleasure in the sin of your fruit. He defies the law of hierarchy, the unspoken truth that goes against the affection he holds for you. For a brief moment, he believes it must be a dream to have you like this— legs shaking on either side of his head, soft moans and incoherent babbles filling his ears, and the sweet taste of your juices on his tongue. 

He has to take advantage of this time, he decides. Like a man that had come across a stream, he drinks. He drinks until the desire ebbing deep within him dissipates, until his thirst is quenched by the nectar you produce. 

Just as a musician would, he plays with you until you create a song. Joining the efforts of his tongue, two fingers are pushed deep within your aching cunt. He parts your walls, allowing space for his tongue to push within you. He curls the muscle against your velvety walls, soaking his tastebuds and garnering noises of approval from you— but it’s not enough. 

He wants you to fall apart against his tongue, wants to listen to you cry as you suffocate him with your thighs. This death would be one met with open arms, and he is eager to get his fill in before he’s dragged away to the depths of Hell.

The tight rope within you snaps, hips bucking up into his face as he proceeds to swallow down your pleasure. Coupled with his fingers still moving, stars burst behind your eyelids as you collapse into your bed. 

Weakly, you try to shove his head, to push him away as the sensitivity overcomes you. 

For the first time, he doesn’t bend to your whims. 

“God— It’s too much,” you choke out, chest rising up and down fast. 

Perhaps he couldn’t hear you, with your thighs muffling any sort of noise that came his way. He continues to feast, moaning against you as you tug on his hair. 

James is greedy, and you’re not sure if his actions are for your pleasure or his. Desperation overcomes him as his jaw moves against you, tongue swirling over your sensitive clit. His fingers explore your every crevice, pistoning into you with precision. It’s only when his fingers are knuckle deep does he find it— that sweet, spongy texture that makes you cry his name. 

Your back arches against the bed, pulling your hips away— he will not have it. His free hand clasps around your thigh, keeping you grounded against his mouth as he pulls another orgasm from your body. 

Only when you start to pry his fingers off of your thigh does he back away. Your slick is all over his mouth and chin, but he does not mind. It’s an erotic sight, watching him collect your juices onto a finger only for him to clean it off with his tongue. 

“James,” you murmur, and watch him rise from between your legs. 

“Yes, Your Highness?” he questions, demeanor relaxed as if he hadn’t sent you to the Heavens multiple times. 

Though your body screams in protest, absolutely spent, you force yourself to sit up. Your hands rest on his chest, fists closing around the fabric of his uniform. 

The knight doesn’t stop you as you begin to peel layer after layer off of him, discarding each garment off to the side somewhere. Even his sword clatters to the ground, but he pays no mind. His eyes are on you, watching each and every single movement. 

Bare before you, you can’t help but admire him. Slightly tanned skin, warmed from his days training and on display for you. Jagged scars paint his body, proof that he had lived throughout every battle. His muscles ripple beneath your touch, almost as if his entire body is waking to respond to you. 

“Will you help me out of my dress, Sir Barnes?” you whisper, meeting his eyes. For a moment, you see hesitation. Your stomach drops, shame and humiliation settling deep into your body. You pull your hands away, but you don’t go too far. 

James holding your hand in his, guiding it towards his lips. Softly, he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.  

“Are you certain?” His fingers are pressed against your pulse point. He can feel your nerves, your heart rapidly trying to supply your body with more oxygen to stop you from fainting. He’s giving you a chance. 

You’re not certain what the future would hold— if this one night would be a mistake. James knows this. You know this. And yet, you can’t help yourself. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

Silence fills the air as he undoes your gown. James is careful, as if he’s unwrapping a gift far too fragile for him to have. Callused hands run over the smoothness of your skin, sending goosebumps and anticipation down your spine. Before long, you’ve made it out of the prison called a corset, and he’s pushing you back into your pillows. 

He settles between your thighs once more, pulling your legs onto either side of his hips as he takes in the view. You, completely bare beneath him, watching him with excitement shining in your eyes. 

Words aren’t needed as he presses the tip of his cock against you. He slides the length through your folds, coating himself in your slick, rubbing against your clit slowly. His hands roam your body, running along the curve of your waist and up to your chest, a low moan slipping out of him as he explores, maps you by touch. 

The head of his cock catches at your aching cunt, and so does your breath. With one easy roll of his hips, he presses inside you, stretching you open to accommodate the thick girth of him. 

Sharp pain flashes through you, and you cannot help but smile. 

You reach for your knight, holding his face in your hands. His breathing is erratic and shallow, and he stills his hips against you— only halfway sheathed into your aching pussy. 

“You’ve ruined a Royal Princess, Sir Barnes,” you tell him, head dizzy with need and voice dripping with want. “How will you take responsibility for this? The King will have your head if he ever finds out.”

His cock twitches within you at your words, at your sultry smile, and the feel of your walls closing around him trying to pull him in deeper. 

James swallows thickly, and rests his hands on your hips. He stabilizes both you and him— 

Your bravado dies as his hips slam against yours. He forces you to take the length of him, body flush against yours. The stretch hurts, but in a way that leaves you wanting more. 

He leans down, face only centimeters from yours. 

“The King does not care about you, Princess,” he whispers into your ear. 

Your heart rate spikes. It’s the truth, yes, but this disrespect? This insolence? Your knight hadn’t ever dared to speak to you in such a manner. However, you don’t get to scold him before he speaks again. 

“But you don’t need him,” James grinds his hips against yours in experimentation, delighted when you make a small noise of pleasure. The corner of his mouth curls into a half smile, and he chuckles. “You don’t need anyone else to care about you. I am more than enough.” 

The air is stolen from you as James’ hips pull back. Your cunt tightens around him in a feeble attempt to keep him buried inside you. He only allows the tip of his cock to stay behind, holding himself there for just a few seconds before sinking deep within you. 

James wastes no time— he’s craved you for so long, there’s little that can stop him from ravishing you now that he has you. Virgin or not, pure or not, he won’t stop until he is satisfied. 

Your fingernails dig into the thick muscle of his biceps, desperate for some purchase as he continues to piston his hips against yours. You can feel everything. His fat cock splitting you open again and again. The thick vein that you sucked on just moments prior rubbing against your walls, somehow even larger than it was before. The tip of his cock kissing your cervix with each deep thrust. 

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, the sight mesmerizing. He bends down, tongue closing around a nipple and swirling at the stiff bud. His hips still, but you do not. With leverage from your hips, he continues to pull you into him, fucking you onto his cock. And when your hips started moving, when you began to grind against him, he could only laugh. 

“My Princess… Are you that desperate for me?” he coos softly, The lilt is teasing. He’s amassed by you, and finally, finally, his exterior is crumbling.  “Do not worry, Your Highness. I will ensure none will take my place.”

“You… you think too highly of yourself,” you manage, though your voice body betrays you. You’re still lifting your hips to meet him with every thrust, your legs are wrapped around him to keep him from going too far, and your hands won’t stop the exploration of his body. 

“Oh? Is that so?” he asks, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe you. He almost sounds amused at your attempt to push him away.

His hands tighten around your hips, pressing them into the mattress to keep you still. Suddenly, you’re unable to move. Unable to do anything as he begins to drag his cock in and out of you with the pace of a man who has too much time on his hands. 

You whine, cunt tightening around him. His hips stutter slightly, and his eyes fall shut. It takes him a moment to compose himself, to force himself not to get lost in your body. 

Then, he says your name. Again, as sweet as fresh pastries, heavy with responsibility. Your breath catches in your throat as he leans forward, forehead pressing against yours. 

“My sweet… beautiful Princess,” he rasps. He isn’t speaking from lust. It’s the same feeling once again, that same emotion you caught earlier. “Won’t you let me have you?”

Your heart rattles in your chest, caught off guard with his affections once more. Still, you don’t answer him. Don’t give him the response he craves. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him closer to you, meeting his lips with yours. 

“Hurry up and fuck me, James,” you mutter against his lips. 

A low groan exits him, his eyes rolling back into his skull. He hooks your knees over his elbows, folding your body beneath his. 

The new angle has you seeing stars. He’s hitting you deeper than before, filling you in ways you had never imagined. You can’t keep up with him as he fucks you, stuck with simply laying beneath him as he does all the work. After all, his darling Princess should not have to work for what she wants. 

Within a few moments, you realize what he’s doing. He’s ruining you, drilling himself into you to leave behind the imprint of his cock. You’ll feel its ghost for days to come, leaving you desperate and forcing you to run back to him. If James cannot have your heart, he will settle with your body. 

The wet squelch of your pussy fills the room. Moans harmonize as pleasure overcomes the two of you, and you can feel yourself about to snap. His cock twitches within you as your pussy holds him hostage, and you know he won’t last long. 

When his thumb presses against your clit, you are sent off the edge. You cry out his name, body seizing beneath him as he mutters words of encouragement— all of it falls on deaf ears as he fucks you through your high. All you can feel is him. His body moving against yours. His hands running up and down your sides. His mouth on your neck, suckling and kissing bruises onto your skin. 

Then you feel it— that same warmth spills into you once more as his hips catch and stutter, unable to keep his pace smooth. Thick, hot ropes of cum fill your dripping cunt, mixing your juices in a display of passion. 

Once more, his lips crash into yours. He swallows your whimpers and moans and gives you his own. Your hearts thunder together in tandem, and your legs are slowly released back onto the sheets below. 

A few moments pass, both of you silent as his head falls into your shoulder. He squeezes at your sides, almost as if he’s trying to determine that this is real— that he had defiled you in a blind act of lust. 

Soft whimpers escape you as he pulls his softening cock out, your shared cum spilling out of your abused cunt and soaking the sheets you lay on. The warmth of his body leaves you, allowing the chill of the night to wash over you. 

You can’t even move, body too spent to care. You’re pliant under his touch as he returns, brandishing a fresh cloth from the bathroom.  The knight cleans you without a word of complaint, then scoops you into his arms. 

“The bed is dirty, Your Highness,” he tells you as you rest your head onto his shoulder. 

You’re not certain how he does it, nor do you really care, but fresh sheets are laid out and you are returned to the plush mattress once more. Blankets are pulled over your body, giving you warmth against the chill air. Lullabies come in the form of rustling fabric, its gentle noise coaxing you to sleep. It’s when you hear the clatter of his armor and sword do you open your eyes. 

“Where are you going?” you ask, voice thick with exhaustion. He’d dressed himself once more, ready to resume his job– to guard you. Only now do you realize you had never seen the man take a break. You weren’t even sure if your knight slept. “I did not dismiss you from my presence.”

James seems to pause, looking down at himself. A few heartbeats pass before he lowers his sword, allowing it to properly rest against your nightstand as opposed to on the floor. His boots come off, and so does his outer layer of clothing. 

Hesitation is clear on his face as he looks down upon you. You take it upon yourself to grant him space, lifting up the blankets for him to join you. Slowly, he lowers himself into the bed, settling once more beside you. 

At first, he’s rigid. As if the last couple hours did not happen– that he hadn’t taken you for all you are worth. A tired sigh slips from you, and you shift closer to him. Your knight stiffens once more at the touch, probably keenly aware you are still bare. 

You know you’re being selfish as you nuzzle into his side. You steal from him what you cannot give– the warmth of his body, the scent he gives off, and the gentle beating of his heart beneath your ear. James allows you to take over and over again, and you are too cruel to make yourself stop.

When the sun breaks through the horizon, you’re certain he will have questions that you refuse to answer. You’ll cover up your inability to commit with half hearted teasing, flirtatious touches, and impossible demands. 

James will have to settle with watching you from a distance, unable to reach for you unless you give him the order. He’ll endure your endless taunts and unfair requests, and do so with affection running so deep that you may feel suffocated. He will stay by your side, just as he had promised you years ago.

You have yet to keep your own promises to him. Perhaps after you obtain the Crown, this game will cease. He will be free of your jests and demands, though you know he will continue to follow you around out of his own free will. 

Maybe you’ll properly face him when the kingdom is yours, after he serves you the world on a silver platter. You could take him in as a consort, raise his title up so that none could look down upon him again. 

The soft rumble of his snores break your thoughts. Carefully as to not stir him, you look up at him. You’d never seen him at peace like this. Your heart squeezes in your chest, prompting you to settle back into his arms. 

In his sleep, he tugs you closer. He wraps himself around you like a cocoon, safe from the world. Even deep into rest, your knight is unable to stop himself from protecting you. 

If only you had the strength to gift him what he longs for. 

bucky barnes taglist: @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @54nboo @earthsmightestbenders @umbreoni @iamthatonefangirl @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover @duacruel @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels  @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian @overwintering-soldier @kjmonster111  @bbyanarchist @buckmybarnes

The couch in his room creaked softly as you shifted higher onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the hem of your T-shirt tugging a little higher with every slow drag of movement. His hands, one warm and one pleasantly cool, rested at the small of your back, thumbs rubbing lazy circles through the cotton.

You kissed him again, deep enough that it made your stomach jolt like that weightlessness you feel at the top of a rollercoaster. You felt the familiar brush of his stubble against your jaw.

This was exactly what it looked like. Exactly as uncomplicated as it sounded. 

Friends who kissed. Friends who sometimes stayed a little too long in the doorway after a movie night, who sometimes let a conversation dissolve into mouths pressed together until the occasional little sound escaped when Bucky did something particularly good with his tongue.

And why not? Kissing was fun, and fun was the whole point.

Bucky hummed low in his chest. You smiled against his mouth, tilting your head to steal another kiss, slow and deliberate. He tasted faintly of the coffee you’d shared earlier. When his hands slipped under your shirt, flesh and metal fingertips trailing across bare skin, you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you.

You liked kissing Bucky, Bucky liked kissing you, and the world hadn’t ended yet.

Friends, you reminded yourself as he nipped lightly at your lower lip, sending a spark down your spine. Good friends, even. Friends with extraordinary kissing chemistry. It was the kind of arrangement that let you enjoy all the perks without any of the drama; basically, hitting the jackpot.

Bucky’s metal hand shifted to the back of your thigh, cool through the denim of your jeans. The delicious contrast made you shiver and laugh simultaneously. He pulled back just enough to watch you catch your breath, blue eyes bright and a little smug.

“Cold?” he asked, voice rough with amusement. “Or is that just the effect I have on you?”

You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Bucky’s smile was small but certain, like he already knew exactly how to make you sigh again, before he leaned in for another kiss.

It all started months ago, back when Bucky officially joined the Avengers.

Not the awkward probationary period when everyone still half-expected him to vanish into the night with a duffel bag and a handgun. This was after he’d settled in, started cracking jokes with Sam, and started trusting people enough to stay for movie nights instead of just lurking in the hallway like a cryptid with perfect hair.

Somewhere in all of that, you and Bucky had landed in the “pretty good friends” category. The kind of friends who could spend an afternoon sparring in the gym and still grab take-out after, sweaty and laughing. The kind who could sit on the roof and trade sarcastic commentary about Tony’s latest gadget, or drop down into a serious conversation about nightmares and past mistakes without it getting weird.

And, apparently, the kind of friends who made out. A lot.

It wasn’t complicated. Sometimes, missions were rough, and adrenaline was high, and you both needed a way to blow off steam. Sometimes a late-night movie ended with you leaning a little too close. Sometimes—like tonight—you just happened to find yourselves kissing because it felt good and you both wanted to, and that was reason enough.

No strategy, no hidden agenda. Just two adults enjoying themselves in a world that rarely handed out simple pleasures.

You were good friends who kissed when the mood struck them. That was it. No strings, no labels, no looming “what are we” talk. A perfectly modern arrangement for a perfectly modern pair of friends.

You liked the way things were. Bucky was warm, solid, and dependable. He had this way of making you feel like the only person in the room, which was a dangerous kind of magic when paired with a mouth that good. But things never got complicated, and in your stressful line of work, you appreciated that.

It was easy, light, and made you feel like the universe could occasionally be kind.

Bucky shifted beneath you, the couch groaning as he settled a hand more firmly at your waist. His metal thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your shirt, the cool contrast sending a fresh shiver up your spine.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged from kissing.

“Mmhmm.” You didn’t bother opening your eyes, just leaned in for another slow, unhurried kiss.

Bucky smiled against your mouth, a satisfied curve like he’d just confirmed something important. He always kissed slowly and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d give it to him. 

You melted a little—fine, a lot—into the steady press of his mouth. “You’re really making me work for it after leg day,” you mumbled against his lips.

Bucky hummed, a warm vibration you felt in your spine. “Maybe I just like having you in my lap, doll.”

You rolled your eyes, managing a smirk. “The feeling’s mutual, Barnes. But I could use a break.”

He chuckled, a low sound that made you want to drag him even closer. The couch groaned as he shifted, metal hand sliding beneath you in a smooth, practised motion. One minute you were sitting on his lap, the next you were stretched out along the cushions, Bucky braced above you.

The world tilted pleasantly, the weight of him sinking into your bones.

“Better?” he asked, breath brushing your cheek.

“Comfier,” you admitted, trying very hard not to sound like someone who had just been given the universe’s best weighted blanket. “You’re heavy. In a solid, heroic kind of way.”

Bucky’s grin flashed, quick and boyish. “Heroic heavy. I’ll take it.”

He dipped his head again before you could muster a comeback, mouth sliding against yours in a kiss that was both careful and possessive. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, tilting you just so, and the combination of soft pressure and cool metal tracing lazy paths along your waist sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

His nose brushed yours as he broke for air. “You taste like that sugar and espresso,” he murmured, voice rough. “My coffee, the one I made for myself.”

“It was a communal coffee,” you protested, fingers finding the hem of his T-shirt and giving it a cheeky tug. “Sharing is caring. Also, I’m a growing woman.”

Bucky smirked, clearly unbothered, and dipped back in. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget the world outside the four walls of his room and forget your own name if you weren’t careful.

His metal hand slid to your waist, tracing a line just under the edge of your shirt and approaching the buttons of your jeans. The cool touch jolted through you, sharp enough to register as a warning and a dare all at once.

“Tell me to stop,” Bucky said quietly, forehead resting against yours. His thumb pressed a slow circle against your bare skin, a gentle reminder that going further would tip past kissing for the first time.

The softness of it made something tighten behind your ribs, but you managed a grin. “You first.”

His mouth found yours again, slower still, and you decided that this was the best friendship upgrade you’d ever signed up for.

You tasted like sweat and a hint of something sweet, somehow.

Bucky let his back hit the wall of the training room with a low thud, the sound swallowed by the rush of your breath against his mouth. You were still in your usual sparring gear, hair sticking to your forehead, T-shirt damp at the collar. He hooked his flesh hand around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

You made a sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—that went straight to his chest. God, that laugh. Low and warm and a little breathless. He’d chased it for months.

His metal palm slid over the small of your back, cool against overheated skin. You shivered and pressed closer, hips tilting just enough to make his breath catch. The thin barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the heat of you.

“Good match,” you managed between kisses, voice bright with the last of the adrenaline.

“Mm.” Bucky’s answer came out rough. Talking felt pointless when he could taste you instead.

You tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, nails grazing the back of his neck. Bucky groaned, deep and quiet, and let his hand drift lower until his fingers brushed the waistband of your leggings. Not pushing. Just there. Asking.

You didn’t pull away. You only shifted closer, thigh sliding between his.

Christ. Bucky angled his head, deepening the kiss. This was new. Closer. The kind of slow grind that carried a promise. 

He’d been patient about romancing you—old-fashioned, even. The Bucky treatment, Steve would call it with a grin, which entailed absolutely no funny business until you were exclusive. Dinner after missions, walks back from the market, letting the thing between you build at its own pace. 

At first, Bucky worried that it was too slow for you. 

After all, you were a modern woman, and dating had escalated into something he barely recognised these days. He’d spent nights lying awake, half convinced you’d get bored and wander off before he figured out the new rules. People swiped left and right now; they didn’t wait weeks to hold someone’s hand. 

But you never once pushed. You were happy to linger after movie nights, to kiss until the streetlights clicked off, to let the quiet stretch between you without demanding anything more. Every time you smiled at Bucky across a dinner table or leaned against his arm during a walk, he felt a clean rush of relief—proof that slow wasn’t scaring you away.

Eventually, he’d worked up to what he thought was the big step: exclusivity. He’d asked in what he still considered a perfectly obvious, twenty-first-century way. Over take-out noodles one night, he’d nudged your foot under the table and said, “Guess we’re making this official, huh?” You’d grinned, clinked your chopsticks against his, and said, “Pleasure doing business with you,” before launching into a story about a disastrous mission briefing.

For Bucky, that was it. You were official, exclusive. He’d walked you back to your room that night, floating three inches off the floor, certain the air between you had shifted into something solid. He’d even texted his group chat with Steve and Sam the next morning—asked her to be exclusive. she said yes.

And now, weeks later, the ease of it still steadied him. Because you’d let him take his time, because you’d agreed to be his without hesitation, he could finally let himself imagine the next step. 

Not a leap, just a careful slide forward. A hand under your shirt, the warm weight of you against him. Little things that meant trust, not just desire. You knew he was serious; you knew this wasn’t a fling. And because of that, Bucky could touch you like this and know he wasn’t crossing a line.

It was worth every second of taking it slow.

He’d wanted tonight to be a reward. You’d wiped the floor with him in the last sparring round, and he’d loved every second of it. A kiss in the corner of the gym before you both hit the showers. A private victory lap. But the way you moved now—hips rolling, fingers sliding under the edge of his shirt—made the idea of stopping feel cruel.

You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe. “You’re dangerous, Barnes,” you murmured, eyes bright.

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “You started it.”

Your grin flashed. “Pretty sure you tackled me first.”

“I’m not the one wearing the sexy workout outfit.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, a small claim that felt bigger than it should. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

You answered by catching his bottom lip between your teeth.

Every sane thought disappeared from his head.

Bucky had been planning your next date all afternoon. Real food this time, something nicer than the take-out containers you both pretended were meals. Maybe that little place Natasha kept raving about. 

Afterwards, he’d walk you back to the Tower, maybe stop by the rooftop garden where you liked to lean on the railing and tell him funny stories. He wanted to see you there again, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands, laughing at his deadpan jokes. 

A relationship, exclusive dating after months of doing it casually and slowly. That’s what this was.

Bucky had been careful, giving you space, but the signs were obvious. Movie nights that ended with you asleep against his shoulder. Early morning texts about coffee orders. The way you started wearing one of his hoodies and never gave it back. People didn’t do that if it wasn’t serious.

And now, the way you fit against him, warm and trusting, made the truth feel solid enough to lean on.

You shifted again, a slow drag of hips that sent a jolt of pleasure through him. Bucky tightened his grip, metal fingers spanning your waist, holding you steady while you moved.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice breaking low. Not a warning. More of a plea to give him a second to keep it together.

You only smiled, wicked and sweet, and stole another kiss.

Bucky’s heart hammered a steady backbeat, climbing higher every time you shifted against him. He felt young again, as if the world had tilted toward something good and he was allowed to stand in the middle of it.

He thought of Steve and how he used to talk about simple pleasures, about not waiting too long. Maybe this was what he meant.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Your pupils were blown wide, a question shining there.

Bucky smoothed his thumb along your jaw. “Tell me if I’m pushing,” he said quietly.

Your smile softened. “You’re not.”

He leaned in, forehead against yours, and let the next kiss start slow. A promise disguised as a reward. He’d wait as long as you needed, but tonight felt like the start of something bigger.

His girl, his doll, his future.

Bucky’s room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and cedar, the clean scent that comes from someone who actually follows the instructions on a bottle of fabric softener. Show off.

The lamp on his nightstand was turned low, casting a warm light over the bed where Alpine, a small white cloud with whiskers, was already perched as if she paid rent. You’d been in here enough times to know the lightbulb was the soft kind that made everyone look ten times kinder, which felt on brand for a man who pretended to be grumpy while secretly rescuing cats.

“Movie night with a critic,” Bucky said, toeing off his boots. “She likes to meow at the plot holes.”

“You’re just jealous she’s smarter than you,” you teased, settling cross-legged on the edge of the mattress. The comforter dipped beneath you, soft and heavy. It smelled faintly of clean cotton and something warm—Bucky, probably.

He shot you a look of mock offence while fishing for the remote on his bedside table. “Careful, doll. I can still veto your pick.”

Bucky queued up the movie and slid down beside you, long legs stretched out and arm braced on the mattress, brushing your thigh. A barely-there touch, but enough to make your nerve endings sit up like they’d just had a double espresso. The screen lit up with the opening credits of your favourite movie. 

Alpine gave a chirp, turned a slow circle, and then—betrayal of betrayals—padded across Bucky’s lap and plopped squarely into yours.

“Oh, c’mon,” he groaned. “Every time!”

You grinned, scratching behind Alpine’s ears as she head-butted your palm with the force of a tiny, determined marshmallow. “Face it. I’m her favourite.”

Bucky leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed in dramatic suffering. “I rescued her from a busted fire escape. Nursed her back to health. Bought the fancy grain-free food. And this is the thanks I get?”

“Maybe she appreciates quality company,” you said, wiggling your fingers to make Alpine’s tail swish in delight. “I have sparkling conversation and adorable charm. What do you bring to the table?”

“Trauma and good cheekbones,” Bucky deadpanned.

You snorted, nearly startling the cat. “Wow. Irresistible package.”

“She used to sleep on my chest,” he went on, ignoring you. “Now she hears your voice and suddenly I’m chopped liver.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, though you were enjoying every second of his mock sulk. “You’re still her giant food dispenser.”

“Thanks, doll. Real boost to the ego.” Bucky tilted his head toward Alpine, who was now purring loud enough to be heard over the movie. “You hear that, snowball? Dad’s feelings—obliterated.”

Alpine flicked an ear and nestled deeper into your lap like a queen receiving tribute. You gave Bucky a wide, innocent smile. “Maybe she just senses my aura.”

“Your aura?” He arched a brow.

“Yeah. Cats can tell when someone’s a good person. Or at least when someone’s not secretly plotting world domination.”

“Guess I should’ve hidden the plans better,” Bucky said, eyes glinting.

The banter slid back and forth like an old routine—effortless, balanced, as easy as breathing. You’d fallen into this rhythm months ago: Bucky’s dry humour, your quick jabs, both of you quietly delighted whenever you managed to crack the other wide open. 

He laughed now, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the mattress and settled somewhere under your ribs. You filed it away with all the other Bucky details you weren’t supposed to notice: the way his laugh always started in his chest, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the ridiculous fact that it made you feel lighter every single time.

Halfway through the movie, Alpine stretched a paw across your stomach, claiming more territory. Bucky reached out, fingers brushing yours as he pretended to coax her back. 

“Traitor,” he whispered.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered back, though your focus snagged on the tiny graze of his metal knuckles against your skin. Cool and smooth, a contrast sharp enough to send a little electric zing racing up your arm.

Bucky caught the flick of your eyes and smirked like he’d felt it too. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Maybe I just have a magic touch.”

“You don’t say.”

On screen, the hero made a questionable decision that earned a disgusted chirp from Alpine. You and Bucky burst out laughing at the same time, the sound overlapping until you couldn’t tell whose laugh belonged to whom. He nudged your knee with his, just a small bump, but he didn’t move it away.

The rest of the movie blurred in a haze of shared snacks and whispered commentary. Bucky pointed out continuity errors. You defended the cheesy dialogue. Alpine purred as if she were personally invested in the debate.

If happiness had a sound, it might have been this: a cat’s rumble, a soldier’s laugh, and your own heartbeat trying to keep up.

By the time the end credits rolled, Bucky stretched with a satisfied groan, his shoulder brushing yours. “Not bad,” he admitted. “A couple plot holes, but the cat critic seems pleased.”

Alpine yawned and pressed her head into your palm.

“Five stars,” you said, giving the cat a final scratch. “From the only opinion that matters.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he watched you. He didn’t say anything, just reached over to gently lift Alpine from your lap and set her on the pillow. But his fingers lingered for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to break the contact. 

With Alpine safely out of the way, Bucky leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as if he’d been waiting all night for the chance. It was the kind of kiss that felt inevitable, like the next logical step in a perfect night in.

The debrief wrapped with Steve’s trademark mix of stern professionalism and sweet encouragement. “Good work out there,” he said, setting the file down like it hadn’t just survived three explosions and a questionable landing courtesy of Peter. “Take the night off. Dinner’s on me.”

A chorus of cheers and applause rippled around the conference table. Chairs scraped back, jackets were shrugged on. The post-mission buzz was alive and well in the collective joy of finally getting to sit somewhere that wasn’t a Quinjet.

You stretched, rolling a knot out of your shoulder as Bucky fell into step beside you. His hand brushed the small of your back for half a second.

“Dinner?” Natasha asked, leaning against the table with the confidence of a woman who already knew everyone would say yes. “Pizza? Burgers? Anything that involves carbs and regret?”