summary: born the quiet, overlooked sister, you’ve learned to survive in the shadows—until a ball places you before duke bucky barnes, war-scarred, steel-armed, and whispered about by all of london. the ton declares you ill-matched, but in stolen quiet and candlelit corners, you discover a love that makes you feel seen at last.
authors note: i love the regency era and i loveeee this trope. the concept of duke barnes saving me from my family that doesn't understand me has melted me in an absolute puddle!! please note, in this fic, it is understood that the Queen grants each home with a "name". Ashford is the name of readers home and to make the story flow better in my head, is often called upon as such!
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The first thing your mother does, every time she looks at you, is count.
Not with her fingers—not so crudely. With her eyes. With the faint pause between breath and greeting. With the way her gaze passes over your sisters first, as if she must take inventory of what she is proud of before she can bear to acknowledge what she is not.
Arabella—oldest, already married and radiant in it, a hostess in the making with a laugh that never trembles.
Seraphina—clever as a blade and twice as polished, the sort who can make a compliment sound like a promise.
Daphne—pretty and effortless, all dimples and flirtation, built for ballrooms like a swan is built for lakes.
Imogen—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, always the first to notice a weakness and the last to forgive one.
Cordelia—youngest, sweet-faced, eager, still soft enough to be shaped by the rest of them.
And then you.
Your father calls you “quiet” as though it is a virtue he might one day learn to tolerate. Your sisters call you “bookish” as though it is a disease. Your mother calls you nothing at all, most days, which is somehow worse—because it implies you are not a thing worth naming.
You’ve tried, in the ways a daughter tries.
You’ve worn the colors your mother prefers—pale pinks and creams that make you feel like a faded flower pressed between pages. You’ve practiced smiling until your cheeks ache. You’ve learned to curtsy without wobbling, to speak only when spoken to, to laugh on cue at jokes you do not find funny.
But there is no practice for being overlooked. No lesson for becoming small enough to stop disappointing the people who expect you to be someone else.
So you do the one thing you’ve always been able to do: you retreat to what does not ask you to perform.
You read.
In books, no one tells you that you are too much or not enough. No one sighs when you speak. No one looks past you to find the glittering thing behind.
Tonight, however, there will be no library to hide in.
Tonight, Arabella is hosting her first grand ball in London—her first as Viscountess Harrowgate, her first as the sister who has succeeded where your mother once feared daughters could fail. Her invitation came like a command sealed with lace: You will attend. All of you. The entire family. The ton must see us.
Your mother has clung to that final line like it is scripture.
“The ton must see us,” she repeats now, adjusting the line of your gloves with pinching fingers. “We must make an impression.”
“We always do,” Seraphina murmurs behind her fan, not quite hiding her smile.
“Precisely,” your mother says, and then her eyes flick to you like a draft sneaking under a door. “And you, my dear—please do try to look… pleasant.”
You swallow the first reply that rises in your throat. What does pleasant look like? Like Daphne? Like Arabella? Like someone worth watching?
Instead, you nod. Because you’ve learned that arguing only makes them look at you longer.
Imogen leans in as the maid pins a ribbon at your back. “Do not frighten away Arabella’s guests by talking about your dreadful poetry.”
“I don’t write poetry,” you say softly.
“You read it,” Imogen answers, as though that is equally offensive. “Which is nearly as bad.”
Cordelia, perched on the edge of the chaise like a bird too young to know the cage is real, tilts her head. “I like when she reads to me.”
Imogen’s gaze cuts. “That is because you are still a child.”
Cordelia’s mouth tightens. She looks down at her slippers.
Something in your chest twists—not dramatic, not sharp. Just a small ache you’ve learned to tuck away with the rest of the quiet hurts. You reach for Cordelia’s hand under the fold of your skirt, giving it a brief squeeze. She squeezes back, grateful, as though you’ve offered her a rescue rope.
Your mother misses the exchange entirely. “Remember,” she says, “you are not to wander. You are not to disappear into some corner like a—” She inhales, restrains herself, finishes with forced calm. “Like an unsociable girl.”
Seraphina’s eyes glint. “Like herself, Mama means.”
Daphne laughs, sweet and light.
Arabella, already dressed and luminous, pauses at the door. Her gaze lands on you. For a heartbeat, something softer lives there—under her pride, under her practiced hostess smile.
“Be kind,” she says to your sisters, quietly, but not quietly enough.
Imogen rolls her eyes. Seraphina’s smile turns sharper, but she says nothing. Your mother pretends she did not hear. Arabella hesitates, as if she might say something else—to you, perhaps—and then the moment passes. She is swept away by the crush of responsibility, the weight of her new title, the desperate need to appear perfect.
And you follow, as you always do.
The Harrowgate townhouse is a blaze of candlelight and expectation.
The entry hall smells of beeswax and perfume. Footmen take cloaks and names and secrets alike. The ballroom itself gleams—polished floors reflecting chandeliers like captured constellations. Everywhere there is silk and laughter and the soft shock of jewels catching light.
Your sisters bloom in it. Arabella floats through the room like she was born to move people where she wants them. Seraphina collects admirers as if it is sport. Daphne is surrounded before the first set ends, three gentlemen vying for her attention with the earnestness of men who have never been told no. Imogen stands near your mother, issuing judgments under her breath like a magistrate.
You stand where you are placed—near a pillar, close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten. Your mother’s hand presses briefly to your shoulder as she passes, a reminder that you are an accessory to her ambitions, not a person within them.
“Do not slouch,” she murmurs.
You straighten.
A waltz begins. Couples spin, skirts flaring like petals caught in wind. You watch the patterns because they are safe—numbers and music, steps and symmetry. It is easier to observe the world than to risk being noticed by it.
Your gaze drifts without meaning—past laughing mouths, past gloved hands, past the bright faces of girls who have practiced wanting what they are told to want.
And then you see him.
He is not bright.
He is not easy.
He stands at the far edge of the room near the shadowed archway that leads into the adjoining salon, as if the ballroom’s light is something he tolerates rather than enjoys. His hair is dark, brushed back with minimal care. His posture is too still—soldier-still, as though his body has learned to be ready even in peace.
The first thing people notice is his arm.
Even from here, you see the metallic gleam beneath the cuff of his sleeve when he shifts, the unnatural line where polished steel meets fabric. A murmur ripples through a nearby cluster of ladies; fans lift like shields. A gentleman leans in to whisper something that makes a woman’s eyes widen in fascinated horror.
The Duke of Barnes, someone says, and the name travels like a spark.
Duke.
War-torn.
Scarred.
A man made of stories the ton tells itself to feel thrillingly safe.
You should look away. It is what everyone else is doing—staring and then pretending not to, as though curiosity is indecent and empathy impossible.
But you don’t.
Not because you are brave, but because you know what it is to be watched like an oddity. You know what it is to be the thing people discuss behind fans and laughter.
As if he feels the weight of your attention, he turns his head.
His eyes find you across the room.
They are not the cold eyes of rumor. They are a blue-gray that holds storms and fatigue and something else—something older than the ballroom, older than polite society.
His gaze catches, and for one awful, breathless moment, you think you have done something wrong. That your staring has made you rude, that you are about to be exposed as the quiet girl who forgets the rules.
Then his expression shifts—not into a smile, not quite. Into recognition.
As if he has spotted another person standing at the edges, surviving rather than performing.
You look away first, because you always do. Because it is safer to become invisible.
But the heat of his gaze lingers like candle-warmth on your skin.
You last exactly twenty minutes before you need air.
It isn’t the crowd, not really. It’s the sense of being pressed into place—of existing as a piece on someone else’s board. You slip out when your mother is distracted by a conversation about dowries and Dorsetshire estates, and when your sisters are consumed by admirers.
The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The noise becomes distant, as if you’ve stepped underwater. You move as quietly as you can, past a row of portraits in gilded frames—Harrowgate ancestors who look down at you with bored superiority.
A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling from within. You recognize the room by its scent before you see it: paper, leather, dust warmed by lamps.
A library.
Your heart loosens, just a little, the way it does when you step into someplace that does not demand you shine.
You push the door open, slip inside, and close it softly behind you.
The room is lined with shelves, the kind that reach toward the ceiling like devotion. There are chairs by the fireplace, a writing desk, a scattering of volumes left open as if someone abandoned them mid-thought. A lamp glows on a side table, throwing warm light over a stack of books.
You move toward them as if drawn by gravity.
Your fingers brush a spine—Milton, then Rousseau, then a worn copy of Persuasion that makes your chest ache, though you are not sure why. You pick it up, almost reverently, flipping to a page at random.
“You’re hiding.”
The voice comes from behind you—low, roughened by disuse, as though he doesn’t speak often unless he must.
You freeze.
Slowly, you turn.
He stands near the doorway, half in shadow. The Duke of Barnes. Bucky Barnes, if the murmurs were accurate—though no one says “Bucky” in ballrooms. They say “Your Grace,” and they say it with a tremble.
He has removed his gloves. One hand is bare, strong, human. The other—metal, articulated in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling, fingers of steel catching lamplight.
He looks at you not like a creature to be studied, but like a person caught doing something familiar.
“I could say the same of you,” you manage, and it surprises you—how easily the words come.
His mouth tilts at one corner, nearly a smile. “I wasn’t subtle.”
“No,” you agree, and then you flush because it sounds like judgment.
He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks… relieved. Like you have named the truth and spared him the performance of denying it.
“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he says after a moment. “People talk.”
You glance at the book in your hand. “People talk no matter where I stand.”
He studies you as if the sentence has struck something in him. “That so?”
You shrug, a small movement. “My sisters are the sort people notice. I am… not.”
His gaze lowers briefly to the pages, then back to your face. “You came here for the books.”
“Yes.”
“And not,” he adds, almost cautiously, “because you were hoping to catch someone’s attention.”
The question is strange—almost too direct for polite society. But you realize he is not teasing. He is… checking. As if he has been hunted by expectations and wants to know whether you are another trap.
“No,” you say, honest. “I came because it is quiet.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing. “Good.”
You blink. “Good?”
“Quiet’s… rare.” His eyes flick to the door, as though he expects it to burst open with laughter and judgment. “And I’ve had enough of rooms full of people pretending not to stare.”
The words are careful, controlled, but beneath them you hear exhaustion. Something in you softens in recognition. Not pity—pity is a kind of distance. This is something else. Understanding, perhaps.
You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “Does it hurt?”
His gaze snaps back to you, sharp.
You almost apologize immediately. You almost retreat into silence, mortified at your own boldness.
But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t sneer.
He looks down at his arm, the metal gleaming where the lamplight catches the joints. His fingers flex once, slow. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Not like it did at first. But… there are things a body remembers.”
You swallow. “I’m sorry.”
He lifts his eyes again. “Don’t be. You didn’t do it.”
It is a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. Like a door opening into a room you’ve never dared enter.
You shift the book in your hands. “You fought in the war,” you say, not a question.
He nods once. “And I came home less… whole than I left.”
There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.
You gesture helplessly to the library around you. “They talk as if you are a monster.”
His expression hardens, just a little. “They talk as if I’m entertainment.”
Anger rises in you—a slow burn, unfamiliar. You are used to swallowing hurt, not holding it.
“It’s cruel,” you say, and your voice is firmer than you expect.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, and then something warmer, softer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”
You look down at the book, at the lines of ink that have survived centuries because they mattered to someone. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” you say, and the honesty in it makes your throat tight. “I think you’re… tired.”
His breath catches, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him the way you watch stories unfold.
“Tired,” he repeats, as though he is tasting the word. “No one’s called me that.”
“What do they call you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
His jaw tightens. “Scarred. Ruined. Dangerous. Tragic.” A humorless exhale. “As if those are the only things a man can be.”
You meet his gaze, steady now because something in you refuses to flinch. “They’re wrong.”
His eyes hold yours for a long moment. The air between you feels charged—not with scandal, but with something strangely intimate: the shared relief of dropping masks.
“You got a name, Miss…?” he prompts gently.
You hesitate. Not because you don’t know it, but because names, in your family, feel like expectations. Labels people use to decide what you are worth.
But his voice is not demanding. It is offering.
You give it. Quietly.
He nods as though it matters. As though he will remember it when the room grows loud again.
“I’m James,” he says, and then, as if he knows how stiff it sounds, he adds, “Most call me Bucky, when they’re brave enough to forget I’m a duke.”
You almost smile. “Bucky.”
The sound of it feels like stepping off a polished floor onto grass. Real.
He watches your mouth when you say it, and something in his expression softens into something you’ve never been the object of before: interest without agenda.
“You like books,” he says, gesturing to the one in your hands.
“I like stories,” you correct quietly. “I like… the way they tell the truth without making you perform it.”
His gaze drops again to the book. “Read to me,” he says, then pauses as if he cannot believe he asked. “If you want. I mean. You don’t have to.”
You should be nervous. You should be thinking about propriety, about how your mother would faint if she found you alone in a library with a duke whose reputation has frightened half of Mayfair.
But the room is warm and quiet and safe in a way the ballroom isn’t, and his eyes look at you like you are not a disappointment.
So you sit.
You choose a chair by the lamp, hands trembling only slightly as you open the book. He takes the other chair—not too close, not too far, positioned like someone who has learned to give women space. His metal hand rests on the armrest, glinting. His human hand folds loosely over his knee.
You begin to read.
At first, your voice is soft. Then it steadies. Then it finds rhythm—words like familiar footsteps. You feel him listening, truly listening, in a way most people do not. His gaze stays on the pages, on your hands, on your face. He does not interrupt. He does not tease. He does not try to impress you with his own cleverness.
He simply lets you exist.
When you reach the end of a passage, you look up without thinking.
He is watching you as if you are the most interesting thing in the room.
“What?” you ask, flustered.
He blinks, as if caught. “You look… different in here.”
“Different?”
“Like you belong to yourself.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent, and something in your chest aches with the sweetness of it. “In there—” his eyes flick toward the ballroom “—you were trying to disappear.”
You swallow. “It’s easier.”
He leans forward slightly, the movement careful, controlled. “Don’t,” he says, and the word is so gentle it almost hurts. “Not for them.”
Your throat tightens. No one has ever told you not to vanish.
Before you can answer, the door opens.
Light spills in. Laughter. A familiar voice, bright and sharp.
“There you are,” Seraphina says, stepping into the library as if she owns it. Her gaze darts to you, then to the duke, and her smile changes—becoming polished, predatory. “Oh.”
Behind her, your mother appears, like a storm finally finding the house it means to break.
You stand so fast the book nearly slips from your hands. “Mama—”
Your mother’s eyes lock on Bucky’s arm first, and you watch the reflexive flicker of distaste cross her face before she smothers it with forced courtesy.
“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a shallow curtsy that contains more calculation than respect. “I did not realize you would be… joining us in private.”
Bucky stands, too. Taller than you realized. Broader. His expression closes like a door.
“Lady Ashford,” he says evenly.
Seraphina fans herself, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary. I didn’t know you were acquainted.”
You open your mouth, but your mother speaks over you. “My daughter has a habit of wandering,” she says lightly, as though you are a child who strays from the nursemaid. “I was just reminding her of proper conduct.”
Bucky’s gaze shifts to you, and in it you see a question: Are you alright?
You nod, barely.
Your mother continues, oblivious to anything but appearances. “Of course, Miss Ashford is not… accustomed to such company. She spends most of her days with books rather than people.”
The insult is wrapped in silk, but it is still an insult. Your cheeks burn.
Bucky’s metal fingers flex once, the soft click of joints in the quiet room.
“She reads well,” he says, voice calm. “Better than most I’ve heard.”
Seraphina’s eyes narrow, quickly masked by delight. “How charming. I didn’t realize Your Grace enjoyed being read to.”
Bucky’s gaze is flat. “I enjoy honesty,” he answers.
Imogen’s voice drifts from the doorway now—she must have followed. “And what honesty is there in a girl hiding in a library?”
Your mother’s eyes flash. “Imogen.”
Imogen shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s true. She cannot even survive one ball without fleeing.”
You want to disappear. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.
But then Bucky looks at you again, and in that look is something steady—like a hand offered in the dark.
“She didn’t flee,” he says. His voice is still controlled, but there is iron beneath it. “She stepped away from the noise. There’s a difference.”
Your mother’s smile grows tighter. “A young lady’s duty is to be seen.”
Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “And a young lady is also a person.”
The room goes very still.
Your mother’s nostrils flare slightly, scandal barely held back. “Your Grace,” she says, warning threaded through the title, “I do not believe you understand—”
“I understand,” he interrupts quietly, and the quiet is worse than shouting. “I understand what it is to be treated as a thing rather than a human being.”
Your mother’s composure wavers for the first time. She recovers quickly, smoothing her skirts. “Come,” she says to you, voice clipped. “You will return to the ballroom.”
Your feet feel rooted.
Bucky’s gaze holds yours. He does not command you. He does not rescue you without permission.
But he stays.
So you take a breath you did not know you were capable of taking, and you nod at your mother.
“Of course,” you say, because it is not yet the moment to fight.
But as you pass Bucky, leaving the library, you feel something brush your hand.
Metal, cool and careful.
Not grasping. Not claiming.
Just… there.
A touch as light as a bookmark between pages.
Your breath catches.
His voice follows you, low enough that only you hear it. “Don’t disappear,” he murmurs. “Not entirely.”
You step back into the ballroom with your pulse racing like you’ve done something wildly improper—like you’ve done something dangerously brave.
After that night, the ton begins to talk in earnest.
They always talked about Bucky Barnes—about the tragedy of him, the horror and fascination, the rumors of how he lost his arm (a cannon, a blade, a French trap, a punishment). They talked about how he returned from war as if he carried winter in his bones.
But now, they talk about you too.
Because the Duke of Barnes calls.
He leaves his card at the Ashford residence the very next morning.
Your mother holds it between her fingers as if it might stain her. “This is highly irregular,” she says.
Cordelia watches you quietly, worry and wonder tangled in her gaze.
Your father clears his throat, uncomfortable. “He is… wealthy.”
Your mother’s mouth tightens. “And damaged.”
Your stomach twists. “Mama—”
“I will not have you throw yourself at a man simply because he paid you a moment of attention,” she snaps, and the words hit harder than they should, because some part of you fears she is right. “You are not suited to the role of duchess. You would embarrass us.”
You go cold all over. “He wasn’t— I didn’t—”
Seraphina’s smile is syrupy. “Perhaps he only called because he enjoys being pitied.”
Bile rises in your throat. “I don’t pity him.”
Imogen tilts her head. “Then what do you feel?”
You don’t answer, because you cannot. Not without exposing yourself.
Not without admitting that one quiet hour in a library made you feel seen in a way you have been craving your whole life.
Your mother presses the calling card to the table as though pinning down an insect. “You will not be alone with him,” she declares. “You will not encourage him.”
“And if he asks to dance with you again?” Daphne asks, bright-eyed.
Your mother’s gaze flicks to Daphne, then Seraphina, calculating. “If he wishes to court an Ashford, he may court properly.”
Seraphina straightens, hopeful.
Your mother glances at you, and the disappointment sharpens. “But it will not be you.”
The room goes silent.
Your father does not contradict her.
Your sisters do not protest.
Only Cordelia looks stricken, like she has just witnessed a cruelty she cannot yet name.
You swallow the hurt until it tastes like blood. “Of course,” you whisper.
You excuse yourself before anyone can see you crack.
You take refuge where you always do—in a book.
But now, every page feels haunted by the memory of a voice at your side, listening. Of eyes watching you as if you mattered.
Days pass. Then another calling card arrives. Then another.
He does not stop.
Your mother refuses him twice before she can no longer do so without causing commentary, and commentary is the only thing she fears more than scandal.
So Bucky Barnes is invited for tea.
Your mother arranges the drawing room like a battlefield.
Daphne and Seraphina sit poised like flowers. Imogen sits like a judge. Cordelia hovers close to you, a quiet anchor. Your mother sits at the center, spine rigid, smile sharp.
You sit where you are told.
And then he enters.
In daylight, he looks even more out of place in your world—dark clothes, severe lines, a presence that fills the room without trying. His metal arm is covered by his coat sleeve, but you can see the shape of it beneath the fabric.
Your mother rises, all polite stiffness. “Your Grace.”
He bows, controlled. “Lady Ashford. Miss Ashford.” His gaze flicks over your sisters—and then finds you, and settles like something warm on your skin. “Miss Ashford,” he says again, softer, as if the second time is for you alone.
Your breath catches.
Tea is poured. Questions are asked—the kind meant to assess rather than understand.
“How is your estate?” your mother asks, as though she might find rot beneath the wealth.
“Managed,” Bucky answers, polite, clipped.
“And your health?” Seraphina asks, voice sugared. “You must have suffered terribly.”
His gaze is flat. “I recovered.”
Imogen’s eyes narrow. “Can you dance with that arm?”
The room freezes.
Your cheeks flame. “Imogen—”
Bucky’s metal fingers tap once against his teacup saucer, a soft clink. His expression doesn’t change. “I can,” he says simply.
Daphne leans forward, eager. “And do you plan to marry, Your Grace?”
Your mother sends her a warning look that says: Let him speak when spoken to, but the question is already out, and your sisters watch with hungry curiosity.
Bucky’s gaze drifts, slow, to you.
“I plan,” he says carefully, “to marry someone who doesn’t look at me like a spectacle.”
Seraphina’s smile falters.
Your mother’s eyes sharpen. “And where might you find such a woman?”
Bucky’s eyes do not leave you. “I’ve already met her.”
The air goes thin.
Your heart stutters. Surely he cannot mean— Surely—
Your mother laughs, brittle. “Your Grace, you scarcely know my daughters.”
“I know enough,” he replies, and there is quiet authority in it. “I know which one listens instead of performs. I know which one doesn’t flinch at my arm. I know which one reads like she’s speaking the truth.”
Your mother’s face tightens. “Miss Ashford is not—”
“Not what?” he cuts in softly, and it is the softness that makes it dangerous. “Not charming enough? Not loud enough? Not a proper ornament for your ambitions?”
Your mother’s mouth opens, shocked.
Cordelia’s hand finds yours under the cushion. She squeezes, hard.
You stare at Bucky, stunned. No man has ever spoken on your behalf. No one has ever put words to what you endure.
And yet terror coils in your stomach too, because his honesty could ruin you.
Your mother straightens, forcing control back into her spine. “Your Grace,” she says coldly, “you are not welcome to make sport of my family.”
“I’m not making sport,” he says. “I’m asking permission to court her.”
The word her lands like thunder.
Your sisters stare.
Seraphina’s cheeks flush with fury. Daphne looks bewildered. Imogen looks offended, as though he has insulted the entire concept of taste.
Your mother turns her gaze to you.
It is the same gaze that has weighed you and found you lacking all your life, but now it holds something new: fear. Fear that you might step out of your place.
“You will not,” she says quietly, as if she can command your choice by sheer will.
Bucky’s eyes are on you again, steady. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t pressure.
He waits.
For the first time in your life, a room full of people is waiting to see what you will do.
Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds.
You think of the library—of quiet, of warmth, of being spoken to like you are not a disappointment.
You think of your mother’s words: You would embarrass us.
And then you realize something terrifying.
Perhaps you are done trying not to.
You swallow. “I would like,” you say, voice shaking but real, “to be courted.”
Your mother’s breath hitches, a sound like outrage.
Bucky’s expression softens—not into triumph, but into something that looks like relief.
“As you wish,” he murmurs.
Courting Bucky Barnes is not like courting any other gentleman.
He does not bombard you with flattery. He does not bring you bouquets that smell like a stranger’s effort. He does not linger too close, smile too wide, speak too loudly.
He brings you books.
The first time he arrives with one, your mother nearly chokes on her own indignation.
“A gift already,” she snaps. “Your Grace, this is—”
“A book,” he says, calm. “Not a diamond.”
“It is still an impropriety.”
He glances at you, eyes quiet. “Does she think it is?”
Your mother’s gaze darts to you, warning.
You take the book with careful hands, as if it is precious. “No,” you say softly. “I think it is… thoughtful.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Good.”
He visits, properly chaperoned, though he treats your mother’s hovering like bad weather—present, irritating, not something worth surrendering to. Sometimes the chaperone is Arabella when she can manage it, her presence a small mercy. Sometimes it is Cordelia, who tags along like a determined little guardian, refusing to let your mother poison every moment.
Bucky speaks to you as if the room is not full of observers.
He asks what you like. What you think. What makes you laugh when no one is watching. He listens when you answer, even when your voice is quiet.
At first, you don’t know how to do it—how to exist without shrinking. You catch yourself softening your opinions, hiding your enthusiasm, stopping sentences before they become too much.
And every time you do, he notices.
“You don’t have to edit yourself for me,” he says one afternoon, when you pause mid-thought about a novel’s heroine.
Your cheeks heat. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he says gently. “I know that look. It’s the same one I wore when people asked me what the war was like and expected me to say something that made them feel brave for listening.”
You swallow. “What was it like?” you ask quietly.
His gaze drops to his tea. “Loud,” he says after a moment. “And cold. And… lonely, even with men beside you.”
Your chest tightens. “And now?”
He lifts his eyes. “Now it’s loud in a different way. People stare and whisper and decide what I am without asking.”
You shift, then, without thinking, you let your fingers brush the cuff of his sleeve where the metal begins beneath. Not grasping. Not claiming. Just touching the fabric, a question.
He goes very still.
Then, slowly, carefully, he moves his arm so the metal hand rests on the table between you.
The room is quiet. Even your mother, across the way, has paused—watching with something like horrified fascination.
Bucky’s eyes stay on yours. “You can,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”
Your breath catches.
You reach out.
Your fingertips meet cool steel.
It is not monstrous. It is not obscene. It is simply… part of him. And in the precision of its design, the careful way it responds when he flexes his fingers beneath your touch, you see something you didn’t expect.
Survival.
A body refusing to be ended.
A man refusing to be reduced to what he lost.
You don’t know why tears prick your eyes. You blink them back quickly, embarrassed.
Bucky’s gaze softens. “Hey,” he murmurs, as if the word is a comfort. “Don’t cry for me.”
“I’m not,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m… angry for you.”
His throat works as he swallows. “No one’s ever been angry for me,” he admits, so quietly it feels like a secret.
Your fingers curl slightly around his metal ones—not tight, not possessive, just steady.
“I am,” you say. “And I think… I think you deserve better than their whispers.”
His eyes go bright for a moment, and you realize he is fighting something too—something sharp and painful and hopeful.
“So do you,” he says.
It is not the ton that tries to tear you apart first.
It is your family.
It begins with little cruelties. Imogen “accidentally” misplaces your gloves before an outing. Seraphina makes comments about your “strange taste” in men. Daphne, though less malicious, sighs and says, “But imagine the gowns you could have if you married someone… normal.”
Your mother grows colder by the day. She critiques your appearance like she is searching for flaws to justify her disapproval.
“Your hair is too plain.”
“Your laugh is too quiet.”
“Do not look at him like that. You’ll encourage him.”
One night, after Bucky leaves, your mother corners you in the corridor.
“You think this is romance,” she says, voice harsh. “You think you’ve found some poetic tragedy to live in. But men like that do not make good husbands.”
“Men like what?” you ask, quiet but steady.
“Broken men,” she spits.
Your chest aches. “He isn’t broken.”
“He is,” she insists, and her eyes flash with something ugly. “And he will break you too.”
You stare at her in the dim hallway, the candlelight making her face look older, harder. “You don’t know him,” you say.
“And you do?” she scoffs. “Because he listened to you read a book? Because he made you feel special for once?” Her voice sharpens. “You are vulnerable, and he sees it.”
Your throat tightens. “He sees me,” you correct, and your voice shakes on the truth. “No one else bothers.”
For a heartbeat, your mother looks struck—as if you’ve slapped her without touching her.
Then her face closes. “You are my daughter,” she says, as if it is ownership. “And you will not disgrace this family.”
You feel the familiar pull—the urge to shrink, to apologize, to become the obedient shadow again.
But the memory of Bucky’s steady gaze, his gentle don’t disappear, holds you upright.
“I’m not trying to disgrace you,” you say softly. “I’m trying to live.”
Her eyes narrow. “Then live quietly. Live properly.”
You swallow. “I have done that my entire life,” you whisper. “And it has never been enough for you.”
She inhales sharply, as though she might retort.
But footsteps echo from the entry hall—Bucky returning, perhaps forgotten something, or Arabella calling for you.
Your mother’s face hardens. “We will speak of this again.”
And she leaves you standing in the corridor, shaking.
The next ball you attend is not yours.
It is Seraphina’s—a smaller gathering, hosted by a friend who has a ballroom and a mother with ambitions just as sharp as Lady Ashford’s. Your mother insists you go, insisting that if Bucky intends to court you, he must show the ton he can tolerate society.
“He must prove himself,” she says, and you know she means: He must prove he is worth the risk of having you attached to him.
Bucky arrives late.
When he enters, the room shifts. Conversations stutter. Eyes turn. Whispers bloom like rot.
You stand near a wall with Cordelia, who clings to your hand as if she can feel the danger.
“There he is,” Cordelia whispers.
You look.
Bucky’s gaze finds you immediately, steady as ever. He crosses the room with controlled steps, ignoring the way people part like he is dangerous water.
When he reaches you, he bows. “Miss Ashford.”
Your mother appears at your shoulder like a hawk. “Your Grace.”
He doesn’t flinch at her chill. His attention returns to you. “Would you grant me this dance?”
A hush seems to fall around you—not because people are polite, but because they are eager to witness either romance or disaster.
Your mother’s fingers dig into your arm. “You must consider—”
“I have,” you say, and you step forward.
Bucky’s metal hand extends, palm up, not as a command but as an invitation.
You place your gloved hand in it.
His grip is careful, steady, warm through fabric despite the steel.
He leads you to the floor, and as you take your position, you feel the ton’s gaze like needles.
The music begins.
Bucky moves with surprising grace. The metal arm does not hinder him; it simply exists, as natural to him as breathing. His other hand rests at your back, firm but gentle, guiding you through the steps.
“You alright?” he murmurs, close enough that only you hear.
You swallow. “They’re staring.”
“I know,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
You do.
And the ballroom blurs.
Because his eyes are on you like you are not a spectacle, not a scandal, not a disappointment—just a person worth holding.
“Good,” he murmurs, as if praising bravery you don’t feel.
Halfway through the dance, you hear it—a sharp, cruel whisper from the edge of the floor.
“She must be desperate.”
Another: “No one else would have her.”
Your chest tightens. Your steps falter.
Bucky’s hold steadies you instantly, his hand at your back firming. “Hey,” he murmurs.
You blink rapidly, fighting tears. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, humiliated. “I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, and there is steel beneath the gentleness now. “Not for existing.”
You swallow hard. “They’re right,” you whisper, the old poison rising. “No one else would—”
His eyes sharpen, and for the first time you see anger in him—not wild, not violent. Controlled, purposeful.
“They’re not right,” he says quietly. “And if you ever repeat their cruelty to yourself again, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life proving you wrong.”
Your breath catches. “The rest of your—”
His gaze holds yours. “If you’ll let me.”
The music swells, and you realize the room has quieted again—not because of the dance, but because Bucky Barnes has tilted his head toward you as if speaking something intimate.
Your mother is watching from the sidelines, pale with fury.
Seraphina’s lips are pressed into a thin line.
Imogen looks disgusted.
Daphne looks conflicted.
Cordelia looks like she might burst into tears from sheer hope.
And you—
You feel like you are standing at the edge of a cliff you’ve been afraid to approach your whole life.
Bucky finishes the dance and does not let go of your hand when the music ends.
Instead, he turns to face the room.
The ton leans in, hungry.
He bows to you first, respectful.
Then he turns his gaze—cold, calm—toward your mother.
“Lady Ashford,” he says, voice carrying just enough. “May I speak with you.”
Your mother’s smile is rigid. “Now?”
“Now,” he says.
Whispers erupt.
He doesn’t wait for her to approve. He leads her—not by force, but by presence—toward a quieter corner, where Arabella has drifted close as a shield, and where your father hovers, uncomfortable but attentive.
You stand with Cordelia, your heart hammering, watching as Bucky speaks with your parents like a man who has decided he will no longer be treated as entertainment.
You cannot hear every word, but you see your mother’s expression change—anger, outrage, then something like calculation as she realizes the room is watching her now.
You see your father’s shoulders sag as if relieved someone else is bearing the weight of decision.
Then Bucky turns.
He walks back to you, the ballroom parting again, but this time the parting feels like acknowledgment rather than avoidance.
He stops in front of you.
“You told me once,” he says quietly, “that people talk no matter where you stand.”
Your throat tightens. “Yes.”
He nods. “Then stand with me.”
The simplicity of it steals your breath.
He turns, facing your parents, facing the room, facing the world that has tried to shape you into silence.
And then, in the most proper voice he can manage while still being utterly himself, he says:
“I intend to marry Miss Ashford, if she will have me.”
The room erupts.
Your mother makes a sound—half gasp, half protest.
Seraphina’s face goes red.
Imogen looks as if she might faint from outrage.
Daphne’s mouth falls open.
Cordelia clutches your hand so hard it hurts.
Arabella’s eyes shine with something like pride.
Bucky turns back to you, and suddenly none of the noise matters, because he is looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the world.
He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t claim. He asks—with his eyes, with his steady presence, with the gentleness in his voice.
“Will you?” he murmurs.
Your throat feels tight enough to choke you.
You think of your mother’s disappointment, your father’s silence, your sisters’ cruelty.
You think of the library, the lamp glow, the way Bucky listened like your words mattered.
You think of the metal hand that held yours like it was precious.
And you realize, with a clarity that makes you almost dizzy, that love is not loud.
Love is not a performance.
Love is someone seeing you in the quiet and choosing you anyway.
You take a breath.
Then you step forward.
“Yes,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “I will.”
Bucky’s eyes close for a brief second, as if the relief is too much to hold. When he opens them, they shine.
He bows over your hand—not for the room, not for propriety, but as if he is honoring you.
When his lips touch your knuckles through your glove, it feels like a promise sealed in warmth.
The engagement is a storm.
Your mother attempts to salvage control by insisting on conditions: timelines, announcements, guest lists. She speaks about scandal as though it is a living thing stalking your family.
Bucky listens, polite, unmoved.
He gives her the respect due to her position, and none of the power she thinks she holds.
Your sisters fluctuate between outrage and fascination. Seraphina makes pointed remarks about your “luck,” as if love is a lottery you cheated to win. Imogen predicts misery with the satisfaction of someone who wants to be right more than she wants you happy. Daphne, after one private conversation where she cannot quite meet your eyes, murmurs, “I didn’t know you could be… chosen,” and you realize she never believed you could be either.
Only Cordelia is unabashedly delighted. She slips into your room at night and whispers, “He looks at you like you’re his whole world,” as if that is the greatest magic she has ever seen.
And Arabella—Arabella pulls you aside a week before the wedding and presses your hands between hers.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
Your throat tightens. “For what?”
“For not noticing sooner,” she admits, eyes glossy. “For letting Mama and the others make you feel small.” She swallows. “I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t see what it cost you.”
You blink, stunned. “Arabella…”
She shakes her head. “He sees you,” she says, and the words are soft, aching. “And I’m glad. I’m glad you found someone who does.”
You hug her, careful, and she clings back as if she’s been holding guilt for years.
On your wedding day, the world is still loud.
There are guests and whispers and eyes that try to measure you.
But when you stand at the front of the church and Bucky turns to face you, the noise recedes.
He looks nervous, you realize. Not about the ton, not about judgment.
About you.
About doing this right.
As if marrying you is something sacred, something he cannot afford to mishandle.
His metal hand trembles slightly when he reaches for yours.
You take it anyway.
You do not flinch.
You do not hide.
And when the vows are spoken, when you say I do, it feels less like stepping into a role and more like stepping into yourself.
Later, when the reception swirls with music and conversation, you find a moment of escape—not into a library this time, but into a quiet side room with a window cracked open to cool air.
Bucky follows you, as if drawn by instinct.
He closes the door behind him gently, then leans against it like he’s guarding you from the world.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You smile, small. “I should be asking you that.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”
You drift toward him. Close enough to see the faint scars along his jaw, the lines of weariness that have nothing to do with age and everything to do with memory.
“You look…” You search for the word.
He tilts his head. “Like what?”
“Like you can breathe,” you whisper.
His gaze softens. “Yeah,” he admits. “Because you’re here.”
Your chest tightens with something sweet and painful.
You lift your hand, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needs.
He doesn’t.
Your fingers brush his cheek, and his eyes close briefly at the touch, like it’s a kindness he still doesn’t fully trust.
“You know,” you whisper, “they’ll still talk.”
He opens his eyes, looking at you like you are a truth he chose on purpose. “Let them,” he says, voice steady. “They can spend their lives whispering. We’ll spend ours living.”
You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “I don’t know how to be… loud.”
His mouth tilts, gentle. “Then don’t be.” He lifts his metal hand, slow, careful, and cups the side of your face with it—cool at first, then warming where it meets your skin. “I didn’t fall in love with loud.”
Your breath catches. “You—”
“I did,” he says simply, as if it is not a confession but a fact. “In that library, when you read like you weren’t afraid to exist. I’ve been done for ever since.”
A laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. “That’s not how courtship works.”
“It is for me,” he murmurs.
He leans in, giving you every chance to turn away.
You don’t.
His kiss is gentle. Not hungry, not demanding. Just warm and sure, like a hand finding yours in the dark. Like a promise kept in quiet.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.
“You don’t have to disappear anymore,” he whispers.
You close your eyes, breathing him in—the scent of clean linen and winter air and something steady.
“I won’t,” you promise, and for the first time in your life, the promise feels possible.
Outside the door, the world still spins with music and gossip and expectation.
But here, in the small quiet, you are not an odd one out.
You are chosen.
And in Bucky Barnes’s careful hands, you find a love that does not ask you to be anything but yourself.
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WINTER'S TOUCH
the winter soldier x female!reader [14.9k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: MDNI; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); pre-established relationship; angst; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) very brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s beefy and tall); caregiving dynamics (no ageplay; reader takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; emotional vulnerability & intimacy.
A/N: this is such an important story for me and I’m really glad it got so much love and support when it was first posted on my other blog. there are some changes, because I realized some parts didn't really fit the situation. at the very end you'll find a brief explanation about why I removed the smut part. I know it "sells" more than angst/fluff, but I hope you’ll enjoy the story anyway 💛
His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.
This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different—and definitely purer—reason.
You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.
The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.
The echo of gunfire. An agonizing cry. The sharp, electric snap of orders obeyed too fast.
He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.
The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.
He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.
They never do.
He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. He didn’t know it was possible for something so human to exist, completely different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.
One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale measured and unafraid.
Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.
Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a trembling hand hesitantly reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.
Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes his chest tighten, yet the sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into your world.
Then, your eyes open.
You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.
“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.
He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… woke you.”
You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his cold wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”
That’s enough—being here.
You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.
“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he rigidly stands where he is.
“Winter.” You call out gently.
He shakes his head. “Dirty.”
You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.”
You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your laptop. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”
That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.
“Or… you can come with me?” He gives you a sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.
In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, but he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment, nor mind.
Standing amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat, makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.
“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”
The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now—small, like he’s holding something intense back.
You keep moving, deliberately slow, as you retrieve towels and test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him.
They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.
Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze.
“Do you want my help to undress?”
His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.
“Yes. Just… don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.
“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.
“Yes, please.”
It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt, your hands stopping short as you feel the weight of his head settle, now caressing his back instead.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You don’t seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”
You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.
Unknowingly to you, a faint blush spreads on his cheeks as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the mysterious Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra. A ghost. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.
It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not sting anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.
He knows the sight makes you sad by the way the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadistic bastards. He hates himself for being the reason of your sadness, but there’s nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.
Another way he keeps failing you.
His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and his ears turn scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well—he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.
With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; abruptly turning around, his eyes frantically fly left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.
“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.
“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, immediately complying. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be a song by your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago... he wouldn’t know. Music is a strange concept to him.
You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… there, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.
The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. It allows him to bring a part of you with him when he is forced to go back there.
“Smells good.”
It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions.
Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and almond shampoo?”
“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, the corners of his mouth twitching at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.
“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning.
Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.
Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.
Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them. To him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.
Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.
Just… to be cleaned.
When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.
“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?
“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”
You tilt your head, slightly confused.
“I want... to do it.”
“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.
That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.
“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. It’s adorable how he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.
When you are ready, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.
Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. With eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he cleans all around. You stay quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.
He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking.
“Okay?” He asks quietly.
You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”
So he does. He kneels, the tiles hard on his skin but he barely registers the dull ache. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons—thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath.
The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you as if he has all the time in the world. There’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch confident yet tender enough to never startle, cleaning each toe in the same systematic way he did with your fingers. His eyebrows twitch in sincere concentration, every motion conveying something akin to reverence.
At last, he rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.
When Winter’s finished, he stays where he is, water still dripping from his hair and blue eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks.
The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.
Hope that he’s done well.
Hope that this, at least, was done right.
You meet his gaze with a soft smile. “You did a perfect job.”
You notice the moment your words settle into him, seeping into his bones and reaching the most visceral part of his soul. On the outside, he simply nods, accepting the praise the only way he knows how: silently, but at least the tension he’s been holding loosens its final grip on his shoulders. As a matter of fact, he rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.
“You are clean too.” He utters, quietly proud.
“Thank you.” You smile.
Once you’re out, your hand reaches for his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.
You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.
“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.
You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you simply nod with a knot lodging itself in your throat.
“Alright.”
He dries you the same way he washed you, tenderly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing, bought specifically for him after the first time you met.
His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.
Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.
“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.
You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering on his broad chest just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.
“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that was chosen, not assigned.
He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.
“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.
You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help?”
“With clothes.”
Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. So the fresh pair of pajamas you picked is gently pried from your hands, before he bends down. He holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.
This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate: he follows easily, allowing you to decide where he should sit.
Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, but like setting it down somewhere safe. He is stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.
You kneel on the mattress in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.
For a moment, he’s here.
Then the stillness stretches.
The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.
His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.
“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”
Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He flinches just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.
“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”
You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers instantly fidget with it, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.
“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me, you are safe. Can you tell me five things you see?”
His mouth opens, then closes.
“… Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The—” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”
“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”
He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… your voice.”
You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”
“Shampoo, and… soup.”
“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”
“I—water… from shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”
“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are, good job.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.
His breath catches. Then quieter, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go, “Winter.”
The way it rolls on your tongue like silk sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all.
Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.
Just Winter.
Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Blood crusted into his hair, fingers numb from the snow, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him—remembers the blank space where his name should have been.
“Then, I’ll call you Winter.” You stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it’s been plunged under water anymore.
“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”
Means he is here with you: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.
The hand caressing his locks stills.
“I know.”
After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside.
“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”
“Of course.”
He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.
When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.
“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.
“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down, cheeks flushed. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into a bad memory.
He glances at it, then at you.
“You know… I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum, by morning.”
“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.
His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “… A bit.”
“Then we can take care of them so they don’t.” You add, softer now.
He looks taken aback for a moment, surprised at how simple you make everything sound. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.
You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.
“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”
He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.
“You’re doing great.” You whisper. “How are you feeling?”
He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… here.” He says finally.
Your expression softens. “Good.”
Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, or reach for something new, your voice narrates.
“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”
“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”
“I’m almost done.”
The predictability steadies him, causing the rigid line of his spine to soften, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, and it’s enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again—an old reflex—so you pause immediately.
“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing shakily. “Yes.”
You unhurriedly wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist eventually goes lax. By the time you finish, he’s slightly leaning forward, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that his body feels safe enough.
Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.
He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut.
“Yes. But…” His fingers clutch the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.
“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”
You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.
“Alright, let’s go slow, one foot at a time.” You keep mumbling, his steps sluggish and heavy.
The light in the kitchen is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.
“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”
You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You expertly spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back, staring at your hands with half-lidded eyes.
The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you try not to shiver, instead focusing on adding the cheese, then placing the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.
Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.
When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.
“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat.” He agrees silently.
After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.
Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.
Food is… complicated.
Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming... something to manage carefully.
That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.
Things he knows and trusts by now.
Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the rich taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.
You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.
“Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.
“Hot.” He mutters.
“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”
Halfway through, he slows.
The spoon lowers, his gaze drifts to the plate, then somewhere far away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.
“We can wait.”
A few seconds pass, then a full minute. Winter shifts, all breath shallow and pink cheeks. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.
“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.
“Can you… ?” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, it’s not the first time he has asked you to feed him.
You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course, baby.”
Scooping a modest bite, you wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.
His lips part, trusting your timing. He swallows, exhales, nods faintly. And you watch him proudly, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.
“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”
When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter hastily wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you set everything back on the tray.
“Can I ask you something?” Leaning back, your turn your palm up so it rests on your thigh. An offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.
“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders—the left one.”
He tries to shake his head. It’s the instinctive denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He answers a little too quickly.
You never argue, yet you don’t look totally convinced.
“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”
Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars—the way his entire body had locked, every instinct screaming at him to pull away, to fight, and how he had forced himself to stay anyway, breath shallow, heart pounding like he was standing in the middle of a battlefield instead of your quiet room. The memory presses in now, not painful, but almost disorienting in its intensity, because nothing had happened, there was only your hands, warm and mindful.
“… Okay.” He agrees quietly.
The corners of your mouth lift relieved, and your hands promptly reach into the drawer beside the couch for a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.
“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. Meanwhile, you pour the liquid in your hands to warm it up. He watches the motion, the sweet intention behind it.
“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”
He nods, shoulders raising and lowing deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.
The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.
“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”
Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.
“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”
Your palms settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as distress begins to give way.
When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. The marks are still flushed beneath your hands, the skin uneven and textured, a map of something that was never meant to heal cleanly. You slow even further, letting your movements grow lighter, more deliberate, using only the soft pads of your fingers as you begin to trace along the edges.
“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”
You keep your touch predictable, circling carefully, letting him feel exactly where you are at all times, the warmth sinking deeper rather than forcing it. The muscle beneath your hands is still tight, but no longer braced for impact, and when you finally move closer, it’s with the same patience, the same quiet assurance. He shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.
At that point you lean forward and press a soft kiss on one of the scars where skin meets something unyielding—brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.
The next inhale is sharp, hands curling in his lap.
“Okay?” You ask immediately.
“Yes…” he breathes. “Again. Please.”
You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with small kisses, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. Your lips are featherlight at first, it almost feels unreal, like they might vanish if either of you breathes too hard. You let them rest on his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, sealing the place with care rather than trying to erase what it holds. For once, the metal is simply acknowledged, included. Treated with the same love as the rest of him.
You learned where to touch by trial and error—where his body locked, where it flinched. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.
He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first. When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him abruptly, and his body reacts before his mind can catch on.
His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire while shoulders square as if bracing for brutality. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks—a wordless signal that something else is about to begin.
He hates that his body betrays him even here.
But nothing happens.
No command, no pain, no hands forcing him down.
Instead, he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing his nape. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.
Winter lets out a strong gasp that almost hurts his throat.
For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands on the skull mean restraint, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, sliding gently through the strands.
The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions underneath him, his head tipped forward just enough to give you better access.
Permission, offered without words.
Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose—basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his efficiency. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about—the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you touch it with your usual tenderness, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be cut away, reshaped, erased.
Your fingers linger with unhurried patience, treating each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool of camouflage, an accident of neglect. With you, it’s just something worth loving.
“Today was… kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to bother him.
Your fingers separate a section of hair.
“Mh.”
“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”
You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.
“That… happen often?” He asks quietly.
“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”
Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic to the point his eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to the pleasant tingling sensation at the back of his head.
“Do you remember that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how emails work? Today he spilled coffee everywhere: papers, desk, his shoes... He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor, it was the first time he said more than one sentence.”
Winter breathes out, something akin to amusement. “Poor papers.”
“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him clean it up but he stomped around, shrieking that he could do it himself.”
He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.
“And then the elevator here got stuck. Again.” You sigh. “Well—not really stuck. It just stopped for a minute, but you know I get anxious in small spaces.”
He nods slightly. “I hear weird metal sounds,” he says. “Now.”
You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”
Your fingers let the braid unravel and start again, patient.
“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful sundress in the window, but the color… eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”
“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.
“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that shade of yellow. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”
His mouth twitches. “You… think a lot.”
“Too much.” You agree with a dejected sigh.
You then gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, causing him to exhale, long and slow. The line of his throat lengthens as his head unconsciously tips back, until he accidentally meets the solid warmth of your shoulder. The knot inside his stomach finally loosens, body going lax, trusting that you will support the weight.
When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, combing through the locks.
He could easily fall asleep like this.
The thought never fails to surprise him, because the idea of falling asleep without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it tiptoes at the edges,
A gift.
He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their moviments. Always checking, always attentive.
“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” Your voice is nothing short of a whisper.
“Better now.” He murmurs.
“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”
Your breath tickles his cheek when you sigh.
“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.
His answer is swift. “It is. For me.”
Your hands still in his hair without meaning to, caught mid-motion as the weight of his words settles somewhere low in your chest.
There’s no hesitation in his voice. He means it exactly as it is, and that kind of blunt sincerity hits deeper than you’re prepared for. Your heart doesn’t quite know how to contain it. The idea that your voice, your ordinary life, your presence alone can anchor him like this, can matter this much to someone, feels like a hand squeezing your lungs.
This man, shaped by a life that has taken and taken until there was barely anything left for himself, is offering you four words so simple and yet so impossibly devastating. There’s something unbearably precious in him, in the way he gives without realizing the importance of what he’s placing in your hands. He doesn’t see how his quiet affection unravels you each time, slipping past every defense you have built throughout the years spent here in this big city, alone and far from your family.
He just sits there, unaware, trusting, letting you hold him while you’re the one coming undone.
As soon as you feel the familiar sting behind your eyes, you draw in a slow, entirely too shaky breath, forcing your fingers to move again.
Before you speak, you have to clear your throat.
“Then I’ll keep talking.”
You shift behind him. It’s a small movement, just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but he reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.
His eyes snap open.
The world sharpens instantly, his heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. His hand shoots back, fingers curling into fabric and gripping your sweater at the hem until his knuckles turn white.
“Don’t—”
The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.
You freeze.
“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, tender and grounding. “I just wanted to get your shirt and the blanket.”
Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.
“Sorry.” He mutters.
You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.
When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then you pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.
The blanket faintly smells of your detergent, the scent keeping the edges of him from drifting apart as he grips it reflexively.
You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.
He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest on his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.
But then he feels it.
The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Calm. Steady.
Your breathing.
And beneath that, fainter but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.
Alive.
The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath… The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.
Winter inevitably presses closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own beat gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your breathing.
Meanwhile, you pick the remote and turn on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.
It’s the show you introduced him to months ago—something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast and cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.
It’s safe noise.
“This one… good?”
“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”
He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they bickered at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That’s what friends do, apparently.
“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as one of the protagonists keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.
Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “You care. Is good.”
You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice way to put it.”
You go quiet for a moment, then continue, pensively. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven’t finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.
“They ruined it.” You whine dramatically. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”
Winter exhales through his nose, close to a laugh. “A crime.”
You chuckle at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show, as your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.
Eventually, you speak again.
“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”
He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”
“That’s the goal.”
He gathers enough courage to add. “You… make it better. Eating.”
Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”
The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrowing again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the pressure of the blanket holding him together.
This... This is what matters.
Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.
He can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still here with you, safe.
His eyes flutter shut without he meaning to, sleep pulling at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the tension has been sanded down by love and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, still, his mind can’t quite settle yet.
The sigh escaping his nostrils is small but purposeful.
“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” Another nod, suddenly more awake.
You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion and his movements lethargic. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.
Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your body registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with unsurprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.
When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where one of the protagonists worries about menopause.
The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.
He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.
Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.
He pauses, considering, then adds.
Did not hurt stomach.
His handwriting is uneven, but each letter is formed with intent, pressed harder than necessary, as if afraid it might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.
Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.
Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose. She wears it when too cold.
His grip tightens slightly on the pen. Flipping back a few pages, his eyes scan what he’s written on previous nights, focusing on continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it’s forgetting you.
They notice it before he can do something about it.
A second too slow to pull the trigger, the way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention.
Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.
They restrain him in a room that smells like metal and disinfectant, rough hands pull and prod at his skin, clipped and impersonal voices talk about him like an object.
He fights them harder than he ever has before. To remember.
He snarls, limbs thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.
Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your palms stroking his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees by gloved fingers.
He can’t lose that.
He can’t lose you.
“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please—I can’t—”
They don’t listen.
He twists free for half a second—enough to stumble back, enough for a spark of hope to deceptively ignite in his chest—and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced on the looming chair, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest, and a mouth guard forced between his teeth.
Panic explodes.
He screams.
Your name flicks over and over again in his mind, and he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it can’t be burned away.
The warmth. The quiet. The way your eyes light up when he finally comes home.
He begs fiercely for those moments to stay.
Then the world goes black.
A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and foggy fragments. His head feels hollow, like a forgotten room after furniture has been stripped out.
When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the static noise in his brain fades and the city falls asleep… His feet take him somewhere else.
The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.
His head hurts.
Then, the door opens.
You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you finds the courage to move.
Something is wrong. He could see it flash in your expression—shock, something like grief—and it makes his chest hurt inexplicably.
“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… here.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your vision instantly blurs with tears, because his blue eyes are so... empty, yet he came here. Not by memory. Not by choice. Not in any way that makes sense, but something buried deeper than whatever they took from him still found you.
Crossing the room with measured steps, as if approaching a scared animal, you stop just short of touching him, like you are afraid he might vanish with a single brush of your fingertips.
“Winter.” You whisper.
A flicker, small and disoriented, passes through his expression, like a crack forming beneath the surface. His breathing stutters, just once, and for a second he looks like he’s caught between two places, two versions of himself that don’t quite align.
Then his gaze slips away from you. It drifts unfocused, like he’s trying to escape the weight of the moment, until it catches on something sitting on the coffee table. A notebook, plain and worn, nothing extraordinary, but the sight brings a frown to his face.
Why does that object suddenly feel important enough to be acknowledged?
“That.”
Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at.
“You—” Stopping yourself when your voice breaks, you take a moment to swallow back a sob and clear your throat. “You wrote it for—for moments like this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”
You carefully place it in his hands.
Inside, there are endless pages of his own messy handwriting.
She keeps me safe.
Not a weapon here.
I love her.
The words land one by one, heavy... devastating.
He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might keep his body from crumbling.
Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.
Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just his ordinary state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.
The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. The chair and the restraints are almost manageable. What haunts him the most is the look on your face when you realized Winter was gone.
He remembers the fear, that’s what stays with him.
After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. From the smell of your hair to the cadence of your soft laugh so you don’t wake your neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him.
He also starts writing more.
The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages, dates, details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.
Drinks her tea too hot.
Bounces her right knee when nervous.
He knows writing won’t save him, but the thought of waking up without any memory of you terrifies him more than pain ever has.
The fear also changes how he touches you. His fingers linger longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hands rest on your waist a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep.
He never confesses that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest could vanish, leaving nothing but orders.
He also becomes more careful with routine.
If he misses a visit, panic coils hot in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he frantically asks you where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals—a different kind of food, a different chair—he stiffens before he can stop himself.
So you learn to reassure him in new ways.
“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it together. I promise.”
The desperate urge to believe you is there, but his heart won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.
He is still here.
You are still here.
And for now, that has to be enough.
It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the exact moment he steps inside.
Your mug is wrong.
For starters, it’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. It’s also a different one—slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sole sight makes something inside his stomach churn.
You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.”
You weren’t expecting two visits in two days, not that you’re complaining.
Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh! The blue one is still in the dishwasher.”
His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.
“Okay.” He rushes out. “Okay.”
He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.
Your smile fades into a thin line.
Setting the dishcloth down, you call softly. “Winter, can you sit here for a second?” He hesitates.
“Please.” Your eyes are not as sparkly as usual, and that’s what makes him move, perching himself on the edge of his chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the plates of his metal arm hum faintly.
His eyes stubbornly fix on the floor as you open the dishwasher, pick the right mug, still wet and hot, and set it in front of him. A quiet exhale escapes him before he can stop himself.
“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.
“You panicked.” Not accusing, just stating a fact.
Winter shakes his head. “No. Just—the mug… not here.”
“There was a different mug. It was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”
His jaw tightens, still not looking at you. So you reach out, your hand resting over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”
Winter swallows.
“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”
Your breath catches.
“Didn’t know…” He quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters, but his lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I can’t forget this, I can’t forget you.”
Your other hand tentatively comes up to cradle his cheek, soft but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distress, almost close to bursting into tears.
“Baby,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”
He shakes his head, breath coming out dangerously fast. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out like a waterfall. “What if I walk here but don’t stop and—and don’t see you again?”
You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. His body stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once, tears already wetting your collarbones.
“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces, but they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”
“I’m scared.” He chokes on a sob, barely audible.
“I know, sweetheart. I am too.” You chin wobbles. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”
You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush his stubble. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue with a sniffle. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”
Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.
“But you need to tell me when it gets bad, my love.” You add. “You can’t just carry it alone.”
He nods, a small, shy movement. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
You rest your forehead against his, his body still trembling under your palms. Gradually, his shoulders lower, the panic ebbing vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow against the warmth of your chest.
That day, the Soldier learns that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.
On the bookshelf nearby, something colorful catches his peripheral vision. A photograph. His eyes squint faintly, not remembering having ever written about it. Walking with military precision, he retrieves it to study it under the low light. You look younger, standing with a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.
Graduation.
He sits back on the couch.
Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.
He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Still, he frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.
Watched show. Cheesecake episode is my favorite.
Winter finally closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment his palm rests flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and secured.
He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”
It’s never shaped as a command, yet you nod and stay on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal protectively pressed against your chest as your gaze follows him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately: spine straightening, eyes narrowing and breath recalibrating.
This is another version of him. Not the one who blushes when you call him sweetheart, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.
He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room comes first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice... because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.
The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.
That’s when he stops to listen. The building has a specific rhythm at night, he learned it in his second month here, the same way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours. The distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.
Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.
The windows come next. He just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.
Good.
There are things you don’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong, too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The suspicious absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.
Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and metal laid instinctively in the path of danger.
Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, when sleep turns against him and memories surface uninvited, too vivid and sharp. His body reacts accordingly, with a hand curling at his side as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.
You know the signs, and you talk him back every time, unfailingly.
Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades as your voice tenderly tells him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it. That here, he doesn’t have to worry about loud voices and aggressive hands. That you love him.
You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that, yet his eyes wet at your refusal to let him carry everything alone, at the way you fiercely fight to give him some respite.
It still takes him everything to not pull you back.
Winter’s not only good at spotting things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump because your lower back hurts, your hands faintly shaking when you’re anxious. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment—he just intervenes. Gently guides you to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you observe him with half-lidded eyes, beaming as he lines the edges up with meticulous precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. You can handle it, yes, but he wants your world intact, even in small ways.
He never tells you everything and because of that, his stomach often twists with guilt.
You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. His answers tiptoe around the truth, the sharp edges trimmed to not worry you more than he has already done. He leaves out the blood, the parts that would keep you awake at night, and when memories surface, too dark to contain, he removes himself, stepping away so the weight of them won’t taint your peace.
When you apologize with a small voice and unshed tears for constantly worrying about him, he shakes his head, strong arms already cocooning you in his warmth.
Winter also keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.
He teaches you safety in pieces small enough to not frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there, a careful demonstration of how to free yourself from unwelcome hands.
“Always look peephole first. Even if you wait for someone.”
“Leave lights on when not home too.”
“Don’t say you live alone.”
If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.
“Too crowded.”
“Only one emergency exit.”
And you prepare accordingly.
On rare days when he can stay longer—when missions are short or delayed—he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.
Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to assess the building from a distance. He always makes sure to check on you in his own ways.
So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.
By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have blurred with unavoidable exhaustion. You are now curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but your full attention instantly shifts on him when he sits beside you.
“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. “Everything okay?”
He nods once. “Good.”
“Do you want to go to bed?” He hums, promptly following you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you, like a shadow that isn’t meant to be threatening, his fingers still hooked into your shirt. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.
There’s something else he wants to do.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, searching for the right words without imposing. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly in hesitation.
“Uh,” he starts. Gapes. Then tries again. “We… do face thing?”
You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”
“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”
There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes studying your face with a smile.
“If you’re not too tired.”
His answer is immediate, punctuated by a firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”
It isn’t a lie. His body is drained, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.
The corners of your lips lift in amusement. “Okay. Come on, then.”
The first time you introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.
His blue, confused eyes follow your movements as you adjust the Shrek headband on his head. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.
“What?” Winter frowns over your shoulder, staring down at the two colorful face mask packets.
“These are face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost.” You explain, opening the first one.
Winter’s eyebrows rise in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the foreign object. “Cold?”
“Yep, they’re a little cold.” You carefully unravel the mask sheet.
“Pretty?” You hum in confusion. “My skin pretty like yours with… this mask?”
Oh.
You look up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blink down at you, curious and innocent.
“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gain a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”
He tries his best to stay still as you set it on his face, your lips twisting into an amused grin at his grimace when one hem briefly gets caught on his left eye. You carefully smooth the mask on his features, before pulling away to admire your work.
Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.
“Alright?”
“Sticky.” Winter mutters as his eyes glance up at the mirror, studying his face.
You tear open the other pack, giggling. “It’s just for a few minutes, I swear.”
His nose wrinkles at the reflection staring back at him. His face feels wet, and the mask actually forces him to keep his chin up, worried it might suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loves the way you touch him to apply your little products right after. He also can’t deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cup his cheeks to check for any left over cream? He melts into your hold like ice cream under the sun. But it’s only when you lean over him a little at the end to peck his lips that Winter promises himself to never skip skincare.
You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.
“Wolf?”
You nod. “Wolf.”
He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, the fuzzy feeling prompting him to close his eyes and hum under his breath.
You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his following visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.
You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to, drinking all your details in: from the way you unconsciously lean forward to examine your skin, to the small crease between your brows when you floss. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the people they love, arguing about the correct way to squeeze toothpaste. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.
“Okay?”
He nods a little embarrassed. “I like this.”
Your smile softens. “Me too.”
Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.
“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount on your palm.
“Cleans skin?”
“Correct.” You smile brightly, working it on his face carefully, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation of your thumbs circling his cheekbones, and the mild, clean scent that causes his nostrils to flare.
The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.
“This is funny.” He murmurs when you unfold the pattern of a panda.
You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”
He shrugs, lips twitching. “Animals are cute.”
You put on yours while he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each label. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.
“Serum.” Winter mentions suddenly. “What do?”
“Serum helps with a lot of things. Let’s say it gives skin the support it needs.”
He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.
“Sunscreen?”
“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”
He frowns indignantly. “You are not old.”
You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”
With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”
“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”
He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.
He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your eyes light up at his curiosity. He loves this version of you—relaxed and smiling. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he’s not allowed to be part of.
When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.
“Mh, moisturizer...” You mumble absently. “Now where did I put that?”
Your fingers are gentle when you finally smooth the cream into his skin, the movement unhurried, almost reverent. The texture melts beneath your touch, and you take your time with it, tracing along the lines of his face, easing it especially into his forehead and nose, where the skin looks particularly dry.
He leans forward slightly without seeming to realize it, naturally drawn toward the contact. When you finish, Winter doesn’t move.
He waits expectantly, holding completely still. Finally, his patience is rewarded.
The press of your lips is a chaste, little thing, but his entire body locks for a fraction of a second, a slow, unmistakable wave of heat rising through him, creeping up his neck and into his face before he can regain control of it. The kiss ends too soon, yet when his eyelids flutter open, he pushes down the need to caress his lips, still tingling with the memory of your mouth. They part slightly enough for the tip of his tongue to lick them to try and taste you again.
For a moment, he just sits uselessly, gaping as his heart does some embarrassing cartwheel in his ribcage. Then he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn now.”
Your smile is radiant when his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer on your face with precise movements, not caring about the way his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without the urge to hide out of embarrassment.
When Winter hums satisfied, you know he’s finished. Once your eyes open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.
“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.
His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. He simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you—quick, shy, barely there.
You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”
He reaches for your hand with a nod, fingers threading through yours.
The mattress dips under your weight, sheets rustling softly and pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, your arms relaxed at your sides.
Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging motionless at his sides for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, cozy haven where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.
“How do you want to sleep?”
Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much might be a burden.
He swallows, shifting forward, movements clumsy enough that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in action elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now, nor is control. So he awkwardly climbs onto the soft bed, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs, before hovering for half a second and checking your face for any sign of discomfort.
“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.
Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his strength. He would never forgive himself for hurting you, even by accident.
When he’s comfortable enough, his head finally rests on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.
The effect is immediate.
Your heartbeat meets his ear, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.
His body exists in a world that is often abstract—rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But here, your heart gives shape to time, each beat a proof of continuity.
He adjusts his head again, angling his cheek so his lips are directly brushing the fabric of your shirt. The movement of your chest is calming and deep, and without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. His body sinks further when your palm settles between his shoulders, while your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.
“Are you comfortable, baby?” With a simple nod, the fluttering in your stomach eases, and you wish him a good night, punctuated by a soft peck on his forehead.
His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name.
“Thank you.”
“Rest, my love. Tonight, I’ll keep everything else far away from you.”
You keep stroking his back until you eventually drift off as well.
The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom timidly. Winter would have slept longer, lulled by your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises abruptly, and he forces to stay still for a long moment, before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.
“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”
“I can’t.” You mumble, voice tight. “Not today.”
It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door.
And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.
Under different circumstances, you’d probably try to bribe Winter to stay under the covers with you, ignore your responsibilities and spend the entire day lazing away and making love. But your situation is not normal, and your body hurts as if a million needles are pricking your skin; the urge to move, to do something to exorcise your heartbreak claws restlessly under your ribs.
You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail.
“No, or I never leave.”
You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it’s because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one and only to elicit such a melodious sound out of you.
You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk.
Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your waist with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line and your gaze lingers a fraction too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers deliberately brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.
Once you secure the final strap, your hand finds its place on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.
He wants to say something, anything to make this easier… but the truth is, nothing can.
When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit—apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.
Tears burn the back of his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit, a small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.
His blue eyes firmly fix on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before hurriedly stepping forward to tug you into his arms. His face presses into the slope of your neck, desperately clinging to the familiar shape of your body like it’s the only real thing left.
This is what he hates the most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.
And how wrong it seems to walk away from it.
Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.
Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.
When Winter looks at you, he lifts a shaky hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another on your lips.
“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Going to normal work.”
Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to an ordinary job crosses your mind. Maybe in a different lifetime, when you are a wife kissing her husband goodbye. Or a girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend’s arms at the promise of a romantic date. A world where he gets to live his life without vicious control.
Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”
The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.
You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you—an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.
“Remember me.” You choke out.
“Always.” He breathes out, hands clutching the back of your sweater.
“I love you.”
Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”
Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.
The first step forward makes his jaw clench, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.
You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to prevent your body from shattering into a million pieces. Your wet eyes desperately wander all over his form, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Still, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this—serene, safe.
He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.
To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.
By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.
— ⟢ END NOTES: some of you may know that I’m not a big fan of the daddy/mommy kink, I discussed it briefly in a post a few months ago. I still insert it some rare times, because I believe it fits naturally in some stories, but I wasn't really sure about this one. as a matter of fact, I kept re-reading it after posting it and eventually I came to dislike it. I decided to remove it and with it, there have been some changes concerning the smut part. the reason is very simple: the focus of this story is taking care of the winter soldier, studying a different side of him, and yet at some point I felt like the smut became somehow the main protagonist. in the end, I decided to scrap it completely. I kept re-writing it, but then I just realized that a sexual scene didn’t fit all this. he feels comfortable enough to interact with the reader sexually, which shows a deep level of trust. he feels safe enough to be this vulnerable in a context so fragile and emotionally charged... but I wanted it to happen differently, to convey something different. I already have the scene outlined in my mind, it just wasn't right for the situation. and I guess this opens the possibility for a part 2. thank you so much for reading 💛
my masterlist: → winteryn's masterlist
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, greece au, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers, banter, arguments, alcohol, manchild player bucky, mean!bucky, john walker back to playing the role of a toxic bf, cheating (not by bucky), jealousy, oral (f!receiving), squirting, overstimulation, reader mentions she's on the pill (no pregnancy), praise, dirty talk, angst, alpine feature, dead rat, miscommunication, insecurities, hurt/comfort
⭐︎ word count: 17.8k
⭐︎ a/n: if you like mamma mia, this fic might be up your alley. this is my contribution for the bwat summer collab hosted by the lovely @barnesonly and @iamthatonefangirl. thank you for taking the time to keep us in check. thank you to @tw1sters for being my beta-reader! happy brat summer even though it was two years ago
synopsis:
If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.
← previous fic | main masterlist
Oonts. Oonts. Oonts.
It was the same wretched sound all over again.
From where you sat in the complex’s office, the bass emitting from Bucky’s room was thumping and vibrating the very walls around you. The ground shook, and you swore you could see dust and pebbles straying off the ceiling and landing right into your cup of coffee.
There was no one else in the office, so you screamed as loud as you could.
“Keep it down, Barnes!”
But of course, your angry voice was met with even more thumping bass and weird techno noises.
Mumbling curses to yourself, you angrily picked up the office phone—which barely worked—and dialed his number. You pressed the receiver hard to your ear, foot tapping impatiently as you heard it ring once, twice, three times, until finally…
“Hey, you reached Bucky. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number—”
He had left your phone calls unanswered so many times, you had already memorized his voice message word for word.
With another curse, you slammed the phone back down, pushed out of your rolling chair, and stomped your way up to his room.
It was peak summertime, meaning that vacationers were flooding the streets of Greece looking for accommodations, meaning that your rundown complex had available rooms for cheap rent, meaning you had to leave your one-man post just to take care of the obnoxious tenant you should’ve kicked out years ago.
Finally reaching his door, you knocked angrily with a strength that threatened to break the hinges.
“Barnes, open up!” you shouted.
I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A. G—
“Bucky! Don’t make me break down this door!”
I wanna dance with George, I wanna dance to SOPHIE.
Christ. What the hell was he playing? Whatever this noise slop was, it felt specifically designed by Bucky himself to give you a headache.
“God, this fucking… fucking asshole—” you cursed to yourself, fishing for your keys in your pocket.
You unlocked his door and pushed it open. Lo and behold, you found him seated in the exact same position you always found him in every time you barged into his room for a noise complaint. Bucky’s music was so loud he didn’t even hear you enter, his focus entirely on his fancy DJ setup and speakers that probably cost more than his rent.
“Bucky!” Your face scrunched as it took every vocal cord in your body to muster the shout.
Bucky whipped his head around to face you, looking very much like a boy who had been caught red-handed watching porn—except this music was much worse than mediocre sex-on-a-screen.
He finally lowered the volume, allowing you the ability to actually hear your own thoughts.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out as you glared at him with an unpleasant and as equally disappointed frown.
“I tried calling your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I need you to turn this music down.”
Bucky didn’t react.
He had heard this exact complaint from you more times than he could count. It was always the same routine. You’d yell at him, your body hot from the lack of AC circulation this shitty complex provided, leaving you standing in his doorway in a tank top—no bra—and tiny daisy dukes that left little to his imagination. And once you were done yelling, you’d go back downstairs to your office, and he’d turn the music right back up.
But of course, he always had a knack for making your job much harder than it actually was, purely because he loved seeing you get riled up.
“Oh. Is Georgia from the third floor complaining?” He tilted his head like an innocent puppy, knowing damn well that Georgia was a senior citizen who was legally deaf.
You scrunched your nose, looking even more pissed—which only made Bucky’s smile widen.
“No, but I’m complaining, and that should be enough to get you to shut the hell up—considering I’m your landlord.”
“Aw, but I’m dedicating this song to you.”
You wanted to stomp over to his desk and slap him right across the face to shut him up for good—but dealing with a lawsuit and a restraining order was the last thing you needed when you were responsible for running this shitty complex during peak tourist season.
“I’m not going to argue with you today,” you said, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself rather than him. “Soon, this complex is going to be packed with tourists and I need you on your best behavior. That means no loud robot music that’ll scare potential tenants away.”
Bucky flinched, looking offended.
“Robot music?” he scoffed, spinning back in his chair to face his laptop. “And you say this shit every year. Summertime, tourists, rent... but you’re lucky if even one person books a room.”
Your brow twitched. You hated how right he was. “Regardless, I need you to give the music a rest. If I’m not the one complaining, someone else will.”
You were ready to leave it at that. You turned around, your hand gripping the doorknob, prepared to slam the door behind you so he wouldn’t have the space to argue back. But of course, Bucky just couldn’t help himself.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You spun around so fast your hair whipped across your face. “What the fuck did you just call me?”
Bucky kept his back turned to you. You didn’t even need to see his face to know he was wearing a smug, shit-eating grin.
“My music is harmless,” he muttered, clicking away at his screen. “And who knows? Maybe your future tenants will actually find it entertaining. I might even draw people in.”
“No, it won’t,” you hissed. “You’ll scare people away.”
Bucky shrugged. “Then what the hell am I paying you rent for if I can’t even listen to music in my own apartment?”
The way he said it was so casual, but you knew he had thrown those words out just to pull the pin right out of your heart.
Over the years, you had seen several tenants come and go, break their leases, or even scam you out of money. Taking over the building with little to no hope for business had been completely exhausting, and Bucky—along with Georgia—had been the only loyal tenants you had left.
In reality, the two of them were the ones keeping the place afloat.
You grimaced, facing the door again.
“Just… keep it down,” was all you said, because you no longer had it in you to keep up the fight.
Bucky had kept his promise to keep the music down—but that only lasted about a day. And Bucky being Bucky, if he didn’t have the ability to piss you off one way, he’d make sure to do it another.
You weren’t sure if it was entirely intentional or not, but regardless, it made your skin burn with irritation. While you were talking to a man seated across from your desk, the sound of a girl’s loud laughter echoed right above the office—and it certainly wasn’t the voice of any girl you recognized who lived in this complex.
You smiled through it. As long as you ignored it and didn’t address it, then maybe the man in front of you—who seemed to have every intention of staying here during his months long vacation—wouldn’t notice.
“But yes, as you can see, the building is very close to the beach—walking distance, actually!” You smiled, hands folding primly on the desk in front of you. “And the beaches in Greece are beautiful. I’m sure you’ve seen them while doing your research. You said you like to surf, right? This spot is very convenient for—”
“Haha—you’re so silly, Bucky!”
“I know. But you like it.”
The man in front of you glanced at the ceiling, frowning at the sound of the girl giggling, and you swallowed hard.
“—surfing….”
Instead of answering your question or addressing anything else you said, he kept his focus on the wooden ceiling above him and pointed up. “I take it this place is pretty busy—considering all the noise.”
You gripped your hands tighter.
If you weren’t able to secure this guest, you were going to make sure Bucky got an earful from you after this.
“That’s a good thing, right? Shows how lively Greece is during this time of the year.” You tried your best to salvage the situation, but your own words only gave you secondhand embarrassment.
The man chewed the inside of his cheek, his expression apprehensive. His eyes darted around the office, suddenly taking in the white plug-in wall fan that was making a suspicious whiiiirrr noise, along with the poorly painted window panels you hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.
“Look, you seem like a nice, responsible, and hardworking young lady, but—” He stood up and started grabbing his bags. “I don’t think this place is right for me.”
“W-wait!” You scrambled from your chair, nearly lunging across the desk just to get him to stop. “We have much quieter rooms on the second floor! Facing the courtyard! You won’t hear a single thing over there, I promise!”
Fuck. What were you even saying? Bucky’s room was on the second floor.
The guy was already heading for the exit, his heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He gave you a tight, sympathetic smile that felt more like a slap to the face before walking out.
“Sir, please! I can offer you a discount on the first month! Ten percent—no, fifteen!”
Your voice was pitching higher in distressed panic, but the bell above the office door gave you a cute and mocking ting! before he pushed it open and stepped out into the burning Greek heat. The door shut behind him, leaving you alone in silence with the stupid run down fan.
Well, almost silence.
Aside from the consistent whirring from the fan, another loud giggle squealed through the floorboards right above your head. Then came the thud of Bucky’s mattress hitting the bed frame.
Your eye twitched as your hands curled into tight fists. The payment that man would have given you had he settled in today—even with a fifteen percent discount—was supposed to be your grocery budget for the next three weeks.
Your sandals were already stomping up the stairs to Bucky’s floor. By the time you shoved the key into his lock, twisted it, and slammed the door open without so much as a knock, you were seeing red.
“Barnes!” you screeched, not even caring that the unknown woman lying in his bed was half-naked.
She squealed and yanked the blanket up to her chest, trying to cover herself, but you didn’t so much as glance at her.
“Bucky, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she yelped, looking at Bucky with wide, terrified eyes.
Well, at least this one had some decency compared to the others. Most girls would look at you with swollen lips and a proud, “gotcha” smile to match. Bucky pushed himself up with a groan, giving you a glare that could have killed you right where you stood.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grumbled, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand. “She’s my landlord.”
“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped in relief—and a part of you wished Bucky hadn’t clarified that, just so you could have kept the upper hand.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Bucky? You scared another potential renter away!”
Bucky didn’t look remotely remorseful. If anything, he looked mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been interrupted. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, getting up to meet you at the door.
You didn’t even care that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that hung low on his hips—you had walked in on him one too many times to even bother telling him to put on a pair of pants.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice gravelly from whatever he’d been doing earlier. “I was minding my own business.”
“I’m sorry, but your ‘business’ becomes everyone else’s when you’re being too fucking loud!” you shouted. “I was seconds away from closing a three-month lease, Bucky. Three months! Do you know what I could do with that kind of money right now? I could finally fix the plumbing so the water doesn’t smell like eggs!”
The girl in his bed looked back and forth between the two of you, awkwardly clutching the sheet to her collarbone. “Um… should I leave?”
“Yes!” you snapped.
“No,” Bucky countermanded, running a tired hand through his already tousled hair. “Stay, Eleni. My landlord was just leaving.”
“Like hell I am,” you hissed, crossing your arms. “I swear to God, Barnes. If you keep this up, I’m going to tear up your lease and evict you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. That was new. He had pushed your buttons enough to unlock a brand new threat—even if it was one you both knew you probably wouldn’t follow through with.
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead and kick me out,” he challenged, stepping closer. “You need me more than I need you, anyway.”
You were seconds away from going ballistic—from grabbing his precious DJ setup and throwing it right off the balcony. Every hair on your body stood up like a threatened cat, and you were ready to tear Bucky Barnes apart in his own room.
You sucked in a deep breath to unleash a litany of curses, and Bucky stood up straighter, bracing himself to return the sentiment right back, until a familiar voice called out from the office downstairs.
“Honey? Are you here?”
Both of you froze. Your accusatory finger hung in midair as your head instinctively turned towards the open door.
Of course. Your boyfriend, John, always managed to show up at the absolute worst timing possible.
“Would you look at that,” Bucky sighed—though you couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or annoyance. “Your knight in shining armor, coming to save me yet again,” he said sarcastically.
You shot Bucky one last lethal glare— forgetting all about Eleni still laying in his bed—and turned on your heel, stomping back down the stairs to tend to your boyfriend. As you hurried down, you flattened your hair and adjusted your tank top, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable, though it was a lost cause.
“Hi, John,” you said, sounding more tired than endeared as you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.
“Hey, you,” he grinned before pulling back to look at you, his expression turning from a smile to displeasure.
“Wow, you look terrible.”
Your boyfriend always had such a way with words.
You sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. With John here, you felt like now was the great time to talk about your day, hoping that it’d relief just a tiny bit of stress.
“I look terrible because my day is going terrible. I feel like a hamster running on a wheel that leads nowhere. It’s barely afternoon, and the day is already kicking my butt—”
“Did you hear that I got promoted today?”
You blinked at his blatant interruption. “I’m… I’m sorry?”
“No worries,” he waved his hand with a guileless smile, as if you were actually offering him a sincere apology when, in fact, you were just giving him the opportunity to rethink his interruption. “I said I got promoted. Valentina finally saw how hard I’ve been working and decided to give me the next position up. I’m making double the amount I made before!”
You felt utterly and completely defeated.
Here you were, feeling like a dog that had been beaten to the ground, and the man you proclaimed as the love of your life was flaunting his success. You should have been happy for him, but every sentence that left his lips only felt like a slap to your face.
“I’m happy for you, John,” you said, your voice wavering. You were happy for him—you really were—but John didn’t buy it.
He frowned. “Well…?”
You blinked again, your brows furrowing in confusion. “Well, what?”
“Are you going to take me out to celebrate?”
“Celebrate?” You huffed a laugh, taking his words as a joke. But one look at John’s face told you he was entirely serious.
Your lips twisted right back into a frown, your brows furrowing as dread began to settle in your gut.
“John… look around you. I can barely afford to keep this place running, much less take you out to celebrate your promotion. And besides, you’re making so much more than me now. Wouldn’t it financially make more sense for you to take us out if you really wanted to celebrate?”
You knew the words were blunt and straightforward, but truthfully, you didn’t have it in you to beat around the bush to cushion John’s feelings. You were drowning, and you needed to be honest with your partner.
John sighed, stepping closer and resting a hand on your shoulder.
“Honey, if money was that important to me—then I wouldn’t be with you right now, would I?”
Before you even knew it, you were looking at your partner not with the eyes of a lover—but with the eyes of an enemy.
“Excuse me?” You ripped yourself away from his touch, his hand dropping as you stared at him in utter disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
John let out a long sigh, his classic way of telling you that you were blowing things out of proportion. “I’m just saying, I don’t care about your financial situation. I’m looking past it because I love you. You don’t have to get so defensive.”
You wanted to cry. Your body was so coiled with nothing but rage, and right now, the only person you wanted to take it out on was John.
“Look past it?” Your voice cracked as it began to rise. “You’re looking past the fact that I run myself dry trying to keep a roof over my head with zero support from you? I can’t afford groceries, and instead of asking how I am, you walk in here, cut me off, brag about your money, and insult my business!”
“Oh, here we go with the drama,” John scoffed, throwing his hands up as if he were the victim. “It’s a rundown complex in Greece, honey, not the Hilton. You’re overreacting like you always do—”
“I am not overreacting! You are being incredibly selfish—”
“What’s going on here?”
You were so caught up in the yelling match that you hadn’t even heard the footsteps creaking down the stairs and into the office.
Both you and John turned to find Bucky and Eleni standing by the archway that led to the stairs. Bucky was dressed appropriately this time. By the looks of it, he had no intention of eavesdropping—he was just politely leading Eleni out of the building.
You swallowed hard. What a funny predicament to be in—complaining about Bucky and his noise just minutes ago, only to end up doing the exact same thing.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, averting your attention back to John. But John was already looking elsewhere—more specifically, right at Eleni.
“You sure? Sounded like things were getting pretty heated in here,” Bucky said, trying to make a joke that landed flat. “I was just leading Eleni out. You can go right back to tearing at each other’s throats once I escort her out, thanks.”
Eleni had been following close behind Bucky like a lost puppy, looking a little flustered, until her eyes scanned the lobby and landed squarely on the man standing next to you—who was already staring at her.
She froze, her jaw dropping. “John?” she gasped.
The color drained from John’s face, his cocky posture instantly stiffening into a defensive stance. “…E-Eleni?”
You blinked, looking between your boyfriend and the woman who had just been in your tenant’s bed. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Eleni gave you the exact same treatment you had given her earlier. She zipped right past you, completely forgetting about you and Bucky, and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “John, you asshole! You ghosted me after Cabo! You blocked my number and never returned any of my calls!”
The office went dead silent. Aside from the whirring fan, of course.
You felt your heart drop into your stomach. Cabo? John had mentioned going on a ‘business conference’ to Cabo—but that was only two months ago.
No.
He couldn’t have…
You slowly turned your head to look at John, silently pleading to whatever cruel God that was currently tormenting you to just give you a break. You hoped John would deny it, that he would tell this interloper to get lost, even if you hadn’t had the guts to do it yourself when she was upstairs.
But he didn’t. All he did was dart his guilty blue eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the two women he had wronged.
“John…?” you whimpered.
And under just a smidge of pressure, John folded.
“I’m sorry!” he barked out defensively. “Look—it was a one-time thing, okay? I got drunk with Lemar on the beach, and… we lost track of time, and Eleni came up to me and—”
“Get the hell out.”
John’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for you again. “Honey, you don’t mean that—”
“Get out of my fucking face, John!” you screamed, slapping his hand away.
“Please, just listen to me for one second!” John pleaded, taking another step closer despite your screaming.
“I know I messed up, okay? I know it was a mistake—but look at the bigger picture here! I just got promoted. I’m making double now! I can take care of you. I can fund this entire complex and even… even fix the plumbing smell you’re always complaining about! Whatever you want! You won’t have to worry about a single cent anymore. Just please, don’t throw us away over a stupid slip up.”
Slip up?
Was this what he thought this was?
Years of being together, and his infidelity was just a slip up? A stupid moment of weakness?
You had thought that having a boyfriend—someone who loved you unconditionally—was the one thing you could have to yourself in this cruel world. You and John had your ups and downs, sure, but the idea of being in love was what kept you going.
Now, you felt entirely sick to your stomach—humiliated, exhausted, and broken.
“Stop it,” you choked out, a tear finally spilling down your cheek. You stepped forward and weakly slammed your palms against his chest, trying to push him towards the exit. “Just stop talking. Get out!”
Your hands were trembling, completely devoid of the strength you had wielded against him and Bucky just minutes ago. John barely budged under your weak shove. He sighed, reaching out to grab your wrists to stop you.
“Honey, stop. You’re hysterical right now, just calm down and—”
Before his fingers could even brush your skin, Bucky’s broad frame wedged itself between the two of you. He clamped a heavy hand hard onto John’s shoulder, shoving him back as he used his own body as a shield to protect you.
“You heard the woman,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, glaring down at your now-ex-boyfriend. “She told you to get the hell out.”
John stumbled back a step, swallowing hard as he looked up at the much larger man.
He tried to reclaim some of his lost dignity, puffing out his chest. “Hey, man, back off. This is between me and my girlfriend. It’s none of your business.”
“When you’re being that loud, your business becomes everyone else’s,” Bucky hissed. “You have three seconds to pack up your pathetic excuses and get your feet off this property before I throw you off it myself.”
If you weren’t such a fragile mess, you might’ve laughed at the fact that Bucky had just used your exact words to throw right back at John.
John looked at Bucky’s tight fists, then glanced past his shoulder at you, where you were wiping away your tears. He huffed a bitter laugh—he knew he couldn’t win a physical fight against Bucky, but that didn’t mean his pride was going down without a fight.
“Wow. Blew one of your tenants so he could act as your security guard since you couldn’t afford one?” John’s face twisted into an ugly, resentful sneer. “Fine. Keep her. I’m leaving.”
You were too busy sniffling behind Bucky—of all people—to notice that his shoulders were shaking with anger.
Bucky knew he wasn’t a saint, especially towards you, but hearing you get degraded by a man like this—a man you had given your heart to—made him unfathomably angry.
If you weren’t in such a sensitive, vulnerable state, Bucky probably would’ve had this guy pinned to the floor by now.
“While you’re at it, go ahead and take Eleni out with you,” Bucky added, nodding toward the woman dismissively, as if he hadn’t been tongue deep in her mouth just minutes ago. “Sounds like you two have some catching up to do, anyway.”
John muttered curses under his breath as he pushed through the exit, a timid Eleni trailing quickly behind him.
When the door shut, leaving just you and Bucky in the office, he turned around to finally look at you—and his heart broke right there in his chest.
He knew he had said and done things to purposefully get under your skin in the past, but seeing you now, looking so small with your cheeks stained with tears, it made him feel like the worst kind of man, despite not being the one who broke your heart.
“Hey,” Bucky murmured gently, resting both hands on your shoulders and leaning down so he was at eye level. “Are you okay—”
He nearly stumbled back from the impact of you burying your face into his chest.
You gripped his shirt tightly as you broke into the most gut wrenching sob he had ever heard in his life.
Without another thought, his arms came up to wrap securely around your body, holding you close against him. One large palm rested at the back of your head, soothing you with a comforting caress.
Bucky didn’t know what to say.
There had been times when he had almost made you cry out of sheer frustration, yeah, but that was almost. Now with you breaking down in his arms, he hated the very idea of you crying, period.
“Hey, he’s gone, okay?” he murmured against your temple. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He didn’t know what else to offer other than a couple of “you’re okays” and the occasional “I’m here.”
“I—I don’t understand—” you whimpered into Bucky’s shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Guilt clawed at his heart while his teeth caught his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He knew your words were also a partial reflection on him and how he’d been treating you—constantly making your job so much harder than it needed to be. He sighed, holding you a little closer.
“Nothing. You did nothing,” Bucky said, his tone gentler than you had ever heard it before. “You don’t deserve any of this. And I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” you sniffled. “For standing up for me. I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m just so tired.”
Bucky felt like the Grinch—his chest tight as his heart softened with each broken word you cried out.
For the first time since he had moved into your complex, he was hearing a thank you leave your lips. He might have expected it if he ever turned his music down on the first ask, or helped you take out the trash. But not once had you muttered those words to him until now, while you were weeping in his arms and holding onto him like he was the only person you could rely on.
He felt terrible.
He, of all people, didn’t deserve your gratitude.
“Hey, don’t get sappy on me now.” He sighed, caressing your hair again as he rested his chin on the top of your head.
“You’re a strong girl. You’ll be okay.”
As the day bled into the rest of the week, Bucky felt like he was getting whiplash.
One day, you were crying in his arms and seeking his comfort, and the next, it was like you slapped your cold mask back on and went right back to being his personal landlord from hell.
He had made a promise to himself to help you out in small ways—like keeping his mixer at a lower volume, or offering to help paint the window frames. He hadn’t even invited a single girl over since your breakdown. It was selfish of him to think you’d soften up just because he held you while you cried, but you didn’t. Instead, it was the same usual business from you.
“Bucky, turn down your music!”
“Your music is giving me a headache. Lower it.”
“I can’t believe people actually listen to this robot music.”
Today, he had his friends over—Steve and Sam—whom you seemed to detest just as much because of the volume they brought with them.
Sam was lounging in the beanbag chair, his legs sprawled out, while Steve found comfort on Bucky’s bed. All three of them had a cold Mythos beer in hand, taking slow swigs while Bucky focused on mixing a new track on his laptop.
“Turn the music up,” Steve said, gesturing to the monitor with his bottle. “I want to hear how the bass hits on that drop.”
Bucky’s hand hovered over the master volume knob, then hesitated. If he recalled correctly, you had a lot of important calls to make down in the office today. The last thing he wanted to do right now was add more to your plate.
Slowly, he pulled his hand back, leaving the volume exactly where it was. “Nah, it’s loud enough.”
“No way, man. The walls are usually shaking from how loud you play this stuff,” Sam said, furrowing his brows. “Come on. Turn it up.”
Bucky kept his attention glued to his laptop, his hands adjusting everything on his mixer but the volume.
“My landlord is making calls downstairs,” he muttered, trying to sound as dismissive and nonchalant as possible in the hopes his friends would just drop it.
But of course, they don’t.
Steve sat up on the bed, his arms resting on his knees while the green bottle dangled loosely in his fingers. “Hold on. Since when do you care about what your landlord thinks?”
“Especially when it comes to your music,” Sam egged on, that teasing grin spreading across his face.
Bucky felt like he was a cat being cornered. He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting to play around with the BPM to distract himself, but ended up completely messing up the transition.
“I don’t care what she thinks,” Bucky said quickly, his voice a little too defensive as he clicked aggressively on his trackpad. “I just don’t feel like hearing her run her mouth today.”
“You know, speaking of running her mouth—” Sam pushed himself up on the beanbag chair with a groan. “How did she react when she walked in on you and Eleni? Surely she heard all the noise you two were making, right?”
Steve barked out a laugh, waiting to hear Bucky’s response.
Bucky grimaced at the memory.
Despite them bringing Eleni up, his mind wasn’t on her at all—it was entirely on you and everything that had unfolded that day.
Normally, he’d chug his beer with his track set to the highest volume, laughing alongside Sam and Steve about how you were constantly on his ass, pestering him like a mother. But this time, he recoiled at the way his friends were talking about you.
He didn’t even know how to begin explaining it.
How could he explain that he hadn’t actually slept with Eleni because he’d overheard you arguing with your boyfriend, John? The very same John who got outed for cheating on you with Eleni—the girl Bucky just so happened to have brought home that day.
“We didn’t even sleep together. We were just messing around on the bed, and she came in to complain about the noise,” Bucky muttered with a casual shrug. “That’s it.”
Sam hummed in thought, pausing in the middle of sipping his Mythos. “You know what it sounds like your landlord needs? She needs to loosen up.”
Bucky frowned.
They had no idea what you were going through at all.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Take her to one of your gigs tonight—show her how good your music actually is, and what keeps her rent money coming in.”
Bucky couldn’t picture it. You, loosening up in the middle of a crowded dance floor, actually enjoying the music you constantly complained was nothing but “robot noise.”
“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”
Steve shrugged. “A girl like that wouldn’t be hard to impress. Who knows, maybe she’ll realize the nightlife she’s missing out on here in Greece, ditch her lame boyfriend, and give you a chance instead—”
“Alright, alright, enough.” Bucky waved his hand, spinning around in his chair to glare at Steve. He hated how obvious it was that he cared. “Can we just get back to working on my mix? I need it ready and sounding perfect by Friday night.”
Sam’s brows rose. “Oh, Friday night! That’s the perfect amount of time for you to convince her to come out—”
Bucky groaned, rubbing the space between his brows to soothe his impending headache. “Christ, Sammy. Would you just shut up—”
“Eeeeek!”
Bucky was cut off by a loud, piercing screech echoing from down the stairs—straight from your office. He immediately sat up straight in his chair, his eyes widening.
Steve grimaced. “Jesus. What’s wrong with her now—”
But before Steve could even finish his sentence, Bucky was already throwing himself out of his chair. He lunged out the door and raced down the stairs toward you. As his feet pounded against the creaky steps, his mind scrambled through every worst case scenario.
Had John returned to threaten you?
Was a potential tenant giving you a hard time?
Either way, he was ready to tear them apart. And he didn’t care if Steve or Sam were right behind him to witness it.
“Hey!” Bucky barked, breathless as he rounded the corner into the office. “Are you okay—”
“Oh my god, oh my god, get away! No! Don’t get any closer!” you squealed.
Bucky froze in the doorway, only to find you stranded on top of your desk chair, your legs wobbly as you tried to keep yourself from falling. Your eyes were wide with terror, staring down at the floor. Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at what was going on.
Sitting right at the base of your chair was a stray white cat. Her tail was swishing lazily against the floor, and she was proudly holding a very dead, very fat rat between her teeth.
Bucky’s shoulders instantly slumped as he realized he wouldn’t be throwing hands with John after all—and just how ridiculous this entire situation was.
“Bucky, help me!” you wailed, pointing a shaky finger at the feline. “Get it out! Get it out of here right now!”
“Which one?” Bucky crossed his arms, making absolutely no effort to rush to your rescue. “The rodent, or the cat?”
“The rat, Bucky! Oh my god—she’s getting closer, ew!” You whipped your head toward him, frazzled. “Do something!”
Bucky sighed heavily.
He was on a tight time crunch, needing his mix ready by Friday for a gig at a massive club here in Greece—and now his precious time was being spent trying to wrestle a stray cat.
Then again, he had made a silent promise to himself to start helping you out.
He stepped away from the doorframe and closer to you, making exaggerated shooing motions at the animal.
“Shoo! Go on, get out of here. And take your friend with you.”
The cat looked up at Bucky with big, round blue eyes that perfectly matched his own, let out a raspy mewl, and turned her head right back to you. Wanting to ensure her favorite human accepted the prize, the cat pushed herself up on her hind legs, stretching her paws onto the seat of the chair to drop the limp rodent right at your feet.
“Oh my god, no! Don’t do that! Ew, ew, ew! No!”
You could’ve sworn you saw the dead rat twitch.
Panic completely overrode your system. Without a single thought for your pride or your dignity, you launched yourself off the chair and jumped straight into Bucky’s arms.
Bucky looked up, his eyes widening as he realized what you were doing, but it was already too late to brace himself.
He let out a oomph! as your body collided with his, nearly knocking him right off his feet. With a huff, his arms hooked around your waist and thighs to catch you before you both could hit the floor. He stumbled back, struggling to find his balance as you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder in panic.
He had never expected to find you in his arms again so soon—much less over a damn cat.
“You’re okay,” Bucky sighed, caressing your back. “Look! She’s already taking the rat away.” He reassured, despite the cat not moving a single paw.
You kept your face buried, your fingers tightly bunching the fabric of the back of his shirt. “Is she really? Promise me you’re not lying, Bucky.”
“Buck! We’re coming! Hold on—”
Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway as he and Sam burst through the office doorway in a sprint. Both of them had their shoulders squared and their fists clenched, ready to throw down in whatever fight Bucky had gotten himself into.
But they came to a halt, their eyes wide as they took in the view.
There was Bucky, holding the very woman he claimed to detest so much securely in his arms—bridal style, at that.
“Oh,” Sam chuckled, raising a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”
Bucky’s neck flushed a deep crimson. Even with your body tucked firmly against his, he was focused on the mortification of Steve and Sam drilling their stares directly into the side of his head.
“Get the rat out of the room!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
He tried to speak quietly so he wouldn’t startle you with the word rat, but the attempt obviously failed—because, well… you were right there, and you squealed in response.
Sam didn’t move, his grin only widening. “I don’t know, Buck. Pest control wasn’t really on the itinerary today. What’s the magic word?”
Bucky now understood why you hated his friends so much.
“Sam, I swear to God—”
Seeing that his best friend was about to combust from embarrassment, Steve finally took pity on him.
“Alright, alright, I’ve got it,” Steve reassured, stepping past them. He grabbed a plastic clipboard from your desk, using it like a makeshift shovel to carefully scoop the dead rodent off the chair.
“Ugh, that thing is huge,” Sam pointed out—eliciting another loud squeal from you—as he held the door open for Steve so they could dump it in the trash bins outside.
“Is it gone?” you whimpered into his chest.
Bucky looked down, his eyes softening as he took in the way your nose was pressed directly into his shirt. “It’s gone. I promise.”
With a relieved breath, you gently pushed yourself out of Bucky’s grasp until your feet hit the floor. He hated the sudden, empty space between the two of you.
Trying to bridge the gap you just created, Bucky stepped closer again, resting a warm palm on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”
He spoke so softly, with a gentleness that caught you off guard.
Heat tickled the back of your neck, your heart beating rapidly from the embarrassment of your outburst—and the fact that you had run straight into Bucky’s arms for comfort yet again.
“I-I’m fine,” you stammered, straightening yourself.
Steve and Sam were just about to walk back inside, but they stopped when they saw Bucky leaning down, his thumb now softly caressing your cheek.
They knew their friend had a long track record of being a blatant flirt and a playboy, but never once had they seen him soften up the way he was right now. Exchanging looks, the two of them played it smart and silently agreed to turn around, letting their friend have his chance.
You gently stepped away from Bucky’s touch, letting out a soft sigh at the cat still perched in the middle of the office floor. You hoped averting your attention elsewhere would soothe the awkwardness.
“Why’d you do that, Alpine? Are you trying to scare me to death?” you murmured, kneeling down to give her a gentle pat on her dusty head.
Bucky furrowed his brows. “She has a name?”
“She was a stray hiding near the trash bins a few weeks ago. I ran to the market next door to buy some food for her, and she’s been following me ever since. But I didn’t think she’d stick around long enough to gift me a…” You shuddered at the mere thought. “…a rat.”
He chuckled, kneeling down right next to you to offer the cat a few pets of his own.
“That’s cute,” he murmured. “Look at you, always on top of taking care of things—even the neighborhood strays.”
You let out a small laugh, the sound soft, warm, and genuine against his eardrums.
Bucky felt like his chest was going to explode. You were so close, smiling brightly in a way he almost never saw from you. As the last of your laughter trickled in the air, he realized this was his perfect opportunity.
The atmosphere between you two was soft. Your walls were down, and he could take this conversation exactly where he wanted it to go.
Are you free this Friday night?
Do you want to come see my set at the club? We could even dance together.
I actually named one of my tracks after you.
But you spoke up before he could. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wanted to say thank you.”
Bucky shrugged casually. “The rat was no problem—”
“No, not just for the rat. I meant for everything else,” you clarified, sitting up straight and meeting him in the eye.
“These past few days, I’ve noticed you’ve been… well, on your best behavior.” You offered a sheepish smile as you struggled to find the right words. “You’ve been lowering your music whenever I ask you to, and I really appreciate it. So, thank you.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Here you were—showing gratitude just because he was finally giving you the bare minimum. He didn’t deserve you.
“Yeah, well, even if my music isn’t blasting at full volume, it still sounds good,” he joked, flashing you a confident grin.
You rolled your eyes, letting your hands gently pet down Alpine’s spine. She was purring.
“You keep telling yourself that,” you teased back. “I still don’t know how you can listen to music like that all day, much less produce it.”
“It’s not music you listen to all day,” Bucky adjusted his posture so he was a bit more relaxed as he sat on the floor. “It’s music you listen to when the stars are out while strobe lights are blinding you.”
Without even realizing it, he started rambling.
“It’s the kind of music that's meant to make you feel good. To push all the thoughts out of your head, drown out the noise of the rest of the world, and just let yourself loose for a little while.”
You hummed in thought.
For the entire time you’ve known Bucky, you had never bothered to ask about his DJing simply because you didn’t care to.
You’d always figured it was just a stupid hobby he did to piss you off and disrupt your peace—but the way he talked about it now, passionately getting lost in his own words, made you interested to say the least.
“You should come to one of my gigs one day and see what it’s like,” he murmured, his voice sounding far more vulnerable than his usual confidence. “It’ll be fun.”
You blew a raspberry, though you weren’t entirely put off by the idea.
“I appreciate the invite, but look around you, Bucky,” you huffed, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “This place is running on my bare hands alone. I can’t afford a night off.”
“Then let me help you,” Bucky interrupted, turning his body so he was giving you his undivided attention. “You need help painting the window frames and fixing the plumbing, right? I’ll take care of it.”
You blinked, your eyes widening in surprise.
Bucky… helping you?
This was completely out of character for him. You braced yourself for the catch, waiting for him to follow up with something like, “As long as I can bring home whoever I want, play my music as loud as I want, and get a discount on my monthly rent,” but nothing came.
“I don’t know, Bucky—”
“Come on, sweetheart,” he grinned, that taunting tone creeping back into his voice. “Let someone help you for once.”
You searched his eyes, trying to catch a punchline, but still, there was nothing.
You didn’t quite believe him. You figured this was just his way of tossing you sympathy points to get you to praise him some more, only for him to end up doing absolutely nothing.
So, you just sighed, rolled your eyes, and pushed yourself up off the floor.
“Whatever you say, Barnes.”
To your surprise, Bucky had actually made true to his promise and helped you around the complex.
He was already up most mornings before you even arrived, blasting his music from his speakers. Instead of just fixing the paint on the window panels, he reinstalled new ones and painted them over with the pretty blue you’ve been eyeing.
It made you feel giddy, seeing him in a tank top and jeans that were covered in both dirt and blue paint.
“Morning,” you shouted over the music, setting your cup of coffee down at your desk. Alpine was still here—curled up in your chair. Bucky must’ve let her in.
“You’re already working on the window panels?”
Bucky didn’t hear you at first, sweeping his paintbrush back and forth until he lifted his head in your direction. He reached over to his Bluetooth speaker, lowering his music to a much more appropriate volume for seven in the morning.
“Oh, yeah.” He pushed himself up with a groan. “Thought I’d get started on the easy stuff first.”
He crossed his arms, taking a step back to admire his work. Then, he looked at you for your reaction.
“How… how do you like it?”
You wanted to jump up and down in glee with how beautiful the windows looked. The bright blue color made everything much more welcoming and inviting, but you didn’t want to give Bucky the opportunity to gloat just yet.
“Hm,” you tilted your head. You could feel Bucky growing anxious beside you—though he tried his best not to show it. “I think I want it in a different shade of blue, actually.”
Bucky’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He raised his hands, about to protest, but you broke down in a laugh.
“I’m kidding,” you said, wiping a tear at his reaction. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
He let out a heavy sigh of relief, but you could still see the grump lines on his face. “Good. Otherwise I would’ve painted your face blue,” he muttered, motioning to the paintbrush.
“Oh? You mean like this?”
You quickly snatched the brush out of his hands, and before he could even process what was going on, you had already swiped a stripe of blue paint over his stubbled cheek.
Bucky stood there, wide eyed. He swiped his thumb over the paint and looked down at his fingers, appalled. But while you were busy laughing in his face, a slow smile cracked across his lips. He suddenly lunged for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body from behind. He hooked the paintbrush back out of your hands, smearing a streak of blue over your face as well.
“Bucky, stop!” you yelled, thrashing in his arms as you just barely dodged the bristles that were tickling your chin with paint. “Stop! I can’t be covered in paint—I have to work!” you argued, despite the breathless laughter breaking in between your words.
“Yeah, well. You should’ve thought about that before you attacked me first, sweetheart.”
From that day onward, your week with Bucky had been filled with more laughter than you’ve had in the entire course of previous months.
Each day was eventful—Bucky was always up early in the morning working on the complex, somehow always managing to find new things to fix, while you arrived with cups of coffee and a bag of treats for Alpine.
During break times, you and Bucky would eat lunch together in his apartment, and he introduced you to more and more of his music.
Every time you two worked, he always had his music playing. Slowly, you started to become fond of it. There were even a few tracks of his that you liked so much, you actually saved them to your own playlist. And every time you asked him for the track title, Bucky would laugh and say, “See? I told you my mixes are good.”
Now, you were sitting on his beanbag chair with your legs crossed, the two of you eating pitas with cold beers to wash them down.
“It’s all about the frequencies,” Bucky said, gesturing to the DJ controller sitting on his desk. He set his beer down, leaning forward as his fingers traced the knobs and sliders. “You’ve got your lows, mids, and highs. If I want to drop the bass out to create suspense before the hook hits, I twist this dial right here.”
He clicked a button, and the beat lost its thump thump, turning into an airy synth. Then, he slid a fader up, and the thumping beat came back in.
“That’s pretty cool. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought.” You leaned your head back against the beanbag, looking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Honestly, I just thought guys up there would bop their heads to pre-made music and pretend like they’re doing something. I didn’t think they played it all live.”
Bucky chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he swiveled his chair to face you. “Surprising, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his desk, then back to you. “Come here,” he nodded his head toward the console. “Try playing something.”
“What?” you said, sitting up straight. “No. Knowing my luck, I’d touch something and it’d break.”
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Who would’ve thought that the very woman who had threatened to throw his entire DJ setup out the window was actually too scared to even touch it?
“Enough of that. Come here, I’ll show you.”
Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, you knew he wasn’t going to let this up. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the beanbag chair and walked over to him. He scooted his chair back, giving you the space to step right up to his setup.
You felt your face warm up instantly when he swiveled right back around, locking you between his desk and his lap.
“Sit down,” Bucky instructed from behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder and swallowed hard. His lap was spread, and he was leaning as far back in his chair as possible to make space for you. You wanted to make an excuse, to say you were much better off standing, but you knew Bucky would just fight you on it.
Mustering up your courage, you sat down, pressing your bottom directly into his lap. Bucky didn’t seem to mind it at all—meanwhile, your face was burning like crazy.
“Here,” he murmured, reaching around you to grab your arm. He guided it toward one of the sliders and placed his hand firmly over yours, setting your fingers down gently on the control.
Bucky’s palm was rough and warm against the back of your hand.
He leaned in closer, his chest pressing into your back, and you could feel the rumbly vibration of his chuckle against you.
“Relax,” he murmured right against your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
You hated him. You really did.
“Bucky, I swear to God—”
Bucky nudged your hand forward, forcing your fingers to slowly push the slider upward. As the fader moved, the track playing through the monitors began to warp.
“That’s the high-pass filter,” Bucky explained softly. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his thighs under your bottom. “Hear how it cuts out the low end? Now, wait for the timer on the screen to hit zero, and slam it back down.”
You did exactly as instructed, yanking it down the second the timer hit zero, and a smile broke across your face at the bass.
“Wow, that sounds pretty good,” you breathed.
Curiosity got the best of you, and you started to play around with the different sliders on your own—creating a whole new funky and out of beat mix. You messed with the distortion and the reverb, and it sounded terrible enough to make you burst into laughter, with Bucky laughing right along beneath you.
You pressed a button, then a beep! noise came after. A red light started blinking at the soundboard.
“You’re recording now,” he said. “Want to sing something?”
“God, no.” You laughed.
Sooner or later, you felt his hands slowly drift from your arms down to your hips. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind his touch one bit. It felt entirely natural. Like his hands were always meant to be right there—guiding you, holding you…
“Come watch me play on Friday,” he murmured gently.
You looked down at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. Bucky had been staring up at you this entire time. His blue eyes bored right into yours the minute you made eye contact, with no intention to break it first.
“Bucky, I…”
“I can get you in for free—you can skip the line, or come whenever you want. Just take one night off for yourself. You deserve it.”
You chewed your lower lip, feeling apprehensive. You and Bucky had done enough hard work over the last few days to compensate for the rest of the week, essentially clearing your schedule.
Looking into Bucky’s eyes—seeing the blue glimmer with hope just like the Greek ocean does on a sunny day—made it so much harder to say no. He had done so much for you these past few weeks, and the very least you could do was watch him do something he was truly passionate about.
“Fine. But only if you play my favorite tracks,” you said with a teasing smile.
Bucky blinked, as if he hadn’t heard you right.
Then, his lips pulled into the biggest, brightest grin you’d ever seen from him. His grip on your hips tightened before trailing up to your waist. Hell, he’d delete this entire set he had been working on for months if it meant you’d come watch him.
He was so overjoyed with excitement that he didn’t offer any words to prove it.
Instead, he pulled your waist a little tighter, tilted his head up, and kissed you.
You froze, your eyes going wide as his warm lips connected with yours.
You?
Kissing Bucky?
You never thought you would see the day. But the second his slick lips began to dance with yours—the second his tongue pushed past your lips to taste you—it was like all the stress from before this, all the emotional drain from your breakup with John, disappeared in an instant.
“Mmm,” you moaned into the kiss. Your hands flew to the back of his neck, burying into his messy brown hair and giving it a firm tug that made him groan right back against your mouth.
Bucky’s hands slid up from your waist, his large palms smoothing against your ribs and moving to your back to pull you closer against him.
He tasted like the cold beer, but his mouth was intoxicating heat.
Bucky had his fair share of kisses with women—just as you had your fair share of makeout sessions with John. But neither of you had to say a single word to know that this was it. This kiss shared between you two was like no other.
His hands roamed under your tank top, his fingers tickling your lower back as he trailed upward.
Of course, you had no bra on. You never wore one in this suffocating summer heat. That was one of Bucky’s favorite things about you.
Bucky broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head leaning back against the chair to gaze up at you. His eyes flickered down, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal your smooth belly. He had seen your midriff from a distance whenever you bent over in your office—but never up close like this.
He groaned hungrily, then leaned in, pressing soft, warm kisses to your abdomen.
“A—ah, Bucky…” you mewled, squirming from the ticklish sensation.
He looked up at you with the softest eyes a boy could have, leaning his cheek right against your fluttering stomach. His stubble made you ticklish, but he didn’t pull away.
“I love it when you say my name like that,” he sighed dreamily. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your face warmed and you stammered, avoiding eye contact.
It was clear to Bucky that you weren’t used to receiving compliments, especially not from your no-good ex-boyfriend, John Walker.
But that was okay, because Bucky was here to change that.
“The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. You tried to shy away from his compliment again, but his fingers trailed up to your chin, tilting your head down so you were forced to look at him.
“The prettiest eyes, the prettiest smile,” his thumb traced patterns on your bare hip. “And the prettiest lips. God, those lips.”
He leaned in to press his lips against yours once more. Your tongues danced in a warm embrace as he slowly began to undress you, starting with your tank top. His hands eagerly lifted the fabric, breaking the kiss momentarily just so he could pull it over your head before his mouth crashed right back down onto yours.
In between kisses, he would murmur things like, “So beautiful,” and “Mine,” every soft word matching the steady blood flow pumping from his heart and straight to cock.
When his hands found the button of your shorts, you rolled your hips forward, grinding that hot, delicious heat right against the growing bulge in his jeans.
He chuckled raspily against your lips before pulling away, his lips swollen and his chin sheen with exchanged saliva.
“Eager little thing, are you?”
You groaned in annoyance, though it sounded incredibly sexy to his ears.
You worked at his belt, then moved to the button of his jeans. “Take these off.”
Bucky clicked his tongue. His hand caught your wrist, gently prying it away from his pants. “You’ve ought to learn how to say please.”
His arms wrapped securely around your body, lifting you up from the chair so suddenly that you yelped, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively. He led you quickly over to the edge of his bed, setting your body down and tucking himself right between your thighs.
“Besides,” he breathed, eagerly pulling your shorts down along with your panties and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’m still not done with you. I want to take my time worshiping this fucking body.”
You lay there sprawled out and bare while Bucky was still fully clothed. It was overwhelming, but you didn’t have time to fully process it before Bucky’s head tucked between your thighs, his nose pressing to your base as he inhaled deeply.
“Fuck, you’re dripping already.”
You arched your back, letting out a shocked gasp. “B-Bucky—! What are you—!”
“Relax,” he murmured against your sensitive skin, his hands finding your outer thighs and prying them wider for him. “Just want to taste you, baby.”
Bucky’s tongue swiped flat against your dripping center, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. He groaned, letting the taste of you linger on his mouth.
He glanced to look at you between your legs, and the sight of your face—brows pinching together with your bottom lip caught between your teeth—made his cock painfully hard. You lying bare in front of him was an invitation for him to sink his cock into you, but he wanted to savor this.
He tucked his head back down, lapping at your pussy sloppily. His warm tongue would tease your entrance with every flick, before slowly dragging up. He’d press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing his tongue deep against your clit and dragging his tongue up and down quickly to make you cry out in pleasure.
“Bucky—please, oh god, Bucky—!”
He swirled his tongue around the swollen peak of your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a light tug that had your toes curling around his head.
You were so deprived of intimate touches, never being ate out in a way that Bucky was eating you out, and you already felt like you were about to cum embarrassingly fast.
“Don’t stop, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, hand coming up to your mouth to muffle your cries.
Bucky had no intention of stopping.
He doubled his efforts, the sound of his wet tongue squelching against your cunt, lapping at every drip your arousal gave him. He was eager to make you fall apart, to listen to you cry out his name as you came all over his face.
Bucky inhaled sharply as you began riding his tongue with abandon. You were being selfish—chasing your high. He knew you were that kind of woman, to take what you wanted, and fuck, did he love you for it. Especially when you’re riding his face for your own pleasure, not even caring if he could breathe or not.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, tossing your head. “Fuck me with your tongue, Bucky. I’m gonna cum—!”
Your eyes went wide when you realized you were about to let out more than you could handle. But you couldn’t stop—not when Bucky was pressing his tongue firmly against your clit and holding your thighs down with his strong hands.
“Bucky—wait, I…” before you could warn him, your back arched off the bed into a cry.
Your orgasm came hot and hard, pleasure suddenly flooding your senses as you felt yourself gush around his tongue. Bucky’s face was drowning with your juices, your puffy cunt clenching around his mouth. Your wet essence trickled down your thighs and stained his bedsheets vulgarly, leaving a wet spot beneath you.
“Oh my god,” you panted, face burning hot as you fought to catch your breath.
Bucky finally pulled away, a smug grin plastered on his face while his chin was dripping with your juice. You watched as he licked his lips, the gesture only making you want to sink deeper into his bed from embarrassment.
“Look at that,” he kneeled back, hand rubbing his hard cock through his jeans. “You made a real mess on my bed.”
Your eyes were shamelessly glued to the way his dick was printed against his pants. It was strained tight against the denim, and you could see the heavy outline of his tip, spurting pre-cum and dampening his thigh with his own juice.
“I’m… I’m sorry…”
Bucky chuckled—a deep, raspy sound that made you clench around nothing.
“God, baby. You’ve got my dick so hard, it hurts,” he rasped, finally pulling his cock out of his pants and kicking the article off the bed. “You already came so much. I don’t know if you can go another round.”
You weren’t sure, either. But with the way he was jerking himself off, that heavy string of pre-cum dangling from his tip, and the way his balls looked so full and desperate for relief, you were determined to go another.
He crawled over you, dragging his tip along your shaking inner thigh and against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness as he probed you.
You were so sensitive, your pussy puffy and aching, yet when he pushed his tip in to test you, your cunt parted for him so easily. You winced, your overworked pussy already fluttering around his tip despite yourself.
“Please, Bucky…” you whined, and it might’ve been the cutest thing Bucky had ever heard. “Put it in. It hurts…”
“It hurts? Aw, baby. But I bet you’re not hurting as much as I am.” He grabbed your hand, guiding it down to his cock. It was so hot, his skin smooth as it twitched under your fingertips. “Feel that? It’s aching for you, baby.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, aligning himself perfectly so he could sink in deeper, pushing his tip past your tight walls until half of his cock was embraced by your warmth.
“Fuck, you’re tight… even after cumming,” he hissed, his face tightening as he eagerly pushed his hips forward to stretch you out. “Like you were made for this.”
Already sensitive, the sudden fullness was overwhelming. A high-pitched gasp tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on him, tightening around the middle of his cock where he was thickest.
You whimpered and winced, trying to accommodate him, and Bucky felt his heart soar.
You were usually always so demanding, wound up so tight from constantly being overworked, and now you were wound up tight from his cock bottoming out in your pussy. Each moan and gasp of breath that left your lips made his cock twitch and his balls heavier.
“Those cute little noises—it makes my cock throb so hard,” he groaned.
Once his cock was fully sheathed inside, he started to pick up the pace, his balls slapping against you with wet and obscene smacks. His room—usually filled with the sounds of his music—was now filled with the sounds of your moans, and that was the greatest sound Bucky had ever produced.
He was fucking you so deep, each thrust met with curses and grunts. “So fucking beautiful,” “What a tight little pussy, fuck.” “You’re gonna make me cum so fast. M’already getting close…”
Each moan that left his lips made white spots dance around your vision. He was so deep, you could feel him in your gut. Pressure was building fast in your lower abdomen—a fullness that was equally agonizing and overwhelming.
Bucky’s big body was enveloping yours, his chest pressed into your sweaty one as he rocked his hips sensual and deep. He quickened his pace, in and out, in and out, until he felt his balls clench up.
“Shit, shit—” he gasped into your shoulder. “Not gonna last.”
Your pussy was like a drug. It was addicting, the way you would squeeze and flutter around him. Despite him making you squirt all over his sheets just minutes ago, you were already edging on your next orgasm. He felt every ripple and pulse your cunt had to offer—pumping him with your pussy before you cried out in pleasure so overwhelming, it made you see stars.
“Bucky!” you screamed, “oh my god—I’m cumming again—I can’t—”
Fuck, this was the fastest he had ever came.
“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” he pleaded with a broken voice.
That was essentially your warning that he was gonna cum inside. And when you nodded, that was his invitation to do it.
His entire body coiled up tight as he started pumping you full of his backed up seed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex before you. All that mattered now was that his balls were finally being drained inside the person he wanted to pump them in the most—his precious landlord.
“Shit. I’m cumming, fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight—” he gasped as his body collapsed over you, huffing angry groans as his body tensed—draining every drop of his cum into your overly fucked pussy.
The two of you lay tangled in each other’s sweaty limbs, melting under the shared, musky scent of sex.
While Bucky was catching his breath, he peppered you with wet kisses—to your collarbones, shoulders, neck, and chin.
“You’re so pretty. Could lay with you forever—just like this.”
Who knew that Bucky Barnes, of all people, was the one person you slept with who made you feel more pleasure and adored than John ever had?
Your heart felt too big for your chest, and you felt like you wanted to cry. The way he held you and murmured sweet things to soothe your heart—it all became too much.
A small sniffling sound escaped you before you could stop it, and Bucky caught it immediately. He tilted his head up and looked at you, wide eyed.
“Hey, hey,” he cooed so softly, his palms coming up to caress your cheeks so you would look at him. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
Bucky was so soft, looking at you with wide, adoring eyes, like you were the only woman in the world and the only one he wanted to be with. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who always made sure to get a rise out of you just weeks ago.
“I’m… I’m okay,” you stammered. “I just… didn’t expect all this.”
Bucky frowned, his touch so delicate as if he were afraid of hurting you.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, don’t apologize,” you interjected gently, your fingers running through his sweaty strands of dark hair so you could see his eyes. “I loved every bit of it.”
He searched your eyes, his brows furrowing with vulnerability as he tried to find the truth in your words. When you held his gaze, showing how sincere you were, his frown tilted back into a sheepish smile—a far cry from his usually smug grins that you always wanted to wipe off.
“Good. Because I don’t regret a single bit of it,” he leaned in, capturing your lips with a wet kiss. “You better come on Friday. Watch me play. Then, after my set, we’ll come back home and make love all over again.”
You grinned at how blatant he was. But lying here with him, soaked up in each other’s essence, it was hard for you to say no.
“Fine. I’ll take your word for it.”
With how busy you were taking care of the complex, Friday night came in the blink of an eye.
Despite living in Greece, on an island notorious for its nightlife, you weren’t a fan of clubbing at all. You were always so busy, elbows deep in the run down housing complex just to keep it afloat—so naturally, you didn’t have anything to wear.
When you had asked Bucky for advice, he told you, “Whether you wear a short skimpy dress or a skirt that goes down to your ankles, I’ll be tearing it off later in bed.”
You had rolled your eyes at that before settling on a dress that was far too short and far too tight for your liking. But you couldn’t be bothered to care, considering the club would be dark and packed enough with bodies that no one would notice your outfit anyway.
You arrived later than you had anticipated, having been caught up with last minute paperwork and calls. By the time you got there, the club was already packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with colorful neon strobe lights dancing across the crowd.
Your eyes naturally gravitated to the stage, where a familiar—if slightly fancier—DJ setup stood right in the center.
And of course, Bucky was right behind it.
He was manning the mixer, getting lost in his own music while the lights danced around him. One hand was resting on the mixer while the other rested on his headset. He kept his promise of playing your favorite tracks—and you couldn’t help but smile with the way he had everyone dancing in the center.
You felt out of place, standing awkwardly by the bar while everyone danced drunkenly around you. Unlike Bucky, this was not your element at all. But you took the night off, making a promise to yourself, and Bucky, that you would enjoy yourself.
Remembering Bucky’s instructions from earlier that day, “Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want,” you pushed your way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention for a drink.
A guy with a slammed expression who looked like he’d been dealing with unruly tourists all night finally looked at you.
“Hey,” you shouted over the music.
“What’ll it be, miss?”
“A double Tsipouro—I’m with Bucky,” you hiked your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the DJ who was currently mixing your favorite track.
The bartender paused, looking at Bucky on stage, then back at you with an irritated scoff.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before,” he grabbed a double shot glass, filled it to the brim, and slid it towards you. “That’ll be €8.”
You frowned. You contemplated on arguing back, but the local girls next to you giggled after they eavesdropped on the interaction, and by then, the bartender was already tending to the next person.
With a sigh that felt almost self-deprecating, you downed the shot without a chaser, and tried to enjoy the rest of the night listening to Bucky’s set without letting that interaction get to you.
After a couple of shots—that you all paid for—you went from being buzzed to intoxicated. You were dancing by yourself in the crowd, relishing every bass and beat that Bucky was throwing up on stage. When an unexpected hand came to rest on your lower back, you instantly spun around to tell the guy off.
“Hey, get your hands off—!” but you stopped when you saw Steve standing right in front of you with Sam right next to him.
“If it isn’t Bucky’s landlord,” Sam teased with a tone that brought good intentions, “I didn’t think we’d ever see you here.”
“Did Bucky drag you out tonight?” Steve asked.
With the alcohol bubbling in your bloodstream, you weren’t sure if you hid your flustered expression well.
You had no clue how much Bucky had told his friends about you—how you two were technically a ‘thing’ now, despite not officially talking about it.
“Yeah,” you shouted back. “He wanted me to come out tonight to watch his set. He’s really good.”
“He definitely is,” Steve agreed, then grabbed your hand. “Well, if you’re out here to party, better make the most of it.”
You laughed as Sam and Steve pulled you further into a clearer pocket of the crowd. With the two guys next to you—warding off the other drunk men who tried getting close to you—you actually started to let loose. You were laughing, your chest feeling lighter than it had in months.
During a transition, you looked up at the stage to see if Bucky had noticed you in the crowd yet.
But then your smile faltered, and you realized you were no longer dancing.
A small group of girls—dressed in tight outfits and looking beautiful—had managed to bypass the side security and were now crowding his DJ setup. They were drunk, based on the way they were stumbling and trying to grind on Bucky—who you thought was just trying to focus on his music. But he smiled.
You didn’t know if that was him trying to save face because he was right there, in front of a whole crowd, but from where you were standing, it seemed like he enjoyed every bit of the attention they were giving him.
You looked down, suddenly feeling incredibly self conscious in your dress.
“Don’t worry about that,” Sam reassured you as he continued dancing. “People get on stage all the time, no matter who’s playing. His set is ending soon, anyway.”
Based on Sam and Steve’s expressions, they weren’t soothing your insecurities, but rather assuming you were just expressing concern for a friend’s safety. They didn’t know you and Bucky had a thing going on at all.
You tried to push those thoughts away for the rest of the night, but how could you? Not when every single time you looked up to see Bucky—the person you came out tonight for—he was being smothered by and dancing with half dressed girls.
You tried to get lost in the music, but instead, you were getting lost in your own thoughts.
It was a horrible, familiar feeling.
It was the exact same feeling you had felt with John, who had sworn he only had eyes for you while routinely crossing boundaries, making you feel like you were crazy for caring, and eventually cheating on you. You had promised yourself you would never let a man make you feel that way again.
And yet, here you were.
You thought about the night you and Bucky had just shared. But what was it to him? Just a fun distraction with his landlord? The woman he always swore he hated? Were you just another checkbox on his list—one he sought after simply because you were ‘playing hard to get’ in his eyes?
Bucky was a playboy. His friends knew it. You knew it. And hell, even the only other tenant in the complex—who was deaf, mind you—knew it.
You were the one who had to watch him constantly bring different girls back to his place week after week. You were the one always barging in on them with noise complaints. He was charming, hot, and clearly popular in clubs, and he knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted.
“Just go up to the bar, tell them you’re with me, and get whatever you want.”
And on top of it all, you remembered what the bartender had said.
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that one before.”
He had heard it before because Bucky had probably used that exact same line on a dozen other girls.
You weren’t special.
You were just the latest girl on his list, foolish enough to believe his sweet compliments after he ravished you in bed—the very same bed he had shared with countless other women.
Tears stung the backs of your eyes, blurring the flashing strobe lights into a messy smear of color. Your throat choked up, your chest tightening so hard it hurt to breathe.
“Hey,” Steve leaned down, noticing your expression. “You okay?”
You couldn’t even answer him. If you opened your mouth, a sob would escape.
You tried to give Bucky the benefit of the doubt—that this was just his job, that he had to put on a pretty smile and perform. But as you looked up and saw him with a drunk smile, leaning closer to a woman who had her hand on his chest and was shouting something in his ear, that was it for you.
“Sorry, I—I… um, I forgot to finish some paperwork that’s due tomorrow morning,” you lied, trying your best to sound steady. “Have fun tonight.”
Steve and Sam offered to take you home, but you couldn’t let them. You needed to be alone.
And that’s exactly what you did.
You took a cab back by yourself, drunkenly stumbling into the complex’s office with only one thing on your mind. It wasn’t because of stupid paperwork or bills. It was to tear up Bucky’s lease.
You shoved the key into the lock with a clumsy hand. Bursting inside the small office, you slammed the door shut behind you.
The office was dark, but sitting right there in the very center was Alpine. The white cat lifted her head from her food bowl, kibble crumbs decorating her white, fuzzy chin as she blinked tiredly at you.
The sight of her made the tears spill over your cheeks. You were intoxicated, heartbroken, and your emotions were at an all time high— looking at the cat you two took care of together only made the anger burn hotter in your already fragile heart.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you choked out, pointing a shaky finger at the cat. “You and your stupid dad. Your stupid, lying, playboy dad!”
Alpine blinked before letting out a mighty yawn for such a small body. Then, she turned her attention back to her food, completely indifferent to your emotional breakdown.
“Yeah, go ahead and eat!” you cried, wiping furiously at your wet face. “Enjoy it, because both of you are packing your bags! He thinks he can just… smile and say the right things, and I’ll just let my guard down and let him in?”
You marched past the cat and stormed over to the filing cabinets. You grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer and yanked it open so hard that it rattled.
“Where is it…” you muttered, your vision blurred by tears as you began rummaging through the folders. You tossed utility bills, maintenance requests, and old plumbing receipts over your shoulder. “Where is that stupid piece of paper?”
You were going to find his lease.
You were going to tear it into a million pieces, throw it in his face, and kick Bucky Barnes out of your complex.
The office door suddenly pushed open, and you jumped at the unexpected intruder who just barged in.
Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving as the moonlight outlined his body from behind. Any other woman probably would’ve seen him as a god, but to you, he just looked like a man spawned from the very depths of hell.
He looked like he had run all the way from the club—but he couldn’t have, not with how fast he got here.
“Why did you come back here?” He panted.
“Get out of my sight,” you mumbled, so quietly that it was like a part of you didn’t want to mean it.
He ignored you, stepping closer as he caught his breath. “Steve told me you left before I could finish my set—said that you had paperwork to do, but that can’t be right. You told me you cleared your schedule just so you could go to the club tonight—”
“Yeah—well, plans change,” you muttered, finally pulling his folder out from the others. You sorted through it until you found his paperwork, gripping it firmly in your hands.
When Bucky stepped closer and realized what you were doing—your fingers positioned in a way that looked suspiciously like you were about to rip it—he stormed over and snatched the paper right out of your hands.
“What the hell are you doing with that?!”
You glared up at him, your head spinning so fast it hurt. “I’m tearing up your lease. I’m evicting you.”
Bucky blinked, his face a mixture of frustration and confusion.
“Are you trying to play with me right now?” He sighed, setting the paper safely on top of the filing cabinet before bending down to try and lift you up. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’re drunk right now—”
You slapped his hands away, pushing yourself up to stand on your own. “What? Get me in bed so you can add me to the long roster of women you fuck?”
“What?” Bucky’s eyes went wide, looking nearly as hurt as you felt just from that accusation alone. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t think I don’t know!” a sob ripped from your throat, and you hated how weak it made you sound. “You and your notorious record for being nothing but a player who plays stupid music. You know—it makes sense, actually!”
You hiccuped, slurring your words between tears.
“You being a DJ and playing in clubs and all. It’s such a classic tale, isn’t it? How easy it is for men like you to just… pick up women and bring them home in the middle of the night. And I’m always the one cleaning up your messes and kicking them out the next morning,” you laughed at yourself.
You probably looked insane in his eyes, but you didn’t care.
“Now, look at me. I’m the mess, and no one is there to clean me up. I was stupid to think I was different.”
What the hell were you saying?
None of it even made sense to you anymore. All you felt was an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt. Your head was pounding so bad that you just wanted to lie down and sob until there were no more tears left.
Despite every cruel word you hurled at him, Bucky didn’t get angry. How could he? When almost every word you said was nothing but the truth. All the talk about him being a player, blasting his stupid music loud enough to hurt your eardrums—he couldn’t deny any of it.
Except for one thing, and that was you thinking you weren’t different.
With a soft sigh, his shoulders slumped. He stepped closer, moving quietly so as to not startle you like a cat. When he was finally within reach, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body, pulling you close against his chest in a comforting hug.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered gently against your temple, his voice rough. “You saw all those girls huddled around me at the club, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I made you feel like this.”
You jammed your fists against his chest, weak and uncoordinated. But the alcohol had drained all your strength, leaving you hollowed out and drowning in your own tears.
Bucky took every pathetic blow you gave him, and instead of pulling away, he just tightened his arms around you. With a broken sob, you collapsed into his chest, burying your wet face in his shirt.
You hated this. You hated how every time you were upset, Bucky was always right there, comforting you in this very office. And you especially hated that, despite him being the cause of your current distress, you were still seeking his comfort.
One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers caressing through your hair, while his other arm held you around your waist.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just breathe.”
You were a weeping, hiccuping mess, your shoulders shaking violently as months of built up insecurity and old, unhealed wounds from John came pouring out all at once. You stained his shirt with your tears and ruined makeup, but Bucky didn’t seem to care at all.
He just held you, swaying you slightly from side to side in the quiet, dark office.
“I know what you’re scared of,” Bucky started with a gentle murmur. “You’ve gotten your heart broken, and you’re scared of opening up and getting hurt again.”
He rested his chin on your head with a sigh, looking blankly at the wall with eyes full of regret.
“And I don’t blame you for feeling that way towards me. I’ve been an awful guy to you from the start, and even now, I failed to make you feel secure with me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, hoping it would help.
“There was no woman that came before you, and I have no intentions of anyone coming after.”
You wanted to believe him, but everything that left his mouth was just noise. Even drunk and vulnerable, you could feel your heart closing on him to shut him out.
You slowly pulled back, your hands pressing against his chest—not out of anger, but out of a desperate need for distance.
Bucky let you go reluctantly, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips, his blue eyes searching your face with a fragile and heartbreaking hope that made it even harder for you to look away.
“I can’t do this, Bucky,” you whispered. “I like you. I like you so much, and I want to love you... but I can’t. I don’t want to get hurt again. I just want things to go back to the way it was before. Me as your landlord, and you as my tenant. That’s it.”
Bucky knew he deserved every ounce of your doubt, but he hadn’t braced himself for the hurt that came with it.
Still, he forced a pained, tight lipped smile, his eyes telling you just how much he was hurting. His hands twitched on your hips, a painful urge passing through him to pull you back, to hold you against his chest and never let you go.
The words I love you rushed to the tip of his tongue, burning to be said. He wanted to shout it, to promise you the world, to prove to you that he was entirely yours.
But as he looked down at your tear-stained face—at the exhaustion and fear written in your eyes, all because of him—he stopped himself.
Even drunk, you still had the strength to look out for yourself. And because he cared about you more than his own need to fix things, he respected your wishes. He wouldn’t use your vulnerability to force a confession on you. He had always been a selfish man, but he couldn’t afford to be one now.
Bucky swallowed hard, a visible lump forming in his throat as he forced the words back down. His shoulders slumped as he finally accepted defeat.
Slowly, his hands dropped from your hips. He took a single step backward, giving you the space you asked for.
“I get it. I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re ever ready to open your heart to someone again—please, let me be that person.”
Bucky kept his word and left you alone.
Yet, there were countless times when he found himself pacing in his room, or lingering just outside your office, waiting to see if you would open your heart to him again. He held onto the smallest bit of hope that the words you had shouted in a drunken blaze were words you didn’t truly mean—that they had simply come from a place of deeply unhealed hurt.
He stayed close, waiting for a knock on his door, hoping you would tell him you were ready to talk. But that knock never came.
Just like him, you also kept your word and went right back to treating him as if he were nothing more than the annoying tenant from the very beginning.
He still helped you around the complex whenever he had the time—entirely on his own insistence. But every time he found himself in the same room as you, you would make up some excuse just to get away from him.
“I need to stop by the store and buy litter for Alpine.”
“Georgia forgot to pick up her mail. I’m going to hand it to her.”
You were like a stone of indifference—not happy, but not angry either. It was starting to get frustrating.
He knew he should have respected your space, but the more you strayed away from him—not only emotionally, but physically—the more restless he grew. Maybe it was the immature side of him creeping in, but he started to take your pleas as a challenge. You wanted things to go back to normal? Back to how things were before his heart fell for you?
Fine. He would make sure to do exactly that.
The next afternoon, the entire building—which had been quiet for the past few days—began to shake.
It was that same, robotic warping noise that always rattled the ceiling of your office. It started with the usual thump, thump, thump, before the bass dropped into the most annoying sound nonsense you had ever heard in your life.
It was Bucky’s music. Except this was nothing like the tracks he knew you actually liked, and it was louder than it had been in months.
For the past few weeks, he had been playing his music through headphones or keeping the volume respectful. But right now, he was blasting it with a vengeance, the aggressive electronic beats making the light fixtures tremble.
You tried to ignore it for ten minutes. You tried to focus on your paperwork, but the relentless oonts oonts oonts was making your teeth rattle and your head pound. You knew exactly what he was playing at. He was trying to get your attention—but you wouldn’t give in. You refused to.
But then, a family of tourists walked past the front of your office. The daughter pointed up at the building, and the mother scrunched her nose, shaking her head in disapproval at the noise.
Shoving your chair back, you marched out of the office and stormed up the stairs.
You banged on Bucky’s door roughly. “Bucky! Turn that music down right now!”
You were furious, but for Bucky, this was the greatest moment of his week. He grinned, pretending not to hear you, and bumped the volume up just a tad louder.
You knocked again, but he ignored it. When you started cursing under your breath—which Bucky thought was the cutest thing he’d heard in what felt like forever, aside from Alpine’s meows—you finally fished out your master keys to unlock his door yourself.
“Do you mind?” you snapped, stepping into his apartment. “I have potential tenants walking past, and your absolute garbage music is running them off!”
Bucky was leaning back in his chair, lazily reaching over to slide a fader down.
“Garbage?” Bucky echoed, the cocky grin on his face not shrinking one bit. “You didn’t call it that when you were sitting on my lap and playing with my mixer, sweetheart.”
Your eyes widened—whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he had gotten a reaction out of you, and to him, that was like a man finally finding water in the desert.
“Just turn it down!” you demanded, already turning away and slamming the door shut behind you.
Throughout the rest of the week, Bucky realized he couldn’t hold your attention for more than five minutes with just his music blasting alone.
He was working on a mix—one that wasn’t meant for his club sets, but one that would definitely catch your attention. What was distracting him more, though, was the sound of your giggles echoing all the way from your office.
A tourist had been sitting in there with you. Initially, Bucky thought it was just a potential renter. But as the minutes dragged into over an hour, he realized that the man in question had absolutely no intention of signing a lease. He was trying to get with you.
With the floorboards being so thin, Bucky could hear everything. The guy was a blatant flirt, and you were laughing and giggling cutely at every single word he said, convinced you were just sealing the deal on an apartment.
Bucky, moved by petty retaliation, queued up special track he was working on.
The beat was slower than usual—the exact kind that would have people drunkenly grinding against each other at a club. He dialed a knob, weaving the explicit, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathless moans right into the track, letting it echo loudly through the thin flooring.
Downstairs, your laugh died in your throat.
Your eyes widened slightly, your jaw hanging loose before a rush of heat flooded your cheeks. The tourist blinked, his charming smile faltering as the loud, provocative audio filled the small office space.
“What an interesting song,” he forced an awkward chuckle. “Didn’t know you had a DJ living in here.”
You sat stiffly in your chair, a storm of emotions thundering in your chest. Embarrassment came first, but right behind it was a wave of shock and a sickening twist of jealousy that nearly choked you.
He brought a girl over? While I'm down here working?
He actually had the audacity to do that after everything he said to you? After he said he’d be your person once you opened your heart again?
“So, anyway,” the tourist continued, oblivious. “Since you’re a local—do you think you could show me some cool spots around here? Maybe we could start with dinner?”
You didn’t even realize how jealous you actually were until that exact moment.
Knowing that another woman might be in his apartment, touching him, making those sounds, made your blood boil and your fists curl tightly under the desk. You thought you were protecting your heart by keeping him at a distance, but hearing this only proved your heart was still hopelessly tied to him.
And right now, those ties were threatening to snap and hit him right in the face.
“Excuse me,” you choked out to the man seated in front of you, abruptly stepping away from your desk.
Every step up the stairs was a stomp accentuated by your anger, the explicit moaning getting louder and more humiliating with every flight you climbed. By the time you reached his door, you were already drowning in an emotional cocktail of rage and heartbreak.
You threw the door open, ready to scream at him and whatever woman he had hidden away in his room.
“What the fuck is your problem, Bucky!”
The door banged hard against the wall as you stormed into the apartment, your chest heaving, your vision tunneling with pure rage. You were so flustered, so blindingly angry, that the words just started spilling out of you before you could even think to filter them. You were desperate to cover up the humiliating jealousy tearing through you, but it only made you sound more unhinged.
“I am trying to run a business downstairs! I just had a guy down there, a potential tenant, and then... then you had to go and bring some woman over and—and do this while—”
You paused, letting your eyes sweep across the room, only to find an empty bed.
“Where is she?” you hissed.
Bucky leaned back in his chair, leg crossing the other as he folded his arms over his chest, looking far too smug for his own good.
“Where’s who?”
Your brow twitched with annoyance. You huffed a stray hair out of your face, waving a hand around the room. “The girl.”
Bucky tilted his head, playing dumb. “What girl?”
“The girl!” you screeched out. “The girl you have over right now—that’s… that’s making all these vulgar and indecent moaning noises because you don’t know how to keep your dick, much less your promises, in your pants for more than a week!”
Bucky’s lips quirked up into a smile.
“I have been keeping both of those in my pants, thank you very much.” He turned back to his screen, his hands hovering over his mixer. “And you mean your vulgar and repulsive moaning noises?”
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, defensive. “What?”
“Listen to it closely,” he said, slowly amping the volume up. Your soft and breathy moans of pleasure filled the room.
“That’s you.”
Your face twisted. With the heavy distortion overlaid by the beat, you couldn’t tell if he was just pulling your tail or being serious. You didn’t even remember recording anything like that when you played with his mixer.
“Stop playing in my face, Bucky.”
Bucky, still impassive as ever, simply shrugged. “You don’t recognize your own voice?”
Then, a breathy little whine came in that sounded much too familiar. “Bucky, Bucky, oh—”
Your eyes shot open so wide that your pupils stung. That was you, no doubt about it, just remixed in a way that an outsider couldn’t tell.
“That’s you moaning my name, sweetheart,” Bucky said, turning to you again with a smile.
He watched as your once angry posture began to deflate into a look of pure embarrassment. You started to stammer, your eyes darting everywhere in the room that wasn’t him. “I… I—I don’t even remember recording that.”
Bucky pushed himself off the chair with a light groan, sauntering over to you with confidence now that he knew he had the upper hand.
“You pressed the record button yourself when you were playing with my table a few weeks ago,” he explained casually.
Standing in front of you, he lifted his hand to gently caress your cheek. When his palm made contact with your soft skin without you pushing him away, his smile grew wider, and the prideful flames in his heart glowed hotter.
“What’s with that face?” he taunted, his voice low and gravelly in a way that did nothing but make your heart race faster. “After everything I said to you, did you really think I would bring a girl up here? Hm?”
Bucky tilted his head, trying to meet your eyes, which were currently glued to the ground—refusing to give him any attention.
“Don’t tell me—are you jealous?”
He knew the answer, and you did too—you just didn’t want to admit it. Despite you telling him, “No more relationship!” there was a part of you that didn’t want anyone else to have him, as selfish as it might be.
“No,” you lied.
“Okay,” he hummed in amusement. “But I am.”
You scoffed. “What are you on about?”
His eyes trailed the curves of your face—the very curves he had fallen in love with and peppered with kisses just a few weeks ago.
“I’m jealous over the fact that you have a guy downstairs making you laugh, when I haven’t seen a smile from you in days,” he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your lower lip. The sensation made you shudder.
You hated how much you were leaning into his touch. And you hated even more how much you liked the idea of him being jealous over you, just as you had been over the simple thought of him having another woman over.
“I’ve tried so hard to be patient,” he continued. “To wait and see if you’ll open your heart to me again. To see if you’ll finally let your walls down and believe the words I said. But I can’t be patient when there’s a guy down there capturing your attention so easily, when the only way I can get yours is by playing loud music.”
“And you playing a track with my moans in it makes you think you’ll win me over?” You furrowed your brows at him. “If anything, it only pisses me off. You’re distracting me and my customers, and I need you to stop.”
You tried to make yourself sound more furious than you actually felt, but it didn’t translate very well. Bucky simply licked his lower lip before catching it in a subtle bite, making your body tingle all over again.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “If you give me just one more chance to prove to you how much I care about you and how serious I am.”
You wanted to hold onto your anger, to keep that shield locked up with the key swallowed. But as you stared at him, hearing every sweet word that came out of his mouth, you realized how terribly you missed him.
God, you missed him.
You missed the moments when he would hold you in his arms after every problem, big or small. You missed the stupid afternoons down in the office, when you were supposed to be doing paperwork but ended up doing baseless chores with him instead—with Alpine inevitably scrambling up onto the desk and squeezing right between you two, demanding her own share of the attention. You missed hearing his music up close, sitting right on his lap while he guided your hand with his on the turntable.
You tried your best to keep your face stoic, to force down the screaming of longing in your chest so you wouldn’t cave. But Bucky saw right through you. He watched your shoulders ease up slightly, the way you chewed at your lower lip, and the way you were slowly unlocking that key in your heart.
Letting out a reluctant sigh that sounded like music to his ears, you mumbled, “Fine.”
Bucky’s smile widened.
“But you better not play this track anywhere. Not even to Steve or Sam,” you continued before he could speak, swatting weakly at his chest. “I’ll shoot you dead, Barnes—I mean it. That track is for your ears only.”
Rather than backing off, Bucky reached down and wrapped his arms firmly around your lower waist, pulling you close against him until your hips hit his, making you fluster at the proximity.
“Deal,” he whispered, leaning down even closer. “I’ll delete it if it makes you feel better, but only if I get to make you moan again like that for real—live and in person.”
Your breath hitched as his lips slid down to the line of your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. Even though you two had been together like this before, the sudden closeness after days of agonizing distance made everything feel brand new, yet exactly right.
It was a feeling that, despite everything, you missed all too much.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” you breathed out as a final and weak attempt at keeping your guard up.
Bucky’s lips hummed deliciously against your neck, his mind already filled with things more than just hope.
“I’ll try.”
if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
"Bucky." You stare at the vial. "Why do you have truth serum in my kitchen?"
He leans against the counter. Crosses his arms. The leather of his jacket creaks. "Last time, you were the one who couldn't lie. Figured it's my turn."
"Your turn," you repeat dumbly.
Pairings: Avengers!AU!Bucky Barnes x Avengers!Employee!Reader
Warnings: Minors DNI; Explicit Sexual Content, Needles & Injections, Consensual Drug Use (Between MCs), (kinda) Porn With Plot
Additional Tags: No Y/N, American!Reader, Anxious!Reader, Established Relationship, Post-Civil War, Civil War Good Ending AU, Bucky's An Avenger, Reader Works For The Avengers In PR, Bucky's Got Super Soldier Metabolism (This Is Very Plot Relevant), Bucky Tells You One (1) Little Lie, (mild) Relationship Angst, Nobody's Said 'I Love You' Yet & This Worries Reader Big Time, Bucky Is A Grade A Simp However!, Some Power Dynamic Switching(?), mild!Sub!Bucky(?) x mild!Dom!Reader(?)
Author's Note: i've had this in my drafts for months so i'm like eh, time to let it out of the cage. LL is the angstier-but-still-rom-com little sister to TT. i recommend reading TT if you haven't read it yet before reading little lies, as this fic is a direct follow-up and it might not make sense if you don't! this'll get posted on ao3 eventually, i'm really not feeling writing summaries for my fics rn lmao
All Fics Tag List: @herejustforbuckybarnes
telling truths / my fic masterlist!
Little Lies (9.2k)
Three months in, and you decide that Bucky Barnes really is the perfect boyfriend, because he always keeps a glass of water on your nightstand.
He fills it before bed every night without being asked to, like its part of some internal checklist he runs through before he can settle. Doors locked, check. Arm maintenance, check. Your water filled, check. You noticed the first time you slept over in his quarters, where it had been waiting for you. And you notice it now, in your apartment, where he's spent four of the last seven nights and where his shampoo has quietly colonized your shower caddy.
It's Sunday morning, late enough that the light through the curtains has gone from pale grey to a warm gold. He's in boxers and nothing else, standing at your bathroom sink, and you can hear the tap run and shut off. He comes back with the glass and sets it down within easy reach.
"You're staring," he notes, dryly.
"Well, you're shirtless," you counter. "Cause and effect."
The corner of his mouth tugs up, at that. He climbs back into bed and the mattress dips under his weight, rolling you toward him. You don't resist, tucking yourself against his side like the space was made for you. His arm comes around your shoulders, metal fingers cool against your bare skin, and you press your nose to his collarbone and breathe him in.
"What time is it?" you mumble.
"Almost eleven."
"Disgusting. We're wasting the day."
"We're not wasting anything." His chin rests on the top of your head. "This counts as doing something."
You smile against his chest. This is what surprises you most, about being with Bucky. Not the sex, though that remains undeniably spectacular. Not even the quiet intensity he brings to everything, the way he focuses on you like you're a mission objective he's determined to complete with full marks.
It's the quiet.
The man who spent decades in motion, in violence, in the rigid machinery of someone else's agenda, is remarkably good at doing nothing. He can lie in your bed for hours, one hand in your hair, the other scrolling through his phone or resting on your hip, and seem genuinely content.
You, on the other hand, are terrible at it.
Not because you're restless. Because your brain won't stop cataloguing.
The glass of water. The way he always walks on the street side of the sidewalk. How he checks the lock twice when he leaves your apartment, not out of paranoia but because he wants you to hear it and know you're safe. The food he stocks in your fridge now, things you mentioned liking once in passing, appearing without comment. The way he says your name, lower and softer than the voice he uses for everyone else, like it belongs to a different vocabulary entirely.
You are building a case. Stacking evidence. Every small act goes into the file, and the file keeps pointing to the same conclusion, the same three words you haven't said because saying them first feels like stepping off a cliff.
"I can hear you thinking," Bucky says. His hand moves from your hair to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the tension there. "What's going on in there?"
"Nothing. Sunday brain."
"Sunday brain," he repeats, skeptical.
"Symptoms include existential contemplation and an unwillingness to put on real pants."
He huffs a laugh. "Sounds serious."
"It's terminal."
His thumb keeps working your neck, finding knots you didn't know you had, and you melt incrementally into him. This would be a perfect moment to say it. The light is right, the mood is right, you're wrapped around each other in rumpled sheets and the apartment smells like the coffee he made an hour ago. The words are right there, sitting at the base of your throat like a swallowed stone.
I love you.
You think it so loudly you're half convinced he can hear it.
"Hey," he says, and you tilt your head up. He's looking down at you with an expression you've come to recognize but can't quite name. Something open. Something careful. Like he's standing at the edge of the same cliff and weighing the same math.
"Hey," you say back.
His mouth opens. Closes. His jaw works the way it does when he's choosing between words, sorting through options and discarding them.
"Breakfast?" he says finally. "I'll make eggs."
"Sure." You smile. It only takes a little effort. "Eggs sound great."
He kisses your forehead. Lingers there, lips warm against your skin, and you feel him exhale slow and deliberate. Then he's up, pulling on a shirt from the chair where he tossed it last night, and disappearing into your kitchen.
You lie there. Stare at the ceiling. Press your palm flat against the mattress where his warmth is already fading and think about the physics of what just happened. The way his mouth opened and something gathered behind his eyes and then dissipated, redirected, swapped out for breakfast.
He was going to say something.
But he didn't.
You've been here before. Not often, and not dramatically. Bucky will cross a room to fix your collar. He'll memorize your schedule so he knows when to text and when to leave you alone. He'll sit through your rants about interdepartmental email chains with the focus of a man receiving a tactical briefing. He'll hold you after sex with both arms and breathe against your hair like he's anchoring himself. He'll kill for you. You're pretty sure about that last one and it doesn't scare you the way it probably should.
But he hasn't said it.
From the kitchen, you hear the crack of eggs, the hiss of butter in a pan. Bucky hums something when he cooks. Always does. Low, tuneless melodies you're pretty sure he doesn't realize he's producing. It's one of your favorite things about him, this tiny unconscious proof that somewhere beneath the training and the trauma and the careful control, there's a person who hums while making scrambled eggs on a Sunday morning.
You get up. Pull on his discarded Henley because it's closer than your own shirt and because it smells like him and you're not above that kind of sentimentality. It falls to your mid-thigh, sleeves hanging past your hands, and you pad barefoot into the kitchen.
He's at the stove, spatula in hand, and glances over his shoulder when he hears you.
"That's my shirt," he says.
"That's correct."
His eyes travel down the length of you, slow and appreciative in a way that makes heat bloom across your skin even after three months. "It looks better on you."
"Obviously."
You hop onto the counter beside the stove, legs swinging, and watch him cook. He moves in the kitchen the way he moves everywhere; efficient, deliberate, no wasted motion. Two plates are already out. Toast in the toaster right on time. Your tea steeping in the mug with the chipped handle that you refuse to throw away.
He remembered which mug.
Of course he remembered which mug.
"You know," you hear yourself say, "if the whole Avengers thing doesn't work out, you could have a career in breakfast."
"High praise from someone whose idea of cooking is microwave popcorn."
"That's slander. I made pasta last week."
"You boiled noodles and put butter on them."
"Uh, yeah. That's pasta."
He plates the eggs and slides yours over, before he stands in front of you, close enough that your knees bracket his hips, and hands you a fork.
"Eat," he says. "Before it gets cold."
You take the plate. Your fingers brush his, and he doesn't pull away. Just stands there, looking at you in his shirt with your messy hair and bare legs, and something moves across his face again. That expression. The one that's almost a confession but isn't.
"What?" you ask softly.
"Nothing." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "You just... look real good in our kitchen."
Our kitchen. This is your apartment. But neither of you corrects it, and the slip hangs in the air between you, warm and revealing.
"Our kitchen," you echo.
His hand drops. "Your kitchen. I meant your kitchen."
"Oh. Right."
He turns back to the stove, and you watch the back of his neck flush pink above his collar. Bucky Barnes, legendary sniper, former ghost operative, brought low by a simple possessive pronoun.
You eat your eggs. They're perfect, because everything he does for you is done with the kind of attention that borders on devotion, and you love him.
You love him so much your chest aches with it.
And one of these days, one of you is going to say it out loud.
That day just... isn't today.
And then it starts with the shirts.
You stop wearing his. Not consciously, not at first. You just start reaching for your own clothes in the morning instead of grabbing whatever he left draped over the chair. One day you do it and he doesn't comment. The next day you do it again. By the third day it's a pattern, and patterns are harder to break than impulses, so you let it calcify into routine.
It's a small thing. Meaningless, probably. You have plenty of shirts.
Bucky notices the change on day two.
You know he notices because his gaze tracks you when you come out of the bedroom in your own oversized tee instead of his Henley, and something flickers behind his eyes. Quick. Quiet. Gone before you can name it. He doesn't say anything. He hands you your tea—chipped mug as always—and you sit on opposite ends of the couch and read the Sunday paper like two people who are fine.
You are fine. You keep telling yourself this with the dogged persistence of someone reciting a mantra. The relationship is good. Bucky is good. You are a functional adult woman with a stable career and a gorgeous, attentive boyfriend who makes you eggs and fills your water glass and makes your tea just right. There is nothing wrong.
Except.
Except there's a distance growing in you, and you can't figure out whether it's a problem or just the natural settling of a relationship finding its level. Three and a half months now. The initial fever of it all has cooled into something steadier, something with a rhythm you can predict, and within that predictability you've started to hear the silence where certain words should be.
So you compensate. You're good at this. PR is, after all, the art of managing perception.
At dinner, you laugh at his jokes but don't lean into him the way you used to, your shoulder finding his like a compass finding north. You let a centimeter of air live between your bodies. On the couch, you tuck your feet under yourself instead of draping your legs across his lap. In bed, you roll to your side after sex instead of sprawling across his chest, and when he reaches for you, you go, but you stop reaching first.
Tiny retreats. Imperceptible, you think. You are building a cushion between yourself and the fall you're increasingly sure is coming, and you're doing it so gradually that no one could possibly notice.
But Bucky Barnes was trained to detect a target's change in breathing from eight hundred meters.
He notices.
"You good?" he asks you on a Wednesday night. You're at his place, on his couch, your laptop open on a press release you've been staring at for twenty minutes without typing a word. He's on the other end with a book, but you haven't heard him turn a page in a while.
"Yeah, fine." You don't look up from the screen. "Just work stuff."
"You haven't typed anything."
"I'm thinking."
"For twenty minutes?"
"It's a complicated release." You make a show of clicking keys, adding a sentence you'll delete later. "Lots of stakeholders."
The silence that follows has texture. Weight. You can feel him looking at you, that particular quality of attention he gives to things he's trying to figure out, and your skin prickles under the scrutiny.
"Okay," he says eventually.
He goes back to his book. You go back to your blank screen. Neither of you acknowledges the lie sitting between you on the couch cushions, taking up exactly as much space as the distance you've put there.
I'm fine is such a small lie. Two words. Practically nothing. But it's the first one you've told him, and some part of you registers the transgression with a flinch you keep off your face.
The problem, you've decided, is that you are being unreasonable.
You build this argument in your head during your commute, during meetings, during the twenty minutes of silence you carve out in the women's restroom on the fourth floor when the office gets too loud. The case against yourself is thorough, well-reasoned, and damning.
Exhibit A. Bucky Barnes spent seventy years as a prisoner of his own mind, stripped of autonomy, language, identity. The fact that he can form a relationship at all is extraordinary. The fact that he's good at it—attentive, generous and present—actually borders on the miraculous. Expecting him to also produce the exact verbal affirmation you need, on your timeline, in your preferred format, is objectively selfish.
Exhibit B. Words were weapons in his previous life. They were commands, triggers, a red book of horrors that rewired his brain. Of course he's careful with them. Of course he shows instead of tells. His love language—and you wince at the term even in the privacy of your own head—is acts of service because acts were the first thing he reclaimed. His hands learned gentleness before his mouth learned softness. You should honour that. You should be grateful for it.
Exhibit C. You are not owed those three words. Hell, nobody is owed those three words. Needing to hear them is a you problem, a product of your own insecurity, your own inability to trust the mountain of evidence right in front of your face. He fills your water glass. He hums when he cooks your eggs. He pulls you closer in his sleep, unconsciously, like his body is solving for the distance between you even when his conscious mind is offline. What more do you need?
The prosecution rests. The verdict? Is guilty. You are, in fact, guilty of wanting too much, and the sentence is to stop wanting it, or at least, to stop letting the wanting show.
This train of thought works for about five days.
Then Sam Wilson opens his mouth.
It's a Thursday. You're in the compound break room, refilling your coffee, existing in the pleasant background hum of people going about their business. Sam is leaning against the counter, telling a story about something that happened during a training exercise. Natasha is perched on the counter beside him, eating an apple with a knife because she's Natasha. You're half listening, half mentally drafting a statement about the upcoming charity gala.
"...and Barnes just stood there," Sam is saying, gesturing broadly. "Didn't say a word. Stone cold. You know how he gets."
Natasha makes a sound of agreement.
"I swear the man could win a staring contest with a statue. I've never met anyone so allergic to expressing a feeling out loud."
He says it lightly. It's a joke. It's the kind of joke Sam makes about Bucky constantly because their entire friendship is built on a foundation of mutual antagonism and genuine affection, and under normal circumstances you'd laugh and file it away as another entry in the Wilson-Barnes comedy archive.
Under normal circumstances.
Your coffee mug is very interesting all of a sudden. Ceramic. White. A hairline crack running from the rim to the handle that you've never noticed before. You trace it with your thumbnail.
"He's getting better," Natasha says mildly. She's watching you. You can tell without looking because you've developed a sixth sense for when Natasha Romanoff's attention lands on you, and it feels like a laser sight settling between your shoulder blades. "In his own way."
"Oh, sure," Sam agrees. "The man's a romantic. He just shows it like a Cold War spy. Dead drops of affection. Encrypted compliments. You gotta be a codebreaker to know what he's feeling."
He means it fondly. You know he means it fondly.
Your throat is tight anyway.
"Excuse me." You set your mug down. "I have a draft to finish."
"Hey. You alright?" Sam asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes it all worse, somehow, because you know they care.
"Yeah, totally fine." You smile. It's a good smile. Professional-grade. You've been building smiles like this for a living. "Just on a deadline, you know?"
You leave before either of them can respond.
Your office is small, windowless, crammed with filing cabinets and framed press clippings, and right now it is the most welcoming room in the compound because it has a door that closes.
You close it. Sit in your chair. Put your hands flat on the desk and try to breathe.
Allergic to expressing a feeling out loud.
It's not fair to let Sam's joke land like this. Sam doesn't know about the gap you're feeling. Sam doesn't know about the way Bucky's mouth opens and closes around words he won't release, or the way your chest tightens every time it happens. Sam is just being Sam, ribbing his friend the way friends do, and you are the one turning it into something painful.
But the thing about pain is that it don't care about whether it's fair or not, to hurt.
It just hurts.
You pull up the press release on your computer. Stare at it. The cursor blinks with the patient indifference of inanimate objects.
What if he can't ever say it?
The thought arrives fully formed, as if it's been assembled somewhere in the back of your mind and has simply been waiting for the right moment to step forward. You've been keeping it at arm's length for weeks, but Sam's joke tore the wrapping off and now it's just sitting there, ugly and bare.
What if it's not about timing or readiness? What if the wiring in his head is damaged in a way that can't be fixed? What if HYDRA took the part of him that could say those words and burned it out, the way they burned out everything else? What if he feels it but can never say it, and you'll spend the rest of this relationship reading between the lines of his actions and hoping, always hoping, but never truly knowing?
And then comes the guilt. Because you're sitting in your temperature-controlled office, at your comfortable job, projecting your emotional needs onto a man who survived seventy years of torture, and framing his survival as a deficiency. As though the issue is that he's broken. As though he owes you his reconstruction on a schedule that's convenient for your anxiety.
You press your palms against your eyes.
I'm selfish. I'm selfish for wanting it and I'm selfish for pulling away because I don't have it, and he's going to notice, and he's going to think it's about him—
—it is about him—
—but not the way he'll think, not because he's doing something wrong, but because he's doing everything right and it's still not enough, and what kind of person needs more than everything—
—Your phone buzzes, and you drop your hands.
📱 Bucky: Heading out for a run. Dinner tonight?
You pick up the phone. Your thumbs hover.
📱 You: Sounds good. Your place or mine?
📱 Bucky: Yours. I'll cook.
📱 You: You don't have to do that.
📱 Bucky: I know. I want to.
You set the phone down. Press your fingers to your mouth. He wants to. He always wants to. He wants to so loudly and so consistently that the absence of the words shouldn't matter, and you hate yourself a little for the fact that it does.
📱 You: Okay. See you tonight ❤️
The heart emoji is a coward's substitute. You know it. He probably knows it. You send it anyway, because a red cartoon heart is easier to deploy than the real one beating traitorously behind your ribs.
That evening, he makes chicken. Some recipe he found online, slightly over-seasoned and over-salted because he's still calibrating his palate after decades of nutritional paste and whatever HYDRA fed its assets. You eat every bite and tell him it's great, and it is great because he made it for you, and when he smiles at the compliment you feel something fracture quietly in your chest.
He shows up unexpected on a Friday night.
No text first. No warning. Just three knocks, and when you open the door he's standing in the hall with a metal case tucked under his left arm.
It's small. Matte black. The kind of container designed to look nondescript yet announcing, by virtue of that very effort, that its contents are anything but.
"Hi," you say.
"Hey." He's watching your face with that particular intensity of his that you've only ever seen briefings, or in the field footage they sometimes screen for the PR team. It's his mission face, which is an odd thing to wear to your apartment on a Friday evening.
"What's in the case?" you finally ask.
He doesn't answer right away, which makes your anxiety spike. He steps inside, past you, and moves to set the case on your kitchen counter. With his thumbs he clicks the latches open, and lifts the lid. Inside, nestled in molded foam, sits a glass vial of clear liquid and a sealed syringe.
Your body recognizes it before your brain does. Something in your nervous system fires, a sense-memory that bypasses cognition entirely; the prick of a needle, the slow warmth spreading through your veins, the absolute inability to keep your mouth shut...
Your pulse spikes.
"Bucky, is that—"
"—yeah. Sodium thiopental." He says it the way he'd say olive oil or laundry detergent "Pharmaceutical grade. Lifted it from the med bay."
"You stole truth serum from the Avengers compound?"
"Borrowed. I borrowed it."
"Bucky." You stare at the vial. "Why do you have truth serum in my kitchen?"
He leans against the counter. Crosses his arms. The leather of his jacket creaks. "Last time, you were the one who couldn't lie. Figured it's my turn."
"Your turn," you repeat dumbly.
"Yeah. My turn, because you've been pulling away." No preamble, no easing in. Straight to it. "You say you're fine and you're not fine, and I can push or I can wait, and pushing isn't something I'm willing to do if it ends up just pushing you away. So." He nods at the case. "This is option three."
"Option three is injecting yourself with a drug that makes you incapable of lying?"
"No, option three is making sure you actually believe the answers." His voice is steady, but there's something underneath it, something running hot beneath the calm surface. "So, ask me anything. I won't be able to dodge it, spin it, or soften it. You'll know it's true because I won't have a choice."
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
"Bucky, that's insane."
"Probably."
"No, that's actually insane. You can't just—Bucky, that stuff—I know what it does. I lived what it does. You lose control of—"
"—I know what I lose, and I'm choosing to lose it. For you."
Your heart is doing something unsustainable now.
"You don't have to do this," you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you want it to.
"I know I don't." He uncrosses his arms. Reaches for the vial. "But you need to ask, and I need you to believe the answers, and right now we're stuck because you don't trust the words without proof." He rolls the vial between his fingers, glass catching the kitchen light. "So here's the proof."
You watch him prep the syringe with the efficiency of someone who's been on the receiving end of needles more times than any person should be. Draw, tap, flick. No hesitation. His left hand holds the syringe steady—metal fingers don't shake—and he pushes his sleeve up his right arm with his teeth.
"Wait," you say. He pauses. Looks at you. "Just... are you sure?"
"Ask me that again in about two minutes and you'll know I mean it."
The needle goes in. He depresses the plunger with his thumb. Slow, measured, watching the liquid disappear with clinical detachment.
You can't breathe.
He pulls the needle out, sets the syringe on the counter, and drops into one of your kitchen chairs with the unhurried ease of a man settling in for a conversation. Rolls his sleeve back down. Flexes his fingers once, twice, like he's testing for a change.
"How long does it take?" you ask.
"Faster metabolism, so it should already be—" He blinks, then tilts his head. "—yeah. That's... yeah."
"Yeah... what?"
He rolls his jaw, testing. "Ask me something you already know the answer to. As a baseline."
You sink into the chair across from him. Your knees are unsteady. "Okay. Okay, um." Your brain casts around for something simple, something verifiable, and lands on the obvious. "Do you like blueberries?"
The change is immediate. His mouth moves before the rest of his face catches up, like the words have a head start. "No. Hate them. They tasted different before, in the forties. Sweeter, or maybe my tongue worked different back then, I don't know. Now they taste like watered-down nothing."
You press your hand over your mouth to stifle a hysterical little laugh. Because the delivery is so him—blunt, slightly indignant, more detailed than the question warrants—and because it's almost word for word what you told a room full of mercenaries three months ago.
"It's working," you say.
"It's working," he confirms. There's a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or anticipation.
"Okay. Okay." You tuck your legs up onto the chair, settling in, and some of the fear starts to give way to something else. Curiosity. The same reckless, giddy curiosity you imagine a scientist feels right before they throw the switch to a mad science experiment.
"What do you really think of Sam?" you ask, riding the momentum.
"He's one of the best people I've ever met. Genuinely good in a way that I don't think I've been, maybe ever. He's annoying and loud and he never lets anything go and he gave Steve his trust without hesitation even when he had no reason to, and then he gave me the same thing even though he had every reason not to." His expression looks almost pained. "If you ever tell him I said any of that, I will deny it under oath."
"Noted." You're grinning. He's scowling, but it's the fake scowl, the one that means he's not actually mad. "This is fun."
"For you. Fun for you, you psychopath."
"Very much for me, yes." You shift in your chair. The giddiness is still there, buzzing under your skin, but underneath it something else is rising. A tide. The real questions, pressing against the back of your throat.
Bucky sees the shift. You watch him see it. His body changes, some subtle rearrangement of posture that means he's bracing.
"Go ahead," he says. Quiet now. The humour's drained out and what's left is steady and open and terrifying.
You take a breath.
"When you go quiet," you say carefully. "When you're looking at me and you start to say something and then don't. Is that because of me? Because of something I did?"
His answer comes immediately, as though the words were already assembled and just needed permission to deploy. "Yes and no. It's because of you in the sense that you're the reason the words exist. It's not because of you in the sense that you're doing something wrong. I go quiet because I have something specific I want to say and I'm afraid of what it'll do once it's out. Not to you. To me. Because once I say it, you'll have it, and I have a long history of having things taken." He swallows. "That's not rational. I know it's not rational. You're not HYDRA, you're not a threat, you're the safest person I know. But the flinch is still there. It fires before I can override it."
Your eyes are burning. You blink hard.
"Are you happy?" you ask.
"Yes." The fastest answer yet. "I mean, not in every moment. I still have nightmares. I still lose time sometimes, get stuck in my head. But the overall shape of my life is something I would choose. You're something I would choose. I choose you every day. It's the easiest decision I make."
You press your fingers to your lips. Breathe through the ache.
"Do you think about leaving?"
"No." Just as fast. "I think about whether you'll leave. Whether you'll wake up one morning and do the math and realize you could be with someone uncomplicated. Someone who doesn't check the exits when he enters a room or sleep with a knife in the nightstand or flinch at fireworks in July. I think about that more than I should."
"Bucky—"
"—you asked." His voice is raw. "I'm answering. Can't lie, remember?"
You nod and swallow. There's one more question in the chamber and you both know it. You can feel it in the air between you, the way the room seems to contract around the weight of what hasn't been said.
"When you don't say it," you whisper. "Is it because you don't feel it?"
"I feel it constantly." His voice cracks on the second word and keeps going. "I feel it when you steal my shirts. I felt it when you stopped. I feel it when you hum while you're working and when you fall asleep during movies and when you eat my cooking even when I put too much salt in because you think I don't notice your face but I always notice your face. I feel it when I fill your water glass, which I know is a stupid thing, a small thing, but it's the first thing I thought of when I started staying here and I just kept doing it because it meant I could take care of you in this one tiny way while you were sleeping. I feel it in the morning when you haven't opened your eyes yet and you look so..." He stops. Breathes. "I feel it all the time. I feel it right now. The words aren't the problem. The words are easy. I've just been so afraid that saying them out loud makes them real, and real things can be taken away."
The kitchen is very quiet.
"Okay," you manage. Your voice is wrecked.
"Okay," he echoes.
You sit with it. Let the weight of it settle into the room, into your bones. He's watching you, and for the first time in weeks the gap between you doesn't feel like a gulf. It feels like a doorway.
You wipe your eyes with the heel of your hand. Breathe in. Breathe out.
"What are you thinking about right now?" you ask, and the register of the question has changed. Dropped lower. You're not sure when it shifted. Somewhere between I feel it constantly and the way his eyes went dark when he said I always notice your face.
Bucky's throat works. "You. Specifically, the fact that you're sitting in that chair in my shirt."
You look down. You are wearing the Henley. The one you stopped wearing. You grabbed it tonight without thinking about it, pulled it on after your shower because it was there and it was soft and it smelled like him.
"I thought you stopped," he says. His voice has gone lower too. Rougher. "When you stopped wearing them I thought it meant you were pulling away for good and it scared me more than most things I've faced, which is a long list."
"I'm wearing it now," you say.
"I know." His gaze drops from your face to the collar of the Henley, the way it's slipping off one shoulder, the bare skin beneath. "I noticed when you opened the door. Thought about pushing you against the wall right then."
The heat that moves through you is immediate and liquid. "Why didn't you?"
"Because we needed to talk first." His jaw is tight. "And because the drug means I'm going to say exactly what I'm thinking, and what I'm thinking right now is not about talking."
Your mouth is dry. "What are you thinking right now?"
"That I want to put my mouth on your shoulder where that collar is slipping." The words come out like they're being pulled. Low, strained, deliberate despite the supposed compulsion. "That I want to find out if you taste different when you've been wanting something. That you're sitting four feet away from me and it's too far."
You uncurl your legs from the chair. Place your bare feet on the floor. The distance between your chair and his is exactly the length of the kitchen table.
"Tell me," you say slowly, "what you think about when I'm not here."
His pupils dilate. You watch it happen.
"Specific or general?"
"No, specific."
He leans forward. Forearms on his knees. The posture should be casual but there's nothing casual about the way he's looking at you. "Tuesday. You left for work in that gray skirt, the one with the slit up the back. You kissed me goodbye and you tasted like the vanilla latte you'd been drinking and I stood at the window and watched you walk to your car and thought about pulling that skirt up."
Your breath catches.
"I thought about bending you over the kitchen counter. Right here. Pushing that skirt up around your waist and finding out what sounds you make when I take my time. I thought about it for twenty minutes after you left. I was late to training."
"Bucky." His name comes out thin.
"You asked." That phrase again. But this time there's a darkness in it, something that runs hot. "You want me to stop?"
"No." The word is out before you can think about it. "What else?"
He exhales through his nose. Controlled. Barely. "I think about your hands. The way you grip the sheets when you're close. The way you grab the back of my neck when you want me to kiss you harder. I think about the sound you make right before you come, that sound like you're surprised every time, like you can't believe it's happening, and I think about how I want to hear it over and over until you can't make any sound at all."
You're gripping the seat of your chair now. Your knuckles ache.
"I think about last Saturday," he says. "When you rode me on the couch. The way you looked. Your head tipped back and your mouth open and my shirt riding up your thighs because you'd stolen it again. The way you said my name."
The kitchen table is between you. Four feet of oak. It might as well be an ocean.
"What do you want to do to me?" you ask, hoarsely. "Right now?"
Bucky stands up.
The chair doesn't scrape. It just ceases to be beneath him as he rises with the fluid, deliberate motion of someone who moves through space like it owes him something. Two steps and he's in front of you, looking down, and the overhead light puts his face in sharp relief: the line of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes, the way his chest is moving faster than his expression would suggest.
He leans down. Hands on the arms of your chair, caging you in. His face is inches from yours.
"I want to take this shirt off you," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Slowly, because you wearing my clothes does something to me I can't explain and I've been thinking about it since you opened the door. I want to pick you up and put you on that counter and find out how sensitive you are right now, because your pupils are blown and your breathing's changed and I can see your pulse in your throat and it's fast."
His mouth brushes your ear. "I want to make you come with my hands first because I want to feel it. Then with my mouth because I want to taste it. And then I want to fuck you so slowly that you forget every question you were going to ask, because the only word I want you to remember tonight is my name."
Your hand comes up and fists in the front of his jacket.
"Then do it."
He lifts you out of the chair like you weigh nothing.
Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, arms looping his neck, and he carries you three steps to the counter before you pull back and say "No."
He stops. Instantly. Every muscle locked. "No?"
"Chair," you say. "Sit down."
Something shifts in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Surrender, definitely. He reverses course, sinks into his chair with you still wrapped around him, and now you're in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, looking down at him for the first time all night.
He's beautiful like this. Jaw tight, pupils blown, hands hovering at your waist like he's waiting for permission. The overhead light catches the planes of his face, and you think about all the times you've looked at him across conference tables and break rooms and crowded briefing halls, wanting exactly this. Proximity. Access. The ability to take his face in your hands, which is what you do now, tilting his chin up with your fingers.
"Rules," you say.
His throat bobs. "Rules."
"You can touch me." You drag your thumb across his lower lip and watch his eyes darken. "But you don't lead. You don't guide. You don't take over." You lean closer, mouth grazing his. "And you answer every question I ask."
"I couldn't lie right now if I wanted to." His voice is strained.
"I know." You kiss the corner of his mouth. "That's the point."
His hands settle on your waist. Light. Obedient. The restraint in his fingers, the controlled stillness of a man who could bench-press a truck choosing to hold you like glass, sends heat curling through your belly.
You kiss him properly. Slow, deliberate, your tongue sliding against his, and he groans into your mouth. One hand flexes on your hip, tightens, then consciously loosens. Following the rules you'd laid out.
You pull back. "What are you feeling right now?"
"Your weight in my lap." His reply is immediate and completely unfiltered. "Warm. The inside of your thighs against my hips. Your fingers on my jaw. My heartbeat in my throat." He swallows. "Want. A stupid amount of want."
You roll your hips. Just once, slow, testing, and his breath punches out of him.
"More specific," you murmur.
"I'm hard and you're right there and every time you move I can feel the heat of you through my jeans and it's making it very difficult to follow your rules." His hands are trembling on your waist. Fine, barely perceptible tremors. "I want to pull you down against me. I'm not going to, because you told me not to. But I want you to know the not doing it is costing me something."
"Good." You reach between you and pull his jacket off his shoulders. He helps, shrugging out of it, and then your hands are on the hem of his shirt and you're peeling it over his head.
You've seen him shirtless dozens of times. It doesn't matter. The topography of him still makes your mouth dry. Scarred skin and dense muscle and the gleaming juncture where vibranium meets flesh, and you flatten your palms against his chest and feel his heart slamming under your touch.
"My turn," you say, and pull the Henley over your head.
Nothing underneath. You hadn't bothered with a bra after your shower, which means you're bare from the waist up, and the sound Bucky makes is low and wrecked and involuntary.
"Tell me what you see," you say.
"You." The word comes out rough. "Your skin in this light. The mark I left on your ribs last week that's almost faded, and I want to put it back."
Your breath catches. His eyes drop to the spot in question, a faint yellow-green shadow above your hip, and his thumb finds it. Presses gently.
"Here," he says. "Right here. You made this sound when I did it. This gasp, like you weren't expecting it to feel good. I've been thinking about that sound for eight days straight."
You take his hand, lift it to your breast, press it flat. His fingers curve around you, metal cool against your skin, and a shiver runs through you. His thumb drags across your nipple and your hips roll forward involuntarily, grinding down against the hard line of him through denim.
"How long have you wanted this?" you ask, breathless. "Tonight. This specific thing."
"Since I loaded the syringe." His thumb circles, slow and maddening. "Before that. Since I decided to do this. I spent three days thinking about how it would go. Whether you'd ask the questions I needed you to ask. Whether you'd end up here." His free hand slides up your spine, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, and even now he's not pulling you closer. Just touching. Mapping. "I hoped you'd end up here."
You reach down between your bodies and work his belt open. The metal clinks in the quiet kitchen. His stomach muscles jump when your knuckles brush them.
"Lift up," you tell him, and he does, hips rising just enough for you to drag his jeans and boxers down. He kicks them off, and then he's bare beneath you, hard and straining.
You stand just long enough to shed your own bottoms. His eyes track every movement, heavy-lidded, intent, and when you climb back into his lap the first press of skin against skin makes you both hiss.
You're wet. You've been wet since he started talking in that wrecked, helpless voice, and when you settle against him the slick heat of your cunt meets the hard length of him and his head drops back.
"Christ." His hands grip the sides of the chair. White-knuckled, both flesh and metal. "You feel—I can't—you're so warm and I can feel how wet you are and I need—"
"Need what?"
"You." His head comes back up. His eyes find yours. "Just you. Always you."
You rise onto your knees. Reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around his cock. He's hot and hard and his whole body shudders when you line him up against your entrance.
"Ask me," you whisper.
He understands. "Please."
You sink down.
Slowly. Inch by inch, letting gravity and your own slick heat do the work, and the stretch of him fills you so completely that the breath leaves your lungs in a rush. His jaw clenches. His hands abandon the chair and find your hips, fingers pressing in, but he doesn't pull. Doesn't guide. Just holds on.
"Tell me," you breathe when he's fully inside you. "Tell me what I feel like."
"Tight." The word grinds out of him. "Hot. Like you were made for—" He cuts off. Tries to stop. Can't. "—it's like coming home. Every time. That's what it feels like. Like I spent seventy years in the cold and you're the first warm thing I've ever felt."
Your eyes sting. You start to move.
Slow. Rolling your hips in a deliberate rhythm, taking him deep on each downstroke, savoring the way his face contorts. He's fighting himself. You can see it. Every instinct in his body wants to thrust up, to grab your hips and set his own pace, and he's holding back with the same iron discipline he brings to everything, all because you asked.
"What do you think about when you're inside me?" you ask, and your voice is barely steady.
"How you move." His breath is ragged. "Like right now, the way your stomach flexes when you roll forward. The sound you make at the bottom, that little catch. The way you get tighter when I say things like this, like the words themselves are doing something to you."
He's right. You clench around him involuntarily and he groans, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.
"I think about making you come," he continues, and his filter truly has dissolved entirely. "I think about it constantly. At dinner, in the field, in the shower at 6 AM. What angle, what speed, what words. I catalog everything that works. I have a mental file on what makes you fall apart and I add to it every time we're together."
You're trembling. Your thighs burn with the effort of maintaining this rhythm, slow and grinding, and the pressure is building, coiling tight.
"Bucky..."
"The way you say my name." His voice breaks on it. "Right there. That tone. Nobody's ever said my name the way you do. Like it belongs to someone worth wanting."
You lean forward and kiss him, messy and desperate, hips never stilling. His hands slide up your back and pull you closer, chest to chest, and the change in angle drives him deeper and you gasp into his mouth.
"What do you want right now?" you ask against his lips.
"To tell you something I should've said weeks ago." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been trying. Every morning in your kitchen and every night in your bed I've been trying to get it out and I keep choking on it because I'm terrified."
Your rhythm falters. "Terrified of what?"
"That saying it makes it real, and real things—"
"—can be taken away." You finish it for him. Your hands cradle his face. "I know. I know."
"But it's already real." His voice is raw, scraped down to bedrock. "It's been real for months."
"So tell me." You're barely moving now, bodies intertwined, your foreheads pressed together and your breath shared. "Tell me, Bucky."
He looks at you. And you watch every wall, every defense, every carefully maintained barrier come down at once. Like a building demolition. Like controlled collapse. Everything falling inward to leave clear ground.
"I love—"
"—I love you." It tears out of you first. Unplanned, uncontrolled, ripped from the exact place where you've been keeping it locked for weeks. Your eyes are blurring and your voice is cracked and you say it again because once isn't enough, because the dam is broken now. "I love you. I love you, I've been so scared to say it, I've been pulling away because I was afraid you couldn't—"
—he surges up and kisses you. Hard, bruising, both hands in your hair, and the careful restraint he's been maintaining all night shatters. His hips snap up into you and you cry out against his mouth.
"I love you," he says between kisses, between thrusts, his voice wrecked and fierce. "I love you, I've loved you since you stood up in that press room and told a man twice your size that his question was inappropriate and your hands were shaking but your voice wasn't. I loved you when you brought muffins to a briefing. I loved you when you walked into a wall because I held a door. I loved you when you told a room full of mercenaries about my blueberries because even drugged out of your mind the only secret you had was me."
He's fucking up into you now with purpose, one arm banded around your waist, the other gripping the back of the chair for leverage. The rhythm is punishing and deep and every thrust drives the breath from you.
"I love you when you steal my shirts." His mouth moves down your throat. "I love you when you hum. I love you when you sleep. I love you when you lie and say you're fine because even your lies are about protecting me and I don't deserve—"
"—no, you deserve," you gasp, grinding down to meet each thrust. "You deserve everything, you deserve the words, you deserve—"
"You." His arm tightens. "Just you. That's everything."
The orgasm builds like a wave, like pressure against a wall, like something too big to contain. You're holding his face in your hands and he's looking at you, right at you, no walls left, nothing hidden. Just his eyes, wide and wet and full of something so vast it terrifies you.
"I love you," you say again, and his jaw flexes, and his hips stutter, and you feel him swell inside you.
"Come with me." It's not a question and it's not a command and it's not a compulsion. It's a request, from the most honest voice he has.
You shatter.
It rolls through you, deep, total, pulling every muscle taut, and you bury your face in his neck and shake apart. You feel him follow. His arms crush you against him and he groans your name, the one that belongs to a different vocabulary, and spills into you with a shudder that runs through his whole body.
For a long time, there is only breathing.
Your face is wet. His shoulder is wet where your face has been pressed. You're not sure when you started crying and you're not sure you've stopped. His hand is in your hair, moving in slow strokes, and his chest rises and falls beneath you in a rhythm that gradually steadies.
"Hey," he whispers.
You lift your head. He looks wrecked. Beautiful. Open in a way you've never seen, the last of his architecture dismantled, and what's underneath is just a man who loves you. That's all. That's everything.
"Hi," you say.
He traces the tear tracks on your cheeks with his thumb. Flesh hand. Warm, calloused, impossibly gentle. "You okay?"
You laugh. It comes out watery and broken. "Yeah. Really okay. The most okay."
"Good." He kisses your forehead. Your temple. The bridge of your nose. "For the record, I didn't need the drug."
Your brow furrows. "What?"
"To say it. I didn't need the drug. I just needed you to believe it when I did." He tucks your hair behind your ear. "The drug was for you, not for me."
You think about this. About the vial and the syringe and the way he sat down in your kitchen chair and said ask me anything. About the elaborate architecture of permission he built so you'd trust the answer to the one question you were terrified to ask.
"You're a very strategic person," you tell him.
"Tactical vulnerability," he agrees.
You laugh again, less broken this time. He pulls you closer, shifts so your weight settles more comfortably in his lap, and you wince slightly at the movement.
"Sore?" he murmurs.
"Worth it."
He stands, still holding you, carrying you the way he did at the start of the night, and takes you to the bedroom. Lays you down. Disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm cloth, cleaning you up with careful hands.
You watch him from the pillows. "You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The taking-care-of-me thing."
"I always do the taking-care-of-you thing."
"I know." You catch his hand when he's done, press your lips to his knuckles. "I love you."
The smile that breaks across his face is the most unguarded thing you've ever seen him produce. "Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, you impossible, dramatic, tactically vulnerable lunatic."
He drops next to you in bed and pulls you against his chest, both arms locked around you like he's defending the perimeter, and you feel his lips move against your hair when he says it back. Quietly, like a secret that's no longer a secret.
"I love you."
Then, after a pause, he says, "I'm going to fill your water glass."
"You don't have to."
"Yeah, I know. I want to."
Bucky really did feel it hit him.
A warm bloom at the injection site, spreading up through the vein, reaching for his brain with chemical fingers. Sodium thiopental. The same compound that turned you into a forty-five-minute monologue about blueberries and forearms in a warehouse three months ago.
For you, it had lasted hours. For him? It lasted about... six seconds.
Then the serum in his blood burned it out of his system with the brutal efficiency of a system designed to neutralize poisons, toxins, and everything in between. By the time he sat down in your kitchen chair and said ask me something you already know the answer to, he would've passed a drug test with flying colours. His mind was sharp. Every synapse firing exactly the way it always did, free of compulsion.
He knew that would happen. He'd confirmed it with Bruce two days ago, framed as a hypothetical. If someone with the serum were exposed to sodium thiopental, how fast would the metabolism clear it? Bruce had looked at him over the rim of his glasses and said almost immediately and then asked why he wanted to know, and Bucky had said curiosity and left before the follow-up questions started.
He could have stopped every single answer that you coaxed out of him.
He chose not to.
Bucky shifts onto his side, careful not to disturb the arm you've slung across his chest. You're deep under, breathing slow, face slack with the particular peace of someone who got the answer they needed. Your fingers are curled loosely against his sternum, right above his heart, and he covers them with his own.
The truth is simple. He'd rehearsed every answer. He knew which questions you'd start with and which ones you'd build toward, because he knows you, because knowing you is the thing he's best at, better than fieldwork, better than the rifle, better than any skill HYDRA ever burned into his bones.
He knew you needed to believe that he couldn't lie. Because you'd spent weeks building a case against yourself, constructing an argument that wanting the words made you selfish, and no amount of voluntary honesty was going to dismantle something that fortified. You had to think the answers were compelled so you could trust them completely. So the part of your brain that interrogates everything, that qualifies and second-guesses and builds escape routes, would finally stand down.
You needed him to tell that one little lie, and it was the only one he told tonight.
Pressing closer, you murmur something in your sleep, your nose finding the hollow of his throat. He tightens his arm around you in response, and presses his mouth to the top of your head.
Summary: Bucky Barnes owns a quiet little bookstore in Brooklyn. You own the flower shop next door. Somewhere between shared coffees, rainy afternoons, and flowers appearing between the bookshelves, the two of you fall hopelessly in love.
Warnings/tags: afab reader, fluff, slow burn, mutual pining, meet cute, friends to lovers, idiots in love, soft Bucky, nicknames bookstore boy & flower girl, brooklyn neighbors root for them, weaponized peonies, reader forgets to eat while stressed, no use of y/n 🌷
Bucky notices your hands first... not in a weird way, and certainly not intentionally.
He notices because they move through his bookstore like they belong there, fingertips ghosting over spines with impossible gentleness, like every book on the shelf is something alive. Most customers come into his shop with a purpose. They ask for recommendations, wander toward bestsellers, scroll on their phones while they browse. But you move slowly. Thoughtfully. Like the smell of old paper, coffee, and worn wood means something to you.
And then he notices the rest of you.
The soft knit sweater slipping off one shoulder. The tiny crease between your brows while you read back covers. The tote bag hanging from your wrist with little embroidered flowers stitched across the canvas. You're beautiful in a way that catches him off guard completely. Not loud. Not flashy. Just warm. Like spring sunlight through a window after a brutal New York winter.
Bucky nearly drops the stack of returned books in his hands when you smile at him for the first time.
The bookstore is quiet that afternoon. Rain taps softly against the windows facing the street, blurring the city into watercolor streaks of yellow taxis and umbrellas. Somewhere in the back, an old jazz record crackles low through the speakers.
"Sorry," you say, holding up a novel. "Do you happen to know if this one's any good? Or am I about to emotionally ruin my entire weekend?"
Bucky looks down at the book in your hands. Then back up at you. And promptly forgets how words work. His mouth opens and then loses.
"It's..." He clears his throat. "It's devastating."
Your eyes brighten immediately. "Perfect."
God. Even your laugh is pretty.
He walks around the counter before he can overthink it, taking the book gently from your hands to flip through it. "The ending's worth it, though," he says. "Hurts like hell, but worth it."
"That's the best kind."
"Yeah?"
You nod. "If a book doesn't alter my emotional stability at least a little, what's the point?"
Bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, and something in his chest shifts strangely at how easy this conversation feels. You introduce yourself after that, offering your name with another smile that leaves him feeling vaguely concussed. He repeats it back carefully, like he wants to make sure he says it right.
"I'm Bucky."
"I know," you say casually. "Your store's famous."
His eyebrows lift. "Famous?"
"Well, neighborhood famous." You shrug. "People online keep calling you the grumpy hot bookstore owner."
Bucky stares at you. You stare back for exactly three seconds before dissolving into laughter.
"I'm kidding," you promise. "Mostly."
He rubs a hand down his face while you grin at him over the top of the counter, and for the first time all day, the rain outside doesn't seem so miserable anymore.
By the time you leave, you've bought three books instead of one. Bucky watches through the window as you disappear into the gray blur of the city with your tote bag clutched to your chest. He tells himself he's only watching to make sure you don't get caught in the heavier rain halfway down the block.
That's definitely why. Not because he already misses the sound of your voice in his store.
A few mornings later, Brooklyn wakes up loudly. Delivery trucks rumble through the streets. Steam curls from sewer grates in cold spring air. Somebody nearby is already mentally preparing himself for inventory hell when movement catches his eye.
You... standing right beside the storefront next door. The shop had been empty for weeks. Except now, it's not so empty. Your back is turned toward him while you unlock the door, and Bucky catches sight of painted lettering across the front window that he somehow completely missed before.
Brooklyn Blooms: Florals for every occasion.
Buckets of flowers sit just inside the glass, bursts of color spilling everywhere. Pale pink peonies. Sunflowers. Baby's breath. Wild eucalyptus hanging in bundles from the ceiling. More flowers than he could even name.
You glance over your shoulder at the sound of his keys jingling and smile immediately.
"Bookstore Boy," you greet warmly.
"You own this spot?" he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Proud owner, in fact," you nod at him.
You laugh again, bright and effortless, and he swears the whole block feels warmer because of it.
"Well," you say, pushing your door open with your hip, "looks like we're neighbors."
Neighbors.
The word settles somewhere deep in his chest. He's going to see you more often than he thought. Bucky looks at your shop, then at you standing in the doorway with morning light catching against your hair, and realizes with sudden, horrifying clarity that he is absolutely doomed.
Brooklyn settled into both of them quietly. It wasn't some grand, cinematic sweep where music swelled, and strangers suddenly became inseparable. It happened in pieces each morning. In soft clinks of keys against locks at eight-thirty sharp. In sleepy waves exchanged across neighboring storefronts while the city still yawned itself awake around them.
Bucky found himself noticing your routines before he meant to. The way you always arrived, balancing a coffee tray and your tote bag at the same time, like gravity simply worked differently for you. The way you crouched outside Brooklyn Blooms every morning to rearrange the flower buckets on the sidewalk until they looked "welcoming," whatever that meant. The way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear while reading delivery invoices with an expression so serious it made him want to laugh. He learned your habits the same way he learned favorite lines from books. Slowly. Accidentally. By paying attention too often.
And somehow, over the span of one week, you became folded into his mornings so naturally it startled him.
"Morning, bookstore boy," you called one Tuesday while drawing little flowers on the chalkboard sign outside your shop.
Bucky unlocked his door beside you, coffee warming his hand against the chilly spring air. "You know I have an actual name."
You looked up immediately, smiling like you'd been waiting for him to say something back. "I know. But bookstore boy is more fun."
"You're annoying."
"And yet you keep talking to me."
Bucky hid the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth by turning toward his door. "Tragic, really."
Your laugh followed him into the bookstore like sunlight.
The thing was, Brooklyn Blooms changed the block.
Before you arrived, the storefront beside his had sat empty for months behind dusty paper-covered windows. Now, color spilled onto the sidewalk every morning. Buckets overflowing with peonies and tulips and hydrangeas stood outside your shop like little declarations of spring. The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the open doorway whenever the weather was warm enough, sneaking next door into Bucky's bookstore until paper and flowers became permanently tangled together in the air. He liked it more than he should've.
By Thursday afternoon, the sky turned strange. Dark clouds rolled low over Brooklyn, swallowing the sunlight until the whole neighborhood looked as if it were dipped in slate-gray watercolor. The wind picked up first, rattling storefront awnings and sending loose petals skittering down the sidewalk.
Bucky noticed the weather absently while shelving returns near the front window. Then he noticed you.
You stood outside Brooklyn Blooms with your arms crossed against the wind, staring down the street with growing concern. A delivery truck had just pulled up to the curb. And then the rain started. Not a gentle spring rain... a straight up downpour.
The sky cracked open so suddenly pedestrians shrieked and scattered beneath awnings. Rain hammered the sidewalks hard enough to bounce. Within seconds the street gleamed silver beneath the storm.
Bucky watched your expression shift from annoyed to horrified as the delivery driver opened the back of the truck to reveal buckets upon buckets of flowers.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," he heard you groan faintly through the glass.
You rushed forward immediately, trying to drag the first heavy box toward the shop while rain soaked through your sweater in seconds.
Bucky didn't even give it a second thought. He grabbed his jacket and headed your way. Cold rain drenched him instantly. His boots splashed through pooling water as he crossed the sidewalk toward you. You looked up in surprise just as he grabbed the other side of the box in your hands.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Rain streamed from your hair. Your cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, your shirt clinging damply to your skin. Water dripped from your eyelashes while you stared at him like you couldn't quite believe he was there.
"Hi," you said breathlessly.
Bucky tightened his grip on the box. "You looked like you were losing a fight."
Your laugh burst out immediately, bright even beneath the roar of rain. "I was absolutely losing a fight."
Together, you hauled the flowers inside. The storm turned the next fifteen minutes into complete chaos. Buckets crowded the floor. Wet cardboard piled near the counter. Rainwater streaked across the hardwood while both of you rushed back and forth between the truck and the shop, soaked to the bone by the time the last delivery made it safely inside.
By the end of it, Brooklyn Blooms smelled overwhelmingly alive. Fresh roses. Wet soil. Lilies. Rain.
Bucky stood near the doorway, catching his breath while water dripped from the ends of his hair onto the floorboards. You looked equally wrecked. And somehow even prettier than the first day he met you.
Your sleeves were pushed up to your elbows now, damp curls sticking to your cheeks while you surveyed the flower-filled disaster around the shop.
Your eyes landed on Bucky and softened.
"You ran into a thunderstorm for me," you said quietly, like you were still trying to process it.
Bucky shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing. "Couldn't let the flowers die."
"That's very heroic of you."
"I'm basically a firefighter."
You laughed again. God, he was starting to think he'd do almost anything to hear that sound.
"C'mere," you said suddenly.
Bucky blinked.
You disappeared into the back room for a moment before returning with a towel in your hands. "You're dripping all over my floor."
"Sorry."
"You should be." You stepped closer without hesitation, lifting the towel toward his head.
Bucky froze.
Not visibly, maybe. But internally, something in him stalled completely as you gently rubbed the towel through his soaked hair. The gesture was so casual. So soft. Like taking care of him was the most natural thing in the world.
"There," you murmured. "Slightly less drowned."
Bucky looked down at you standing barely a foot away from him among buckets of roses and peonies and wildflowers while rain battered the windows outside.
Something warm unfurled low in his chest. Dangerous territory.
He cleared his throat roughly and glanced toward the nearest flower bucket. "So," he said. "Which one of these dies the fastest? I need to know what not to touch."
You grinned immediately, mercifully letting him recover. "You know nothing about flowers, do you?"
"Not a damn thing."
"Cute."
Bucky nearly choked on air. You either didn't notice or pretended not to.
The storm stretched through the evening, trapping both of you inside Brooklyn Blooms long after the delivery was unpacked. Eventually, the frantic energy faded into something quieter.
You made tea in the tiny back room while Bucky sat perched awkwardly on a stool behind the counter, surrounded by flowers in every direction. The hanging lights above the shop cast everything gold and honey-soft against the storm-dark windows.
"You know," you said while setting a mug in front of him, "you look weirdly intimidating holding a cup with tiny flowers on it."
Bucky looked down at the ceramic mug covered in painted daisies. "Feels threatening."
"I'm terrified."
He huffed out a laugh into his tea.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. And somehow the silence felt easy. Bucky realized then that he couldn't remember the last time being around someone felt this uncomplicated. No expectations. No noise. Just you across from him in your flower shop while rain tapped softly against the windows.
When the storm finally weakened into drizzle, the clock had already crept past closing time.
Bucky stood reluctantly near the door, tugging his jacket back on.
"Thanks again," you said softly. "For helping."
"Anytime." And he meant it instantly.
You glanced around the shop before suddenly reaching into a nearby bucket. "Wait."
Bucky watched you pull out a single pale pink peony, still slightly damp from the rainstorm.
You held it toward him. "A bookstore shouldn't be without flowers."
Bucky took the flower carefully from your hand, absurdly aware of your fingers brushing his for half a second.
"Goodnight, bookstore boy," you teased gently.
He looked down at the peony in his large hand, then back at you, standing warm and glowing beneath the hanging lights of Brooklyn Blooms.
"Goodnight, flower girl," he said quietly.
A full grin broke out on your face as he turned to leave. When he crossed back into his bookstore next door, he carried the flower as if it were something precious enough to break.
It rained for a few days in a row, so business was slow for both of you. Brooklyn smelled like spring after the storms. The sidewalks still held traces of rain in the cracks, darkened pavement glistening beneath the pale morning sun, while steam curled lazily from nearby subway grates. Someone down the block had music playing through an open café window. Delivery trucks rumbled past in slow fits. The neighborhood was waking up after the clouds had gone away.
Bucky unlocked the bookstore with coffee in one hand and sleep still clinging stubbornly to his shoulders. The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside, and he immediately stopped.
It smelled different. It looked different. The familiar scent of old paper and cedar shelves lingered beneath something fresh and green. Floral. Clean in a way the bookstore had never been before. Tiny arrangements tucked carefully throughout the shop like little secrets. A vase of pale yellow daisies sat near the register. Sprigs of eucalyptus had been woven around the front display table beside stacks of hardcovers. Baby's breath rested between shelves in little glass jars no bigger than coffee mugs.
Bucky stared. Slowly, his eyes narrowed.
Next door, Brooklyn Blooms was just opening for the morning. And through the shop window, he could see you crouched beside flower buckets on the sidewalk, trying unsuccessfully to hide your smile.
Unbelievable.
The bell above the bookstore door jingled again twenty minutes later. You walked in carrying coffee and looking very pleased with yourself.
"Morning, bookstore boy."
Bucky crossed his arms behind the counter. "You break into my store, flower girl?"
You blink at him innocently. "Break in is such an ugly phrase."
"You had unauthorized floral access to my property," he responds.
"You gave me a key."
"I didn't expect you to use it for botanical warfare."
Your laugh rang through the bookstore instantly, bright enough to pull a reluctant smile at the corner of Bucky's mouth despite himself.
"I was helping," you defended, setting his coffee down on the counter. "Your shop looked emotionally unavailable."
"It's a bookstore."
"It looked like it listened to sad jazz on purpose."
"It does listen to sad jazz on purpose."
"Exactly my point."
Bucky shook his head while you wandered deeper into the store like you belonged there already. You moved naturally through the aisles now, fingertips grazing familiar shelves while morning sunlight spilled gold across the hardwood floors around you. Your tote bag bumped lightly against your hip as you browsed, pausing every few minutes to tilt your head thoughtfully at a title.
Bucky found himself watching you more often than he meant to. Actually, scratch that. Constantly. It was distracting.
"You're staring again," you said casually from halfway across the store.
Bucky nearly choked on his coffee. "I wasn't staring."
"Mhm."
"You're very smug for someone trespassing before business hours."
You grinned over your shoulder at him, and Bucky suddenly understood why people wrote poetry. Unfortunately.
The flowers became a thing after that. Every morning, Bucky would find something new somewhere in the bookstore. Tiny white carnations near the classics section. Lavender tucked beside the register. Once, an entire little arrangement of wildflowers sitting beside his coffee machine in the back room. And every single time, he pretended to be annoyed about it while secretly protecting those flowers with his life.
"You know those have to be watered, right?" you asked one afternoon while leaning against the counter.
Bucky looked offended. "I know how plants work."
"You absolutely do not."
"I've kept all of them alive."
"You almost killed the hydrangeas yesterday."
"They're dramatic."
"They were thirsty."
"Same thing."
Your laughter came easier around him now. So did his.
Somewhere between rainy afternoons and shared coffees and flowers appearing in his bookstore overnight, the space between your shops had started shrinking. The neighborhood noticed before either of you did. Mrs. Alvarez from the bakery next door leaned across Bucky's counter one morning while buying her usual mystery novels.
"That sweet girl from the flower shop has you smiling," she informed him bluntly.
Bucky nearly dropped the book he was holding. "I smile."
"Not before her." She patted his cheek like she'd solved him completely and walked out.
Things only got worse from there. The café on the corner started handing Bucky two coffees automatically every morning.
"You waiting for your florist today?" the barista asked with a grin one Thursday.
"She's not my florist."
"Sure, man."
Meanwhile, customers inside Brooklyn Blooms had apparently started asking questions, too.
A woman buying tulips glanced between you and the bookstore next door before smiling knowingly. "The handsome man at the bookshop your boyfriend?"
You nearly stabbed yourself with floral scissors. "Nope," you answered far too quickly.
Unfortunately, Bucky chose that exact moment to walk into the shop carrying a stack of mail. The woman's smile widened immediately.
"Oh," she said. "Definitely not your boyfriend."
Your face burned.
Bucky looked between both of you suspiciously. "Why do I feel like I walked into something?"
"Nothing!" you rushed the word out.
"Feels aggressive for nothing."
The customer looked delighted by your suffering.
By late afternoon, Brooklyn Blooms glowed warm beneath hanging lights while golden sunset spilled through the front windows. The shop smelled overwhelmingly like roses and fresh greenery. Soft indie music hummed quietly overhead while you stood behind the worktable assembling bouquets with practiced hands.
Bucky lingered nearby, pretending to organize a display of candles he had absolutely no reason to be touching.
"You know," you said without looking up, "most people buy flowers before hanging around a flower shop this much."
Bucky leaned against the counter. "Maybe I'm here for the free entertainment."
"You watching me process inventory?"
"You threaten hydrangeas in a very compelling way."
You laughed softly, shaking your head. Then, without warning, Bucky stepped closer behind you to reach for the scissors resting near your elbow. The movement brought him close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushed your lower back.
The air shifted in a way you fully expected. You caught the scent of cedar and coffee and old paper clinging to him from the bookstore next door. Bucky suddenly became aware of the warmth of your shoulder, inches from his chest, the faint floral perfume wrapped around you like spring itself.
Neither of you moved immediately.
Then Bucky cleared his throat roughly and lifted the scissors. "Weapon acquired."
Your heartbeat stumbled annoyingly hard.
"Cool," you said weakly.
By closing time, the neighborhood had settled into evening calm. Storefront lights glowed amber against deepening blue skies while pedestrians drifted home carrying grocery bags and takeout containers. Somewhere farther down the block, someone laughed loudly enough for it to echo between buildings. Bucky locked the bookstore door later than usual that night after getting caught reorganizing shelves for nearly an hour.
The street outside had mostly emptied by then. As he shoved his keys into his jacket pocket, he looked into your shop window, just to see what you were up to. What he saw was a very asleep you. The lights inside your shop still glowed softly over scattered paperwork and half-finished floral arrangements. You sat slumped behind the counter with your cheek resting against folded arms, completely passed out beside an open inventory binder.
A tiny crease pinched between Bucky's brows immediately. You'd skipped lunch earlier. Again.
Muttering under his breath, he crossed the quiet sidewalk toward your shop. The door was unlocked. Girl...
The soft bell jingled faintly overhead as he stepped inside. Flowers perfumed the air around him while warm light spilled across the hardwood floors. You didn't stir. Bucky glanced around the shop before quietly flipping the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. Then he disappeared briefly down the block.
When he returned ten minutes later, he had a paper takeout bag from the little deli on the corner. Carefully, he set it beside your sleeping form on the counter. For a second, he just stood there looking at you. At the way your hair had fallen across your cheek. At the exhaustion written softly into your sleeping expression. Something in his chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before he could think too hard about it, Bucky grabbed a pen from beside the register and scribbled across a receipt.
Eat something, flower girl.
He placed the note on top of the bag, then he quietly walked back out into the Brooklyn night before you could wake up and catch him caring too much.
Friday mornings in Brooklyn can be chaos. Very alive chaos. The sidewalks outside the bookstore were flooded with people before nine in the morning. Couples walking dogs, morning coffee runs, someone nearby playing music loud enough to echo between buildings. Doors are swinging endlessly open and shut beneath the rush of weekend customers.
Next to the bookstore, Brooklyn Blooms looked like it had exploded. Flowers crowded every available surface. Buckets overflowed onto the sidewalk beneath the striped awning outside your shop. White roses, pale blush peonies, delicate renunculuses, and full-bodied hydrangeas were carefully bundled beside ribbons and greenery spilling across a worktable near the back.
Bucky stood in the doorway of his bookstore with coffee in hand, watching you move frantically around the shop before he'd even technically opened for the day. Your storefront sat only a few feet away from his, but he could almost hear your voice through the open shop door when the street noise quieted.
You were already stressed, and he could tell immediately. Your hair was clipped up messily, though strands had escaped hours ago and curled around your face while you worked. Your apron had splotches of wetness and dirt on the front. A pencil was tucked behind your ear while you balanced a phone between your shoulder and your cheek.
“Yes, I understand the ceremony starts at four tomorrow,” you were saying patiently into the phone while trimming stems one-handed. “No, I absolutely did not forget the sweetheart table arrangements.”
There was a pause where your expression flattened. “No, ma’am, I do not think white roses symbolize bad luck.”
Bucky snorted into his coffee. You looked up to see him, standing in the shop doorway, and mouthed help me at him dramatically through the open doorway. Bucky only grinned before turning to open the bookstore.
By eleven, the entire building smelled like coffee and flowers. The wedding order had apparently consumed your whole life. Bucky learned this because you kept appearing in his bookstore throughout the morning, looking vaguely unhinged.
"Do you have tape?"
"Yes."
"Scissors?"
“You stole mine yesterday.”
“Rude. Do you have more?”
“You’re terrifying under pressure, flower girl.”
You pointed at him threateningly before hurrying back next door into Brooklyn Blooms again.
The thing was, Bucky liked watching you work. Maybe too much. Every time business slowed in the bookstore, his attention drifted instinctively toward the neighboring shop. Toward you, weaving between flower buckets with focused determination. Toward your hands, carefully tying satin ribbon around bouquets. Toward the concentrated little crease between your brows while you worked through invoices spread across the counter. You moved beautifully when you were busy. Quickly and gracefully. Every motion already existed in your body before you made it.
Around two in the afternoon, Bucky wandered next door carrying coffee and found you sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, surrounded by flowers and ribbon scraps. You looked exhausted.
“Alive?” he asked.
“Debatable.”
Bucky handed you the coffee. Your fingers brushed his briefly as you took it, warm from handling floral buckets all morning.
“Thanks,” you murmured before immediately taking a desperate sip.
Bucky leaned against the counter nearby, eyes drifting around the shop.
The wedding order was enormous.
Half-finished centerpieces crowded every table. White roses rested in neat piles beside overflowing greenery. Soft instrumental music floated through the overhead speakers while sunlight streamed through the front windows, turning the whole flower shop gold.
“She looked relaxed, too.” You stared into your coffee bitterly. “Like she had peace.”
Bucky only laughed softly, and just like that, your shoulders loosened a little. That was becoming his favorite thing, watching stress leave your face around him.
By late afternoon, Brooklyn Blooms had turned warm and dreamy beneath hanging lights while evening settled slowly over the neighborhood outside. The bookstore had quieted too. Most of the foot traffic disappeared as dinner hour approached, leaving the block calmer than it had been all day. The sky outside glowed dusky blue beyond the windows while storefront lights flickered on one by one down the street.
Bucky locked up the bookstore around seven. Your lights are still on next door. He stepped out of the bookstore and crossed the few feet between your neighboring storefronts before pushing open the door to Brooklyn Blooms. The soft bell chimed gently overhead.
You didn’t notice him at first. You sat on the hardwood floor near the back worktable, surrounded by bouquet boxes and paperwork, one knee pulled against your chest while you tied ribbon around another arrangement with exhausted concentration.
For a second, Bucky just watched you. The shop looked softer at night. More intimate somehow. Golden light spilled low across the floorboards. Flowers cast long shadows against the walls. Outside, Brooklyn moved more quietly now beneath glowing streetlights and passing headlights. Inside, it felt tucked away from the rest of the world.
Your eyes lifted eventually. The second you saw him, your whole expression changed. Your body relaxed a little, and so did your mind.
“Store closed already?” you asked softly.
“Yeah.”
You nodded absently before returning to the ribbon in your hands.
Bucky frowned slightly. “You still working?”
A long sigh escaped you. “Unless one of these bouquets magically finishes itself.”
He looked around the shop at the mountains of flowers, at the exhaustion written all over your face, at the half-eaten pack of crackers abandoned beside your invoices. Then he looks back at you.
“C’mon.”
You blinked up at him. “What?”
“You’re done for tonight.”
“I literally am not.”
“You are now.”
“Bucky.”
“You haven’t eaten real food all day.”
“I had half a muffin.”
“That’s not food.”
“It had blueberries.”
Bucky crouched down in front of you before you could keep arguing. Close enough now that you could smell cedar and coffee clinging to his jacket from next door.
“Flower girl,” he said more quietly this time, “the flowers will still be here in an hour.”
Your breath caught a little at the softness in his voice. You looked down at the ribbon still tangled loosely between your fingers before finally mumbling, “I still need to finish the bridal bouquets.”
“Tomorrow.”
“The wedding’s tomorrow.”
“Then future-you can deal with it.”
You laughed tiredly despite yourself.
“There she is,” Bucky murmured.
Your chest squeezed unexpectedly. Before you could process that too deeply, Bucky reached forward and gently tugged the ribbon from your hands. Then he stood and held a hand toward you.
“Dinner,” he said simply.
You stared up at him. At the roughness of his larger hand, waiting patiently for yours, at the way he looked so certain you’d follow him, and maybe the dangerous thing wasn’t that you wanted to. Maybe it was how safe it felt to.
Slowly, you placed your hand in his. Bucky's fingers closed warmly around yours as he pulled you to your feet. Neither of you let go immediately after.
The tiny Italian restaurant sat three blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and an old tailor shop with faded green awnings. It was warm inside and crowded. The air smelled of garlic, wine, and fresh bread while soft Sinatra crackled through the overhead speakers. Candlelight flickered across dark wood tables packed close enough together that conversations blurred warmly into one another.
Bucky looked unfairly handsome there. You noticed that almost immediately. The low lighting softened the sharp edges of him while warmth colored his features in amber gold. His sleeves were rolled slightly up his forearms now, exposing strong hands wrapped loosely around a wine glass while he watched you across the table with quiet attention. He looked comfortable, relaxed in a way you rarely saw during busy workdays.
“This place is nice,” you said softly while tearing apart a piece of bread.
Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Been coming here forever.”
“You know everybody in Brooklyn?”
“Most people know me.”
“You’re like a cryptid neighborhood uncle.”
Bucky nearly choked on his drink, laughing. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Your laughter spilled between you easily now.
The evening stretched slowly after that. It was comfortable. The conversation wandered everywhere. You learned that Bucky grew up only a few neighborhoods away from the bookstore. He inherited the shop from an older family friend who retired years ago. He liked old records because they sounded “warmer” than digital music. That he secretly loved terrible black-and-white monster movies despite pretending otherwise.
And Bucky learned things, too. You moved to Brooklyn three years ago because Manhattan felt too loud. Those flowers reminded you of your grandmother’s garden growing up. That you talked with your hands when you got excited. Your smile changed completely when you laughed for real.
At some point, the waitress refilled your wine glasses and smiled knowingly at both of you.
“You two are cute,” she said casually before walking away.
Neither of you spoke. Bucky looked away from her and rubbed the back of his neck. You stared very hard at your plate. You mumbled a quick thank you as she turned to walk away. Your knee brushed his beneath the small table a few seconds later.
Outside, Brooklyn had settled fully into the night by the time you finally left the restaurant. The air felt cooler now. Soft. Streetlights reflected gold against damp sidewalks while the city hummed low and distant around you. Most storefronts had already gone dark for the evening, leaving pockets of warm light glowing across the neighborhood.
You walked beside Bucky slowly. Not because either of you needed to. Because neither of you seemed ready for the night to end yet. Your shoulders bumped occasionally along narrower stretches of sidewalk. Sometimes his hand brushed yours for half a second before pulling away again. Every tiny accidental touch felt enormous now.
When your storefronts finally came into view down the block, both of you slowed instinctively. Brooklyn Blooms glowed softly beside the bookstore beneath the apartment windows above. Bucky’s shop sat dark except for the warm lamp he always left burning near the front window overnight.
You stopped beneath the awning stretching across both storefronts. Neither of you spoke immediately. The city moved quietly around you while distant music drifted faintly through the street somewhere nearby.
You smiled at him softly. "Thanks for dinner, bookstore boy."
Bucky looked at you for a long second, like he was seeing something new.
"Anytime, flower girl," he said quietly.
Eventually, you glanced upward toward the apartment above Brooklyn Blooms before taking a small step backward.
“I should probably finish those bouquets,” you admitted reluctantly.
“Probably.”
“But I’m significantly less miserable now.”
“That’s my specialty.”
Your eyes drifted toward Bucky beside you, and your chest tightened a little at the sight of him standing there beneath the warm streetlight glow. His jacket hung open slightly from the walk back. His hands rested in his pockets like he was trying very hard to seem calmer than he actually was. But something about him felt different now.
Bucky looked down the street briefly before exhaling softly through his nose.
“So,” he started roughly.
You smiled a little. “So?”
His jaw shifted like he was reconsidering whatever he’d been about to say. “I've been thinking about what that waitress said.”
Your heartbeat stumbled immediately. “Oh?”
Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable in a way you’d never really seen before. Not guarded, but very nervous.
“She said we looked cute together,” he muttered.
Warmth flooded your face instantly. “She did say that.”
“Yeah.”
Silence settled briefly between you again while distant traffic hummed somewhere farther down the block.
Bucky’s gaze dropped toward the sidewalk before lifting back to yours. “And I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I guess it got stuck in my head.”
Something soft opened painfully in your chest. The city suddenly felt very far away. Bucky shifted closer slightly beneath the awning, close enough now that you could smell traces of cedar and wine and old paper lingering on him from the bookstore.
“I just...” He paused, visibly searching for the right words. “These last few months with you next door...” A quiet laugh escaped him, almost disbelieving. “You kinda became my favorite part of the day.”
Your eyes widened when he finished his sentence, and Bucky... well, Bucky looked terrified after saying it.
“You come into the bookstore, and suddenly it doesn’t feel so empty anymore,” he continued softly. “And I keep finding reasons to walk next door even when I don’t need anything.” His mouth tugged into the faintest self-conscious smile. “Pretty sure everybody on this block figured it out before I did.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly, because god... You'd been feeling it too. Every morning waiting for his bookstore lights to turn on beside yours. Every coffee shared between customers. Every flower he carefully kept alive like it mattered. Every moment he lingered in Brooklyn Blooms just to stand near you.
You stepped closer to him. "Bucky," you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours immediately, hopeful in the smallest, most fragile way.
"I like you too," you admitted softly.
The tension in his shoulders loosened so fast it almost hurt to see.
“No,” you corrected gently, smiling despite the way your heart pounded. “Actually, I think I’ve been a little in love with you for a while now.”
Bucky stared at you, completely still. Like the words had knocked the air from his lungs. Then he laughed quietly under his breath, almost overwhelmed by it.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured.
“What?”
“You can’t just say things like that to me, flower girl.”
Your smile widened helplessly. The look on his face right then nearly ruined you. Soft and warm, like he was seeing something precious.
Slowly, carefully, Bucky lifted one hand toward your face, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His knuckles brushed your cheek so gently it made your chest ache.
"You sure?" he asked quietly.
And there he is... Bucky Barnes beneath all the gruffness and teasing and quiet staring. Careful with you, gentle.
You leaned into his touch slightly. "So sure."
Something tender cracked open in his expression. Then Bucky kissed you. Softly at first, tentatively. Like he was still half-convinced you might disappear if he moved too quickly. But the second your hand slid into the front of his jacket, and you kissed him back, something warm and relieved left him in a quiet breath against your mouth. It deepened slowly after that. Totally unhurried. His hand settled gently against your jaw while yours curled against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
The kiss felt exactly like the last few months have felt with him. Warm coffee. Soft music through the walls. Rain against the flower shop windows. The faint smell of dirt and florals. The musky, cedar scent of the bookstore. Home.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you had moved very far. Bucky rested his forehead lightly against yours, eyes closed briefly like he needed a second to recover.
“Well,” he murmured softly.
You laughed breathlessly. “Well?”
“Think the neighborhood’s gonna be unbearable about this.”
You grinned. “Mrs. Alvarez is going to throw rice at us.”
“Barista’s never letting me live it down.”
Your fingers brushed lightly along the front of his jacket. “You seem pretty okay with that suddenly.”
Bucky opened his eyes then. And the look there nearly stole your breath all over again.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really am.”
Above you, apartment windows glowed warmly over Brooklyn Blooms and the bookstore while Brooklyn hummed softly into the night around you. And beneath the shared awning between your neighboring shops, Bucky kissed you again like he’d been wanting to for months.
All Chalky Rainbow Dividers used are made by @uzmacchiato, and you can find them here! Thank you <3
Thanks for reading! A reminder that my requests are open! <3
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Summary: Bucky Barnes owns a quiet little bookstore in Brooklyn. You own the flower shop next door. Somewhere between shared coffees, rainy afternoons, and flowers appearing between the bookshelves, the two of you fall hopelessly in love.
Warnings/tags: afab reader, fluff, slow burn, mutual pining, meet cute, friends to lovers, idiots in love, soft Bucky, nicknames bookstore boy & flower girl, brooklyn neighbors root for them, weaponized peonies, reader forgets to eat while stressed, no use of y/n 🌷
Bucky notices your hands first... not in a weird way, and certainly not intentionally.
He notices because they move through his bookstore like they belong there, fingertips ghosting over spines with impossible gentleness, like every book on the shelf is something alive. Most customers come into his shop with a purpose. They ask for recommendations, wander toward bestsellers, scroll on their phones while they browse. But you move slowly. Thoughtfully. Like the smell of old paper, coffee, and worn wood means something to you.
And then he notices the rest of you.
The soft knit sweater slipping off one shoulder. The tiny crease between your brows while you read back covers. The tote bag hanging from your wrist with little embroidered flowers stitched across the canvas. You're beautiful in a way that catches him off guard completely. Not loud. Not flashy. Just warm. Like spring sunlight through a window after a brutal New York winter.
Bucky nearly drops the stack of returned books in his hands when you smile at him for the first time.
The bookstore is quiet that afternoon. Rain taps softly against the windows facing the street, blurring the city into watercolor streaks of yellow taxis and umbrellas. Somewhere in the back, an old jazz record crackles low through the speakers.
"Sorry," you say, holding up a novel. "Do you happen to know if this one's any good? Or am I about to emotionally ruin my entire weekend?"
Bucky looks down at the book in your hands. Then back up at you. And promptly forgets how words work. His mouth opens and then loses.
"It's..." He clears his throat. "It's devastating."
Your eyes brighten immediately. "Perfect."
God. Even your laugh is pretty.
He walks around the counter before he can overthink it, taking the book gently from your hands to flip through it. "The ending's worth it, though," he says. "Hurts like hell, but worth it."
"That's the best kind."
"Yeah?"
You nod. "If a book doesn't alter my emotional stability at least a little, what's the point?"
Bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, and something in his chest shifts strangely at how easy this conversation feels. You introduce yourself after that, offering your name with another smile that leaves him feeling vaguely concussed. He repeats it back carefully, like he wants to make sure he says it right.
"I'm Bucky."
"I know," you say casually. "Your store's famous."
His eyebrows lift. "Famous?"
"Well, neighborhood famous." You shrug. "People online keep calling you the grumpy hot bookstore owner."
Bucky stares at you. You stare back for exactly three seconds before dissolving into laughter.
"I'm kidding," you promise. "Mostly."
He rubs a hand down his face while you grin at him over the top of the counter, and for the first time all day, the rain outside doesn't seem so miserable anymore.
By the time you leave, you've bought three books instead of one. Bucky watches through the window as you disappear into the gray blur of the city with your tote bag clutched to your chest. He tells himself he's only watching to make sure you don't get caught in the heavier rain halfway down the block.
That's definitely why. Not because he already misses the sound of your voice in his store.
A few mornings later, Brooklyn wakes up loudly. Delivery trucks rumble through the streets. Steam curls from sewer grates in cold spring air. Somebody nearby is already mentally preparing himself for inventory hell when movement catches his eye.
You... standing right beside the storefront next door. The shop had been empty for weeks. Except now, it's not so empty. Your back is turned toward him while you unlock the door, and Bucky catches sight of painted lettering across the front window that he somehow completely missed before.
Brooklyn Blooms: Florals for every occasion.
Buckets of flowers sit just inside the glass, bursts of color spilling everywhere. Pale pink peonies. Sunflowers. Baby's breath. Wild eucalyptus hanging in bundles from the ceiling. More flowers than he could even name.
You glance over your shoulder at the sound of his keys jingling and smile immediately.
"Bookstore Boy," you greet warmly.
"You own this spot?" he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Proud owner, in fact," you nod at him.
You laugh again, bright and effortless, and he swears the whole block feels warmer because of it.
"Well," you say, pushing your door open with your hip, "looks like we're neighbors."
Neighbors.
The word settles somewhere deep in his chest. He's going to see you more often than he thought. Bucky looks at your shop, then at you standing in the doorway with morning light catching against your hair, and realizes with sudden, horrifying clarity that he is absolutely doomed.
Brooklyn settled into both of them quietly. It wasn't some grand, cinematic sweep where music swelled, and strangers suddenly became inseparable. It happened in pieces each morning. In soft clinks of keys against locks at eight-thirty sharp. In sleepy waves exchanged across neighboring storefronts while the city still yawned itself awake around them.
Bucky found himself noticing your routines before he meant to. The way you always arrived, balancing a coffee tray and your tote bag at the same time, like gravity simply worked differently for you. The way you crouched outside Brooklyn Blooms every morning to rearrange the flower buckets on the sidewalk until they looked "welcoming," whatever that meant. The way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear while reading delivery invoices with an expression so serious it made him want to laugh. He learned your habits the same way he learned favorite lines from books. Slowly. Accidentally. By paying attention too often.
And somehow, over the span of one week, you became folded into his mornings so naturally it startled him.
"Morning, bookstore boy," you called one Tuesday while drawing little flowers on the chalkboard sign outside your shop.
Bucky unlocked his door beside you, coffee warming his hand against the chilly spring air. "You know I have an actual name."
You looked up immediately, smiling like you'd been waiting for him to say something back. "I know. But bookstore boy is more fun."
"You're annoying."
"And yet you keep talking to me."
Bucky hid the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth by turning toward his door. "Tragic, really."
Your laugh followed him into the bookstore like sunlight.
The thing was, Brooklyn Blooms changed the block.
Before you arrived, the storefront beside his had sat empty for months behind dusty paper-covered windows. Now, color spilled onto the sidewalk every morning. Buckets overflowing with peonies and tulips and hydrangeas stood outside your shop like little declarations of spring. The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the open doorway whenever the weather was warm enough, sneaking next door into Bucky's bookstore until paper and flowers became permanently tangled together in the air. He liked it more than he should've.
By Thursday afternoon, the sky turned strange. Dark clouds rolled low over Brooklyn, swallowing the sunlight until the whole neighborhood looked as if it were dipped in slate-gray watercolor. The wind picked up first, rattling storefront awnings and sending loose petals skittering down the sidewalk.
Bucky noticed the weather absently while shelving returns near the front window. Then he noticed you.
You stood outside Brooklyn Blooms with your arms crossed against the wind, staring down the street with growing concern. A delivery truck had just pulled up to the curb. And then the rain started. Not a gentle spring rain... a straight up downpour.
The sky cracked open so suddenly pedestrians shrieked and scattered beneath awnings. Rain hammered the sidewalks hard enough to bounce. Within seconds the street gleamed silver beneath the storm.
Bucky watched your expression shift from annoyed to horrified as the delivery driver opened the back of the truck to reveal buckets upon buckets of flowers.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," he heard you groan faintly through the glass.
You rushed forward immediately, trying to drag the first heavy box toward the shop while rain soaked through your sweater in seconds.
Bucky didn't even give it a second thought. He grabbed his jacket and headed your way. Cold rain drenched him instantly. His boots splashed through pooling water as he crossed the sidewalk toward you. You looked up in surprise just as he grabbed the other side of the box in your hands.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Rain streamed from your hair. Your cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, your shirt clinging damply to your skin. Water dripped from your eyelashes while you stared at him like you couldn't quite believe he was there.
"Hi," you said breathlessly.
Bucky tightened his grip on the box. "You looked like you were losing a fight."
Your laugh burst out immediately, bright even beneath the roar of rain. "I was absolutely losing a fight."
Together, you hauled the flowers inside. The storm turned the next fifteen minutes into complete chaos. Buckets crowded the floor. Wet cardboard piled near the counter. Rainwater streaked across the hardwood while both of you rushed back and forth between the truck and the shop, soaked to the bone by the time the last delivery made it safely inside.
By the end of it, Brooklyn Blooms smelled overwhelmingly alive. Fresh roses. Wet soil. Lilies. Rain.
Bucky stood near the doorway, catching his breath while water dripped from the ends of his hair onto the floorboards. You looked equally wrecked. And somehow even prettier than the first day he met you.
Your sleeves were pushed up to your elbows now, damp curls sticking to your cheeks while you surveyed the flower-filled disaster around the shop.
Your eyes landed on Bucky and softened.
"You ran into a thunderstorm for me," you said quietly, like you were still trying to process it.
Bucky shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing. "Couldn't let the flowers die."
"That's very heroic of you."
"I'm basically a firefighter."
You laughed again. God, he was starting to think he'd do almost anything to hear that sound.
"C'mere," you said suddenly.
Bucky blinked.
You disappeared into the back room for a moment before returning with a towel in your hands. "You're dripping all over my floor."
"Sorry."
"You should be." You stepped closer without hesitation, lifting the towel toward his head.
Bucky froze.
Not visibly, maybe. But internally, something in him stalled completely as you gently rubbed the towel through his soaked hair. The gesture was so casual. So soft. Like taking care of him was the most natural thing in the world.
"There," you murmured. "Slightly less drowned."
Bucky looked down at you standing barely a foot away from him among buckets of roses and peonies and wildflowers while rain battered the windows outside.
Something warm unfurled low in his chest. Dangerous territory.
He cleared his throat roughly and glanced toward the nearest flower bucket. "So," he said. "Which one of these dies the fastest? I need to know what not to touch."
You grinned immediately, mercifully letting him recover. "You know nothing about flowers, do you?"
"Not a damn thing."
"Cute."
Bucky nearly choked on air. You either didn't notice or pretended not to.
The storm stretched through the evening, trapping both of you inside Brooklyn Blooms long after the delivery was unpacked. Eventually, the frantic energy faded into something quieter.
You made tea in the tiny back room while Bucky sat perched awkwardly on a stool behind the counter, surrounded by flowers in every direction. The hanging lights above the shop cast everything gold and honey-soft against the storm-dark windows.
"You know," you said while setting a mug in front of him, "you look weirdly intimidating holding a cup with tiny flowers on it."
Bucky looked down at the ceramic mug covered in painted daisies. "Feels threatening."
"I'm terrified."
He huffed out a laugh into his tea.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. And somehow the silence felt easy. Bucky realized then that he couldn't remember the last time being around someone felt this uncomplicated. No expectations. No noise. Just you across from him in your flower shop while rain tapped softly against the windows.
When the storm finally weakened into drizzle, the clock had already crept past closing time.
Bucky stood reluctantly near the door, tugging his jacket back on.
"Thanks again," you said softly. "For helping."
"Anytime." And he meant it instantly.
You glanced around the shop before suddenly reaching into a nearby bucket. "Wait."
Bucky watched you pull out a single pale pink peony, still slightly damp from the rainstorm.
You held it toward him. "A bookstore shouldn't be without flowers."
Bucky took the flower carefully from your hand, absurdly aware of your fingers brushing his for half a second.
"Goodnight, bookstore boy," you teased gently.
He looked down at the peony in his large hand, then back at you, standing warm and glowing beneath the hanging lights of Brooklyn Blooms.
"Goodnight, flower girl," he said quietly.
A full grin broke out on your face as he turned to leave. When he crossed back into his bookstore next door, he carried the flower as if it were something precious enough to break.
It rained for a few days in a row, so business was slow for both of you. Brooklyn smelled like spring after the storms. The sidewalks still held traces of rain in the cracks, darkened pavement glistening beneath the pale morning sun, while steam curled lazily from nearby subway grates. Someone down the block had music playing through an open café window. Delivery trucks rumbled past in slow fits. The neighborhood was waking up after the clouds had gone away.
Bucky unlocked the bookstore with coffee in one hand and sleep still clinging stubbornly to his shoulders. The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside, and he immediately stopped.
It smelled different. It looked different. The familiar scent of old paper and cedar shelves lingered beneath something fresh and green. Floral. Clean in a way the bookstore had never been before. Tiny arrangements tucked carefully throughout the shop like little secrets. A vase of pale yellow daisies sat near the register. Sprigs of eucalyptus had been woven around the front display table beside stacks of hardcovers. Baby's breath rested between shelves in little glass jars no bigger than coffee mugs.
Bucky stared. Slowly, his eyes narrowed.
Next door, Brooklyn Blooms was just opening for the morning. And through the shop window, he could see you crouched beside flower buckets on the sidewalk, trying unsuccessfully to hide your smile.
Unbelievable.
The bell above the bookstore door jingled again twenty minutes later. You walked in carrying coffee and looking very pleased with yourself.
"Morning, bookstore boy."
Bucky crossed his arms behind the counter. "You break into my store, flower girl?"
You blink at him innocently. "Break in is such an ugly phrase."
"You had unauthorized floral access to my property," he responds.
"You gave me a key."
"I didn't expect you to use it for botanical warfare."
Your laugh rang through the bookstore instantly, bright enough to pull a reluctant smile at the corner of Bucky's mouth despite himself.
"I was helping," you defended, setting his coffee down on the counter. "Your shop looked emotionally unavailable."
"It's a bookstore."
"It looked like it listened to sad jazz on purpose."
"It does listen to sad jazz on purpose."
"Exactly my point."
Bucky shook his head while you wandered deeper into the store like you belonged there already. You moved naturally through the aisles now, fingertips grazing familiar shelves while morning sunlight spilled gold across the hardwood floors around you. Your tote bag bumped lightly against your hip as you browsed, pausing every few minutes to tilt your head thoughtfully at a title.
Bucky found himself watching you more often than he meant to. Actually, scratch that. Constantly. It was distracting.
"You're staring again," you said casually from halfway across the store.
Bucky nearly choked on his coffee. "I wasn't staring."
"Mhm."
"You're very smug for someone trespassing before business hours."
You grinned over your shoulder at him, and Bucky suddenly understood why people wrote poetry. Unfortunately.
The flowers became a thing after that. Every morning, Bucky would find something new somewhere in the bookstore. Tiny white carnations near the classics section. Lavender tucked beside the register. Once, an entire little arrangement of wildflowers sitting beside his coffee machine in the back room. And every single time, he pretended to be annoyed about it while secretly protecting those flowers with his life.
"You know those have to be watered, right?" you asked one afternoon while leaning against the counter.
Bucky looked offended. "I know how plants work."
"You absolutely do not."
"I've kept all of them alive."
"You almost killed the hydrangeas yesterday."
"They're dramatic."
"They were thirsty."
"Same thing."
Your laughter came easier around him now. So did his.
Somewhere between rainy afternoons and shared coffees and flowers appearing in his bookstore overnight, the space between your shops had started shrinking. The neighborhood noticed before either of you did. Mrs. Alvarez from the bakery next door leaned across Bucky's counter one morning while buying her usual mystery novels.
"That sweet girl from the flower shop has you smiling," she informed him bluntly.
Bucky nearly dropped the book he was holding. "I smile."
"Not before her." She patted his cheek like she'd solved him completely and walked out.
Things only got worse from there. The café on the corner started handing Bucky two coffees automatically every morning.
"You waiting for your florist today?" the barista asked with a grin one Thursday.
"She's not my florist."
"Sure, man."
Meanwhile, customers inside Brooklyn Blooms had apparently started asking questions, too.
A woman buying tulips glanced between you and the bookstore next door before smiling knowingly. "The handsome man at the bookshop your boyfriend?"
You nearly stabbed yourself with floral scissors. "Nope," you answered far too quickly.
Unfortunately, Bucky chose that exact moment to walk into the shop carrying a stack of mail. The woman's smile widened immediately.
"Oh," she said. "Definitely not your boyfriend."
Your face burned.
Bucky looked between both of you suspiciously. "Why do I feel like I walked into something?"
"Nothing!" you rushed the word out.
"Feels aggressive for nothing."
The customer looked delighted by your suffering.
By late afternoon, Brooklyn Blooms glowed warm beneath hanging lights while golden sunset spilled through the front windows. The shop smelled overwhelmingly like roses and fresh greenery. Soft indie music hummed quietly overhead while you stood behind the worktable assembling bouquets with practiced hands.
Bucky lingered nearby, pretending to organize a display of candles he had absolutely no reason to be touching.
"You know," you said without looking up, "most people buy flowers before hanging around a flower shop this much."
Bucky leaned against the counter. "Maybe I'm here for the free entertainment."
"You watching me process inventory?"
"You threaten hydrangeas in a very compelling way."
You laughed softly, shaking your head. Then, without warning, Bucky stepped closer behind you to reach for the scissors resting near your elbow. The movement brought him close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushed your lower back.
The air shifted in a way you fully expected. You caught the scent of cedar and coffee and old paper clinging to him from the bookstore next door. Bucky suddenly became aware of the warmth of your shoulder, inches from his chest, the faint floral perfume wrapped around you like spring itself.
Neither of you moved immediately.
Then Bucky cleared his throat roughly and lifted the scissors. "Weapon acquired."
Your heartbeat stumbled annoyingly hard.
"Cool," you said weakly.
By closing time, the neighborhood had settled into evening calm. Storefront lights glowed amber against deepening blue skies while pedestrians drifted home carrying grocery bags and takeout containers. Somewhere farther down the block, someone laughed loudly enough for it to echo between buildings. Bucky locked the bookstore door later than usual that night after getting caught reorganizing shelves for nearly an hour.
The street outside had mostly emptied by then. As he shoved his keys into his jacket pocket, he looked into your shop window, just to see what you were up to. What he saw was a very asleep you. The lights inside your shop still glowed softly over scattered paperwork and half-finished floral arrangements. You sat slumped behind the counter with your cheek resting against folded arms, completely passed out beside an open inventory binder.
A tiny crease pinched between Bucky's brows immediately. You'd skipped lunch earlier. Again.
Muttering under his breath, he crossed the quiet sidewalk toward your shop. The door was unlocked. Girl...
The soft bell jingled faintly overhead as he stepped inside. Flowers perfumed the air around him while warm light spilled across the hardwood floors. You didn't stir. Bucky glanced around the shop before quietly flipping the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. Then he disappeared briefly down the block.
When he returned ten minutes later, he had a paper takeout bag from the little deli on the corner. Carefully, he set it beside your sleeping form on the counter. For a second, he just stood there looking at you. At the way your hair had fallen across your cheek. At the exhaustion written softly into your sleeping expression. Something in his chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before he could think too hard about it, Bucky grabbed a pen from beside the register and scribbled across a receipt.
Eat something, flower girl.
He placed the note on top of the bag, then he quietly walked back out into the Brooklyn night before you could wake up and catch him caring too much.
Friday mornings in Brooklyn can be chaos. Very alive chaos. The sidewalks outside the bookstore were flooded with people before nine in the morning. Couples walking dogs, morning coffee runs, someone nearby playing music loud enough to echo between buildings. Doors are swinging endlessly open and shut beneath the rush of weekend customers.
Next to the bookstore, Brooklyn Blooms looked like it had exploded. Flowers crowded every available surface. Buckets overflowed onto the sidewalk beneath the striped awning outside your shop. White roses, pale blush peonies, delicate renunculuses, and full-bodied hydrangeas were carefully bundled beside ribbons and greenery spilling across a worktable near the back.
Bucky stood in the doorway of his bookstore with coffee in hand, watching you move frantically around the shop before he'd even technically opened for the day. Your storefront sat only a few feet away from his, but he could almost hear your voice through the open shop door when the street noise quieted.
You were already stressed, and he could tell immediately. Your hair was clipped up messily, though strands had escaped hours ago and curled around your face while you worked. Your apron had splotches of wetness and dirt on the front. A pencil was tucked behind your ear while you balanced a phone between your shoulder and your cheek.
“Yes, I understand the ceremony starts at four tomorrow,” you were saying patiently into the phone while trimming stems one-handed. “No, I absolutely did not forget the sweetheart table arrangements.”
There was a pause where your expression flattened. “No, ma’am, I do not think white roses symbolize bad luck.”
Bucky snorted into his coffee. You looked up to see him, standing in the shop doorway, and mouthed help me at him dramatically through the open doorway. Bucky only grinned before turning to open the bookstore.
By eleven, the entire building smelled like coffee and flowers. The wedding order had apparently consumed your whole life. Bucky learned this because you kept appearing in his bookstore throughout the morning, looking vaguely unhinged.
"Do you have tape?"
"Yes."
"Scissors?"
“You stole mine yesterday.”
“Rude. Do you have more?”
“You’re terrifying under pressure, flower girl.”
You pointed at him threateningly before hurrying back next door into Brooklyn Blooms again.
The thing was, Bucky liked watching you work. Maybe too much. Every time business slowed in the bookstore, his attention drifted instinctively toward the neighboring shop. Toward you, weaving between flower buckets with focused determination. Toward your hands, carefully tying satin ribbon around bouquets. Toward the concentrated little crease between your brows while you worked through invoices spread across the counter. You moved beautifully when you were busy. Quickly and gracefully. Every motion already existed in your body before you made it.
Around two in the afternoon, Bucky wandered next door carrying coffee and found you sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, surrounded by flowers and ribbon scraps. You looked exhausted.
“Alive?” he asked.
“Debatable.”
Bucky handed you the coffee. Your fingers brushed his briefly as you took it, warm from handling floral buckets all morning.
“Thanks,” you murmured before immediately taking a desperate sip.
Bucky leaned against the counter nearby, eyes drifting around the shop.
The wedding order was enormous.
Half-finished centerpieces crowded every table. White roses rested in neat piles beside overflowing greenery. Soft instrumental music floated through the overhead speakers while sunlight streamed through the front windows, turning the whole flower shop gold.
“She looked relaxed, too.” You stared into your coffee bitterly. “Like she had peace.”
Bucky only laughed softly, and just like that, your shoulders loosened a little. That was becoming his favorite thing, watching stress leave your face around him.
By late afternoon, Brooklyn Blooms had turned warm and dreamy beneath hanging lights while evening settled slowly over the neighborhood outside. The bookstore had quieted too. Most of the foot traffic disappeared as dinner hour approached, leaving the block calmer than it had been all day. The sky outside glowed dusky blue beyond the windows while storefront lights flickered on one by one down the street.
Bucky locked up the bookstore around seven. Your lights are still on next door. He stepped out of the bookstore and crossed the few feet between your neighboring storefronts before pushing open the door to Brooklyn Blooms. The soft bell chimed gently overhead.
You didn’t notice him at first. You sat on the hardwood floor near the back worktable, surrounded by bouquet boxes and paperwork, one knee pulled against your chest while you tied ribbon around another arrangement with exhausted concentration.
For a second, Bucky just watched you. The shop looked softer at night. More intimate somehow. Golden light spilled low across the floorboards. Flowers cast long shadows against the walls. Outside, Brooklyn moved more quietly now beneath glowing streetlights and passing headlights. Inside, it felt tucked away from the rest of the world.
Your eyes lifted eventually. The second you saw him, your whole expression changed. Your body relaxed a little, and so did your mind.
“Store closed already?” you asked softly.
“Yeah.”
You nodded absently before returning to the ribbon in your hands.
Bucky frowned slightly. “You still working?”
A long sigh escaped you. “Unless one of these bouquets magically finishes itself.”
He looked around the shop at the mountains of flowers, at the exhaustion written all over your face, at the half-eaten pack of crackers abandoned beside your invoices. Then he looks back at you.
“C’mon.”
You blinked up at him. “What?”
“You’re done for tonight.”
“I literally am not.”
“You are now.”
“Bucky.”
“You haven’t eaten real food all day.”
“I had half a muffin.”
“That’s not food.”
“It had blueberries.”
Bucky crouched down in front of you before you could keep arguing. Close enough now that you could smell cedar and coffee clinging to his jacket from next door.
“Flower girl,” he said more quietly this time, “the flowers will still be here in an hour.”
Your breath caught a little at the softness in his voice. You looked down at the ribbon still tangled loosely between your fingers before finally mumbling, “I still need to finish the bridal bouquets.”
“Tomorrow.”
“The wedding’s tomorrow.”
“Then future-you can deal with it.”
You laughed tiredly despite yourself.
“There she is,” Bucky murmured.
Your chest squeezed unexpectedly. Before you could process that too deeply, Bucky reached forward and gently tugged the ribbon from your hands. Then he stood and held a hand toward you.
“Dinner,” he said simply.
You stared up at him. At the roughness of his larger hand, waiting patiently for yours, at the way he looked so certain you’d follow him, and maybe the dangerous thing wasn’t that you wanted to. Maybe it was how safe it felt to.
Slowly, you placed your hand in his. Bucky's fingers closed warmly around yours as he pulled you to your feet. Neither of you let go immediately after.
The tiny Italian restaurant sat three blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and an old tailor shop with faded green awnings. It was warm inside and crowded. The air smelled of garlic, wine, and fresh bread while soft Sinatra crackled through the overhead speakers. Candlelight flickered across dark wood tables packed close enough together that conversations blurred warmly into one another.
Bucky looked unfairly handsome there. You noticed that almost immediately. The low lighting softened the sharp edges of him while warmth colored his features in amber gold. His sleeves were rolled slightly up his forearms now, exposing strong hands wrapped loosely around a wine glass while he watched you across the table with quiet attention. He looked comfortable, relaxed in a way you rarely saw during busy workdays.
“This place is nice,” you said softly while tearing apart a piece of bread.
Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Been coming here forever.”
“You know everybody in Brooklyn?”
“Most people know me.”
“You’re like a cryptid neighborhood uncle.”
Bucky nearly choked on his drink, laughing. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Your laughter spilled between you easily now.
The evening stretched slowly after that. It was comfortable. The conversation wandered everywhere. You learned that Bucky grew up only a few neighborhoods away from the bookstore. He inherited the shop from an older family friend who retired years ago. He liked old records because they sounded “warmer” than digital music. That he secretly loved terrible black-and-white monster movies despite pretending otherwise.
And Bucky learned things, too. You moved to Brooklyn three years ago because Manhattan felt too loud. Those flowers reminded you of your grandmother’s garden growing up. That you talked with your hands when you got excited. Your smile changed completely when you laughed for real.
At some point, the waitress refilled your wine glasses and smiled knowingly at both of you.
“You two are cute,” she said casually before walking away.
Neither of you spoke. Bucky looked away from her and rubbed the back of his neck. You stared very hard at your plate. You mumbled a quick thank you as she turned to walk away. Your knee brushed his beneath the small table a few seconds later.
Outside, Brooklyn had settled fully into the night by the time you finally left the restaurant. The air felt cooler now. Soft. Streetlights reflected gold against damp sidewalks while the city hummed low and distant around you. Most storefronts had already gone dark for the evening, leaving pockets of warm light glowing across the neighborhood.
You walked beside Bucky slowly. Not because either of you needed to. Because neither of you seemed ready for the night to end yet. Your shoulders bumped occasionally along narrower stretches of sidewalk. Sometimes his hand brushed yours for half a second before pulling away again. Every tiny accidental touch felt enormous now.
When your storefronts finally came into view down the block, both of you slowed instinctively. Brooklyn Blooms glowed softly beside the bookstore beneath the apartment windows above. Bucky’s shop sat dark except for the warm lamp he always left burning near the front window overnight.
You stopped beneath the awning stretching across both storefronts. Neither of you spoke immediately. The city moved quietly around you while distant music drifted faintly through the street somewhere nearby.
You smiled at him softly. "Thanks for dinner, bookstore boy."
Bucky looked at you for a long second, like he was seeing something new.
"Anytime, flower girl," he said quietly.
Eventually, you glanced upward toward the apartment above Brooklyn Blooms before taking a small step backward.
“I should probably finish those bouquets,” you admitted reluctantly.
“Probably.”
“But I’m significantly less miserable now.”
“That’s my specialty.”
Your eyes drifted toward Bucky beside you, and your chest tightened a little at the sight of him standing there beneath the warm streetlight glow. His jacket hung open slightly from the walk back. His hands rested in his pockets like he was trying very hard to seem calmer than he actually was. But something about him felt different now.
Bucky looked down the street briefly before exhaling softly through his nose.
“So,” he started roughly.
You smiled a little. “So?”
His jaw shifted like he was reconsidering whatever he’d been about to say. “I've been thinking about what that waitress said.”
Your heartbeat stumbled immediately. “Oh?”
Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable in a way you’d never really seen before. Not guarded, but very nervous.
“She said we looked cute together,” he muttered.
Warmth flooded your face instantly. “She did say that.”
“Yeah.”
Silence settled briefly between you again while distant traffic hummed somewhere farther down the block.
Bucky’s gaze dropped toward the sidewalk before lifting back to yours. “And I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I guess it got stuck in my head.”
Something soft opened painfully in your chest. The city suddenly felt very far away. Bucky shifted closer slightly beneath the awning, close enough now that you could smell traces of cedar and wine and old paper lingering on him from the bookstore.
“I just...” He paused, visibly searching for the right words. “These last few months with you next door...” A quiet laugh escaped him, almost disbelieving. “You kinda became my favorite part of the day.”
Your eyes widened when he finished his sentence, and Bucky... well, Bucky looked terrified after saying it.
“You come into the bookstore, and suddenly it doesn’t feel so empty anymore,” he continued softly. “And I keep finding reasons to walk next door even when I don’t need anything.” His mouth tugged into the faintest self-conscious smile. “Pretty sure everybody on this block figured it out before I did.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly, because god... You'd been feeling it too. Every morning waiting for his bookstore lights to turn on beside yours. Every coffee shared between customers. Every flower he carefully kept alive like it mattered. Every moment he lingered in Brooklyn Blooms just to stand near you.
You stepped closer to him. "Bucky," you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours immediately, hopeful in the smallest, most fragile way.
"I like you too," you admitted softly.
The tension in his shoulders loosened so fast it almost hurt to see.
“No,” you corrected gently, smiling despite the way your heart pounded. “Actually, I think I’ve been a little in love with you for a while now.”
Bucky stared at you, completely still. Like the words had knocked the air from his lungs. Then he laughed quietly under his breath, almost overwhelmed by it.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured.
“What?”
“You can’t just say things like that to me, flower girl.”
Your smile widened helplessly. The look on his face right then nearly ruined you. Soft and warm, like he was seeing something precious.
Slowly, carefully, Bucky lifted one hand toward your face, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His knuckles brushed your cheek so gently it made your chest ache.
"You sure?" he asked quietly.
And there he is... Bucky Barnes beneath all the gruffness and teasing and quiet staring. Careful with you, gentle.
You leaned into his touch slightly. "So sure."
Something tender cracked open in his expression. Then Bucky kissed you. Softly at first, tentatively. Like he was still half-convinced you might disappear if he moved too quickly. But the second your hand slid into the front of his jacket, and you kissed him back, something warm and relieved left him in a quiet breath against your mouth. It deepened slowly after that. Totally unhurried. His hand settled gently against your jaw while yours curled against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
The kiss felt exactly like the last few months have felt with him. Warm coffee. Soft music through the walls. Rain against the flower shop windows. The faint smell of dirt and florals. The musky, cedar scent of the bookstore. Home.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you had moved very far. Bucky rested his forehead lightly against yours, eyes closed briefly like he needed a second to recover.
“Well,” he murmured softly.
You laughed breathlessly. “Well?”
“Think the neighborhood’s gonna be unbearable about this.”
You grinned. “Mrs. Alvarez is going to throw rice at us.”
“Barista’s never letting me live it down.”
Your fingers brushed lightly along the front of his jacket. “You seem pretty okay with that suddenly.”
Bucky opened his eyes then. And the look there nearly stole your breath all over again.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really am.”
Above you, apartment windows glowed warmly over Brooklyn Blooms and the bookstore while Brooklyn hummed softly into the night around you. And beneath the shared awning between your neighboring shops, Bucky kissed you again like he’d been wanting to for months.
All Chalky Rainbow Dividers used are made by @uzmacchiato, and you can find them here! Thank you <3
Thanks for reading! A reminder that my requests are open! <3
and he's always affectionate even in front of others
and he would do ANYTHING for her, literally anything and maybe they're talking abt it and then he proves it in different occasions
Bucky’s always been intense—it’s just that now all of it is aimed at you.
It’s obvious to everyone but him.
The first time Sam notices, it’s something small. You’re sitting at the kitchen island in the Tower, scrolling on your phone, legs swinging absentmindedly off the stool. Bucky’s standing behind you, mid-conversation with Steve, but his hand never leaves you—broad palm spread over your thigh, thumb dragging slow, distracted strokes like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Every few seconds, he squeezes, grounding himself in you.
“Buck,” Sam says, eyebrow raised. “You know she’s not gonna disappear if you let go for five minutes, right?”
Bucky frowns like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Why would I let go?”
You snort softly, not even looking up. You’re used to it—used to him always touching you, always orbiting you like you’re the center of his gravity. His hand slides higher, fingertips pressing just beneath the hem of your shorts, and he leans down, brushing his mouth against your temple without breaking eye contact with Sam.
“See?” Sam mutters to Steve. “Sickening.”
Steve just shrugs, smiling into his coffee. “Let him be. He’s happy.”
Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Bucky is gone for you.
It shows up in little things first—like the way he automatically reaches for your hand when you walk anywhere together, fingers lacing tight, like he needs the contact. The way he always sits you on his lap instead of beside him, no matter who’s around. The way he kisses you hello like he hasn’t seen you in weeks, even if you were in the next room five minutes ago.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the way he watches you.
Like you hung the damn moon.
“You’re staring again,” you murmur one night, curled up on the couch with him, your legs draped across his lap.
Bucky hums, unashamed, eyes tracing your face like he’s committing every inch to memory. “Yeah.”
“Why?” you tease, tilting your head.
He shrugs, but his hand slides up your calf, slow and deliberate, fingers squeezing gently. “’Cause I like looking at you.”
Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away. “You always like looking at me.”
“Yeah,” he repeats, softer this time, like it means something deeper. “Always.”
And he does.
God, he does.
So when the conversation happens, it’s not exactly surprising—but it still hits you right in the chest.
You’re lying in bed, half asleep, tracing lazy patterns over the skin of his chest while he plays with your hair, gently untangling strands between his fingers.
“You know,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, “you’re kind of ridiculous.”
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah? How’s that?”
“You’d do anything for me,” you say, like it’s a fact. “It’s… a lot.”
There’s no judgment in your tone, just soft wonder. But Bucky still goes still beneath you.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I would.”
You prop your chin on his chest, peering up at him. “Anything?”
His gaze drops to you instantly, intense and steady, like the answer is carved into him.
“Anything,” he repeats.
You study him for a second, searching for hesitation, for doubt—there isn’t any. Just that unwavering certainty that’s so uniquely him it makes your chest ache.
“You’re serious,” you whisper.
Bucky’s thumb brushes over your cheek, slow and reverent. “You ask me for something, I’m giving it to you. No questions.”
You smile a little, teasing again to lighten the weight of it. “That’s dangerous, Barnes.”
“Not for you,” he murmurs.
You don’t realize how literal he is until later.
---
The first time he proves it, it’s stupid.
You mention, offhandedly, that you’ve been craving this specific dessert from a bakery across the city—something you haven’t had in years. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re already half asleep when you say it, voice drowsy and unfocused.
“Miss those little chocolate things,” you mumble into his shoulder. “With the caramel… remember?”
Bucky hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Yeah, I remember.”
You forget about it.
Of course you do.
Until you wake up a couple hours later, cold and alone in bed.
Panic flares for half a second—until you hear the front door click open.
You sit up, blinking in the dim light, just as Bucky walks in, hair tousled, jacket thrown over a t-shirt, a small paper box in his hand.
“Hey,” he says softly, like this is normal.
You stare at him. “Where did you go?”
He sets the box on the nightstand, opening it carefully. Inside are the exact pastries you mentioned—perfect, untouched, like he hand-delivered a memory.
“You said you wanted these,” he shrugs.
“Bucky,” you breathe, stunned. “It’s two in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
“You drove across the city—for dessert?”
His brow furrows, confused by your tone, like he doesn’t understand why this is surprising. “You wanted it.”
Something in your chest twists, tight and overwhelming.
“That’s not the point,” you whisper.
He pauses, studying your face, and then his expression softens when he sees it—how much it means to you.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
Your eyes sting a little as you reach for him, pulling him down into the bed, your hands cupping his face. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips, smiling faintly. “But you got your pastries.”
You kiss him, slow and deep, tasting the night air on his mouth.
---
The second time isn’t small.
It’s a mission gone sideways, a situation that escalates too fast, too dangerously. You’re pinned down, separated from the team, comm crackling with static.
“Bucky, don’t—” you start, trying to warn him, trying to keep him back.
But he’s already moving.
“Hold on,” he growls into the comm, voice sharp and unyielding. “I’m coming.”
“Bucky, it’s not safe—”
“Don’t care,” he snaps.
And he doesn’t.
Not when it comes to you.
He cuts through everything in his path—soldiers, debris, chaos—like it’s nothing, like the only thing that exists is getting to you. When he finally reaches you, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands immediately on your face, your shoulders, checking for injuries—
“Are you okay?” he demands, voice rough.
You nod, breath shaky. “I’m fine.”
He exhales like he’s been holding it the entire time, pressing his forehead to yours for a split second before pulling back, eyes blazing.
“Don’t ever tell me not to come for you,” he says, low and fierce. “You hear me?”
Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”
“I meant it,” he cuts in, softer now, but no less intense. “Anything. That includes this.”
You swallow, your hands finding his, squeezing tight.
“Okay,” you whisper.
---
The third time, it’s quiet.
You’re back home, safe, curled into his side while a movie plays in the background. His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm, grounding, steady.
“You really mean it, don’t you?” you murmur.
Bucky glances down at you. “Mean what?”
“Anything,” you say softly.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he replies.
Your chest aches in that same overwhelming way, but this time it’s warm, steady, certain.
You shift closer, pressing your face into his neck, breathing him in. “Good.”
His arm tightens around you instantly, pulling you flush against him like it’s instinct.
“Why’s that?” he asks.
You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“Because I’d do anything for you too.”
For once, Bucky’s the one who looks a little stunned.
And then he kisses you like he’s never going to stop.
Summary: Partners in the field, best friends everywhere else, and cowards about their feelings. It takes one bullet on Valentine's Day to rip the silence open.
Warnings/tags: gunshot injury, surgery mention, near death, angst, hurt comfort, steve/natasha/tony are alive, mission gone wrong, besties to lovers, only one use of doll, happy ending
The tower kitchen is too bright for six in the morning. You squint as the winter sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and almost silver, washing over the marble countertops and catching on the stainless steel appliances. The city below is still stretching awake, traffic thin, steam rising in soft curls from street grates. Up here, everything feels suspended, like the world hasn't quite started yet.
Bucky's already there, quietly facing away from the entry, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The light cuts across his back, metal reflecting the morning's glow. He looks soft in the light, though his features are sharp.
You don't say anything when you step in. The tile is cool beneath your feet, and the hem of your sweater brushes your thighs as you cross the room. The smell of the coffee hangs thick in the air. He doesn't look at you right away, but his shoulders ease a fraction when he notices your presence. He seems to know when it's you.
"Can't sleep?" you ask quietly, reaching past him for the coffee pot.
He steps aside, making room for you. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid. "Somethin' like that," he murmurs.
You pour your coffee slowly. The light catches the thin line of steam rising between you. You hold the pot toward him, signalling your willingness to refill his mug. He stretches his arm out, fingers curled around the handle.
Across the kitchen table, Sam lowers his spoon with a pointed clink against the bowl. "It's too early for this," he mutters. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm having to do a stupid mission instead of wining and dining my lady."
"Sounds like you're doing plenty of whining," You smirk over the rim of your mug.
Sam points his spoon at you in accusation, but he's smiling. The kitchen feels warmer for a second, lighter, like this is just another morning and not the start of something dangerous. Not the kind of day that gets circled on calendars and wrapped in red hearts and pink lips.
Valentine's Day.
You hadn't meant to think about it all last night. It's easier not to; easier to pretend it's just another square on the calendar, just another mission day, just another early morning with mediocre coffee and tired eyes. Except it feels strange this year, almost... off balance. Because if you could choose where to be tonight, it wouldn't be at a restaurant or on a date.
It would be exactly where you usually are anyway, shoulder to shoulder with Bucky, sharing takeout containers and quiet conversations about everything and nothing. Your knees bumping his when you laugh at something he says. It's comfortable. Easy. Almost dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the missions you go on.
He's your best friend. That's the name you gave it. It's safe that way. The one that lets you keep him around without risking the relationship. But lately the word feels small. You wonder, not for the first time, when "best friend" turned into the person you look for in every room before anyone else. The person whose footsteps you can pick out from the hallway. The one you save the last sip, the last bite, the last story of the night for.
Your gaze drifts to him without meaning to. It always does. You notice he's pretending not to listen to Sam anymore, but he definitely is. His mouth is doing that barely there thing, not quite a smile, but a small curl in the corners. The morning light sits in his hair, softening his appearance, making him look less like a weapon and more like a man who belongs in the kitchen at sunrise. Your chest tightens quickly. If anyone asked, you'd say today didn't matter. But man, it certainly feels like it should.
His eyes lift like he feels it. They land on you with quiet precision. Caught in the act, you forget to look away right off. For half a second, it's just the two of you in the kitchen, city glowing behind him, dust motes turning lazy circles in the light.
There's something unfair about how gentle he looks this early. No armor, no tactical gear, just a dark Henley stretched across his shoulders and sleep clinging to the edges of him.
"What?" he asks softly.
The word is low, private, and meant only for you, despite the fact that Sam is still loudly excavating cereal nearby.
You blink. "What, what?"
"You're starin'," he says, and there's a faint hint of humor in it, tucked into the corners of his mouth. Not a tease or a challenge, just a simple observation offered carefully.
Heat creeps up your neck. "Am not."
He lifts one brow, but he doesn't argue. Somehow, that makes it worse. Your pulse does that annoying stutter; it only ever does around him. You take another sip of your coffee to buy yourself a second. It would be so easy to tell the truth. I like looking at you. I always have.
Instead, you shrug. "You look grumpy. I was just checkin' if the coffee offended you again."
That earns you a real reaction, a soft laugh. "It's terrible," he says. "Think it melted the spoon."
"It's stainless steel, Buck," you reply.
"Still offended."
Sam groans. "I'm surrounded by chaos. Romance is dead."
You laugh, but your attention slides right back to Bucky Barnes, pulled there like it always is. His shoulder brushes yours when he leaves over to grab the coffee pot. It's a small, unconscious lean that he never corrects. Comfort settles in again, familiar and dangerous. It's the kind that makes you forget the lines you're supposed to stay behind.
Somewhere down the hall, the alert chime sounds. It's not too loud from where you are, but it's enough to make you sigh. You hear Sam push his chair back as he stands to bring his bowl to the sink. Bucky's expression shifts. The day is starting whether you like it or not.
Bucky sets his mug in the sink next to the bowl, already shifting into motion. Mission mode never looks dramatic on him. A straightening spine, a quieter face. All focus and no fun.
"You comin'?" he asks.
You nod and set your mug down. Your fingers bump the ceramic, still warm from his hand. The heat lingers for a second against your skin, and you hate how aware you are of it.
The hallway outside the kitchen is cooler, the polished floor reflecting the morning light in long pale stripes. Your footsteps fall into rhythm beside his without effort. They usually do. You've walked like this a thousand times, close enough that your sleeves brush, far enough that no one would think anything of it. Most of them think something of it, though.
Your shoulder knocks his lightly when he slows to let a tech hurry past. His hand comes up automatically, hovering near your back, not fully touching you. You feel it anyway, like he's protecting you.
"You bring your good boots?" you ask quietly.
He glances down at them like he has to check. "I always do."
"Last time you wore the old ones and complained for six hours."
"I did not complain."
"You narrated your suffering?"
"That's different."
You smile. There it is again, that almost smile of his in response, small but real. People sometimes say relationships are built on big moments. But yours is built on this. Shared steps and low voices. Knowing exactly how someone takes their coffee and hovering hands without needing credit for the catch.
Up ahead, the briefing room doors slide open. Screens glow blue against the dim interior. The rest of the team is already filtering in, half-suited, half-caffeinated. The room smells of coffee, still steaming in the single-use cups. A wide holographic display rotates slowly above the central table, throwing blue light across tired faces as everyone settles into place. You take your usual seat without thinking, and like always, Bucky ends up in the chair beside you. Your legs meet briefly under the table, and you smile at him before turning your attention to the front of the room.
A satellite image sharpens overhead. Industrial buildings, rail lines, and a river cut through the edge of the property line.
"Alright, lovebirds and lonely hearts," Sam says, dropping into his chair and spinning it once before stopping with his boots hooked on the table edge. "Let's ruin the most romantic day of the year."
"I had a whole speech about work-life balance prepared, but then illegal weapons trafficking ruined the mood," Tony says.
A few groans answer him.
"We intercepted encrypted chatter late last night. A breakaway weapons cell set up temporary operations here, inside an abandoned freight distribution hub just outside the city. They're moving product, and we think it's for something bigger."
"Define product," you say.
"Portable guided munitions," Tony answers. "Shoulder launcher, smart tracking, not very romantic. The kind of stuff that turns crowded places into headlines."
Everyone sighs. Thermal scans layer over the model. Moving heat signatures. Parked trucks. Guard rotations plotted in neat predictive loops.
"Buyer?" Steve asks.
"Still in the wind," Tony replies. "Which means if this shipment rolls, we get to play find the missile later. I hate sequels."
"Got it. So we hit it before it moves." Sam says.
"Gold star," Tony points a finger at him. "Transfer closes before noon. After that, distribution branches and our neat little problem become a messy big one."
Routes appear in colored lines. Entry vectors, blind spots, and jammer zones pulse red. Security notes scroll beside the map: patrol density, signal interference, and interior barricades built from old shipping containers.
"Outer ring is armed and alert," Tony continues. "Inner flor is compartmentalized. They're expecting competition, just not you specifically, which I find insulting."
"Tragic," Bucky deadpans.
"My reservation's at seven," Sam mutters. "Non-refundable."
Tony doesn't look up. "You've generously donated to the restaurant industry."
Sam gestures between you and Bucky. "Meanwhile, these two have zero plans ever and look the most offended."
You keep your eyes on the map. It's safer there. Assignment tags blink across the layout. Advance element, east service corridor. Your name. Bucky Barnes.
Sam makes a soft drumroll on the table. "Predictable and adorable."
Tony points at Sam, "Ariel sweep. No flirting with the hostiles."
"No promises."
The plan builds in layers, contingencies stacking clean and fast. Timing is everything in missions like this. Speed matters more. Every minute of delay increases the odds that those launchers leave the building.
"Go suit up. If we're fast enough, nobody should miss their plans tonight."
Chairs slide back, and you hear the sound of boots down the hall as the mission gravity settles in. You stand at the same time Bucky does. Of course you do. Your sleeves brush as you turn toward the exit. You're not exactly sure when you started noticing every little touch, or look, or breath he takes.
The corridor outside the briefing room is quieter than the main floors, with the lights set low for the early hour. Your footsteps echo in sync, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse in your throat. Pre-mission silence feels stretched tight, every sense tuned sharper. People don't joke as much out here.
Your hand flexes at your side, already thinking through your kit, blade placement, reload time, angles of entry. But there's something else layered beneath today's readiness, something more distracting. Maybe it's the date. Maybe it's him. It's probably the two combined.
"You good?" he asks.
He doesn't look at you when he says it. Eyes forward, scanning corners like you're already midmission.
"Yeah..." you answer. "You?"
"Always."
It's automatic, the reply. You know better. He knows you know better.
A tech team rolls a cart across the intersecting hall, and Bucky reaches up to grab your elbow to pull you back. You just missed the cart. You could live inside these touches. You already do.
"Whoa," you gasp. "Thanks, Buck."
His mouth curves faintly, there and gone.
The armory door slides open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the air smells like oil, cold steel, and polymer. Overhead strip lights reflect off neatly organized racks, labeled drawers, and charging stations blink green. You head over to your station.
Gear up is its own language. No wasted motions. You lay everything out first, same order every time. Twin knives balanced with familiarity in your palms. Widow bite gauntlets, compact and dark, you snap them open and check the charge indicators. Micro line launcher, shock disks, compact smoke pellets. Each piece of gear gets a touch, a check, and a place on your frame.
Across from you, Bucky works in heavier shapes and darker lines. Field pistols broken down and reassembled with fluid precision. Magazine springs tested, slides racked. He lines up his knives last, more of them than anyone else carries, edges catching the light like thin mirrors. You watch his hands for half a second too long, and he notices.
He spins one blade once, testing the weight, then loops up at you without lifting his head. "You're doin' it again."
"Doin' what?"
"Starin' at me."
"I'm observing craftsmanship, James."
"It's a knife."
"It's your knife."
His eyebrows raise. You feel the warmth creep up your neck. You step closer before you even think about it.
"Hold still," you say.
He does. The leather's twisted near the buckle. You straighten it, fingers working close to his collarbone. You can feel his warmth through the fabric, steady and solid. Your knuckles brush the edge of a scar. His breathing shifts just slightly.
"All set," you murmur.
Your turn comes faster than expected. His flesh hand checks the seal on your gauntlet strap, firm and careful. He always double-checks your restraints and closures.
"Good," he says quietly.
For a second, you're standing close enough that if either of you leaned in, even a little, the line you've protected for so long would disappear.
Boots thud past the armory entrance, voices come and go, and suddenly reality sets in again. Weapons loaded, armor ready, hearts doing things they shouldn't be doing. You push those feelings aside and steady yourself before heading toward the Quinjet.
The ramp hums under your boots as you board. Inside, the cabin lights glow low amber, casting long shadows across harness straps and cargo netting. The familiar shape of the jet feels steadier than the morning has.
Sam drops into the seat across from you and starts strapping in, still talking like the silence might actually kill him. "I just want it noted," he starts, "that if anybody asks, I was ready to be romantic today.
From the cockpit doorway, Nat glances back while running a systems check on her wrist display. "You say that every year."
"I mean it every year."
"It's never true, though."
He presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts."
She doesn't even look up. "You'll live."
Bucky takes the seat beside you, knees almost touching yours in the narrow spacing. He locks his harness with one clean pull, then checks yours without comment. Tug, glance, satisfied nod. Every flight, without fail. Across the aisle, Steve adjusts his gloves with a quiet focus. His posture is straight, even at rest. He looks up and scans the cabin, doing his own head count. He always does.
"Wheels up in thirty seconds. Primary plan still holds." Steve says calmly.
A few nods. Tension is thick, though, it always is before a mission. You lean forward to recheck your gauntlet charge. Green reflections dance across your knuckles. Bucky watches the motion, cataloging it without meaning to. He wonders, not for the first time, how someone built for sharp edges learned to move so carefully. He's supposed to be reviewing entry angles. Instead, he's memorizing the way your mouth presses into a thin line when you concentrate.
The engines deepen in pitch. The cabin vibrates through the soles of his boots. Mission gravity settles in his chest, a familiar weight that he's grown accustomed to. Danger is simple when you're a deadly assassin. Feelings for your best friend aren't. He's risked everything in wars, in prisons, in the blank spaces where his past was taken from him. Yet saying one honest sentence to you feels more terrifying than any of that.
You glance over, catching him looking this time. You lift your eyebrows in a silent question. "You're quiet," you say over the engine.
"Thinkin'," he answers.
"Uh oh."
"Yeah," he says softly. "Uh oh."
The jet lifts. Natasha's voice comes over the cabin channel. "Check comms. Jammers might be active."
Sam groans. "Nothing says Valentine's Day like signal interference and ass-kicking."
Bucky flexes his metal fingers once, then rests his hands on his knees. He's completely gone for you and running out of reasons to pretend otherwise.
The jet settles into descent with a controlled shudder, engines throttling down to a low, predatory hum. The cabin lights shift to red. Outside the small side window, the warehouse district spreads in gray blocks and skeletal remains of buildings that once held life. Morning haze clings to the river. Mission air feels thick and sharp.
Bucky rolls his shoulders once and lets the soldier part of him take the wheel, but it doesn't push everything else out. It never really does when you're within arm's reach. Harnesses click open in staggered snaps. Across the cabin, Steve stands first.
"Final check. Comms are good, keep them clear. We stay quiet unless we need to."
"Copy," comes Nat over the internal channel, already mission-ready near the ramp.
Sam taps his earpiece. "If I whisper any quieter, I'm technically thinking."
"You should try that more often." You say.
Bucky doesn't smile, but he feels the shape of one trying to happen. His attention keeps splitting, half on approach vectors, half on you doing your premission ritual. Adjusting your gloves for the third time, a tell you don't know you have: anxious, nervous, whatever you want to call it.
You stand from your seat and close your eyes. You cross your left arm over your chest, your right hand grabbing that elbow to stretch. You take a deep breath. Then you do the same motion with the opposite arms. You drop your arms and drop your head back, taking another deep breath. You shake your hands out by your sides. Bucky watches you every time. Infactuated? Captivating?
He wants to tell you to be careful. He wants to tell you to stay behind him. He wants to say I'll protect you. Instead, he checks your shoulder seam for a snag that isn't there and pulls his hand back as if nothing happened.
"Another day, another mission." You whisper, smiling at Bucky.
"We'll do fine." He nods, seriously. Stoic soldier fronting.
"That's why I love ya, Buck." You laugh quietly.
The ramp lowers just enough to slip bodies through. Cold air rushes in, damp and metallic, carrying the smell of wet concrete and old fuel. The jet sets down behind a derelict storage structure two blocks from the target, shielded from line of sight. Boots hit the ground softly with silent nods to the rest of the group. Formations take place instantly.
Tony's voice threads through the comms, filtered and dry. "Nice and warm here in the Tower, folks. Satellite drift in ninety seconds. After that, you're under local for another ninety. That cycle repeats. Try not to do anything cinematic."
"No promises," Sam whispers.
You and Bucky peel off together toward the eastern approach, cutting between stacked cargo containers beaded with condensation. Your movement matches his without signals, without discussion. Years of shared missions turned into instinct. He knows your pace, your angles, and how much distance you like between you and a partner when you're hunting quietly. He knows the sounds you make when you're trying not to be scared.
You're making it now, that almost silent breath through your nose. It's controlled. But he knows it, hears it. He wants to reach for your hand again. The urge is sudden and overwhelming. But it's not smart.
"In position," Steve says into comms. "Status report."
Bucky keys his mic with a minimal press. "East corridor. No visual compromise."
"Copy," Steve says. "We're staged west. Sam, status."
"Nothing above so far."
You crouch at the service door access panel, pulling a slim tool from your belt. Your shoulder brushes Bucky's thigh as you work. He watches your hands instead of the perimeter for half a bear too long, but he trusts his training to cover the gap. He knows the curve of your focused face better than he knows his weapons at this point.
The lock clicks open under your tool with a tiny metallic sigh. You glance up at him, eyes bright.
"Ready?" you mouth.
He nods once. Steady on the outside, but falling straight through the inside.
The door opens, and you slip in first. Smooth and low, Bucky follows close enough to cover your blind side without crowding your movement. Inside, the air changes. Stale dust, cold iron, and old oil soaked into concrete. Light filters through high cracked windows in pale vertical strips, turning floating particles into drifting static. Somewhere deeper in the structure, machinery rattles from the wind. The door eases shut behind Bucky with barely a sound.
Bucky's senses narrow and sharpen. Angles, shadows, and distance to cover fill his mind. The world becomes lines and timing. And you. Always you at the center of his awareness like a fixed star.
"East corridor entry complete," you say quietly over comms, voice steady and low.
"Copy," Steve answers. "West team moving to outer ring."
"Roofline set," Sam adds. "Two patrols above you, catwalk level."
You hold up two fingers, then point left. Your wrist gadget shows a heat signature under the next doorway. Bucky nods once. He shifts and draws a knife.
The guard steps halfway through the doorway and never gets the chance to finish his next step. Your widow line snaps tight around his ankles and pulls him off balance while Bucky closes the distance. One hand over his mouth, one precise strike.
You look at Bucky, quickly checking on him. He gives you a nod before he turns to continue through the door. Every time you move like this, efficient and alive, something in his chest aches with pride he has no right to claim. You're not his to protect, but he does it anyway.
You advance deeper. The corridor opens onto a loading floor the size of a football field, stacked with crates, hung with chains, and suspended walkways. Voices carry in broken reflections off metal walls. Engines idle near the far bays. Transfer is active, and Tony was right on the mark.
"Visual on cargo," you report calmly. "Multiple crates, launcher-sized."
"Confirmed," Tony says. "Tags match."
A laugh drifts across the floor from a cluster of armed buyers near a truck. They think they're safe. It's almost comical. They're casual and relaxed. Just hoping for the next big payday.
Bucky watches you scan sightlines, mark routes, and count bodies. You watch him when you can, too. How his head drops slightly when he's zoning in on a target. How he flips his knife before sinking into a hostile. How he always seems to be looking at you when you want to look at him.
He loves you. You love him.
The thought lands fully formed this time in Bucky's head, in his chest, in his heart.
It should feel like a crisis. Instead, it feels like the missing piece that he hadn't realized he was missing.
"East side, hold," Steve says over comms. "West is almost in position."
"Copy," Bucky answers.
You both settle behind a stack of wrapped pallets. Close enough that your arms are pressed along his from shoulder to wrist. His breathing is steady, and you count it without meaning to. His metal fingers flex once against the knife handle.
"West side set," says Steve in your ear. "Eyes on three exterior doors and the north catwalk."
"Roofline ready," adds Sam. "I've got overwatch on two trucks and a bored guy picking his teeth."
"Focus," Nat sighs.
"I am focused. On his dental hygiene."
You shift beside Bucky, leaning just enough to sight past the pallet edge. He adjusts with you automatically, your shoulders aligned, fields of fire interlocked. It feels like dancing, if dancing involved knives and suppressed rounds.
"Buck, you're cleared to move to inner cover."
You move together from pallets to crates to forklifts. Each crossing is timed between patrol turns and engine noise. Your wrist gadget flicks once, twice, disabling a camera node with a soft spark that vanishes beneath the echoing machinery.
Bucky tracks threats, but he also tracks you. The way you signal without looking. The way you trust him to be exactly where you expect. And you do. Because he's Bucky, the same guy who has never let you down even one single time. Who you love. Trust is a heavier weight than armor.
A buyer group shifts near the central truck, weapons sling careless. One steps away to smoke. Nat's voice threads in, low and certain. "Isolated target, south stack. I've got him."
Three seconds later, the man is quietly horizontal and out of the story.
"Outer ring is thinning," she reports.
"Timing's good. Tony says over comms. "Thermals show crate loading starting now. You're inside their window."
You pause behind a vertical beam, back almost against his chest as you peek at the angle. He can feel you breathe through layers of gear. He could say it right now, he thinks wildly. After this, he promises himself. After this push, we're home. No more waiting for the perfect moment.
Across the floor, Steve and Nat shift positions among stacked cargo, drawing attention with their subtle, deliberate movement. Guards are redirected over towards them. Lines of sight change. Everyone's watching something and tracking someone, adjusting for obvious threats.
"Let's move in, fast."
The warehouse erupts into motion, controlled and surgical. Steve and Nat make noise, a rolling wave of impact and command presence that pulls attention hard. Shouted orders are heard over the hum of machinery as hostiles make their way over. Eyes turn away from your sector exactly as planned.
"Go," Bucky says, already moving.
You launch with him. There's no hesitation between you, no verbal count. You both break cover on the same breath, splitting angles like mirrored instinct. Your widow line snaps out and yanks a rifle sideways just as its owner tries to shoulder it. Bucky's already there, driving forward, disarming with a brutal twist. He drops the man flat. You pivot off Bucky's momentum, plant a boot on a crate edge, and vault. Midair, you loosen a shock disk that pops up against a second guard's vest in a crackle of blue. He folds with a strangled yelp. Bucky doesn't even need to look to confirm. He knows you hit your shots.
He covers your landing with two suppressed shots, tight grouping, and clean. Your knife flashes past his shoulder a split second later and buries into the strap of a third hostile's weapon, pinning it useless against a post. It's just you and him, years of watching each other move, learning rhythms, building a shared combat language no one ever formally taught.
"Cutting center," Bucky reports.
"Seen," Steve answers. "Keep pushing."
A forklift roars to life near the truck bay as a driver panics. You're already moving toward it. Bucky beats you there by half a stride and shoots the hydraulics. The machine slumps sideways with a groan, blocking the exit.
You grin at him, quick and bright. "Show off."
He almost says only for you. Instead, he tosses your thrown knife back to you without looking. You catch it by the handle. More proof of how locked in you are with each other. Gunfire cracks from the catwalks, misdirected toward Steve's pressure line. Sam's voice cuts in.
"Topside scrambling. I'm herding."
"Copy," says Nat. "Left ladder clear."
Bucky steps into your space to redirect your line of fire by half an inch, his metal arm bracing briefly against your ribs so you don't overexpose yourself beyond cover. The contact is firm, protective, and gone way too fast. His heart is pounding harder from that than from the shooting.
He's dimly aware that if anyone watched you two long enough, they'd see it. Not just the efficiency, but the care threaded through it. The constant adjustments to keep each other safe. You've never fought like this with anyone else.
The last guard in your immediate lane drops. For half a second, it feels like the center is yours. Noise shifts and targets are thinning out.
Nobody calls out the guard on the far mezzanine. Bucky starts to turn toward you to say your name. The rifle cracks. The sound is wrong. Not the scattered echo of crossfire, not the muffled thump of suppressed shots. This one is sharp and clean and close enough that Bucky feels it in his teeth.
He's already turning toward you when it happens. Your body jerks like someone yanked a wire through you. The motion is small, almost confused, and then momentum disappears. The knife slips from your fingers and clatters across the concrete in a lonely metallic spin. For half a heartbeat, his brain refuses to translate what he's seeing. He sees the red bloom on your suit, and the color leaves your face.
"Contact, mezzanine!" Sam barks over comms a fraction too late. "High right!"
Bucky is moving before the words finish. He fires twice at the man who may have just killed you. Pure instinct, driving the shooter back behind the railing. You hit the ground hard. Everything drops out of focus. Sound narrows to a high rushing ring. The warehouse becomes distant shapes and irrelevant motion.
Training says to secure the threat, maintain formation, and keep the objective in sight. Bucky drops to his knees beside you instead. Your eyes are open but unfocused, breathing unevenly. Blood is spreading fast through the seam of your suit at your side, darker than the shadows.
"No," he hears himself say, rough and immediate. "No, no, no."
"What's going on?" Steve says through comms.
"We're hit, it looks bad," Bucky responds, no longer mission-focused.
His gloves are already slick as he clamps pressure over the wound, hands shaking despite iron strength.
"Stay with me," he says to you, voice breaking loose from control. "Look at me."
You try to focus on him. The pain comes in waves but never stops. You summon all the strength you have left to reach for his face, trying to cup his cheek. He reaches out to help you bring his hand to his cheek. You move your thumb once before feeling like you're fading away.
This is the moment he's rehearsed in nightmares, always wordless, always too late. He doesn't want this to be the end.
"Med evac is almost here," Nat says. "I'm moving to them."
"Shooter confirmed dead. We got 'em all." Sam comms.
Bucky leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, the world reduced to your barely there breath and the heat leaving your skin under his hands.
"I was gonna tell you," he blurts, the words tearing out unfiltered. "I was gonna tell you after this, I swear."
He presses harder on the wound, but the blood doesn't stop coming. You try to speak, but the words can't come out. You form what you think are words for Bucky, but they come out as pained moans.
"You can't," he says, voice fraying. This is the man under the soldier stripped bare.
Steve walks up to Bucky, who's still learning over your body.
"C'mon, Buck, we gotta get her out of her."
Bucky looks up at Steve, two lone tears stream down either side of his face. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.
Bucky whispers in your ear, hoping you can hear him, "I love you. Please stay."
You're on the med jet, strapped to a stabilization board, with med foam packed right against the wound. Your face has gone too pale under the smear of blood and antiseptic. It launches almost the moment your stretcher locks into place. Priority transport. Gone into the morning sky before the rest of the team even finishes loading out.
Bucky watches it disappear through the narrowing edge of the ramp, jaw locked so tightly it aches. He doesn't realize he's taken a step after it until Steve puts a steady hand on his shoulder.
"They'll get her there faster this way." He reminds Bucky quietly.
Bucky nods once. It's not really an agreement, but he knows he can't do anything about it.
There's no banter on their flight home. No post-mission ritual. Just engine thunder and the low vibration through the deck plates. The cabin lights stay dim.
Bucky sits away from everyone else, his eyes stuck on the floor between his boots. Elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging empty between them.
The other three sit near enough to talk quietly. Nat cleans blood off her gloves with slow strokes. Sam takes worried glances at Bucky every now and then, checking on him silently. His wings are folded neatly, and he removes some gear for an excuse to fidget with something.
Bucky keeps replaying the moment in his head. He can still hear the sound of the gun going off. He can hear the gasp you let out when the bullet entered your skin. He can see the color drain from your face and the glossy look of your eyes before they finally shut. He'll never forgive himself if that's the last time he sees you. The last time he feels your warm skin and listens to you tease him for being a show off. His brain is trying to solve it differently, like there's still time to intercept the bullet.
After a while, Sam clears his throat. "She's stubborn," he says. "That counts for something."
"It counts for a lot."
Bucky swallows hard. He hasn't been able to trust his voice. Steve unstraps and crosses the distance, movements balanced against the jet. He doesn't sit down, just braces a hand on the seat frame beside Bucky.
"You did everything right," Steve says.
Bucky lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a broken laugh. "I didn't, she still got hit."
"That doesn't mean you failed."
"It does to me."
Steve studies him for a moment, not pushing him to say more. "You broke the shooter's line of sight in under a second. You stopped that second round. You kept her alive."
What happened, Bucky thinks, is that he almost lost her. And he should have been the one to take the bullet. His hands curl into fists. Metal fingers whisper against each other.
"I finally said it," he says quietly, like a confession.
Steve knows exactly what he means. "Yeah," he answers. "I heard you."
Heat crawls up the back of Bucky's neck despite the cold cabin air. "Wasn't how I planned it."
"Most real things aren't," Steve says. "But you can tell her again later. She's gonna get through this."
The engine pitch shifts as they change altitude. The sound fills the pause.
"It's Valentine's Day afterall," Steve adds after a moment. "Kind of a perfect day built for saying what matters."
Bucky looks up at him then, eyes red-edged and exhausted. "What if she dies?"
Steve's grip tightens briefly on the frame. "We cross that bridge if we have to. Until then, you make sure you tell her again when she wakes up."
The jet keeps cutting forward through the morning, carrying all of them home without the one person Bucky keeps checking for. No one speaks after that.
The tower feels too normal when they land. Glass catching sunlight now that it's early afternoon. The kind of day that shouldn't exist when someone's life is hanging in the balance a few floors below.
They move through intake and security on autopilot, putting their gear back where it belongs. Logging weapons and writing signatures. No one lingers or jokes. The absence of your footsteps is felt by everyone on the team.
Debrief happens quickly. The conference room screens glow with mission playback, drone angles, heat maps, and timestamps. Freeze frames of impact points and takedowns. Tony stands at the head of the table, scrolling through data with tight, economical gestures.
"Shipment was secured," he says. "Inventory intact enough that we have full trace. Buyers' network is sweating, so that's a win."
No one reacts. Tony reads the room quickly. He swipes to a Redwing camera playback. The moment of the shot pauses mid-frame, but he doesn't play it.
"Crossfire variables stacked wrong," Tony says. "Early rotation and elevation shadow. That's on their dice, not your skill."
Bucky doesn't answer. He hasn't even sat down.
Steve chimes in, "Status?"
Tony exhales sharply, and there it is, the himan crack in the armor. "Out of surgery. Bullet passed straight through. Missed the worst of the organs by a margin."
Bucky's fingers flex at his sides. "When can we see her?"
"Short version, not yet," Tony explains. "Long version, they'll page you when she is able to have visitors."
Tony looks straight at Bucky now. "She made it to the table alive because of you, Barnes."
Bucky gives a solid nod and turns to leave the room. He needs a hot shower, fresh clothes, and maybe a good cry if he can manage it.
---
The medical floor is too white, too bright, too controlled. Footsteps soften automatically on the polymer flooring. People speak in low tones, as if the volume itself were part of the treatment. Bucky waits through two checkpoints and one firm-handed nurse who makes him sit for exactly four minutes that feel like forty. He doesn't argue with her, although he wishes he could.
Finally, a door slides open down the corridor.
"Okay, Mr. Barnes. She's all yours."
He nods. The room is dimmer than the hallway. Monitors glow in gentle blues and greens. Lines run across one screen, and other machines breathe softly beside the bed. And there you are. Too still and too pale. Bandaging wrapped clean at your side, shoulder exposed above hospital fabric, skin marked with adhesive and sensor leads. Your hair looks wrong against the pillow, like it hasn't been brushed.
For a second, he can't even step forward. Battlefields never did this to him. Hydra never did this to him. You, quiet and hurt in here, almost drops him to his knees.
He moves to the bedside slowly. His metal hand hovers, then settles carefully around your fingers, mindful of the wires. You're warmer now, thank god.
"I'm here now," he whispers.
He studies your face as if he's relearning its map. The crease near your brow and the tiny scar near your chin. Of course, he knew they were there, but he had taken them for granted before.
"You picked one hell of a day to scare me," he murmurs. "I had a whole speech planned. You kinda ruined my timin'."
His thumb strokes once across your knuckles. "I meant it. I don't know if you heard me, but I meant it."
Time stretches in the recovery room until it no longer feels measurable. The monitors keep their steady rhythm. Your chest rises and falls quietly. Each inhale pulls his attention like a thread. Bucky sits forward in the chair, forearms braced on the mattress edge, still holding your hand. He doesn't even know what time it is, only that Sam has left to go have his "wine and dine" dinner date.
He keeps talking because silence feels like surrender.
"Remember that terrible takeout place you like so much?" he quietly smiles to himself. "I would do anything to eat their greasy food with you right now."
His thumb traces a slow line along your fingers.
"I was gonna grab that for us tonight. That was the big plan. Real smooth, right? Greasy food and probably a movie you'd pretend not to cry to." His voice tightens on the last word.
"Steve says timing's never right for the important stuff. Guess he's got a point. Still hate that he's right though."
Footsteps pass in the hallways. A cart rolls by. Life keeps moving outside this room, and it feels offensive. He bows his head a little, bringing his arm up as a makeshift pillow.
"I've jumped out of planes and fallen from trains," he sighs. "None of it comes as close as to how I feel right now."
Time moves by slowly and quickly all at once. It's eight o'clock now. Bucky only knows because a nurse came in to check on you. She wrote down the time on the whiteboard by the door. He's hungry, he's thirsty, and he'd rather die of starvation and dehydration than leave your side. He looks out the window in the room, wishing the two of you could be out in the city, laughing and hanging out. He wishes he could tell you how he feels and hear what you have to say.
There's a faint shift in your hand. So small that someone might miss it. He jerks upright, studying your face carefully. Another small movement. Bucky is frozen in place. Another tiny movement, your fingers trying to curl but not quite getting there yet. Your brows tighten like you're fighting up through deep water.
"Easy there," he whispers. "You're okay."
Your lashes flutter, stop, and flutter again. The monitor ticks a little faster.
"That's it," he encourages. "Come back to me."
Your eyes open a sliver, unfocused, light sensitive. Confusion takes over. Then discomfort. A low groan escapes your throat as you adjust. A throbbing ache at your side. You try to assemble the room piece by piece.
Bucky's the first thing that resolves clearly in your line of sight. Relief hits his face so openly it would scare him if he were capable of self-consciousness right now.
He lets out a breath, "Hey."
Your voice doesn't come out yet, but your lips part like you're trying. Your gaze drops, finds your bandaging, the wires, then climbs back to him with a question and a memory tangled together.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "You got hit. Thought you died."
Your fingers tighten weakly around his. Tears burn his eyes instantly, and he laughs under his breath. He tries not to let them fall, but he can't help it. A shaky breath comes out as he shakes his head.
"Told you not to get shot," he whispers. "You never listen."
Your throat works to get the words out. Your voice is barely there, scraped thin.
"...Gotta keep.. you on your toes."
He huffs a broken, grateful breath. Your gaze locked on his, hazy but sharpening by the second. The room comes to you in layers: sounds first, then light, then pain. But always him.
"I... love you, too." You manage to get out.
Emotion crowds his throat again, but this time he lets it stay.
"I wasn't supposed to say it like that," he continues, voice low and unguarded. "I had this whole night planned.
He glances down at your joined hands, then back up, blue eyes clear and terrified and certain all at once. "I meant it, though, every word."
You smile at him. Bits and pieces of the morning play in your head. You've never seen a man break down quite like Bucky had earlier. And honestly, you had been grateful you were able to hold his face one last time before the darkness took over.
"Thought I was a goner," You mumbled.
He nods, understanding exactly how you feel.
"You know, I've been in love with you for a while now," he says, simple and direct. "Didn't know if we should put a label on it. Was too nervous to ruin the relationship with my favorite person."
His thumb brushes your knuckles, but he keeps his eyes on you.
"Me too, Buck."
"I kept telling myself I had time," he goes on. "More missions, more mornings in the kitchen. More chances to say it at the right time, exactly how I wanted. But I wasn't sure I was allowed to want more."
Your eyes shine now, fully awake, completely present.
"The days leading up to Valentine's Day felt... complicated?" he admits. "Not because I didn't have someone, but because the someone I wanted was already with me, and I didn't know if we could be anything more."
Your fingers squeeze his with surprising strength.
He leans in a little, voice softer but steadier than it's been in hours. "I'm telling you right here, right now, I love you. As more than a mission partner, as more than a friend. I love everything about you."
Your eyes fill before he even finishes the last word. Not from pain, not from the meds, but from the way he's looking at you like the truth finally got tired of waiting and chose to come out. You study his face like you're confirming something you've known for a long time but never dared to name. The worry lines, the softness he only shows when he forgets to hide, and the way his grip never loosened.
"I thought..." you murmur. "I guess I thought it would be easier for me to pretend not to notice."
His brows pull together. "Notice what?"
"How it feels when you walk into the room."
He just looks at you, waiting for you to continue.
"I didn't say anything," you go on. "Because I didn't want to lose you. But honestly, best friends isn't enough for me."
Silence folds around you, warm and full instead of empty. His thumb is still moving over your hand, as if he can't stop touching you, as if touch is proof you're still really here.
"You sure this isn't the meds talkin'?"
You manage a faint, crooked smile. "If it were the meds, I'd have told you months ago."
And that does it. The last of his restraint gives way. He rises from the chair and leans in slow enough for you to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady.
"My lips are so dry from this place," you whisper through a giggle.
"I don't care," he smiles.
The kiss is gentle, careful of tubes and soreness, and the fact that you're still healing. Soft, lingering, reverent. Not scared and rushed like a battlefield claim, not desperate to get the words out. This is more like a sweet beginning.
His warm hand cradles your jaw lightly. He kisses you as if he's been holding it back for years, and he plans to keep doing it for the rest of his life. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he whispers.
"Took you long enough, James."
"You're worth the wait, doll."
———
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder that my requests are open! I’d love to hear from you!
pairing: tfatws!bucky barnes x reader | word count: 5.4k
prompt: "wait, it's valentine's day today?!" as part of the dear my darling reader event! organised by the one and only @salty-tang
warnings: established relationship, dry humping, smut, oral (f. receiving), face-sitting, male self-pleasure, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, mating press, creampie, praise, overstimulation, pussy pronouns, slight size kink, cum-play, aftercare, tooth-rotting fluff
summary: Bucky's the perfect boyfriend — sweet and attentive and does anything to make you happy — so who cares that he forgets this one valentine's day? Especially when he spends the morning making it up to you, nestled between your legs.
a/n: this is dedicated to the beautiful @pinksplace 🩷 dear sweet Pink, I hope you enjoy this lil valentine's fic as much as I always enjoy your fics! you are so incredibly talented! I was so excited to get to write this for you and had the best time doing so 🩷
You wake up softly, slowly — the kind of morning where your eyes adjust gently to the light peeking through the blinds, and your body gives a small stretch as you wake. Bucky’s nose nudges against the skin of your neck before placing a soft kiss there. He’s shirtless against you — in nothing but his boxers — his skin warm against yours, dog tags pressing into your chest.
“Mm— morning doll.” He nuzzles his face closer, metal arm wrapping around your waist possessively as his leg slings heavily over yours, pressing you further into the mattress. You welcome the feeling, his weight grounding and safe. You push your knee up, grazing your leg across his before settling into the weight of him on top of you, tilting your head to press your lips to his forehead. The smell of his shampoo washes over you as his hair tickles your nose.
You crinkle your nose up and bring a hand to his hair, pushing it back as you place another kiss to his head.
Bucky groans against your skin — a low, content sound, like the safest place to be is right here, with your hands in his hair and his arm draped across you, the sweet smell of your jasmine body wash pressed against his nose.
“Buckyy,” you singsong, gently brushing your hands through his hair. Your eyes flutter shut when his lips brush against your skin.
“Hmm?” His hot breath fans over your neck, eyes still closed, nudging himself impossibly closer.
You love him like this.
All soft and sleepy and completely yours. You feel his heartbeat against your chest and smile.
Steady. Safe. Yours.
“You not sleep good baby?” You’re peering down at him, nose tilted towards his.
Bucky never really slept well, always waking in the night to his chest pounding or his body shaking. Before you, he barely slept at all. He’d be lucky to get an hour or two. But tucked against you — you with your soft hands and fierce protectiveness you wrapped around him like a security blanket, you who never complained when he woke you by mistake — just slowly lulling him back to sleep with gentle, deep-pressure strokes across his back and sweet nothings whispered against his skin — he allows himself to breathe, lets himself rest.
“Mm, slept okay,” he grumbles, turning his head in towards the pillow, shielding his eyes from the light. You can’t help but smile at how young he looks when he does that, nose and eyes scrunched, and a little crease in between his brows.
You kiss it away.
“Valentine’s Day today…” you whisper, voice high, hopeful.
Bucky stirs before lifting his head from the space between your shoulder. His eyes blink the sleep out rapidly before meeting yours. His face is still soft with sleep — unguarded, slightly dishevelled, tiny creases on his cheek from the pillow.
God, he’s beautiful in the morning.
“Wait, it’s Valentine’s Day today?!” Bucky rubs at his eye, voice groggy and deep.
You smile gently despite the twinge of disappointment you feel.
“Mhm, you forget or something?” Your thumb traces his jaw lovingly and Bucky melts into it.
“M’sorry doll.” He kisses the inside of your palm resting on his face, eyes apologetic.
You don’t mind too much — not when he’s the perfect boyfriend in every other way.
Bucky’s attentive.
It’s instinct for him to pick up on small details. And ever since he met you, he’d been tucking away every single finding into his mind, filing them in alphabetical order, all kept as notes of how to love you right — care for you the way you needed. He’d notice the way you’d frown at people who were rude to servers, the way you’d flinch slightly at a raised voice or the way you’d curl into yourself and go quieter when you were burnt out. It was subtle; your smile not quite reaching your eyes, your breath slightly heavier, little sighs in between tasks and a slight wobble of your lip when he’d ask you what’s wrong.
He listens.
He knows the way you take your coffee, the way you don’t like the crusts on toast, the way you’ll have an extra sugar in your tea if it’s after dinner. He knows you like the fan on when you sleep, even when it’s cold. He always buys you the right jewellery, the right flowers — pink peonies wrapped in paper, tied with a soft pink ribbon.
Always plans out your birthday, takes you on dates.
Anything you want for, he gladly obliges.
Every whim, every crazy idea you have, every new hobby you pick up on a random Tuesday night, insisting — ‘Bucky, this is the one, I swear.’ Of course, it’s not the one and you pick up on another within a month and Bucky never complains — simply goes to the craft store yet again, picking out all the things you might need, handing them to you silently in a paper bag — yarn, crochet hooks and the soft little buttons you insisted you need for your plush penguin.
He listens to you talk about your junk journal, collecting silly items like the wrapper for his pastry or the tag from the new jumper he’d bought. He gets the hang of it, saving the movie tickets from your date, or the napkin from the coffee shop he’d been to and presents them to you. You’d tuck them away, face beaming, trying very hard to not squeeze his face between your hands.
You used to get anxious when first suggesting things to him — previous partners who’d get annoyed or frustrated that you’d started another DIY, who’d complain about the smell of hot glue or the half-finished projects scattered around the house. But you had quickly learnt that his silence only meant he was thinking of how to make it happen for you.
You wanted to turn the doorways in the apartment into archways? He’s helping you plaster and paint the walls. You want to paint flowers into the trimming? He’s washing your brushes and lining up stencils.
Anything to make you happy — to make you feel seen and heard and completely at home with him.
“S’okay Buck, I don’t really care that much about Valentine’s.” You lean forward, kissing him, before settling back against the headboard, pillows tucked in behind you.
“Let me make it up to you.” He’s slotting himself between your legs, head nestling against your chest, placing a kiss on your collarbone. His flesh hand is pressed into the mattress next to your head, bracing himself over you, his metal one squeezing your hip, thumb pressing into the strip of skin where your top has ridden up.
You arch up into him as he places another kiss to your sternum, your collarbone, then higher — dragging heat across your skin as your hands curl into the tendrils of his hair. You hum happily when his lips part against your throat, before moving to your jaw, placing soft kisses.
“Bucky.” You’re already needy — soft and wanting as he continues nipping at your neck.
You push back on his shoulders and Bucky gives, laying back for you to straddle him, knees pressing into either side of the bed. You feel your hips stretch at the sheer size of him.
Bucky looks up at you — your eyes sparkling and hair falling around your face, looking like the rest of his life. His chest swells at the thought — you with his ring on your finger, you round with his baby, in his home, in his bed — for as long as he’s lucky enough to be chosen by you.
And you’ll continue choosing him every single day.
A soft smirk plays at your lips, and he knows he’s gone.
Completely and utterly bewitched by every part of you.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful. I’ll never get used to it.” His calloused hand comes to brush the hair out of your face — cupping it firmly, thumb stroking your cheek as you melt into his touch.
“You gonna make it up to me, James?” Your voice is smooth, sultry against his ear as your cheek presses to his — the stubble scratching at your skin.
“Yeah baby, gonna make it up to you.” He swallows hard, hand seeking out your face, cradling your jaw — pulling you to him, kissing you deep and slow — tongue slipping into your mouth as he tilts your head for him, fingers pressing deliciously into the back of your neck.
The kiss quickly turns desperate — all teeth and tongue and breathless gasps — Bucky letting out a low groan when you grind your hips down onto him. There’s barely anything between you, his boxers and a pair of your sleep shorts. You’re completely bare underneath. Your hands cup his face, his running up and down your sides, palms warm against your waist.
His hands are so big, curling around the expanse of your ribcage as they inch closer to your chest.
He thumbs at your nipples through your thin pink top, before pinching them gently, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger.
You gasp.
You lean into his touch, moaning into his mouth as you kiss him deeper, his fingers moving under your shirt, tracing the underside of your boobs before rolling your nipples between his fingers again, tugging at them gently.
“Mm— Bucky—” Your chest arches into his touch, your top somehow making its way to the floor, your breasts falling perfectly in front of him. You grind your hips down harder onto his growing bulge — thick and hard between your legs. The friction combined with Bucky’s mouth on your breasts makes your head go fuzzy.
Bucky loves the soft sounds you make before he’s even really started, always so pliant for him, your body molding to the shape of his, pressing towards him like you can’t get close enough — like you want to be consumed by him.
You kiss him again, guiding his jaw, nose pressing into his cheek. He hums into your mouth when your wetness coats through the fabric of his boxers, and you swear the sound could end you. It vibrates through you, travelling down your spine and melting into a puddle low in your stomach.
Bucky jerks his hips up to meet yours. You rock against him, hips moving in slow rolls against his throbbing length. Your hands twist into his hair as you kiss him deeper, letting Bucky guide your hips along his. You’re gasping against his mouth, wet hot desire pooling embarrassingly fast, soaking through your shorts and his boxers.
You reach down and pull his cock free, gliding your hand up and down the thick length, thumb spreading the pre-cum around his tip before brushing the underside.
“Oh fuck sweetheart.” Bucky pulls away from your mouth, leaning further into your touch, every part of him desperate for you.
“You wanna fuck me, Bucky? Hmm?”
“God, yes.” His voice traces over your neck. He can’t stop kissing you. Tasting you.
“I just, I can’t get enough baby. Let me taste you doll, please.”
Your eyes nearly roll back at the please. Your stomach flips at the way his head tilts back, looking up at you like you hold the answers to the universe.
The answers to him.
He doesn’t have to ask again before you pull your shorts off, throwing them to the side. He sheds his boxers quickly. You settle your hips back down flush against his, letting him feel your soaked folds against his hard cock.
Bucky lets out a low, visceral sound, gripping your hips tighter.
You can’t help but let your pussy drag up his length, once, twice — his tip nudging your clit, before catching between your folds. You let out a loud moan, grabbing onto him for balance. You push him down, hands dragging up the hard lines of his abs, through his chest hair before settling on his broad shoulders. You crawl up his body, letting your slick drag against the bare skin of his stomach, his chest.
Bucky moans at the feel of it, “So warm baby, so soft.” He’s not even saying it to you, more like muttering worship into the skin of your thighs.
His hands wrap around your legs and the way he looks at you can only be described as reverent. He kisses the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing slightly — his gaze never leaving yours.
He’s underneath you and you’re trembling — legs shaking on either side of his head as you hover over him. There’s something so intoxicating about having a man so big, so strong, completely taken by you. By your legs wrapped around his head. By the sweet smell of your pussy. Bucky pulls you down onto him, wanting nothing more than your full weight against him.
“C’mon doll, sit please.” His fingers dig into your thighs — metal and flesh — dragging you onto him.
You land with a broken little sound, still trying hard to not put your full weight on him.
He grips your thighs tighter, smirking before wrapping his lips around your clit, never easing you into it. The sound of it has your eyes rolling back — a low, wet pull — tongue flicking against your clit, and you collapse against his face.
“Fuck— Bucky— oh…” Your voice trails off into a moan as his tongue breaches your opening, slipping between the wet folds.
“Mm Bucky— you— mmph.” Your hips roll down against his face and Bucky groans — a low guttural sound that vibrates through you. He pulls your hips down, burying his face further into your weeping, aching cunt.
He knows every pull, every movement that makes your body tremble for him.
He lets his right hand reach down for his cock, his metal hand pressed into the curve of your ass, holding you to his face. His hand tugs at the length, stroking up and down as his tongue continues fucking into you.
Bucky looks up to take you in.
You’re a vision — skin flushed, dewy with sweat, brows pulled together in pure pleasure, chest heaving — his name falling from your lips over and over like a prayer.
And when your thighs tighten around his ears —
Bucky swears he’s in heaven.
The obscene slick sounds are muffled against his face, the sweet cadence of your moans echoing in his ears as you come against his face. Your orgasm washes over you in slow, soft waves, matching the pace of your hips as you ride it out, pushing his face further into your dripping cunt.
He pulls you off him and throws you down onto the bed before you even realize what’s happening. His lips are swollen, chin wet with your slick, beard soaked with you. He kisses you like he’s thanking you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moan into his mouth, hands already moving to his cock, guiding him towards you.
“Please Bucky, need you inside me.” You stroke him up and down, tightening your hand just slightly at the base.
Bucky wants to tease you, drag it out — but he can’t. Not when your voice is begging for him so sweetly, not when one hand is tenderly placed over his heart, the other still stroking him, coating the tip in your slick. Not when you’re looking at him like he’s your whole world and every dream you’ve ever had.
So he moves your hand, bringing it to rest on the large expanse of his back and pushes in with a slow, deep thrust.
“Buckyy— fuck—” You gasp at the stretch — the delicious burn of him pushing further and further into your waiting cunt making your eyes roll back. He lets you adjust, kissing you through it, fingers slotting between yours as he pins your wrists to the bed.
“So tight baby, fuck, she’s squeezing me so good—”
Your hips roll up into his, letting out a soft whimper when his tip nudges something inside you and Bucky moves. He starts thrusting into you — deep, slow strokes that have you burying your face in the crook of his neck, letting out muffled moans into his skin.
When he thrusts harder, faster and you let out a soft little whimper — Bucky doesn’t hold back. It’s like the sound of your voice flips a switch inside him that exists only for you.
Something raw and animalistic overtakes him. He feels it crawl up his spine, posessive and dangerous, wanting nothing more than to claim you, to mark you from the inside out.
He didn’t get like this all the time, but god when he had you like this — spread out beneath him, legs bent on either side of his hips, hands resting on his waist, panting and open for him, he couldn’t help what it brought out in him.
“Gonna fill this sweet little pussy up— fuck—” Bucky almost collapses forward when you clench around him, looking up at him with faux innocence, like you don’t know exactly what that does to him.
His pupils go wide at the sight of your lower lip caught between your teeth, thrusting into you harder. His hands travel up the lengths of your legs, before pushing your thighs out and into your chest so fast, you forget how to breathe.
“Fuck Bucky — slow—” You cry out as his tip drags against a spot in you so deep, you swear you can feel it in your throat. You pull him impossibly closer — Bucky letting his full weight rest against the backs of your thighs, pressing you into the mattress.
“Can’t slow down baby. Look at you—fuck—” His eyes roll back as he watches your mouth fall open, completely soundless, too fucked dumb for anything to come out.
His shoulders press into the back of your knees, hips slamming against yours so hard, his dick nudges against your cervix, over and over and over.
“You want me to fuck a baby into you, huh?” Bucky’s metal hand goes under your back, somehow pulling you closer to him. It’s too much — his words, the drag and stretch of his cock in your warm, wet walls, the feel of your slick dripping onto his balls, your body folded in half like this is what it was made for. For him. To be used and bred by him.
“Yes Bucky yes, please, please— want your baby.” You let out a sob, the pleasure twisting with the sheer emotion of being so completely his.
Your hands twist desperately in the sheets as your body rocks back and forth under Bucky’s weight — your mind turning to mush as his thrusts slow, letting you feel every inch of him sinking into you.
“Bucky— I’m—” Your voice comes out broken, desperate little inhales as Bucky fucks you somehow deeper.
“Yeah, my pretty girl gonna cum for me?” Bucky’s voice is rough against your skin, his dog tags swinging against your throat as your head tilts back, pressing your face sideways into the pillow.
“Oh— oh Bucky!” You practically screech when his thumb rubs tight circles into your clit, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.
“Look at me when I’m fucking you.” He growls, grabbing your jaw and pulling your gaze to his.
Your beautiful fucked-out gaze.
“Can’t— can’t— s’too much— fuckkk.” Your head threatens to tilt back, the pleasure building to the point you think you might just pass out, before Bucky grips your chin between his fingers.
“You can take it— cum for me doll, cum around my cock.” His thumb presses tighter against your clit, his dick hitting your soft spot with relentless precision.
You break.
Your orgasm hits you so strong, so sharp — your vision goes white. It spreads through your body like wildfire, clenching and pulsing, hips jerking up against his. Bucky fucks you through it, slow and controlled, murmuring praise, ‘So good for me baby, that’s it, that’s it— there she is.’
You whine, eyes glazing over, the overstimulation bordering on too much — one part of you wanting to pull away from him, the other wanting to slip further down the sweet spiral of insanity with him.
“You can give me one more. One more while I cum in this sweet little pussy. Gonna fill her up.”
Your knees are still pressed to your shoulders, the burn in the back of your legs only adding to the overwhelming pleasure as Bucky continues pounding into you.
“Bucky— I can’t— I can’t—” Your head thrashes side to side and Bucky grips your chin in his hands, so gentle compared to the way he was fucking you.
“You can baby, just one more, one more.” He kisses you soft and sweet.
And you nod, like he knows your body better than you do — because he does.
“She wants it, doesn’t she? She’s gripping me so tight doll— fuck—”
You’re babbling now, complete nonsense as you feel your orgasm building again.
“Oh fuck doll, gonna cum, gonna make sure it takes.” He thrusts into you twice more before you feel him cum, hot spurts filling you over and over until it’s dripping out around his cock.
“Take it sweetheart, it’s all for you. All for you.” He continues thrusting into you, riding out his orgasm, fucking his cum back into you.
“Bucky— I’m—”
“Give it to me doll, good girl— good girl.”
His thumb presses into your clit and you swear you black out as you cum, screaming his name like it’s the only word you know.
You’re both panting, completely breathless, your body still rolling with aftershocks as Bucky unfolds you, pulling out with a hiss, watching his cum drip out. He pushes his metal thumb between your folds, collecting what he can before pushing it back inside you.
“Bucky—” you whine, hips twitching around his thumb.
“Shh, shh, can’t let it go to waste, sweetheart.”
You lie there, too fucked-out to protest, letting him play with you. He places a final kiss to your clit before kissing up your body and resting his forehead against yours.
“You good baby?”
You nod, smiling up at him before kissing him, hand resting on the side of his cheek.
You barely register Bucky picking you up, carrying you to the bathroom with that super soldier ease. He holds you up while you shower — your legs still trembling, sore and sticky and thoroughly used. Bucky massages lotion into your thighs after, kissing your ankles, your knee— whispering praise into your skin.
And just as thoroughly as he ruins you — he takes care of you after, nudging his nose with yours, whispering sweet nothings against your lips as you giggle, mussing his wet hair.
“I was thinking we could do panc—” You stop mid sentence, the thought dying in your mind as your eyes land on the scene in front of you.
The apartment’s been transformed.
The living room is covered from one end to the other in hanging flowers, pink peonies wrapped around clear string, giving the illusion that the flowers are hanging freely.
You turn back to him, mouth agape.
Alpine struts up to the two of you, head nudging against Bucky’s leg before coming up to you. You pick her up, scratching behind her ear as she purrs happily. Bucky shakes his head at the sight, still slightly betrayed by his own cat having chosen you as her preferred human.
You look up at the roof, noticing the strings have been hung clumsily with pieces of bright red tape.
You laugh at the sight, shaking your head when Bucky mutters, ‘was the only tape we had.’
You put Alpine down before looking closer at the garlands hanging from the roof.
There’s little polaroid photos of the two of you hanging between each flower, ones of you from before you’d started dating, from date nights or just a photo he’d sneakily taken of you while playing cards late at night. Fairy lights are draped around the room, casting the room in a warm glow.
“Bucky— what?” Your eyes are filled with tears, looking between him and the room. He guides you over to the kitchen with an excitement that resembles a small puppy.
The kitchen island is scattered with heart shaped chocolates wrapped in pink foil. There’s a plate of pancakes covered with a net food cover (more to stop Alpine than anything else), tiny fake tealights lining the edges of the counter, setting a warm glow over the food. There’s a vase sitting in the middle — one you had made — with a bouquet of the most beautiful pink peonies, stems carefully trimmed and a ribbon tied around the neck of the vase.
There’s a small open box next to it, with small rolled up notes in a jar that reads ‘reasons I love you’ in Bucky’s handwriting. A scented candle sits next to it, as well as a gift voucher for your favorite craft store that reads ‘for whenever your next hobby comes around’.
Your bite your lip, tears falling freely from your eyes now and you don’t know whether you’re laughing or crying. You turn to him, shaking your head.
“You— Bucky—”
Bucky stands there with a goofy grin, eyes twinkling, reflecting the fairy lights. His hair’s still damp from the shower, a few wet drops on his white t-shirt and he’s never looked more like home.
“You like it?” He adjusts one of the flower garlands, before stepping closer to you, hand resting gently on your waist.
“Bucky— I— I— when did you—” Your hands travel up his chest, one hand resting on his cheek, the other on his shoulder.
He smiles sheepishly, looking down.
“Last night, after you went to sleep. And then I got up early and did the pancakes.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, like your heart isn’t threatening to burst out of your chest at any second.
“Oh my god how did I not wake up?” You laugh wetly, looking around the room in disbelief.
“You were out like a light baby.” His forehead rests against yours, hands sliding fully around your waist now.
“It’s perfect Bucky. So perfect. No one— no one’s ever done something like this for me before.” You pause, taking a shaky breath, like if you breathe too loud, the moment might disappear.
“Why— why?” Your eyes don’t meet his.
“Because you deserve it.” He pulls your chin up gently so your eyes meet his.
He says it like a fact — no room for argument, no questioning. Just simple. Like it’s the only reason there could be.
“And I’d do anything to see that pretty smile on your face.”
You can’t help but smile then, eyes tearing up as he looks down at you with so much love, you feel as though you have to look away.
“There it is…my perfect girl.”
You hide your face in his neck, hugging him close, feeling his laugh rumble through his chest.
You pull back, smacking his chest lightly.
“Oh my god, why’d you let me go on about making it up to me?”
He smirks.
“Any excuse to get you to sit on my face doll.”
“Buckyy.” You roll your eyes, smacking his chest again before pulling him into another hug.
“What, like you were complaining? You were rocking against my face like I was your personal toy baby. All ‘mm Bucky pleasee.’” He mocks you, laughing when you groan into his shoulder.
“If you make fun of me one more time, I’ll literally never moan for you again.”
Bucky laughs, “Like you can help it.”
“I can. Try me.”
“Is that a challenge?”
Bucky’s eyebrow cocks and heat pools low so fast at the sudden roughness of his voice, you don’t know how he does it.
One look and you’re a puddle for him.
But as much as you could probably go another five rounds with him, your stomach’s growling and the smell of the pancakes has your mouth watering.
“Mhm, but later, I’m hungry.”
He laughs, shaking his head and squeezing your ass before pulling away from you. He makes you a plate — pancakes and strawberries and maple syrup, topped with vanilla ice cream and presents it to you with a dramatic flourish.
“For you, my love.”
Your heart beats stupidly in your chest, like you’re five and it’s the first time holding a boy’s hand on the playground.
“Why, thank you.” You sit on the kitchen stool, giggling as he feeds you a strawberry from his plate.
You eat until you can’t eat anymore, laughing and talking about everything and nothing all at once. Alpine had jumped into Bucky’s lap at one point, trying to get his ice cream from his plate as he pushed it away from her. She had circled his lap before deciding there were better things to do with her time— jumping off to lay in the patch of sun shining through the balcony door.
“I still can’t believe you did all this.” Your hands wrap around your mug, the warmth lingering from the coffee.
Bucky knows it’s not because of him that you don’t believe it. He knows that deep down, you still don’t feel like you deserve it.
But he’ll keep reminding you.
As many times as it takes.
The way you do for him when his mind gets dark, when he disappears in his own head, when the memories of the Winter Soldier come back to him telling him he’s not worth it.
You remind him every day that he’s worthy of this love.
And he’ll do the same for you for as long as you need.
“You deserve it. I love doing stuff like this for you doll. It makes me happy.”
The air gets thicker — your eyes trained on your coffee, watching the little foam bubbles pop.
“You know, before I met you, I thought— I thought I only existed to show other people love…but with you— with you it’s like all the love I’ve poured into the universe put into one person and poured straight back to me.” Your hands are shaky around your mug as the words linger between you — somehow heavy and soft all at once.
“Doll—” Bucky sounds wrecked, chest tightening in that sweet, aching way, eyes tearing up as his hand comes to your face.
You put down your mug, turning your body into his warmth, hands sliding up his chest. He cups your face in both hands, the pads of his thumbs tracing back and forth over the apples of your cheeks, and rests his forehead against yours, taking a shaky breath.
“I love you Bucky.”
Bucky’s nose brushes yours, before tracing his lips up to your forehead, not quite kissing — just breathing you in like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he can’t believe it was even possible for him to be loved by someone like you — someone warm and patient and understanding.
He never could’ve imagined being here, back when you were his annoyingly cheerful, annoyingly pretty, neighbor — handing him freshly baked goods to “welcome him to the building”, like who does that? Of course, it had just been your excuse to get closer to him but Bucky hadn’t known that.
You’d wave hello to him in the hallways, coax more than a few words out of him in a way that no one else seemed to. You were easy to talk to. You never expected him to be anything other than himself. He remembers the first time he’d invited you to a movie night, heart pounding and face burning as the words hung between you. You’d nodded yes immediately, biting down on a smile.
And then quickly — without warning — you’d spread into every part of his life and turned it technicolor — coaxing all of his darkness out of the shadows, holding it in your safe, warm hands, gently picking at it, patiently untangling all the knots in his soul until it was something that made sense — something manageable. It didn’t mean it went away, just that he didn’t need to hold it alone.
You brought love and laughter and chicken pot pies and being with you was like stepping into the sun after years of being in the dark — blinding at first, then warmth — so warm and so fucking good and god, Bucky never wanted to be cold again.
His lips tremble gently against your skin, “I love you doll. More than you know.”
He presses his face into the crook of your neck, pulling you into him.
“My girl, my home.”
moodboard inspired by @juniebjonesin's gorgeous headers she always creates!!
@lolala1414 thank you for listening to me ramble about this story non-stop!!
wedding-hater groomsman!bucky x planning-the-wedding bridesmaid!reader
⤷ summary: It was supposed to be simple: plan the wedding, survive the vendors, don’t strangle Bucky Barnes. But perfection cracks when an unexpected disaster hits, and in the quiet aftermath you discover the last thing you'd expect - that falling in love isn't exactly what friends do.
⤷ warnings/tags: modern AU (reader is a journalist, bucky is an architect, but that doesn't matter too much); friends to lovers; side natasha x steve (they're the ones getting married!); generally fluffy/ romcom; a bit of arguing; mild feng shui slander.
barely proofread and certainly not beta read, but that does not in any way diminish my love for vale! (i'm just tired haha)
bonus smut at the end 18+ MDNI: unprotected p in v, finishing inside, use of petnames: baby, darling (you know i had to)
⤷ word count: 19.1k (take chapter breaks whenever there's a divider!)
⤷ A/N: written for the delightful @bedriddenbarnes as part of my very first event, the dear my darling valentines day fic exchange! there's so many other wonderful fics being posted, so please check out the masterpost!!
dear my darling reader masterpost || more bucky from me
The light should’ve felt peaceful. Instead, your head is pounding like you’ve spent the night sleeping beneath a church bell, each slow pulse arriving a fraction too loud, a fraction too bright. Your mouth is dry.
Urgh.
You breathe in slowly – linen and lavender detergent, sun-warmed cotton, and something unfamiliar beneath it. Cedarwood, maybe. Or the faint metallic coolness that clung to skin after too many hours outside under string lights and damp evening air. You wrinkle your brow without opening your eyes, trying to sort memory from sensation.
The wedding.
God, the wedding.
Your head throbs again, sharper this time – a warning.
You crack open one eye. The ceiling greets you first: white, slightly textured, edged with crown molding that doesn’t quite match the wallpaper. The second thing you register is the wallpaper itself – pink and white florals, sprigs of something that might be hydrangeas (Steve’s mom’s taste, unmistakably).
And the third –
Eyes. Arctic blue, and alarmingly close.
Bucky Barnes is lying on the pillow beside you, facing you, already awake. His expression is quiet, unreadable in the soft morning light. Peaceful, except for the severe crease between his brows that suggests that he too, is questioning the reality of this moment.
For one suspended moment, neither of you move. His breath tickles the loose strands of hair at your forehead. Yours has stopped entirely. His gaze stays on your face, steady but unreadable, let he’s waiting for you to say something first – or bracing for you to. His breathing is slow, controlled. Yours is not.
You become acutely aware of the absurdity of it all at once: the childhood bedroom, the floral wallpaper, the faint ache behind your eyes, the man you’ve spent the past month circling now lying inches from your mouth like this is the most natural place in the world for him to be.
Both eyes snap open fully, blinking sleep away and panic into focus. The entire night before come crashing back with nauseating clarity
The rain.
The ruined lake house.
The frantic salvaging.
Steve and Natasha’s incandescent smiles when it all somehow worked out.
The champagne you should not have accepted.
The second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Nth glass you absolutely should not have accepted.
You – exhausted, delirious, running purely on adrenaline and relief – collapsing onto the nearest bed in Steve Rogers’ childhood home.
And somehow, inexplicably, Bucky ending up beside you.
He blinks, just once. The crease between his brows deepens, then smooths, like he’s made a decision you haven’t been briefed on.
You swallow. This is… a lot.
There’s too much context hastily skipped over, too many unanswered questions, entire conversations that need to happen. You really should say something – anything.
Instead, the both of you just lie there, staring at each other in the pale, barely-there light of early morning, and you have no idea – absolutely none whatsoever – how it started.
A month and a day earlier…
Saturday morning brunch is meant to be harmless.
At least, that’s what you assume when Natasha texts brunch? with no further explanation – which in your shared language means citrusy drinks with more alcohol than juice, Steve cheerfully announcing he’ll swing by to pick the two of you up, and maybe a passive-aggressive comment about how you never answer texts on time anymore since you made senior reporter.
The restaurant is bright in that deliberate, curated way – white tile, trailing plants, menus that list three kinds of toast and six kinds of alternative milks (for an upcharge, of course). Steve is already there when you arrive, standing to hug you like it’s been weeks instead of days. Natasha follows more smoothly, sunglasses still on despite being indoors, kiss to your cheek efficient and familiar.
You slide into your seat, shrugging off your jacket.
“So,” you say. “What’s the occasion?”
Steve grins. Natasha doesn’t answer.
You notice the table then – four place settings, evenly spaced. You pause, eyes flicking from the extra glass to the empty chair beside it.
“He said he’s coming from a morning meeting with new clients,” she continues, reaching for a menu. “So he might be a little late.”
You open your mouth to respond – but then Steve peers over your shoulder. “Oh, there he is.”
You turn just in time to see Bucky Barnes crossing the café floor, riding jacket slung over one shoulder, expression composed in the way of someone who isn’t that late anyways but will be apologizing anyway. He looks exactly as you remember him – tall, self-contained, like he sort of exists on a slightly different plane from everyone else.
He lifts a hand in greeting and slips into the empty seat beside you with quiet ease.
“Sorry,” he says by way of greeting. “Clients wanted to redo the entire second floor because their new feng shui master said the energies weren’t flowing properly. Whatever that means.”
“You’re fine,” Natasha replies. “We just got here.”
Then before you can interrogate Natasha on the true reason for why you both are here, the server arrives, menus appear, and the moment gets swept away in small talk. Drinks arrive and the table settles into that brief, expectant quiet that always precedes a big announcement.
Natasha and Steve exchange a look. It’s the look of two people who have already leapt and are now waiting for the ground to rise up and meet them.
Your stomach drops before your brain catches on.
“We wanted you guys to be the first to know,” Steve says. “We’re getting married.”
The sentence lands like a champagne cork popping somewhere inside your chest.
You blink once, because you’re reasonably sure you misheard – but Natasha is smiling in that precise, controlled way she does when she’s already braced for fallout, and Steve is beaming so openly it borders on reckless sincerity.
You make a noise. It is not a dignified one.
“What,” you say faintly, already halfway out of your chair.
“We’re getting married!” Natasha echoes, a million-watt grin on her face.
You scream.
There’s no other word for it. You scream, hands flying up, chair scraping back as you lunge across the table, nearly knocking over the water glasses in the process. She smells like citrus and coffee and something expensive and understated, and she laughs softly against your shoulder as you clutch her like she might vanish. “No. NO YOU ARE NOT DOING THIS TO ME RIGHT NOW!”
Natasha laughs as you throw yourself at her again, this time nearly climbing into her lap. “Show me,” you demand, pulling back just long enough to grab her hand, lifting it to the light, examining the ring from every conceivable angle. “Nat, this is – this is perfect. Steve, are you – are you seeing this? This is her. This ring is literally her.”
Steve looks unbearably pleased with himself. “I had a bit of help,” he admits bashfully.
“I’m screaming,” you announce, already doing so. You absolutely do not care that the table beside you has gone quiet. “I’m so happy I might pass out! How long have you been hiding this from me?”
“About twelve hours,” Natasha says dryly. “We decided you’d explode if we waited longer.”
She isn’t wrong.
You drop back into your chair, breathless, eyes shining, hands still trembling faintly with the aftershock of joy.
Across the table, Steve beams like he’s watching fireworks set off just for him. His ears are pink, his smile helplessly wide. He reaches for his coffee, then forgets to drink it.
Bucky, meanwhile, reacts the way he does to most emotionally significant announcements – by doing nothing at all.
He leans back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest, gaze flicking once between Steve and Natasha as if he’s checking that this is, in fact, real. His expression is unreadable at first – then cracks just enough to reveal a fond resignation.
“Well,” he says eventually, nodding once. “Took you long enough.”
Steve laughs, delighted. “I knew you’d say that.”
Bucky reaches across the table and claps him on the shoulder, solid and affectionate. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Natasha watches the exchange with a small, knowing smile. “You’re happy for us,” she says.
“I am,” Bucky replies immediately, without hesitation. “You’re good together. Always have been.”
You notice – how easily the words come out, how certain he sounds – and your heart squeezes a little.
Then he adds, dry as dust, “Still don’t know why you’d want a wedding.”
You blink. “How – how can you hate weddings? Weddings are –”
“Expensive,” Bucky supplies. “A waste of time. Full of speeches no one remembers and promises that half the room doesn’t believe in.”
You stare at him like he’s just announced he doesn’t believe in birthdays. Or seasons. Or the concept of marking time at all.
Natasha hums. “You’re projecting.”
“I’m being realistic.”
But then, he glances at Steve again, and his tone softens, “I’m happy for you,” he says. “Both of you. Really.”
Natasha nods once, satisfied. “Good. Because you’re the best man.”
Bucky freezes like she’s told him he’s being drafted. There’s that split-second tension, the recalibration. You, mid-sip of your mimosa, choke. Hah! Karma!
He looks from Natasha to Steve, then back again, as if hoping one of them will crack and admit this is a joke.
“I am what.”
Steve’s grin turns positively feral. “Yeah. Best man. Obviously.”
Bucky looks at all three of you in turn, trying to locate the hidden camera. “No,” he says slowly. “That’s not obvious. That’s a terrible idea. What part of I think weddings are useless did you not get?”
Natasha hands you a napkin. “And,” she continues, entirely unbothered, “she’s the maid of honour.”
Your head snaps up. “Me?”
“Of course you,” Natasha says. “Who else would I trust?”
Your whole body does a small, involuntary jolt, like someone pressed your internal panic-and-joy switch at the same time.
“Me?” you breathe. Then again, quieter, “Me.”
Natasha’s looking at you with that rare, unguarded sincerity she reserves for maybe three people on earth.
Your throat tightens. “I – yes. Of course. I’d be honoured.”
Bucky blinks once, slow, like he hadn’t expected quite that level of enthusiasm.
You’re just about to turn on Bucky for that face he’s making – something between disbelief and mild judgment – when the plates arrive, and for a brief, blissful moment, the promise of carbohydrates knock every uncharitable thought clean out of your head.
This turns out to be a mistake, because the second you’re buttering sourdough with the single-minded joy of someone about to be fed, you’ve already forgotten to stay annoyed at him. Another thought slips in – soft at first, then niggling – that there’s a wedding to plan.
“So,” you say, glancing up, smile bright. “I know it’s early, but when were you thinking of actually having the wedding?”
“Oh,” Natasha says, not evening looking up from her eggs. “Maybe August?”
You beam. “August,” you repeat dreamily. “That’s beautiful. Late summer weddings are so romantic – warm nights, golden hour photos, none of those terrible July storms –”
She nods. “Mm.”
“And that gives you loads of time to plan,” you continue, already halfway to bliss. “Plenty of runway.”
Natasha smiles. Then, lightly – certainly too lightly for the bombshell she’s dropping – adds, “August this year.”
The knife slips in your hand. The world stops. You laugh and it feels like it’s coming out all wrong. “Sorry – what?”
You turn instinctively toward the person nearest you, seeking grounding, confirmation, sanity. Your hand finds Bucky’s forearm without thinking.
He doesn’t pull away; he doesn’t reassure you either. He’s wearing a strange expression – half amused, half wary – like someone watching a beautifully engineered bridge begin to smoke.
“August,” Steve repeats serenely. “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”
You stare at him. “That’s,” you say slowly, “next month.”
“Yes,” Steve says, pleased. “Exactly.”
Then you laugh again, louder this time, shaking your head. “Okay, okay! But –” you inhale. “What’s the plan?”
“Well,” he says, folding his hands like this is the most reasonable thing in the world, “we were thinking simple.”
Your smile freezes.
Natasha nods. “Very simple.”
Your smile begins to strain. “Define simple.”
“Lunch,” Steve says. “At my parent’s place.”
“In the backyard,” Natasha adds. “Just family and close friends.”
The word lunch echoes in your skull like it’s been shouted down a hallway.
“A… lunch,” you echo faintly. Lunch is not a wedding word. Lunch is what happens when people have errands afterward.
“Yes,” Natasha says calmly. “Low-key.”
You lean back into your chair.
Steve chimes in, “We don’t really need much, we just want to get married.”
There it is, that gentle, sincere, devastating honesty.
You stare at the two of them, these people you love more than most things in the world, and feel something inside you crack open like a dropped champagne flute.
“No,” you say.
Steve blinks. “No?”
“No,” you repeat, firmer now. “Absolutely not.”
Beside you, Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly amused – a reaction you’ll pointedly refuse to dignify in favour of the emergency at hand.
“Oh, come on,” Bucky says, “what’s wrong with lunch?”
You swivel toward him, eyes wide. “Everything. Everything is wrong with lunch.”
“People show up,” he says, shrugging. “They eat. They say congratulations. Nothing different from a big party.”
You gesture helplessly between him and the couple. “This is a wedding. You don’t just – eat and disperse.”
Natasha finally looks at you properly. “We’re not trying to make a production of it.” Steve nods in agreement. “Between school starting again and Nat going back into full ballet rehearsal season, this is kind of our window.”
“There isn’t another one,” she adds. “Fall is gone. Winter is Nutcracker. And then the company tours in Spring.”
Steve shrugs apologetically. “And once summer’s over, I’m back with the kids full-time. We don’t want to wait another year just to line up calendars.”
“It’s sensible,” Natasha adds. “Not romantic. Just… real life.”
“But –” you start, then stop, searching for something that doesn’t make you sound unhinged. “But you deserve more than real life.”
“We have each other,” Steve says gently.
“That’s not –” You turn again, desperate now, fingers digging into Bucky’s arm without a shred of dignity. “Tell them. This is insane, right?”
He stiffens slightly, clearly unprepared to be conscripted into this fight. “I really don’t see the problem,” he says honestly.
Your jaw drops. “It’s a milestone,” you insist. “It’s about marking the moment. About saying this matters enough that it stops time for day.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Or,” he says, “they get married because they want to be married. The rest is optional.”
Natasha watches you both with interest. Steve’s head swivels between the two of you like he’s watching a tennis match.
“Behold,” you say dryly, gesturing at Bucky. “The patron saint of emotional rationing.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Better than being the apostle of overreaction.”
You release his arm with a huff. “You’re really telling me you’re fine with them getting married over sandwiches.”
“If they’re good sandwiches,” he says, unfazed. “Sure.”
You make a distressed, inhuman noise. Bucky studies you – really studies you – and for the first time since you met him, he seems to consider the possibility that something might be deeply wrong with you.
The table falls into a brief, careful quiet. It’s not uncomfortable, but it certainly is weighted. You slide your plate aside and, with the grim resolve of someone about to break an emergency story, pull out the battered journalist’s notebook you’re never actually without.
“Okay,” you say.
Three heads turn toward you.
“What if,” you say slowly, “I plan it.”
Natasha blinks. “You –”
“Everything,” you continue, gaining momentum. “The logistics, the vendors, the timeline. All of it. You don’t have to think about anything.”
When Steve starts to protest, you hold up a hand.
“No. Listen. You’re busy. I get that. You’ve both spent your lives showing up for other people.” You gesture between them. “Let us show up for you.”
Bucky watches you now, full attention, as if something in the room has shifted and he’s trying to locate the fault line.
“You two just –” you say, voice softer but no less certain, “you two just appear. Have a good time. Celebrate with us.”
Natasha studies you, eyes sharp, calculating. “You’d take this on?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “Happily.”
Steve looks torn. “We don’t want to burden you.”
You laugh, quick and earnest. “You won’t. This is –” you falter, then recover. “This is important to me.”
A small, horrible beat passes in which you second-guess whether you’ve crossed a line.
Then Natasha exhales, long and thoughtful. “And you wouldn’t turn it into something enormous.”
You hesitate, just a tiny bit. “I wouldn’t turn it into something untrue,” you say. “I promise.”
That does it. Natasha reaches for your hand, squeezing once. “Okay.”
Steve smiles, relief washing over him. “Yeah. Okay.”
Your heart lifts – buoyant, determined, already sprinting ahead as you turn instinctively toward Bucky, eyes bright, dragging him into the moment without even thinking.
“And you,” you insist, “You’ll help.”
He stiffens. “I will not.”
“You’re the best man,” you say, steady, reasonable. “I’m the maid of honour. This is literally a two-person job, like it or not.”
His jaw flexes. “I don’t do weddings.”
“And I don’t do half-measures,” you shoot back. “So here we are.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again – clearly deciding that arguing with you is both futile and dangerous to his peace of mind.
Natasha laughs. Steve shakes his head, amused. The conversation drifts on – dates, timelines, logistics – while you’re already sketching invisible plans in the air like a general surveying an impending campaign.
Bucky leans back in his chair, arms crossed, expression edged with a kind of begrudging vigilance, as if he now has to monitor whatever chaos you intend to unleash on his life. He doesn’t believe in weddings. And whatever this is – you, dragging him into a four-week matrimonial war zone – isn’t changing that.
It is, however, very clearly about to become his problem.
Three weeks and a day earlier…
“Remind me,” Bucky mutters, voice as flat as concrete, “why I’m here?”
You don’t answer immediately. You’re too busy absorbing the lake house foyer – the clean timber lines, the citrus-and-sunlight smell, the exact kind of curated serenity that makes your pulse rise with possibility.
Bucky stands beside you like he’s been forced at gunpoint to be here – jaw tight, arms crossed, weight shifted back on his heels.
“It’s indoor-outdoor, one of the top venues in the state, and seats exactly who we need it to,” you recite automatically, even though no one has accused you of anything yet. “And because I asked you to come.”
“I noticed,” he deadpans. “What I didn’t notice was any advance warning before being hauled into – whatever this is.”
You wave him off. “24 hours is plenty.”
“For you, maybe,” he replies flatly. “Some of us don’t move meetings unless something’s on fire.” He looks pointed around the perfectly intact room.
You open your mouth – ready to fight him, justify yourself, maybe both – but another couple steps in behind you. They’re glossy, coordinated, wearing the sort of high fashion monochrome palette that suggests they have a shared stylist and a joint credit card. The bride glances at you, then at Bucky, eyes flicking quickly over the height difference, the arm loop, the proximity.
Something in her expression sharpens. Territory has been staked, competition engaged.
Oh. So it’s going to be like that.
You are not losing this venue to someone wearing three different shades of black.
It is at this moment – this precise, irrational, adrenaline laced moment – the venue coordinator appears. She is a woman in earth-toned linen who steps forward with her arms held out wide. “Welcome! You must be –”
“Engaged!” you blurt out.
Bucky chokes so hard it could be a medical issue.
You thump him on the back and keep smiling like nothing is wrong. “Yes,” you continue, “we’re so excited to be here.”
The woman’s smile widens, though she looks a little confused. Nevertheless, she clasps your hands in hers. “Thank you for coming in person and not sending a planner. I do prefer to walk the space with the couple themselves.” She tilts her head, studying the two of you like a composition. “I designed it that way,” she continues lightly, “otherwise the space gets confused. It needs to feel the energy of two people together.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes once – a man making peace with his own unbelievable life choices.
You do not give him time to regret it.
You keep smiling, turning just enough to close the distance between you as you decisively slide your fingers around the widest part of his biceps. It’s an action possessive to sell the lie, and strategic enough that he can’t object.
“Of course, we must accommodate the space,” you lie cleanly through your teeth.
Bucky’s gaze flicks to your hand.
Then to the woman.
Then back to your hand.
Something in his expression tightens – disbelief first, then resignation, then a faint, startled awareness of how close you suddenly are. His jaw works once, like he’s swallowing a protest.
The woman beams, satisfied. “Wonderful,” she says. “I can always tell when a couple’s right for the room.”
Bucky blinks.
“The room,” he mutters for your ears only, “is not the only thing being lied to.”
You squeeze his arm a little tighter – a warning, a threat, a plea for cooperation – and steer him forward.
“Just play along,” you hiss.
You move without thinking, guiding Bucky along with you. He leans down slightly, voice low and dangerous. “You did not tell me,” he says, “that I was going to be fake-engaged today.”
You smile up at him. “I didn’t think you’d come if I did.”
“I can still walk out.”
“You won’t,” you say sweetly. “You’d never leave me to lose to them.”
His mouth presses into a flat line. “That’s not a compliment.”
The coordinator sweeps ahead, her linen skirts whispering across the polished floor, gesturing for all four of you to follow her deeper into the venue. Her energy is serene, ceremonial, almost priestly – the kind of woman who would absolutely believe a building has preferences.
You move first, still linked to Bucky because you can’t risk breaking formation now. His arm stays rigid under your hand, but he doesn’t shake you off. Not when the monochrome couple is still behind you. Not when the coordinator keeps glancing back, clearly assessing which pair the space prefers.
As you’re led deeper into the space – past long communal tables, a dramatic staircase, an absurdly beautiful internal garden that was built to reflect the chaotic natural energies of the lake – you let yourself breathe for the first time all week.
It has been chaos – that particular, grinding breed of chaos born from too many deadlines stacked on too little sleep. A week of logistics and emails, of vendor spreadsheets multiplying like rabbits. You’ve been sleeping with your phone pressed to your chest, waking up to half-drafted ideas and missed calls. Coffee is drunk consistently, at ungodly hours.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, your harmless little notebook of ideas has evolved into something far more serious: a swollen D-ring binder thick enough to cause wrist strain, complete with a colour-coded contents page, subsection tabs, and – because you hate yourself – a newly minted annex.
Bucky has watched this escalation with increasing distaste. He flips a page, pauses, then squints at it. “Why is this laminated?”
“It’s the Emergency Contingencies Index.”
He looks up at you like he’s just witnessed a war crime. “…You laminated contingencies.”
“Obviously.”
He exhales through his nose — long, beleaguered, resigned to his fate. “Of course you did.”
You ignore the jibe and slide a printout across the table toward him. “Venue viewing. Tomorrow evening.” You tap the date and time with your pen, already mentally drafting an email you’ll have to send from the back of the cab to work. “Just promise me you’ll show up.”
He exhales slowly, like a man considering his options. He said nothing, and yet –
Here he is.
You catch him out of the corner of your eye now, consciously shortening his stride so he doesn’t power ahead of you, free hand shoved into his pockets, jaw set in concentration as he maintains the fragile illusion of engaged unity. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
The foyer opens into a long, sunlit corridor. Windows stretch floor-to-ceiling, throwing bright bars of late-afternoon light across the hardwood.
Beyond her, a sweeping wall of French doors opens onto the lake, the view so startlingly still it looks curated. The afternoon light pours in, warm and liquid, pooling over the polished floors as though the entire venue has been waiting – patiently, expectantly – for someone to notice how perfect it could be.
The other couple gasps appreciatively.
You smile, unsurprised. You know this view; you’d studied it from three angles online, read two overly reverent blog posts about it, and cross-checked Google Earth. Still, seeing it in person, it’s better – warmer, more alive.
Bucky notices, of course he notices, but he doesn’t comment – he’s too busy maintaining his posture of a reluctant hostage – but the corner of his mouth tightens like he’s bracing for you to sprint ahead and start taking photos.
You nudge him anyway. “Try not to look like someone dragged you out of a bunker.”
His glance is slow, unimpressed. “Try not to lie about our relationship status in front of strangers.”
“Tit for tat,” you murmur.
The coordinator begins talking about the original timber, about the intentional asymmetry of the beams, about the way light “wakes the room gently.”
You are listening with rapt attention.
Bucky is… enduring.
Every now and then she asks a question – Do you prefer natural wood tones? Would you want drapery? Do you lean toward a circular ceremony layout or linear? – and you open your mouth each time, prepared to answer.
But then Bucky answers first – Not with enthusiasm, or vision, or any interest in weddings whatsoever – but with that dry, unfiltered architectural practicality of a man who absolutely cannot help applying professional standards even when he hates the situation he finds himself in.
“A circular layout will bottleneck the aisle, especially if it’s indoors,” he says, hands in his pockets. “You’ll lose at least a third of the sightlines.”
The coordinator brightens. “Exactly.”
The monochrome bride stiffens.
You blink at Bucky, startled. He catches the look, scowls faintly, and mutters, “It’s obvious.”
It isn’t, but you let him have his dignity.
You walk on through another set doors, which opens wide into to the main reception hall – soaring beams, vast windows framing the lake, the whole space glowing.
“This,” she says reverently, “is where most couples choose to place their focal installation.”
You know instantly what she means. The chandelier. You’d flagged it in your notes – a suspended floral-glass hybrid piece, deceptively delicate, impossibly heavy.
You open your mouth to ask about load-bearing specs, but –
He’s frowning at the ceiling, hands still in his pockets, the posture of someone who cannot stop being an architect even when he’s pretending to be an engaged man-captive.
“You’ve got a reinforced steel bracket hidden behind the main truss,” he continues, nodding toward a nearly invisible seam. “But if you’re planning anything heavier than a statement pendant, you’ll need secondary reinforcement. Otherwise the whole thing will torque.”
The coordinator’s eyes go very round.
The monochrome groom swallows, while his bride tightens her grip on her designer purse.
You stare at Bucky, stunned.
He glances sideways at you – and the look he gives you is defensive, almost irritated, the look of a man who realizes too late that he has just demonstrated interest.
“What?” he mutters. “You were gonna ask.”
He’s right, and that annoys you more than it should.
The coordinator beams. “Most people never notice that bracket. You have an extraordinary eye.”
Bucky grimaces, as if being praised for competence in a wedding venue is worse than being shot.
You step in smoothly. “He’s very detail-oriented.”
“He’s very particular,” the monochrome bride echoes, except in her tone, it’s an accusation.
Bucky lifts one brow at her – slow, unimpressed – and the bride looks away first.
The coordinator, oblivious or delighted, continues. “Of course, if you were envisioning a suspended installation – glass, florals, even a sculptural arc – we can accommodate it. The space responds beautifully to verticality.”
“We are considering something suspended,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky shoots you a look that reads: You’re making up lies faster than I can track them.
You shoot him one back: Keep up.
He exhales through his nose. “If we do that, we’ll need that secondary bracket. And a counterweight system.”
The coordinator nods rapidly, already mentally rearranging her entire lighting rig. “Of course. That can be arranged.” Something shifts subtly. Her posture softens, the way she nods is as if a check box has just been ticked.
The other groom glances back at you and Bucky, his earlier confidence visibly dented. You squeeze Bucky’s arm, unable to help the spark of satisfaction that flickers through you.
The moment the coordinator drifts out of both eyesight and earshot – no doubt to commune with the floorboards or interrogate the other couple’s aura – Bucky exhales like he’s been underwater.
“Okay,” he mutters, stepping back a fraction, putting space between your bodies the way a man pulls his hand away from a hot stove. “We’re done here. We saw the thing. You touched me. The room approved. Can we go?”
You stare at him. “We haven’t even reached the terrace. Or seen the lake.”
“We don’t need to see anything,” he says, already half-turned toward the exit. “You’ve clearly got this handled. The room is spiritually climaxing for you. I’m just taking up space.”
You blink at him. “Are you – mad?”
“No,” he says immediately, too quickly. “I’m not mad.”
He is mad. He is radiating annoyance in a very silent, very repressed, very Barnesian key.
You step in front of him before he can make a full escape.
“Bucky. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he says again, jaw tightening. “You lie through your teeth, drag me into a fake engagement, hold onto me like I’m part of the act, and suddenly we’re competing with –” he gestures vaguely toward the monochrome couple, “– those people. Nothing at all.”
You cross your arms. “I asked you to come. You came. That’s on you.”
His laugh is humourless. “You didn’t tell me I was signing up to be your emotional seeing-eye dog for a venue tour.”
You bristle. “I didn’t ask you to hold my hand.”
“You didn’t ask,” he shoots back, “but you sure as hell did it anyway.”
You open your mouth. Close it again in favour of studying him, as if the truth of this situation might be written across the rigidity of his shoulders, the hard line of his mouth, and the glint in his eyes that isn’t anger so much as it is something that he doesn’t want to name.
This is not about the hand, this is not about the lie. This is something deeper and he’s trying very hard – too hard – not to be affected by.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “So what are you actually angry about?”
He looks away first, toward the lake shimmering through the hallway windows. The light catches on the water, fractured and restless – and for a moment, so is he.
“You keep acting like this wedding is an exam you’re going to be graded on,” he says quietly. “Like if you don’t get the perfect score, you’d have failed something.”
Your heart climbs straight into your throat. His accuracy is unfair.
“And you,” you say, more sharply than intended, “act like caring about something automatically makes it ridiculous.”
Unexpectedly, he flinches – a tiny, involuntary contraction, like you’ve brushed into a decades old bruise.
“It’s just a venue,” he says, and there’s no mockery in it now. Only something raw, frustrated, almost… unguarded. “A pretty one. But you’re acting like it’s going to make or break their marriage.”
His mouth twists. “Like the right backdrop magically carries the weight of everything else. And I don’t get it,” he exhales through his nose, gaze fixed somewhere past you. “Why this – all this – matters so damn much to you people.”
You people. It stings, but not in the way he thinks. Because underneath the snark, you finally see the real wound: he doesn’t understand ceremonies, symbols, anything beautiful for the sake of being beautiful – because he’s never let himself want any of it.
“Because it’s Nat and Steve,” you say, letting your voice soften to match his. “And I love them.”
He goes still at that.
You press on, because if you stop now you might not ever get it out. “I can’t fix their schedules,” you say. “I can’t tell them to stop adjusting their lives for everyone else. For rehearsals, for classes, for performances, for deadlines, for everyone who wants a piece of them.” You gesture around the sun-dappled riverbank. “This I can make good. This is their onewedding, and I refuse to let it be mediocre.”
A whole taxonomy of expressions moves across Bucky’s face – irritation, disbelief, something like reluctant comprehension, and then something else entirely, quick and unguarded, before he shutters it.
“And if all it takes is twenty minutes of us pretending…” you continue, voice steadying as you meet his eyes, “then yeah, I’m going to ask you to pretend like your life depends on it.”
He swallows – a small, tight movement, the only tell he gives away. You hold his gaze, refusing to look anywhere else.
“I’m not asking you to suddenly believe in weddings, Bucky,” you say quietly. “Just help me make one thing in their life perfect.”
His jaw works once, the fight leaving him in a slow, resigned exhale.
“…Fine,” he mutters, looking away as he rubs the back of his neck, “Just – don’t grab my arm like that again unless you warn me first.”
You smile, stepping past him toward the terrace where the coordinator has drifted off with the other couple. “No promises.”
*
The tour funnels you down a gentle slope, the house falling away behind you as the riverbank unfurls in front of it – a stretch of soft grass tapering toward the water, framed on one side by a broad, ancient oak. Its branches arc outward like the ribs of a cathedral, heavy with leaves that whisper in the breeze. You hadn’t noticed it from the house; from this angle, though, it dominates the horizon, dignified and steadfast, the kind of tree that seems older than the property deeds themselves.
The coordinator steps onto the very center of the lawn with the assured gait of someone taking her mark on a stage. This, you know instinctively, is where she believes vows ought to be spoken – the exact patch of earth where a couple should stand, framed by river light and the watchful canopy of the oak. She closes her eyes, lifts her chin slightly, and inhales through her nose like she’s tasting the air for nuance, for resonance, for meaning.
Sunlight spills around her like she arranged it.
“Well?” she asks. “What has the space said to you?”
You open your mouth, but Bucky beats you to it.
He straightens with the weary precision of a man reaching for a tool he resents knowing how to use. And, with all the cool detachment of someone reading a zoning violation aloud, he replies, “We’ll need to check with our feng shui master first. Just to confirm the alignment. Of the house. Of the day. Of us.”
You nearly swallow your own tongue as the coordinator woman’s eyes go wide. The monochrome couple freeze like meerkats spotting a predator.
“Your… master,” she breathes, reverent.
Bucky nods once, faux-solemn. “Yes. We never make major choices without him aligning the energies of the space.”
Something dangerously close to hysteria bubbles up – laughter, disbelief, the urge to grab him by the collar – and you shove it all down in favour of hissing under your breath, “Where the hell did you get that from?”
Without breaking eye contact with the woman, Bucky whispers back, “Someone said it to me last week.”
“Well.” Her spine straightens, chin lifting in pride. “You may assure your feng shui master that this house was built to honour all schools of thought. East, West, traditional, contemporary, celestial, terrestrial – every axis, every current, every flow – perfectly aligned.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Bucky murmurs, and the audacity of him nearly floors you.
The woman stands a little straighter, the way someone does when intellectually challenged and spiritually provoked. Her eyes sweep once more over the riverbank, the grass, the house behind you – a slow, assessing glide, like she’s listening to vibrations only she can hear.
She inhales deeply, with great purpose. When she opens her eyes again, something in her expression has shifted. “The space,” she says, solemn as a vow, “has begun to speak.”
A hush seems to fall – not real, but perceptual, the kind that comes from someone making a proclamation with enough confidence that your brain scrambles to keep up.
She lifts her hands, palms open to the sky. “It is… forming an opinion.”
Behind you, Bucky stiffens in the exact way a man does when he desperately wants to object but also desperately does not want to extend this interaction by another minute.
The woman turns, serene and certain.
The monochrome couple immediately arrange themselves into a picturesque tableau – her hand on his chest, his chin lowered like he’s posing for a photoshoot. They look like they rehearsed this in the car.
She lifts her palms. “Energy reveals itself through contrast. This space,” she announces, “always reveals the truth of a couple.”
Bucky mutters, “Spaces are unreactive,” under his breath.
You nudge his ribs with your elbow, a warning.
The coordinator opens her eyes and turns toward the monochrome couple first. She tilts her head, studying them with a tight, delicate frown – the kind people give wilted herbs at a farmer’s market.
“Mmm,” she says. “There is… tension in your current alignment.”
The monochrome bride stiffens. “Tension?”
“Yes,” the coordinator says gently, almost apologetically. “A little blocked. A little… forced.”
Beside you, Bucky murmurs, “Told you posing wouldn’t help,” and you jab him again, harder.
Then the coordinator turns to you and Bucky and her eyes widen. She steps closer, blinking once, twice, as if a spotlight has turned on specifically above the two of you.
“Oh,” she breathes. “This… this is interesting.”
Bucky straightens, like he’s bracing to be insulted. Instead, the coordinator smiles – slow and reverent – as if she’s seeing the first bloom of spring emerge from frozen ground.
“Your energy is very strong together,” she says.
You blink. Bucky blinks harder.
“Our what?” he splutters.
“Your connection,” she clarifies, waving her hands vaguely between your bodies. “There’s an undeniable resonance. A grounding. A clarity. The space likes you.”
You nearly choke. “We – we just walked in.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “And the space settled. Didn’t you feel it?”
You feel Bucky staring at you, silently begging you not to say yes, which is why you smile sweetly and answer, “Of course.”
The monochrome bride sputters. “We’ve been engaged for fourteen months!”
The coordinator turns sympathetically toward her. “Sometimes longevity dulls resonance.”
Bucky quietly coughs to hide a laugh – or dies, it’s hard to tell.
The monochrome groom steps forward, indignant. “We’re very aligned. We meditate together.”
“Even more worrying,” the coordinator murmurs.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Bucky fails entirely; a tiny, traitorous sound escapes him.
The bride narrows her eyes at you like you might drop dead from the strength of her displeasure.
You loop your arm a little tighter around Bucky’s, partly to sell the ruse… partly because the absurdity has short-circuited your ability to stand upright on your own.
The coordinator makes a gentle sweeping motion with her hand. “Let us test the resonance.”
Bucky whispers, panicked, “What the hell does that mean?”
“How would I know?!”
But the monochrome bride is already stepping forward like she’s ready to ascend the throne, so you tug Bucky along to keep up.
The coordinator stands between both couples, waving her arms like she’s invoking some ancient rite. “Take one step toward each other.”
You and Bucky share a look – half dread, half the feral refusal to lose when the competition is right there. You both step forward in perfect sync.
You mouth, I’m sorry. A muscle twitches in his cheek – not annoyance – something closer to careful exasperation. His answer is a barely perceptible tilt of his head that reads, I know. Don’t worry about it.
You stop toe to toe, breaths brushing.
Nothing mystical happens, nothing supernatural – just Bucky Barnes standing close enough that the world seems to tilt around the space you share. You refuse to look him in the eyes – God knows what you’d see there – so you stare determinedly at the bridge of his nose, willing your expression into neutrality as the warmth of him crowds out every thought you were trying to have.
He inhales, sharp and quiet, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this close either. He too, appears to be doing his level best to not look at you, but it’s an exercise in futility. His gaze skims your mouth first – a flicker, unintentional and devastating – before darting up to your eyes like he’s been caught thinking something he absolutely shouldn’t.
Your pulse slams; he swallows once, hard – small, involuntary shifts, now kept between the two of you like a secret.
The coordinator beams. “There. You see? Harmony.”
Bucky stares straight ahead, face rigid, ears just barely pink.
The monochrome couple step forward too – but the groom hesitates; the bride overcorrects; their hands collide awkwardly.
“Oh,” the coordinator says softly, pained. “Oh no.”
Bucky mutters, “Yikes,” under his breath, and you actually pinch his arm.
The coordinator claps once, decisive. “I believe I’ve seen enough.”
Everyone tenses.
She turns to you and Bucky. “The space responds to you,” she says with priestess-level certainty. “It welcomes you. It expands for you.”
You’re about to thank her when Bucky murmurs, “If the space is reacting to anything, it’s your dramatics,” but fortunately only you hear it.
Then the coordinator swivels toward the other couple. “You,” she announces solemnly, “must reduce your guest list.”
The bride gasps. “But we – my mother – ”
“The room,” the coordinator says gravely, “has decided.”
The groom looks genuinely shaken.
Bucky leans in, voice barely audible. “I can’t believe this is working.”
You whisper back, “It’s not working because of me. It’s working because of that chandelier lecture you gave.”
“That was structural integrity,” he hisses. “Not flirting.”
But he doesn’t let go of your arm.
And you don’t step away.
The woman turns back to you both, her expression warm and resolute. “Take your time,” she says, though she looks like she’d happily build a shrine in your honour to expedite the decision. “But tell your master he will find no faults here. None.”
“We will,” you promise.
She glides away, leaving you and Bucky standing in a halo of lake-light and competitive triumph.
Bucky exhales, long and tired. “This is exactly how people lose their minds.”
You guide him toward the exit anyway, fingers still hooked through his sleeve – not intimate, not quite polite, just necessary.
“Welcome,” you murmur unapologetically, “to wedding planning.”
Two weeks and a day earlier…
The week takes off at a dead sprint. Your phone vibrates itself into delirium, screen lighting up with vendors, reschedules, quotes, “circling back” emails, and three separate florists who apparently all forgot they’d already spoken to you twice.
Bucky, for all his sins, is enduring it. At every appointment he trails half a step behind you – a man hoping proximity alone won’t make him legally responsible for whatever decisions you’re about to make. Hands in pockets. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowed as though each vendor is a fresh test of his moral fortitude.
And yet…
He comes. Without complaint, without needing to be chased.
And – this is new – somewhere between the cake tasting and the linen warehouse, the edge of him softens. Barely. A thaw measured in millimeters. A grunt instead of a sigh. A single, grudging nod when you ask what he thinks.
A man not enjoying himself, exactly, but acclimating to the weather.
It’s not much, but for Bucky Barnes? It’s practically enthusiasm.
*
On Monday, you take him to the bakery.
That is to say: you enter the bakery; Bucky is tugged in behind you by the elbow like a particularly resentful ox being led to market. He drags his feet with the weary fatalism of a man heading into a tax audit rather than a pastel shop filled with butter and joy.
The shop itself is – there’s no other word for it – whimsical. Pastel walls, delicate bunting, sunlight slanting through the front windows as though the cakes have been personally blessed by the heavens. The air smells of warm vanilla and soft nostalgia, the kind that makes even cynics briefly believe in birthdays.
Bucky looks around as though the décor has personally wronged him.
The owner, whom you had coaxed into giving you the earliest slot of the morning through sheer force of will, gestures proudly to the tasting platter.
“We’ll begin with the Earl Grey sponge and lavender honey buttercream,” she announces, serene and certain.
Your eyes brighten.
Bucky’s narrow. “What happened to good ol’ chocolate?” he mutters, as though chocolate has been unjustly exiled from its ancestral lands.
You kick him beneath the table. Lightly. But not so lightly that it could be mistaken for affection.
“Eat,” you instruct.
He gives you the kind of look usually reserved for dire medical diagnoses, then reluctantly scoops the smallest, most suspicious sliver of cake onto his fork. He puts it into his mouth like a man testing whether the food is poisoned.
And then – you see it, the betrayal of expression he cannot stop. First surprise, then reluctant delight, followed almost immediately by the horrified awareness that he has enjoyed something he fully intended to hate.
“It’s fine,” he blurts, far too quickly.
You lean in, delighted. “You liked it.”
He scowls at the table, then at you, then at the baker – who is now beaming at him with the radiant satisfaction of a woman who has converted a lifelong skeptic.
It is not just fine.
It is objectively delicious.
And he hates – truly hates – that you saw the truth flicker across his traitorous face before he could stop it.
*
On Tuesday, Bucky takes one look at the flowers and immediately starts sneezing.
The florist winces in sympathy. “Allergies?”
“He’ll survive,” you say before Bucky can flee, even though he’s already retreating toward the far end of the worktable like a man hoping distance alone might save him.
The shop smells like cut stems and cold water – green and sharp and very alive – petals spilling across every surface in soft, painterly chaos.
The florist laughs kindly and gestures to a bucket of eucalyptus. “Don’t worry – these are hardy and allergen-friendly. They hold up in anything. Weddings, heatwaves, surprise drizzle…” He shrugs. “Outdoor ceremonies love a bit of weather drama, but flowers don’t – unless you pick the right ones.”
You perk up. “Is rain even a concern this time of year?”
“Not usually,” the florist says, selecting a spray of greenery and trimming it with quick, deft movements. “But you plan as if it might. Storms are shy until they aren’t.”
Bucky snorts. “Weather’s weather. Either it behaves or it doesn’t.”
You shoot him a look. “Some of us prefer contingency plans.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Some of us have noticed.”
You ignore him – mostly – as the florist flips to an empty page of his notepad.
“All right,” he says. “What’s the vision?”
You inhale to answer –
“Classic,” Bucky says before you can speak. “And nothing that sheds on cloth.”
Your head whips toward him. “Since when do you get a vote?”
“I don’t want to walk around looking like I’ve been rolled through pollen.”
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “This isn’t about you.”
But Bucky isn’t listening anymore. Somehow he’s gotten hold of a ranunculus – pale, full, elegant – turning it between his fingers with a strange, unexpected tenderness, like he’s examining the architecture of it rather than the bloom.
“Steve likes texture,” he says quietly. “And Nat wouldn’t want anything that droops. These won’t.”
Your heart skips a beat.
He pretends he hasn’t said anything meaningful, already shifting his attention to the eucalyptus as if the leaves are deeply compelling. The florist pretends not to notice, though his smile is unmistakably knowing.
Bucky clears his throat. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say.
(Not nothing. Not even close.)
*
On Wednesdaythe décor warehouse tries to kill you.
It is cavernous and overwhelming, chandeliers dangling from the ceiling every two meters like glittering threats, and an entire aisle of linens that could double as medieval weaponry. Sequins glint, metallics glare, tulle menaces.
You are confronted with sequined tablecloths; Bucky is confronted with the very edge of his sanity.
“This,” he tells the décor consultant as he lifts one anyway, rubbing the cloth between his fingers with a frown so deeply judgmental it could be submitted for peer review, “is both a fire hazard and a crime.”
“It’s festive!” she chirps, a woman who has clearly never met Bucky Barnes before today.
“The weave is cheap,” you announce, already flipping to the corresponding tab in The Binder, which has now manifested in your hands like a grimoire. “It’ll pill and crease endlessly. And the reflective finish will give half the guest list a migraine before the night’s through. We need organic fibres. High drape. Low shine.”
Bucky’s head snaps toward you, narrowing his eyes at The Binder as if it is a sentient being he should probably file a restraining order against.
The consultant nods, chastened, and flips open a book of fabric samples. “Right. Understood. Organic fibres only.”
As she rifles through swatches, her gaze drifts upward – to you, then Bucky, then the two of you standing shoulder-to-shoulder, already leaning unconsciously toward the same bolt of ivory linen. Bucky has angled himself half a step in front of you in the quiet, instinctive way he does when something large or unwieldy is suspended overhead (in this case – chandeliers).
“You two work well together,” she says mildly. “That’s rare.”
Bucky stiffens, as if she’s accused him of tax fraud. You give her a serene smile. “We’re… efficient.”
The consultant brightens. “Wonderful! Now, what about centrepieces? I have a full catalogue –”
But you’re already unzipping The Binder. Its spine hits the table with a weighty thud, tabs fanning open like a legal case file.
The consultant startles. Bucky actually flinches.
“What is that,” he mutters, like you’ve revealed a cursed heirloom.
“My system,” you say, flipping to Décor – Appropriate Fabrics – Do Not Attempt. “I have a plan.”
“A plan,” Bucky repeats, staring at the colour-coded pages with something between awe and genuine concern for your psychological welfare. “That thing looks like it could beat me in a fight.”
You pat The Binder affectionately. “It could.”
The consultant beams, totally unaware that Bucky is staring at you like he’s just realised he may be assisting someone who is, clinically speaking, unhinged.
“Right,” she says brightly. “I’ll pull samples.”
Bucky looks at the chandeliers overhead. Then at you. Then at The Binder.
And for the first time all week, he whispers – almost reverently, “…I should’ve stayed in the car.”
*
It happens late on a Sunday, at a café that should have closed twenty minutes ago.
The whole week has been a blur of vendors and spreadsheets and Bucky’s increasingly elaborate attempts to pretend he’s not helping while very much helping. By Sunday evening, the two of you have collapsed into the only open seats you can find – a wobbly bistro table by the window, your laptop occupying most of the surface and Bucky occupying most of the silence.
You’re hunched over the screen, brow creased, staring down a ceremony timeline that stubbornly refuses to make structural sense. Bucky is across from you, sleeves pushed up, sketching something on a napkin with the grim focus of a man troubleshooting a structural fault in a bridge rather than a wedding.
You rub your eyes. “What are you doing?”
Without looking up, he mutters, “Fixing a bottleneck. Your aisle’s too narrow.”
“Why do you care?” you mutter just as carelessly, distracted by your task.
His pen stills, his shoulders shift, and slowly, reluctantly, he looks up.
For a moment, everything seems to hush – the espresso machine becomes distant, the street noise flattens, and the tired overhead lights soften around the edges.
Bucky taps the pen once against the napkin, like anchoring himself before he says something foolish. “Because you care,” he says. Then, quieter, as if the words escaped without permission, “and you shouldn’t have to do all of this alone.”
It lands inside you with alarming precision – a warmth, a weight, something perilously close to a beginning.
You can’t breathe for a second.
And he must feel it, because he looks away fast, jaw tightening, shoulders drawing in as if he’s trying to fold the moment back up and hide it inside himself again. Like he’s said something intimate by accident, and he regrets this sliver of honesty.
Around you, the world resumes: chairs scrape, someone calls out a drink order, the barista stacks cups with end-of-night urgency.
Bucky clears his throat. “Anyway,” he mutters, sliding the napkin toward you without meeting your eyes, “don’t make it weird.”
But it is.
It’s extremely, catastrophically weird.
The napkin is a clean little sketch of flow paths and corrected spacing, annotations in a tidy slant you didn’t know he had. A map of attention. Of care.
You fold it carefully before slipping it into your bag, feeling absurdly like you’re tucking away evidence of something neither of you is ready to name.
When you leave the café, the air smells faintly of rain – the kind that promises trouble but hasn’t yet arrived.
One week and one day earlier…
You do not sleep.
You perform the ceremonial gestures of sleep – lying down, closing your eyes, arranging your limbs in the socially approved configuration – but rest never actually arrives. Your mind conducts its own private military coup at 3:00 am, storming your bloodstream with insurgent thoughts: ‘Did the florist confirm final stem counts?’, ‘Did I remember to order table numbers?’, and ‘Would it work better if family speeches come before the entrées? Or after?’
You drift, jolt awake, repeat. Several times.
By morning, you’re running on nineteen minutes of sleep and pure vengeance. So, when the caterer calls you mid-zoom-interview at the press junket for Disaster Day to inform you they cannot, in fact, prepare the vegan entrée in a mini size, something in you goes very still.
You stare at your phone with the placid serenity of a war general who has already accepted casualties. “Can’t,” you say, voice crisp as a drawn blade, “is not a word in my vocabulary.”
Across the room, Bucky lifts an eyebrow over the rim of his laptop. He is technically working from home today – except “home” has quietly become your living room around 8:12 a.m. every morning. You’ve stopped asking why. He brings coffee. And pastries. And printouts for The Binder. And frankly, you no longer have the mental bandwidth to interrogate miracles.
“You shouldn’t threaten people before nine,” he says mildly.
“I haven’t threatened anyone.”
That is – generously – untrue. You have absolutely threatened everyone. Politely. With deadlines. And consequences. And lightly weaponised spreadsheets.
Bucky watches you pace while fielding the caterer’s excuses, your free hand slicing the air like you’re conducting an orchestra on fire. Something like amusement flickers across his face, but it softens quickly into concern – the subtle, steady kind he pretends isn’t happening.
And then, instead of retreating as any sensible person would before the detonation of a stressed maid-of-honour, he rises from the couch, crosses the room, and steps into your orbit.
He doesn’t grab your phone. He asks for it with one quiet, inexorable gesture of his hand.
“Give me that,” he murmurs. “Before the caterers fire us.”
“They are not going to fire us.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m passionate.”
“You’re one ‘no’ from burning this whole city down.”
Before you can form a rebuttal, he slides your phone neatly out of your grip, taps the speaker off, and steps out onto the tiny balcony attached to your apartment. The door clicks shut behind him.
You watch him through the glass – leaning one forearm against the railing, phone at his ear, morning light catching on the metal lines of his arm. His hair curls slightly at the temples from the humidity, and he’s wearing that expression he saves for handling difficult subcontractors – patience wrapped in exhaustion, tied with a bow of menace.
He’s handsome in a way that feels entirely illegal before 9:00 am.
Three minutes later – just as you’ve abandoned your Zoom call in shame and are contemplating whether your cold muffin is a metaphor for your rapidly deteriorating sanity – the door opens again.
“All sorted,” he says, handing back your phone. “They’ll do it.”
“Really?”
“They just needed to be… encouraged.”
You narrow your eyes. “Encouraged how?”
He ignores you. Instead, he leans over your shoulder without warning, takes an enormous bite out of the muffin you were very clearly saving, grimaces, and declares, “These tasted better when they were fresh.”
“I hate you,” you lie.
He pats you on the head – like you’re a stressed-out Pomeranian instead of a full-grown adult on the brink of collapse – and sets the half-eaten muffin back on your plate.
“Be good,” he says absently, already grabbing his bag. “I’ve gotta be on the West Coast in…” He checks his watch. “Nine hours. Which is – too soon. Far too soon.”
“For the site walkthrough?” you ask.
“Yes,” he grumbles. “A walkthrough that could’ve easily been a Zoom meeting. But no. ‘In-person presence’ apparently matters when you’re paid obscene amounts of money to stare at blueprints and tell rich people their walls won’t collapse.”
He slings his jacket over his shoulder, pauses at your doorway, and glances back at you – at the chaos of your open laptop, the muffin carnage, the binder bristling with tabs like a hydra waiting to strike.
“You gonna be okay till I’m back?” he asks, voice low, deceptively casual.
You open your mouth to say yes. But your brain whispers table numbers and speech order and stem counts and seating charts and vegan mini entrées –
Bucky exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll bring more muffins tomorrow,” he says.
And then he’s gone.
Five days earlier…
By this time, you have achieved a certain notoriety amongst vendors. The florist replies to your emails instantly, the lighting techs refuse to take your calls unless you’ve sent a written agenda in advance, the décor rental company has assigned their most battle-hardened employee to answer your number specifically – the kind of woman who has seen things.
And that afternoon, you’re on the phone with her – Tiffany, destroyer of inventory lists – vibrating with equal parts impatience and righteous fear. “No, Tiffany, I don’t want these silver chairs,” you say, pacing your living room like a commander on the brink of mutiny. “I want the silver chairs in the original quote. No. No, don’t you dare. These are narrower. I can see it. Don’t gaslight me with measurements, Tiffany.”
Meanwhile, Bucky – freshly returned from LA and looking unfairly good for someone who spent six hours on a cramped plane – is crouched on the floor beside the coffee table, reorganising the seating chart with the laser focus of a man who has chosen physical labour over listening to you eviscerate a stranger.
He has rolled up his sleeves, exposing the long line of his forearms. He is using a ruler. A ruler.
The concentration is so intense it borders on devotional.
Your leg, jittering with fury at Tiffany’s incompetence, keeps brushing against his knee.
And Bucky… doesn’t move.
Not an inch.
He goes absolutely still, like someone attempting not to startle a wild animal – except it’s not fear pinning him there. It’s something tighter, quieter, more dangerous.
You don’t notice any of this. You’re too busy with convincing Tiffany about the discomfort of narrower chairs.
However, Bucky notices you. He notices the way your hair is falling out of its clip. He notices the focus in your eyes, the heat in your voice, the absolute refusal to compromise. He notices that every time your knee brushes his, it sends a pulse of something electric straight through him. And that his ears are burning.
He shifts the seating cards again – unnecessarily, compulsively – because it’s either that or he betrays himself.
You end the call with a victorious, “Thank you, Tiffany,” in a tone that means anything but, and drop onto the couch with a sigh.
Only then do you look down and see Bucky still on the floor, still close enough that your knee bumps his elbow, still very much there.
“Did you fix it?” you ask, nodding toward the seating chart.
He doesn’t look up immediately. When he does, his voice is steady in a way his pulse absolutely isn’t.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
Four days earlier…
You are Time Itself. No one moves unless you decree it.
“Load-in is at seven,” you announce to the empty air – or perhaps to the universe, which should know better by now than to test you.
“It says eight on the schedule,” Bucky replies without looking up from his laptop.
“It’s seven,” you say. “Now.”
He exhales the kind of sigh reserved for malfunctioning printers and divine punishment, but he adjusts the timeline anyway. He’s the only person who could argue with you – and the only one who genuinely doesn’t want to.
Then the DJ calls.
He tells you, very cheerfully and very incorrectly, that your preferred recessional song is “technically unavailable.”
You stop breathing.
“What do you MEAN unavailable?” you shout into the phone. “Music does not disappear! It doesn’t migrate! It’s not an endangered species!”
Somewhere beside you, Bucky goes very still, like a man anticipating shrapnel. He gently pries the phone from your hand, tells the DJ, “Sorry, she’s been like this all week,” and steps away to do damage control.
“You need to eat something,” he says when he returns.
“You need to stop babying me,” you shoot back.
“Funny,” he says mildly, handing you a granola bar. “Because you’re acting exactly like a child.”
You glare at him. Then, still glaring, you bite half the granola bar in a single, furious chomp.
He says nothing – just watches as you flip through The Binder, muttering about back-up music options, crumbs dusting your fingers.
And then he smirks, just this quiet, unbearably fond little curve of his mouth – like he has, against all odds, successfully tamed a dragon.
Or worse, like he likes being the one who can.
Three days earlier…
You return to the venue for a walkthrough, overseeing the preparations, with the air of a small, determined weather system. A storm cloud in sneakers, striding across the lawn.
he grass is crisp underfoot; the late afternoon light glances off every rented surface. Staff scatter at your approach like startled deer as you fire off instructions rapid-fire.
“Those chairs need to be straight!”
“That table is too close to the aisle – Natasha will murder someone!”
“No, no, the lanterns go in a gentle arc, not – is that a semicircle? I said gentle! Arc!”
You are relentless. A force of nature. A benevolent tyrant.
And behind you, Bucky moves like the calm shadow of that storm – not blocking it, not dampening it, simply… shaping its path. As you pass through the space, he drifts after you with that quiet, commanding competence vendors obey without hesitation.
You bark, “The draping is too low!” Bucky adds, evenly, “Raise it four inches,” and the fabric lifts to exactly the right height.
You snap, “Why is that easel crooked?” He doesn’t even check – just straightens it in passing.
You whirl and demand, “Did we lose the programs?” Without looking up from the seating chart he’s reviewing, he murmurs, “Left table,” and somehow also manages to hand them to you as you spin past.
Somewhere in the chaos, the vendors begin turning to him instead of you – but he never answers without meeting your eyes first, the quiet your call? passing between you with the ease of something well-practised.
It shifts the atmosphere around you.
Not dramatically, not all at once – but enough that you feel it: the way people start to move around the two of you rather than through you, the way instructions seem to settle more cleanly when he repeats them in that low, steady voice. It isn’t deference so much as an unspoken acknowledgement that whatever this operation is, you and Bucky are its centre of gravity. Like the two of you have become a team. A pair.
The hours blur. At some point the sun shifts, turning the river gold; at some point you realise he has been tracking your movements by sound alone; at some point everyone else started stepping back when the two of you approached together, as if clearing a path for a unit that operates on instinct, not instruction.
And then –
He’s gone.
One moment Bucky is beside you, adjusting a lantern hook before you can work up the breath to scold it; the next, he’s simply… vanished. No warning, no explanation.
You freeze mid-step, wondering if perhaps the lanterns were the straw that broke the camel’s back. Maybe the arc was perfectly gentle after all. Maybe he’s halfway home by now, liberated from your tyranny, which is frankly more alarming.
Unfortunately, you don’t have time to worry about it. The rental company have just delivered the wrong chairs – again – and you’re rifling through The Binder for the order confirmation and delivery manifesto when you hear the tell-tale click of doors opening.
You don’t bother looking up. “Bucky, if that’s the caterer, tell them no, we do not want a cheese fountain. We already have a charcuterie table and this is enoughcheese as it is –“
“Not the caterer,” a voice cuts in, bright and very, very amused.
You freeze, snap your head to the door, and immediately want to scream. “Nat?”
She saunters in, sunglasses perched in her hair, dressed like she’s just come from robbing an art gallery. And behind her –
“Steve?”
He offers a sheepish little wave. “Hey.”
“What –” You spin around, scanning the unfinished chaos of the venue. The wrong chairs are still stacked in their delivery plastics, the table linens are half-unwrapped, and someone is vacuuming outside.
“What are you doing here?” you gasp. “We’re – this place is – not done.”
“Bucky called us,” Nat says casually, inspecting the archway of lanterns. “Said you were about to combust.”
You whirl around to glare at him. He’s loitering by the floral delivery, suddenly very interested in counting the number of petals on the hydrangeas.
Traitor.
Steve steps forward before you can explode. “Hey. We’re not here to stress you out. Just thought we’d – have a look. Say hi. Make sure you’re alright.”
“And point out any death traps,” Natasha adds helpfully.
“I –” you glance around the room as a bead of sweat slides down your spine. “I haven’t – okay, but the entryway’s a mess, and I haven’t confirmed if the florist finished –”
Steve claps Bucky on the back, murmurs something you don’t catch, and then turns to you with absolute sincerity.
“Just point out what’s left,” he says. “We’ll tell you if anything needs adjusting.”
You stare at him, hesitating.
There are a dozen things still bothering you – chair alignment, votive placement, aisle symmetry, the floral arch that’s slightly off-centre if you squint.
Natasha squeezes your hand. “Lead the way.”
So you do.
You walk them through the space, stomach clenched, waiting for them to flinch. Waiting for Natasha to raise an eyebrow. For Steve to say something painfully diplomatic like “Oh… interesting choice.” You start at the entryway, apologising for the seating chart station still being assembled. You usher them through the reception room hall, cringing at the wrong chairs. You pause by the catering tent, where someone’s left a crate of half-melted ice under the table.
But –
Steve is nodding. Nat is smiling. They’re chatting with the vendors like old friends. The florist’s assistant offers them tea. A tiny crack forms in the armour of your panic.
And then, you step outside, out onto the terrace.
The world opens.
The lawn rolls out before you, soft and immaculate, before dipping toward the lake – where the water is catching the last gold of the setting sun, shimmering in a way no Pinterest board ever adequately prepared you for. The breeze lifts warm against your face, and but beneath it, a cooler ribbon of air slips past your ankle.
And there, at the centre of it all, stands the arch.
It rises from the grass as though it grew there overnight: a sweep of branches and late-summer blooms woven together so seamlessly it feels alive. Moss softens the base, wildflowers spill through the latticework, and the whole structure glows in the amber light like it has been waiting – patiently, inevitably – for Nat and Steve to stand beneath it.
The trees along the waterline rustle, not loudly, but with that faint, anticipatory shiver of leaves that hints at a change in the air. The whole place feels momentarily enchanted.
Natasha inhales softly. “This is breathtaking.”
Steve wraps an arm around her shoulders, his expression lighting up in a way that makes your throat sting. “It’s perfect,” he says.
Perfect.
Perfect.
You have not heard that word in two weeks – not directed at you, not directed at anything you’ve touched. The sound of it seems to land somewhere deep in your chest, loosening a knot you didn’t realise had become part of your anatomy.
You turn slightly, catching Bucky watching you.
Not Steve.
Not Natasha.
You.
For a moment his expression is unreadable – steady, assessing, something flickering just behind his eyes as if he’s cataloguing the exact second your shoulders begin to unlock. And when they do, when that infinitesimal shift in your posture betrays just how close to breaking you’ve been, something gentler settles across his features. Something warm. Something proud in a quiet, devastating way.
He doesn’t say a word.
But the silence feels like one: See? I told you. You did this. You can breathe now.
Natasha spins to face you, eyes bright. “Everything looks incredible. Truly.”
You swallow, the question slipping out before you can stop it. “Really?”
“Really,” Steve echoes. “We wouldn’t change a thing.”
The breath leaves you all at once – a long, tremoring exhale you didn’t realise you’d been holding, as if your body had been bracing for criticism even now, even here. Your chest opens like someone finally snipped the last too-tight thread holding it together.
Maybe –
just maybe –
you haven’t been failing.
Maybe it’s all going to be okay.
Two days ago…
Bucky finds you by accident.
It’s late – late enough that the venue has finally exhaled. The last of the staff have gone, the caterer’s van taillights swallowed by the dark, the florist waving wearily before disappearing down the drive. Outside, a light drizzle patters on and off, the kind that can’t decide whether to commit to rain at all. The venue, which had buzzed like a disturbed hive all day, now settles into a deep, exhausted quiet.
He walks the grounds anyway.
The last staff car crunches over gravel as it pulls away; he stands under the overhang and watches its taillights disappear into the dark. He tells people go home, nods toward their umbrellas, makes sure no one is lingering in the drizzle out of politeness or fear you’ll summon them back.
Only when the final goodnight is called does he breathe out.
Inside, the place feels different. Dimmer. Reverent. The hallway sconces glow low, the air smelling faintly of wet cedar and the sweet scatter of greenery left behind. A final walkthrough, he tells himself. One last sweep before tomorrow.
He moves through the quiet halls checking what he knows: the service doors latched, terrace gate secured so the breeze won’t rattle it open, emergency exits clear. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and wet earth drifting in from outside. Overhead, the timbers creak softly with the shifting weather.
He pauses beneath the hanging chandeliers – delicate strands of crystal beading suspended amongst shimmering lights. Dozens, maybe hundreds, trembling slightly whenever the drizzle swells and the wind nudges the eaves. He counts them again, and again, pretending it’s for safety, ignoring the truth humming beneath the surface:
Everything is done.
Everything is perfect.
Everything is so unmistakably yours.
He assumes you went home hours ago. He hopes you did. He hopes you’re asleep, or at least horizontal, phone finally out of your hands. He should be doing the same. He should stop orbiting the edges of this day and let tomorrow arrive on its own.
He’s halfway to convincing himself to go when he hears it – a soft, papery sound.
A rustle, quiet enough that he almost thinks he imagined it. He slows, frowns, and follows the sound into the reception hall, stopping short at the sight before him.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the polished wooden floor of the reception hall, right beneath the hanging lanterns. The lights are dimmed to a buttery glow; outside, the drizzle streaks silver against the windows. The room is nearly silent, save for the faint breath of the lake through the open vents and the soft, intermittent rain.
Around you lie small squares of colored paper – pinks, creams, golds – scattered like fallen petals. Your shoes are set neatly to the side, and your hair has slipped from whatever pinned it up earlier, trailing loose around your shoulders, a few strands catching light each time you bow your head to fold.
You’re folding each piece with slow, tender precision, hands steady despite the exhaustion etched into every line of you.
A small flock already waits beside you – dozens of cranes ready to be strung up.
Bucky stands there, frozen, something in his chest tightening.
You don’t see him at first. Then he clears his throat. “You planning on sleeping at any point today?”
You look up, startled, then soften when you realize it’s him. “Nope,” you say, far too chipper for someone clearly on the brink.
He huffs out a laugh as he approaches you. “Of course not.”
You lift a paper crane between two fingers, holding it up to the warm light. “There’s an old belief about these,” you say lightly, as if it’s an afterthought and not something that’s been sitting on your tongue all night. “In some traditions, a thousand cranes mean a wish. Or a promise. Health, longevity, good fortune… luck in new beginnings.”
Your eyes flick to the pile beside you – uneven wings, crooked beaks, all of them imperfect in a way only sincerity can be.
“The kids at Steve’s school made a bunch,” you explain softly. “But it wasn’t quite enough for the installation. So I’m… just adding a few more.” Your smile tilts. “Stacking the odds.”
“Not just a few more,” he says automatically.
“I know,” you say lightly, “but it’s for good reason.”
Bucky looks at the cranes again, not as decorations, not as something hung from wires and beams and carefully calculated weight limits. But as wishes. Hundreds of small, deliberate hopes, folded by all the people that love Steve and Natasha, one careful crease at a time, suspended above a room meant to hold a beginning.
Something tightens in his chest. He should leave. He should go home. He should not be drawn to the floor beside you like it’s gravity and he’s helpless against it.
He sits down anyway.
The wood is cool under him. our shoulder is close – closer than it has any right to be – and heat pools along the inside of his arm just from being near you.
You hand him a square of paper. Your fingers brush his. He pretends the touch doesn’t short-circuit something fundamental.
“So,” he says, staring at the paper like it might explode. “Instructions?”
You grin – tired, luminous, devastating. “I knew you’d ask.”
He pretends that doesn’t do something awful and permanent to him.
You lean in, showing him the first fold as your fingers settle over his without hesitation. A warm, electric pressure crawls up his wrist and into his ribs. He swallows. Focus. Fold. Don’t look at her.
“You’re overthinking it,” you say softly.
“I’m not you,” he mutters.
“If you say so.”
You show him how to crease the wing. Your thumb grazes the inside of his palm. His pulse kicks so violently he’s certain you must feel it.
You finish your crane before he finishes his. He pretends not to notice – or admire – the deft precision of your hands. The shape of them. The small, quiet strength of your wrists.
He’s doing a lot of pretending in this lake house.
“You know,” you say, setting another finished crane on the pile, “I think this is the first moment I’ve sat still in two weeks.”
He studies you. Really studies you.
The smudged eyeliner. The exhaustion tucked into the corners of your eyes. The way your shoulders sag only now that no one but him is here to see it.
“You did it,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Did what?”
“Everything.” His gaze sweeps over the decorated hall, the crane installation, the arch waiting outside for tomorrow. “You really built this whole damn wedding from the ground up.”
You laugh, soft and self-conscious. “With help.”
“With me,” he corrects. “And I didn’t even want to be involved at first.”
You smile. “You warmed up.”
“No,” he says before he can stop himself. “I just realized something.”
You turn your head. “Which is?”
This is the moment he feels something tip inside him, heavy and irreversible.
He should lie. He should joke. He should deflect until the truth loosens its grip.
Instead, he hears himself say, “I realized I like seeing you care.”
Your breath catches; it punches through him like a single, unguarded truth.
He looks down quickly, pretending to fix a crooked wing.
“You’re intense,” he says, voice softer than before, “and stubborn, and about half a step from terrifying when you want something done right.”
“Gee, thanks,” you murmur, already starting on another crane.
“But you care,” he continues, ignoring the way his pulse stumbles. “And watching you fight for this – fight for Nat and Steve – finally made me understand it. All of it.”
You stare at him. He stares at the crane in his hands.
“Bucky,” you say gently. “Look at me.”
He does. God help him, he does.
Your expression is open and warm, lit from within despite exhaustion. Something he wants to hold – gently, carefully, protectively – even though he shouldn’t want anything at all.
“I know you don’t care for weddings,” you say.
“I don’t,” he replies immediately.
You raise an eyebrow.
He sighs and tries again. “I just care about this one.”
He doesn’t mean the wedding, but he doesn’t clarify. He can’t.
The silence stretches – soft, thick, dangerous.
You place another crane gently on the pile. His chest aches.
He folds his next one wrong on purpose. Your hand comes up, brushing his to fix it and he nearly stops breathing.
“You’re getting better at this,” you tease.
“I have a good teacher.”
Your eyes flick up at that.
There’s a spark there, bright and undeniable. He has to look away, because if he holds your gaze any longer he’s going to say something he can’t take back.
You nudge his knee with yours – light, casual, intimate in a way that guts him. “Thanks for staying,” you say.
He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It’s getting late.”
And that’s the truth.
The whole terrifying truth.
You smile again – soft, grateful, too much – as you place another piece of paper in his hands. And Bucky realizes with a clarity that terrifies him more than anything has – he’d fold a thousand of these damn things if it meant sitting beside you like this.
He folds the next one, and tries not to fall in love with the way you breathe beside him.
He fails spectacularly.
One day earlier…
Your blissful slumber’s interrupted by the knocking on your front door. Pounding down your front door, by the sound of things. You’re dragged violently out of sleep, heart slamming against your ribs before your brain can catch up.
You groan, roll over, and bury your face in the pillow.
It keeps going.
A fist. Hard, urgent, unreasonable.
“Open the door!”
You peel one eye open and squint at your phone – 7:25 am on the one morning you promised yourself you’d sleep in. The one morning everything was supposed to be done.
You stumble out of bed, wrap yourself in the nearest blanket, and shuffle to the door with murder in your bones.
You yank it open.
Bucky Barnes stands there, breathless. His hair’s damp and jacket half-zipped. But his eyes are sharp and wild in a way that snaps you fully awake in half a second.
“What,” you croak, “is your damage?”
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says immediately.
You blink. “I was asleep.”
“You can’t be.”
“I will,” you insist petulantly. “The ceremony’s not until –”
“The storm last night –” he swallows once, “– a tree came down.”
The words don’t make sense. They hover between you like a foreign language.
“What?”
“At the venue,” he says, softer now, already holding his phone out. “During the storm last night.”
Your stomach drops before you even look.
You take the phone. The oak is ancient. Massive. The kind of tree people build towns around. Its trunk is split down the middle like bone. One half still rooted, the other flung sideways across the terrace roof as though the sky itself hurled it there.
The terrace pergola is gone – not damaged, gone – crushed into splintered ribs beneath the weight of bark and branch. The glass along the upper windows has blown outward. One beam hangs at an angle that makes your stomach lurch. Leaves are everywhere – plastered wet and dark against shattered timber, caught in gutters, smeared across the pale stone like something dragged itself there.
“No,” you whisper. “No – no, no –”
“I’ll drive,” Bucky says gently.
The drive passes in a blur of grey sky and tightening panic. Your hands are clenched so tightly in your lap that your fingers ache.
When you pull into the venue, the damage is worse up close.
The tree dominates. It has erased the terrace – erased the clean, architectural line you loved. The roof sags under the weight of it, one support beam visibly bowed. Sawdust coats the stone in damp, sticky drifts. Someone’s already tried to tarp part of it – the plastic snaps angrily in the wind like it’s offended that such a measly attempt could even begin to fix the damage.
The smell of wet wood and earth fills the air.
You stop walking.
Just… stop.
“It’s gone,” you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds very far away. “It’s all gone.”
Bucky steps closer, careful. “Hey –”
You don’t hear him.
You see the terrace where guests were meant to gather for pre-dinner drinks. The roofline that gorgeously frames the lake. The space you checked and rechecked and trusted.
Your chest caves inward.
“No.” You shake your head, once, then again, harder. “I checked the forecasts. I talked to the landscapers. I –”
Your voice fractures. “This tree is not supposed to fall!”
The venue owner stands nearby, wrapped in a shawl, staring at the fallen tree like she’s in mourning.
“The space mourns,” she murmurs to no one in particular.
A worker approaches her, clipboard in hand. “Ma’am, I know it’s just the terrace, but we can’t allow anyone inside until inspectors clears the entire premise. Forty-eight hours,” he says carefully. “Minimum. Possibly longer if structural damage extends into the main hall.”
Forty-eight hours.
You feel it then – the crack, the break, the thing you’ve been holding together finally giving way.
“It’s today,” you say, voice breaking. “The wedding is today.”
The owner looks at you, eyes wet. “I’m so sorry.”
You turn away blindly, stagger to a bench, and sit hard. Your breath comes in short, jagged pulls. Hot tears spill before you can stop them.
“I failed,” you choke. “I promised them – this was supposed to be perfect –”
Hands cup your face.
Firm. Warm. Steady.
“Hey,” Bucky says quietly. “Look at me.”
You shake your head.
“Please.”
You do, and you are met with an expression so fierce if startles you – protective, focused, utterly certain.
“I need you to breathe,” he says. “Because this isn’t over.”
You laugh, broken. “Bucky –”
Instead, he reaches into your tote – the one that has practically fused to your side over the past two weeks – and slides out The Binder. Your breath stutters. He holds it with the ease of someone who has done this before, who knows the weight, the tabs, the logic of your mind laid out in color-tabbed sections.
“I know you’ve got contingencies,” he says, flipping through pages with quick, efficient motions. “If it rains. If vendors can’t make it. If the power goes out.”
“Not – ” your voice cracks. “Not this.”
“No.” He closes The Binder gently. “Not trees falling.”
A beat.
A terrible, hollow beat where the question hangs between you: So what now?
You swipe at your cheeks. “We can’t fix the roof. We can’t move all the décor. We can’t – ” Your breath catches. “Bucky, we don’t have a – ”
“Venue?” he finishes, arching a brow.
You nod helplessly.
He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks. Then something in his expression shifts – subtle, almost imperceptible – like the first warm edge of dawn cresting over cold ground.
“Lucky for you,” he says quietly, “I’ve been spending a lot of time around someone who never accepts the first no.”
You blink. “Bucky – ”
“And,” he continues, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small, reluctant smile, “maybe some of that has rubbed off.”
You stare at him. “What are you saying?”
He exhales slowly, like he’s bracing for you to yell at him for the very thing that might save you.
“I’m saying,” he murmurs, “Steve’s parent’s backyard is flat. It’s big enough. The tent can be moved. The caterers can reroute. And the weather forecast gives us at least a until tomorrow morning before the rain starts again.” A pause. “If we start now, we can make it work.”
The world tilts. Not disastrously – but like a compass snapping north after spinning for too long.
“Why?” you whisper.
He doesn’t dodge. Doesn’t joke. His voice is soft, steady, unbearably sincere. “Because you care,” he says simply. “And I’m not going to let this break you.”
Your chest caves open. Relief crashes in, messy and overwhelming.
You breathe in once, twice.
“Okay,” you whisper back. Then louder, steadier, “Okay.”
He squeezes your hands once, grounding you.“Come on,” he says, rising to his feet. “We’ve got seven hours to save a wedding.”
*
The moment Bucky says “Let’s save a wedding,” things get moving – not metaphorically; literally.
He’s already striding away, already dialling, already speaking in that clipped, purposeful tone you’ve only ever heard when he’s absolutely out of patience or absolutely determined. “Steve,” he says, pacing toward the parking lot. “Change of venue. Backyard. Yes, your backyard. No, I’m not joking. Trust me.”
You stumble after him, still half undone, still blinking tears off your face. “Bucky –”
“Nat’s going to love this,” he says to you, unfazed. “Call her. Tell her not to panic, and tell her she doesn’t have to lift a finger.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” you say automatically, phone already in your hand.
She picks up on the first ring. “Backyard wedding?” she laughs, delighted. “Perfect. I’ll see you at Steve’s.”
Steve is already texting his parents. Someone’s uncle has folding tables and someone else has a generator “just in case.”
It snowballs fast. The miracle of a small wedding becomes apparent very quicky – every guest is a real person, reachable by phone, reachable within minutes.
You start calling, texting, forwarding maps.
Change of plans! Still today! Bring a chair if you can!
And they’re all very amused by this development.
People reply with laughing emojis, with on our way, with honestly this is very them, with do you need cutlery?
By the time you reach Steve’s family home, the backyard is already transforming.
Someone’s SUV is backed into the lawn with its boot open like a mobile command station. Extension cords snake across the grass. A white rental tent is being muscled upright by three determined guests and one very determined aunt.
The caterers pivot without complaint, food arriving in trays that suddenly feel perfectly suited to long tables and paper plates. The DJ shrugs. “I’ve done a Punjabi wedding on a moving bus. This is nothing.” Music starts, soft and warm and easy.
And Bucky –
He moves through the chaos like a man who made peace long ago with the fact that the universe likes to test him. He directs traffic, helps carry tables, adjusts tent poles, and somehow gets everyone to listen to him without raising his voice once.
When you open your mouth to worry, he’s already answering.
When you start to spiral, he meets your eyes and says, “Handled.”
At some point he has The Binder. You don’t remember handing it to him. You’re not even sure you did. He simply has it now, tucked under his arm like holy scripture.
And then, when you’re midway through redirecting seating placements, walking away from the tent to take in the big picture view, you notice something shifting in the light, a shimmer of cream and gold.
You stop.
A line of delicate shapes sway gently from the tent’s ridge pole. You take two steps forward, then three.
They’re paper cranes – your paper cranes.
Every single last one that you folded and strung together last night, every last one that you had to leave in the reception hall when the world collapsed.
You stare up at them, breath suspended.
“Bucky,” you whisper. “How did – ? They were – They were in the reception hall.”
He doesn’t even stop tightening the rope he’s working on. “The reception hall wasn’t damaged,” he says. “Just the terrace. So I… grabbed them.”
You turn to him, struck speechless for a moment.
“You… went in?”
“The hall wasn’t damaged.”
“That isn’t the point!”
He shrugs once. “Doors are only locked if you don’t have the key.”
“You – this is – you could’ve gotten hurt!”
Bucky finally looks up at you, and he smiles. It’s a small one – crooked and almost shy. “I wasn’t leaving them behind.”
The cranes shift again in the breeze, glowing in the late-morning sun like tiny lanterns, catching glimmers of gold from the fairy lights someone is stringing between the trees.
The cranes shimmer faintly as the breeze lifts them, little beacons of luck and persistence swaying above the lawn. They look impossibly delicate – and yet here they are, surviving storms, travel, relocation.
You realise, as you take it all in, that the rest of the wedding is taking shape in much the same improbable fashion. Piece by piece, person by person.
Because when you turn, the lawn is filling with chairs – mismatched, ridiculous, perfect – carried in by guests who did not hesitate for a single breath. “Everyone bring a chair,” he’d said, and somehow… everyone did.
Kitchen chairs. Lawn chairs. Folding metal ones that look suspiciously like the ones from the high school Steve teaches at. A wicker bench someone absolutely took from their own porch.
It’s ridiculous, it’s perfect.
You finally dare to look at the time and, “It’s –” you begin, startled.
“Ten minutes to start,” Bucky says, checking his watch. “We’re on schedule.”
You gape at him. “How are we on schedule?”
He nods toward The Binder, lying open on a cooler like a general’s map. “The Binder,” he says with a shrug, “has all.”
And for the first time all day –
You laugh. Really, truly laugh. Because somehow, impossibly, disastrously – you’re going to pull this off.
Together.
*
The ceremony goes off without a hitch.
The tent stands steady despite the soft ground beneath it, canvas glowing warmly in the late afternoon light. Strings of bulbs flicker on as the sun dips lower, their reflections catching in the little puddles of water that have yet evaporated. The grass is a little muddy in places, trampled by hurried footsteps and borrowed chairs. Nothing matches. Everything belongs.
And as the first notes play and everyone rises, you realize something with a clarity that makes your knees go weak:
The wedding didn’t survive despite the chaos.
It survived because of it.
You take your place near the front, hands folded, heart already too full.
Natasha walks in first, not down an aisle so much as across a stretch of grass cleared by people who love her. Her dress is simple and devastating, hair pinned back just enough to frame her face. She looks radiant, not because of the dress or the light or the day, but because she looks certain that this is where she’s meant to be.
Steve is already waiting.
He doesn’t try to hide it, the way his face changes when he sees her – like the world has finally resolved into something understandable. He forgets where to put his hands. Forgets that there are people watching. Forgets everything but her.
You feel tears sting immediately.
The officiant says a few words – nothing grand, nothing rehearsed beyond necessity. Something about finding home in another person. Something about choosing, every day, to stay.
And then, it’s time for vows.
Steve clears his throat, nervous in a way that feels almost boyish. “I don’t have a lot of fancy words,” he says, smiling at her like it’s a private joke, like the entire universe has narrowed down to just him and her. “But I promise to keep choosing you.”
Natasha’s bottom lip trembles. Steve swallows and continues.
“I’ve spent a long time thinking that doing the right thing meant standing alone,” he continues, voice steadying. “You taught me it doesn’t have to. Whatever comes next, I want to face it with you.”
You feel tears prick immediately, hot and unbidden.
Natasha takes his hands when it’s her turn, thumbs brushing over his knuckles, grounding him, grounding them both.
“I don’t make promises lightly,” she says. “But I promise you honesty – even when it’s hard. I promise to stand beside you, not behind you.”
Steve exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for years.
“I’ve spent a long time surviving,” she continues, voice softer now. “With you, I want to live. And I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
And that’s when the something in your chest gives way entirely.
You swipe at your eyes and, in the motion, glance to your left – toward Steve’s side.
Bucky is watching you.
Not the ceremony. Not his best friend standing at the center of it all. You.
There’s no surprise in his expression when your eyes meet. Just something steady and unguarded, something that makes your breath catch. You smile at him – small, private, meant only for this moment.
He doesn’t smile back, not fully, but his shoulders ease, like he’s finally letting himself breathe. His gaze lingers before he looks forward again, jaw tight, eyes bright.
The officiant speaks again, voice barely registering over the rush in your ears.
“By the power vested in me –” The officiant barely has time to finish the words before Steve kisses Natasha like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it.
The backyard erupts – not in polite applause, but in cheers and laughter and the unmistakable sound of people witnessing something go right after so much nearly went wrong.
You look around – at the grass, worn and imperfect beneath polished shoes; at the mismatched chairs – kitchen chairs, folding chairs, one unmistakeable beach chair in the second row; at the tent, glowing softly against the darkening sky; at the faces – teary, smiling, wholly present.
Not a single dry eye.
And suddenly, with a clarity that feels almost sacred, you understand it.
This – this patched-together, last-minute, mud-on-the-hems miracle – this wedding is perfect.
You glance at Bucky again.
He’s watching the couple now, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression. Something changed. As if he’s seeing the whole thing differently – not as an event, not as a spectacle, but as a moment that matters simply because the people in it do.
He catches your eye once more.
This time, he does smile.
And in that small, quiet exchange – barely noticed by anyone else – you feel it settle into place.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
Presently…
This bed isn’t yours. This room isn’t yours. And beside you – facing you, chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm, is Bucky.
His eyes are closed, dark lashes resting against his cheek. There’s a smudge of sleep at the corner of his mouth, a softness to him you’re not used to seeing in daylight.
Your gaze drops – bare shoulder, collarbone, the fabric of his shirt rumpled from sleep. And then you feel it: his knee tucked lightly against yours beneath the covers, like neither of you moved much in the night. Like the space between you was never up for negotiation.
Your breath catches.
And in that moment, as the sun reaches across the bed and touches the curve of his jaw, you realize with slow, startling clarity –
You don’t want to move. You certainly don’t want to disturb this.
But then –
His blue eyes – soft with sleep, unfocused at the edges – blink open at the same moment. He inhales sharply, like waking into the shock of something impossible, like waking into you.
The two of you stare at each other.
The world holds its breath.
His hair is mussed, falling over his forehead. His mouth is soft, not yet disciplined into its usual guarded lines. One arm – his – rests over your waist like he reached for you in the night and never let go.
His voice, when it comes, is low. Rough.
“Hey.”
A beat.
A second.
A lifetime.
You swallow, suddenly acutely aware of how close your noses are. Of how his chest rises and falls against yours. Of how you ended up – both of you – pulled together into the same borrowed bed after the reception because there were no spare rooms left at Steve’s family house and “it’s fine, we’re adults, we can share.”
Except now you are awake and sharing feels like the smallest word in the universe.
Bucky’s eyes flick to your mouth. It is microscopic, the shift, but you feel it like a jolt of electricity down your spine. Your heart kicks painfully, traitorously, into your throat.
It feels like balanced-breath territory, the narrow space between what is safe and what is true.
Your throat works. “Hey.”
You can smell him – soap and clean cotton and something unmistakably him. Your heart starts to race.
“This…” you start, because the silence is suddenly too loud, too much, and you have the irrational urge to fill it. “This isn’t what friends do. Right?”
The words hang between you, trembling, dangerous and far too honest.
Bucky doesn’t move for a moment.
Then his gaze settles fully – wholly – on you, and everything inside him sharpens, awakens, and resolves.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”
Something in his voice makes your chest ache.
You shift, just a little. The mattress dips. His breath catches – not dramatically, but enough that you notice. Enough that it feels like a type of confession all on its own. His hand – warm, careful – slides from your waist to your hip. Not pulling. Just touching. Just holding you like the truth has finally found him.
“We should –” you start.
He doesn’t move away. Instead, he says your name once; just once, like it’s something precious.
“You think I do this –” he murmurs, eyes fierce, intimate, unbearably soft, “– with anyone else?”
You can’t speak.
He moves a fraction closer, the tiniest shift of the pillow, but it feels like the world tilting toward something inevitable and vast.
“I woke up,” he whispers, “and for a second I thought I was dreaming. Because you –” his voice hitches, “– you were looking at me like I was someone you wanted.”
You inhale sharply. “Bucky…”
“And if I’m reading this wrong,” he continues, tone still gentle, still unbearably composed for someone confessing like this, “then tell me. Tell me and I’ll –”
You don’t let him finish.
You lift your hand – shaking, barely steady – and cup his cheek.
His breath stops.
“I don’t exactly know when it started,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “But I think I’ve been wanting you for a while.”
He closes his eyes once. Slowly. Like the world has finally righted itself.
And when he opens them again, he is not uncertain.
He is not hesitant.
He is not a man fighting himself anymore.
“You know I don’t believe in weddings – I still don’t,” he says softly. “I don’t believe in big gestures or perfect days. But, this, I believe in things like this.”
His hand lifts – stops, trembling on the edge of daring – before he leans in instead, touching his forehead to yours. The world narrows to warmth and breath and the barest graze of his nose against yours, close enough that all you can see, all you can feel, is him. Your skin sparks, electric, even without his hand on you.
“I believe in you,” he continues. “In the way you care. In the way you fight for people. In the way you stayed up all night folding a thousand paper cranes because you wanted something beautiful to exist in the world. In the way you planned this entire wedding like the universe would collapse if Nat and Steve had anything less than perfect – because for you, caring this much isn’t some kind of twisted vanity, it’s how you move through the world.”
Your eyes burn.
“And I love you and I want to be by your side,” he says simply. “Whether it’s in the chaos or the quiet. And I don’t want to pretend otherwise anymore.”
The room feels very still, very small, and very, very full.
You don’t trust your voice, so you do the only thing you can.
With your heart in your hands, you lean in and gently press your lips to his.
His breath shudders as your lips meet, like he’s been holding something back for a long time and finally lets go. His hand slides into your hair, cradling your head with reverence, not urgency.
The world narrows.
When he deepens the kiss – just slightly – it feels like a promise. When you kiss him back, it feels like an answer.
When you pull away, forehead resting against his, everything has changed.
He smiles then.
Not the guarded half-smile. Not the amused deflection.
A real one. Open. Unmistakable.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
You laugh softly, breathless, overwhelmed. “Hi.”
Outside, the house begins to stir to life with footsteps padding across the hallway, the low clatter of someone in the kitchen trying (and failing) to move quietly, a kettle starting its slow, rising hiss. Chairs scrape gently over the deck. Someone laughs, hushed and tender, the sound drifting through the floorboards like morning light.
Inside, wrapped in tangled sheets and the quiet aftermath of a perfectly imperfect wedding, you realize – with a certainty that feels almost sacred – that this is how it begins – not with spectacle – but with choice, with closeness.
And with love, finally spoken aloud.
When you wake up again, it is to heat.
More specifically – heat and weight and a slow, lazy grind at the small of your back that your sleep-fogged brain misidentifies as a dream right up until you breathe in and, oh, it’s Bucky.
The first time you woke up, it was barely dawn. Just light creeping around the edges of the curtains, your faces inches apart on the pillow, his voice rough as he admitted he didn’t want to be just your friend. A kiss that felt like a beginning. The dizzy, terrifying relief of hearing your own feelings echoed back at you.
Then he’d cupped your cheek, pressed his forehead to yours, and said, “We can talk more when it’s not stupid o’clock.”
You’d agreed. You were exhausted. Your eyes had burned. He’d pulled you in against his chest, arm heavy around your waist, and the two of you had drifted off again, warm and close and newly, precariously honest.
Now it’s later, and Bucky is still spooned around you in the narrow guest bed of Steve’s childhood home, one arm banded heavy around your waist, his chest pressed to your back. His breath ghosts over the nape of your neck in warm, even little puffs.
And his cock is hard, pressed right against your ass.
You go very still.
The arm around your waist tightens, drawing you closer like he’s chasing you in his sleep. His hips roll, just a fraction, like his body’s following a rhythm his brain hasn’t caught up to yet. The thick line of him drags against you through two layers of cotton, and a completely traitorous pulse of heat shoots through you.
“Bucky,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to go any louder.
He makes a low sound, half groan, half wordless complaint, nose nudging into your hair. “Mm. It’s too early.”
That seems to cut through the haze faster than any alarm. His body tenses behind you; his hips freeze. There’s a beat where you can feel him realize exactly where he is and what he’s doing.
“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, dragging his face up from your neck. “Shit, darling, I –”
He starts to pull away and you instinctively reach back to grab his forearm.
“Wait,” you say.
He goes still again.
You could pretend you’re not already wet. You could pretend you’re not thinking about this every time he brushed past you in the venue kitchen this week, every time he stood too close at the lakehouse walkthrough, every time those stupid blue eyes lingered on your mouth a second too long.
You don’t.
“You’re not the only one,” you say quietly, rolling your hips back just enough that he can feel the way your body’s answering his. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Bucky lets out a shaky little breath right against your ear. “You’re gonna kill me,” he says, and there’s a muffled curse as his hand slides from your waist down over your hip, fingers digging in. He doesn’t move his hips. Yet. “You sure?”
You turn your head enough to see him, to catch his eyes, pupils already blown. “We already said this isn’t what friends do, right?”
“Pretty sure my friends don’t usually wake up tryin’ to fuck me,” he says hoarsely. His gaze drops to your mouth. “But I’m not complaining’.”
He kisses you before you can answer. It’s messy, morning-breath and sleep-warm, but his mouth is hot and eager and familiar in a way that makes your toes curl. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing under your chin, tilting your head where he wants you.
Behind you, his hips finally move. Slow, deliberate grind, the thick length of him dragging against you through the silky fabric of your dress. You gasp into his mouth; he swallows the sound with a low noise of his own.
“Been thinking about this for weeks,” he mutters against your lips. “You in that damn dress all day yesterday. Runnin’ around bossin’ everybody, climbing over me on those shitty folding chairs like it was nothing. You have any idea what you do to me?”
You push your ass back into him, just to feel how hard he is. “I think I’m getting an idea.”
“Tease,” he murmurs, and his hand presses low on your stomach through the dress, the heat of him burning through the thin fabric, fingers splaying like he’s steadying you for what comes next. “Can I?”
You nod, too quickly. “Yes. God, yes.”
He hums like that pleases him. His hand drifts lower, fingers skimming down, pushing the skirt of your dress up. He slides under it, into your panties, and finds you already slick and hot. His breath stutters. “Fuck, baby.”
He circles your clit once, light enough to make you whine, then slips his fingers lower, stroking through your wetness. “You this wet from just waking up next to me?” he asks, voice gone smug and filthy. “Or have you been dreaming about me?”
“Shut up,” you gasp, hips jerking. “You’re the one grinding on me in your sleep, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing two fingers into you, slow and deliberate, “if you start sleeping in my bed, there’s gonna be a lot worse than grinding.”
Your reply dissolves into a broken moan as he curls his fingers just right. He works you open with careful, steady thrusts, his palm rubbing your clit on every stroke. It’s obscene how fast he finds exactly how to touch you, like he’s been mapping out how this would go for weeks.
You reach back blindly and find him, wrap your hand around the thick length straining against his waistband. Even through the cotton, he’s solid, heavy, twitching under your fingers.
He swears, low and vicious. “You’re killing me,” he repeats, hips rocking forward into your hand. “Get these off.”
Between the two of you, your dress and panties end up somewhere at the foot of the bed. He groans when he sees you, bare and open in the afternoon light. His fingers slide back through your slick, spreading it, thumb drawing lazy circles over your clit.
“Prettiest thing I ever seen,” he says, almost to himself.
You push back, needy. “Bucky.”
“Yeah, I got you.” He shifts, fumbling one-handed with his own waistband until his cock is free, hot and leaking where it brushes the curve of your ass. He hisses through his teeth at the contact. “Fuck. You sure?”
You look over your shoulder, meet his eyes, and there’s no way he can mistake the answer. “Please.”
His expression crumples into something helpless and obscene. “Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I’ll take care of you.”
He lines up and pushes in, the blunt head nudging against your opening, then stretching you, slow, slow, until he’s buried thick and deep. You gasp, fingers clawing at the sheets, the stretch just shy of too much.
“Jesus,” he groans, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. “You’re so fucking tight. Grippin’ me like you don’t ever wanna let me go.”
“You could move,” you manage, voice high and shaky. “That might help.”
He laughs, broken and breathless, and pulls back only to slam in again, setting a rhythm that has the old headboard tapping the wall in soft, insistent knocks. His hand finds yours on the mattress, lacing your fingers together, grounding you even as he fucks into you harder, his other hand still working your clit.
The slick sounds of him moving in you fill the little room, mixed with your gasps and his low curses. Every thrust hits that perfect spot; every drag of his thumb winds you tighter.
“Listen to you,” he pants, voice right against your ear now. “Making those little noises for me. You gonna come on my cock, sweetheart?”
Your answer is more of a strangled sob than a word. Heat coils tight in your belly, sharp and bright.
“Yeah,” he says, like he can feel you clenching. “There you go. Let go for me. Come on, baby. I’ve got you.”
It’s the way he says it – like a reverent promise – that tips you over. You shatter around him, muscles fluttering, vision going white at the edges. You hear yourself cry out, feel him groan into your shoulder as your body milks him.
“Fuck – just like that, just like that,” he grits, thrusts turning messy. A few more and he’s gone too, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, whole body trembling against your back.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your breathing and the soft tick of the old clock on the nightstand.
Eventually, Bucky shifts, carefully easing out of you, both of you hissing at the oversensitive drag. He collapses onto his back beside you, one arm flung over his eyes.
“This,” you say, staring at the ceiling, still trying to remember how lungs work, “is definitely not what friends do.”
He laughs, low and wrecked, turning his head to look at you. His hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes soft in a way that makes your chest hurt.
“Good,” he says, reaching over to tug you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “’Cause I’ve never wanted to be just your friend.”
yap! i have a lot of feelings about weddings (i love weddings as a literary device as much as kevin kwan does LMAO) as you can tell... and i just got so juiced up with ideas i couldn't bring myself to cut anything so here we are! if you've read to the end, here is a kiss for you and i hope you enjoyed it and didn't find it too long! also im a wedding lover, my own wedding is going to be my superbowl. remember to check out the other event fics! there's so much care and love there!!
dear my darling reader masterpost || more bucky from me
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everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?
word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab
author’s note: i haven’t posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else i’ve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.
i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by “the prophecy” by taylor swift ♡ i highly recommend giving it a listen!
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Soulmate.
A word that fills most people with hope and peace.
Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that it’s only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that they’re exactly where they’re destined to be.
For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.
But for you, it means nothing. There’s no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.
Because there’s no point in hoping for something that’s impossible, and you can’t lose what you weren’t allowed to have in the first place.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.
“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”
She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.
You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.
It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!
It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.
“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.
Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.
It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.
Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.
You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.
But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.
They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.
Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.
“Chocolate chip?”
A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.
“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.
“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”
“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”
“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”
Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.
No matter how much you may wish that was the case.
You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.
You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?
Or is he still searching, all these decades later?
As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.
You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”
There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”
“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”
“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”
“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”
You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.
“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”
He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.
You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”
He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”
“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”
“I think I can handle that.”
You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.
Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.
It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.
It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.
For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.
He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.
“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.
So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.
Well, partially lied.
Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.
But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.
What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.
No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.
You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.
Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.
He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.
Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?
But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.
He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.
Right where his soul mark used to be.
Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.
It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.
He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.
He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.
Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.
Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.
But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.
So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”
The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.
There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.
Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”
You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—
Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.
You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.
“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.
“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”
Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”
“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.
He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.
“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.
“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—
Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”
Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.
As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.
“I have a confession to make.”
You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”
“Nope.”
You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.
“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”
You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.
From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”
“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”
You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.
“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”
The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.
You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.
“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.
“Soulmates?”
“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.
“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”
You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”
“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”
When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”
You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”
You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.
Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.
But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.
That was before Bucky.
“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”
She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”
“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”
“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”
As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?
No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.
Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.
He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.
You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.
You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.
It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.
Reality is never quite as sweet.
Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.
You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.
“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.
“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.
Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.
Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.
He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.
Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.
“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”
“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”
“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”
Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.
“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”
Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.
Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.
“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”
“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”
“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”
“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”
“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”
And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.
Bucky doesn’t move.
You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.
“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”
You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”
You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”
He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”
“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”
You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.
He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.
It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
You don’t go back to your room.
You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.
There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.
There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.
You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.
Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.
Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.
Archives with information about you.
You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.
It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.
And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?
You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.
You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.
Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.
Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?
If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?
Or would you still love him?
Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.
But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.
That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.
“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”
The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.
“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”
You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”
Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.
“Like I said. I know you well enough.”
You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.
Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.
He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”
You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.
“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”
He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”
You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.
“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”
For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—
“Okay,” he murmurs.
Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”
We.
You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.
It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.
It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?
But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.
“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”
“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.
Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.
And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.
But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.
Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.
Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.
“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”
Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.
A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.
“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”
“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”
He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”
You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.
“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”
You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”
He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”
That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.
For better or for worse.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.
Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.
You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.
Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.
The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.
“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”
Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”
You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.
A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.
Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”
You swallow and nod once.
Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.
Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.
You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.
Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”
He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?
You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.
“Okay,” you whisper.
You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.
Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.
Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.
You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.
You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.
Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.
You grab one at random and flip it open.
Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.
You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?
“Any luck yet?”
Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.
“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”
You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.
Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—
Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.
“Bucky.”
Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.
“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.
You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.
Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.
But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.
You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.
“Wait.”
Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.
“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”
He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.
You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.
Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”
You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.
“Bucky—”
Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.
Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.
“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”
Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.
Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.
“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”
You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”
It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.
And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.
You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.
You do none of these things, of course.
Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.
You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.
“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”
You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.
But you don’t pull your hand away, either.
“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”
His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”
God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.
You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.
Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.
Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.
Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.
As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.
You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.
Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.
You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.
I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.
Say something. Anything.
But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.
Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.
The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.
Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.
The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.
The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.
He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.
And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.
Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.
You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.
Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.
And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.
He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.
He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.
He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.
Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.
And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.
That wasn’t fair.
He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.
A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.
He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.
“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.
He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.
“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.
Bucky swallows. “Hi.”
“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”
For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.
He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.
He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”
“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.
“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”
His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”
“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”
You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.
He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.
Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.
The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.
He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.
You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.
He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.
You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.
He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.
“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.
He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.
“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”
You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”
He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.
I love you, Bucky. I choose you.
Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.
It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.
Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.
“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.
Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.
You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”
“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”
You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”
“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”
You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”
He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”
You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.
His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.
You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.
He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.
“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”
You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.
His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.
A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.
“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.
The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.
His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.
Home.
“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.
He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.
The picture nearly falls out of his hands.
“дом.”
“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”
But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.
“Bucky?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.
He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.
In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.
He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—
There.
A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.
Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.
A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.
Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.
Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.
That you’re his soulmate.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.
You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.
He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”
He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.
“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.
“Home?”
You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.
Home.
It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.
You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.
“Does this really mean what I hope—”
“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”
You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”
They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.
“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”
You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.
He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.
He’s really yours.
“Come here,” you murmur.
He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.
“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.
His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.
“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.
“Yeah? You should do that now.”
Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.
This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.
You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.
He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.
There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.
You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.
With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.
“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.
He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”
“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”
He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.
You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.
His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.
Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.
“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.
He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.
Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”
“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”
You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.
He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.
“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”
Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.
“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.
“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”
“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”
His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.
He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.
The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.
Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.
When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”
Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”
“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.
“All of me.”
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”
Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.
It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.
But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.
Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.
Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.
Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.
“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”
Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.
“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”
You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”
You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.
“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.
“Dead serious.”
“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”
By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.
“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.
His soulmate.
“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”
“Okay.”
“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”
You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”
A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”
“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”
He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”
He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.
“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”
The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”
You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.
Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”
“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”
He was so hoping you would say that.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3
summary: sam kisses you to save your cover on a mission, and bucky punches him… but you still don’t believe he’s in love with you?
notes: dear lord, i’m so sorry about this. i started it over a year ago, so it is probably a little disjointed, and i tried writing in present tense for some reason ??? anyway, i hope it isn’t too stupid! i’m trying really hard to get back into writing :)
word count: 5537 (i’m sorry)
“You astound me,” Natasha says, her words fed through the small radio piece tucked into your ear, “your heart rate is barely above seventy b.p.m.”
Your frown is only slight, your demeanour remaining cool and casual as the escalator descends toward the mall’s food court. Beside you, Sam has his cap pulled low on his brow and his sunglasses pushed high on his nose, one hand is resting on the handrail while the other is wrapped softly around your waist. You turn to him to feign conversation as you ask Natasha, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re in the middle of a covert mission,” she says, “possibly gone wrong and you’re still so calm, but the minute Barnes is within a twenty-foot radius your heart rate goes of the Richter.”
Heat flushes through you, blood concentrating in your cheeks and turning them an embarrassed shade of pink, “Nat, what the-”
Sam chuckles and pulls you closer to his side, “Calm down. He lost our signal between the third and fourth levels below.”
Oh. The thrumming in your chest begins to slow again and you focus on keeping your balance as you step off the escalator. Bucky wouldn’t have heard Nat’s stupid remark because he is currently waiting beneath six levels of solid concrete inside a room made entirely of metal. Assuming he hasn’t been found out and tied up, he would be silently watching the mall’s CCTV footage of you and Sam making your way through the food court.
“Meet him outside, in front of Subway,” Nat instructed, “greet him like an old friend you didn’t expect to see. He knows the drill.”
Summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows?
Tags/Warnings: strangers to lovers, smut (unprotected p in v, oral (m and f receiving), one spank, egregious use of a wooden fence), Bucky in a Stetson, no use of y/n, petnames (darlin’ and honey, Sarge and cowboy), alcohol consumption but no drunkenness, maybe vague implied animal farming, shifting POVs, yer
Note: Written for my darling @buckysdecaflove for the Dear My Darling Reader Valentine Fic Exchange hosted by the delightful @salty-tang. As promised because of our little matchmaking trio, the barest hint of a TSwift reference lolol
Word Count: 17k
Currently Listening: “Come In With the Rain” by Taylor Swift & “Good Directions” by Billy Currington 🎵
I'll leave my window open
'Cause I'm too tired tonight to call your name
Just know I'm right here hoping
That you'll come in with the rain …
Event Masterlist
His harmonica wailed out a lonely tune into the stormy night.
He’d watched the dark clouds blow in early afternoon, his small herd already crowding against the outer barn wall, bawling and mooing, making their agitation known. He’d pushed open the doors, letting his best girls amble into the barn for their safety while he cleared up for the day. Even Alpine, the fiercest prissy barn cat he’d ever met, had disappeared into the top rafters of the hay loft. Her bunker for the night ahead.
He stored the four-wheeler in the shed, the tractor already put away that morning, stowed his tools, and shut up for the night.
And he did it all alone.
When the sun disappeared, he didn’t know, the sky already painted black and blue with clouds.
Now, sitting out on the sheltered verandah, Stetson tilted low and bending notes on the blues harp as fast wind and heavy rain tore through his property, he didn’t bother to lament the devastation the storm was causing to his crops. Couldn’t think now about the old northern fence line that might not hold up in this weather. Instead Bucky found his mind wandering, craving the kind of company a cold, wet night like this always demanded.
What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body in his bed tonight. Someone desperate beneath him, their cries and warmth chasing off the chill of the storm. Someone to fall asleep to, to hold tight as the night cooled, and to pull closer as the morning filtered in.
A flash of lightening to the east broke his reverie and drew his gaze, and in the distance he saw it.
Two beams of light recklessly arcing over his field as some tiny car made its way down his property drive.
His hands dropped to his lap with the harmonica and he cursed, grumbling about idiots getting lost on country roads, taking the wrong turn-offs, disturbing his peace.
He hauled himself to his feet when the car ambled into his yard, a tiny thing not suited to long country drives, and watched until the engine cut and the figure inside peered up at him.
He walked back into the house.
You bit your lip as you approached the house slowly. A lone light shone in one window but the rain was crashing so hard against your windscreen you couldn’t make out anything else.
With every bump in the road as you rolled over uneven ground, you cursed the weather, the poor cell service, the shoddy country signage, and even your childhood friend who you had driven out to see in your precious spare time.
Your twenty-three-city-sixty-two-show tour of the US was over, most of the major music awards done with just one to go. You’d agreed to see your darling friend in her third trimester who was, as she said, in dire need of civilised company.
Inching along this wet dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the rain battering your poor car, desperately trying to reach the only buildings you had seen for miles, you were feeling rather un-civilised about the whole endeavour.
And what would you even say when you pulled up? The truth made you feel so foolish. Assuming whoever lived in this house didn’t abduct you or worse upon recognising you instantly.
You weren’t egotistical, but as the number one pop singer in the country regularly topping the charts, you were thoroughly aware of the cursed enormity of fame that dogged you like this storm chased your tailpipe.
Your headlights ambled hesitantly past the last posts flanking the dirt drive. Passing the final fence line you entered the bare bones yard, open grass to one side and an old rusted wreck to the other. The tracks you followed led further on to a parked beaten truck, but you halted directly in front of the house.
The windscreen wipers ticked frantically and the shadow of a person obscured by the rain stepped forward out of the dark, making you gasp.
At least now you were sure there was life out here.
You switched off the car but the roar of the rain was louder, unceasing noise as it battered your car with the wind.
A sign hanging from the verandah roofline swung in the wind and caught your eye. There was some word burned into the wood that you squinted to see in the low light…
J. B. BARNES
The stranger, whose shrouded figure you could barely see, promptly turned and headed back indoors.
Probably to fetch a shotgun to tell you to get off their property.
You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but a door in the face before you’d even stepped a foot out was a bit much.
Gathering your things that had scattered during the drive into your handbag, you pulled yourself together and prepared to run for your life.
You opened the car door, the rain barrelling in immediately. Scrambling, your sandalled foot dropping straight into a muddy puddle, you clutched your handbag close, not even needing to close the door behind you—it slammed shut with the force of the wind. You hurried through grass and mud up to the verandah, hands uselessly trying to shield your face from the rain that soaked through your thin cardigan in seconds.
Climbing the wooden steps to shelter you halted, panting, looking back out at the blustery weather you’d braved, and gulped. The wood farmhouse broke the storm about you, wind and rain held at bay by its warm old bones, and you were grateful for the reprieve.
The farmhouse door opened, and you weren’t sure if the man that stepped out was a killer or not.
In that moment you didn’t care.
He was the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever seen.
Hollywood was full of models, men groomed and primed to polished perfection, but this rugged man before you drew your attention in the most primal way. His chiseled jaw was shadowed by a few days worth of scruff. His button-down shirt sat taught across his broad chest and arms, the top few buttons undone revealing a hint of chest hair and a chain that disappeared beneath where your hands itched to follow, the fabric hugging down his body to jeans that barely contained his strong thighs.
But when he tilted his head to look at you out from under his dark brimmed hat, it was his eyes, pools of stormy blue boring into you with barely held frustration, that had you swaying closer toward him.
“You lost.”
You tried to blink away your stupor. “Yes. I’m so sorry, my phone dropped reception and—“
“Wasn’t a question.”
Taken aback by his abrupt response, the words died in your throat.
Oh he was definitely going to murder you and bury you in a field somewhere. Maybe throw you in a pig pen like those documentaries. No one would ever know, they would never find you, you would be—
“There’s bad weather,” he said matter of fact, like you were stupid enough to miss it. “Come inside.”
And he walked back in without another word.
You hesitated by the door, looking down at your muddy sandals and feet. Gingerly you toed them off, swiping your feet on the doormat to try to remove the grime, before stepping inside.
The house smelled earthy, of lingering smoke and wood from the lit fireplace which closely warmed a couch and solid wood coffee table. A bureau sat disused in the corner surrounded by shelves, and the remaining open space was dwarfed with a heavy rustic dining table. The kitchen was surprisingly modern, still country but in a magazine-chic way, and your hero-slash-murderer rounded the counter, his presence filling the room and leaving a delightfully male scent in his wake.
Finally, in the soft light overhead, you caught the glimmer of a metal prosthetic as he palmed his phone and dialled out a number without saying another word to you
“Yeah, Sam. You still open?” Cold blue eyes settled on you. “Had a stray blow in with the storm.”
His face clouded over, eyes flashing, and he cursed to himself.
Obviously Sam didnt provide the answer he was looking for.
You inched forward, clutching your handbag tightly to you, knowing you should say something but not sure what.
He turned his back to you, leaning back against the counter, and you felt your mouth hang slack at the sight. He might as well be naked with how perfectly his shirt hugged every ripple of his back and shoulders.
A long ago conversation about not wanting country boys flew in your face. This man before you broke every rule you’d ever thought to set.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, and you tucked your wet hair behind your ear to listen in closer.
“… yeah, whole crops gonna be drowned come mornin’. Nothin’ I can do now.” A pause. “You sittin’ pretty out there?” Another pause. “And Sara?”
You found yourself smiling at the way his chuckle turned wickedly cheeky, barely hearing the agitated ear-bashing this Sam was giving him over the din of the rain. “Just being neighbourly is all. A’ight, man. Later.”
He turned back, tossing the phone onto the counter, and stared at you. His face was more relaxed now than it had been before, the laughter having eased the hard lines, but you still found yourself caught under his steady gaze.
“What’s yer name?”
You tensed. Eyes narrowing on him you hesitated to answer, looking for some kind of trick or prank. Did he not recognise you after all? Finding no reason in his openly bored expression not to respond, you told him your first name only.
No flash of recognition. No reaction at all really.
So you asked, “What’s yours?”
“Bucky,” he said instantly. Then— “James.” His faced twisted like he was annoyed at himself. “Everyone calls me Bucky.”
He cleared his throat.
“Want a beer?”
You nod.
“Bathroom’s down on the right.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, and you stood still for a moment longer, unsure why he was offering up that information.
But curiosity about your reluctant host spiked, and you decide to investigate the bathroom. If that’s where he wanted you to go.
Floorboards creaked between flashes of lightening and you lightly traced your path down the hall with your fingertips against the faded yellow wallpaper.
A door at the end of the hall, cracked open, revealed the barest outline of a bed from the light from the hall. Quietly, you turn to the door on your right.
When you stepped foot in the bathroom, you realised exactly why he sent you.
Your hair, soaked from your dash in the rain, was still dripping and plastered to your head. Your makeup, not waterproof, had half dried again in ghostly trails across your cheeks, mascara now smudged in an unintentional smoky eye. Your cardigan was doing more harm than good, soaked as it was and making you colder. With a grimace you made for the sink, grabbing a fluffy towel for your hair, and tried to make yourself presentable again.
All the while you marvelled that for all his gruff behaviour he hadn’t said a thing about your messy appearance.
Back in the kitchen, Bucky was still staring off down the hallway, gaze unfocused as he awaited your return.
The sight of your sleek form, clothes rain-plastered around your gorgeous curves, seared like hot iron across his brain.
His streak was as dry as a dusty dirt road and you swanned into his farmhouse like a wet dream, all prim and proper. Just begging to be ridden dirty for a country mile ‘til you were stained with it.
He pressed the heel of his palm to his now too-tight jeans, trying to ease the rise you got out of him.
He’d retreated behind the kitchen counter to not scare away the poor city girl looking for a rescue.
And he had no doubt you weren’t from around here. No where near. Your doe-eyed expression was one thing, but you were too shiny. Too perfect. From the Big Apple license plate on your fancy car to your clothes and the way you held yourself, you were too good for where you found yourself stranded.
Maybe the devil himself had heard him and delivered temptation right to his door.
Hearing the water shut off, Bucky shook his head to temper his racing thoughts and cracked opened two beer bottles as you walked back into the room.
But he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes raked over you from head to toe when you reemerged.
Fresh faced and drier than before, you looked far too pretty standing in his living room, clutching your bag and soaking wet jumper nervously.
So he pushed a bottle at you and took your jumper without a word, walking around to drag a chair away from the dining table toward the fireplace. He draped your piece of clothing over the chair back, arranging it so it would dry quick as a whip by the firelight, wondering what you thought that scrap of fabric was going to keep at bay in this weather.
Finally he dropped onto the couch, feet kicking up to rest on the solid wood coffee table and arm draping over the back cushions.
“Might as well get comfortable. Storm won’t clear ‘til mornin’.”
Only then did you move, placing your bag on the floor.
“I’m so sorry for intruding like this,” you began, rounding the couch and your eyes darting to the open space on the couch next to him. Though you still wouldn’t sit down. “I lost reception and my navigation dropped out. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Bucky sighed, taking a long drag from the bottle. Didn’t anyone keep maps anymore?
“In clearer weather you’d best have backtracked to somewhere you knew. But out here in this—“ he sucked on his teeth, shaking his head, “— roads this far out of town might wash away if the rain keeps up. Yer better off here than out there.”
You don’t look relieved by his statement and he wanted to laugh. So skittish. Probably never had a bad day in your life before now.
Poor city girl.
“Where you headed?”
Wrong question. Your expression shuttered and body tensed, same as before when he’d asked your name.
He held up a hand to stay the answer you weren’t going to give anyway. “Nevermind. Not my business.”
Your eyes softened and he felt strangely elated at having read you so easily.
“Who is Sam?” You inched closer, still no intention to sit, the beer bottle turning in your hands as nervous fingers sought to ease your tension. “That you called earlier? About me.”
“Owns the bar in town. Has a couple rooms upstairs.” Bucky shrugged, taking another sip. “But he’d locked up and left already.”
He eyed you over again and you shivered under his gaze. It definitely wasn’t from the cold— you were warm all over every time he looked at you.
Lightening flashed so brightly it illuminated everything outside the wide windows, and seconds later a crack of thunder nearby made you jump.
Bucky cursed under his breath. “Sit down already so I don’t gotta crane my neck to look at you.”
With another apology you quickly sat down next to him, the warmth in your body ticking up a notch higher as you feel the brush of his fingers against your shoulder where his arm resting on the back of the couch. Directly behind you.
Doing your best to ignore it, you twisted in the seat to better talk with him—and immediately regretted it. Only you didn’t, not really.
If you thought he looked delicious before, here before the fire, shadows and dancing light making the angles of his face harder and his eyes glow ocean-blue, he was absolutely sinful.
You bit your lip and desperately told yourself to ignore the way his eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Ain’t got much by way of lodgings, but you can crash here on the couch for the night.” His mouth pulled to one side in a not-quite smile. “Guest room ain’t prepped for guests, and wouldn’t be right f’me to let you head back out in this.“ Thunder rolled overhead, ominous and low, lending weight to his words.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” you murmured, the guilt mounting again at appearing on his doorstep like this. “I appreciate the kindness. Yours was the only place I could see around.”
He took another swig of beer instead of replying, and your gaze lingered on his prosthetic, fascinated. The firelight made its inset gold turn molten, the dark metal surrounds inky black as the night sky. It was a work of art.
Much like its wearer.
“So, what do you do, city girl?”
You shifted, still uncomfortable with his questions, but where was the harm? You were sure by now he either didn’t know who you were, or was a skilled liar. Based on his blatant honesty so far, that seemed unlikely. “I’m a singer.”
His brow raised, eyes showing nothing but interest — and not just in your answer. “Oh yeah? Have I ever heard yer stuff?”
“What do you listen to?”
You watched the way his mouth twisted as he mused on that for a moment. “Forties and fifties, mostly.”
“Then probably not.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. He motioned with his beer toward the shelves you’d spied earlier, saying, “Got grandmama’s old gramophone over there.”
You glanced back, spotting it nestled amongst the books and papers, and though you were fascinated it didn’t quite draw your attention the same way Bucky did.
“That’s neat,” you say politely. “I’ve never heard one play before.”
He nodded, his thumb gently gathering the condensation on the side of the bottle he held. Your eyes followed as one rivulet formed and rolled down, down, catching the bottom rung as a droplet before falling to his jeans clothed thigh.
In your mind, it hissed on contact.
“Ma used to love playing it on nights like this.”
You hummed a response, forgetting the conversation entirely, your mouth parched in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.
You took a swig of beer anyway.
He watched the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.
“You live alone out here?”
He nodded slow, his eyes locking on your mouth. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and you tracked the movement, bottom lip dragging between your teeth as you wondered what his lips taste like.
Thunder cracked directly overhead, the booming sound shaking the old walls of the farmhouse, and a strangled shriek escaped you.
Much to Bucky’s amusement. As his soft chuckle soothed your frayed nerves, you felt his fingertips at your shoulder again, touching burning into your skin, his arm on the back of the couch curving into you.
“Yer a flighty filly, hm?”
You realised you had plastered yourself to his side, clutching at his shirt, and yet you didn’t want to let go.
He took your beer bottle and his, placing them on the coffee table, and turned back to you.
“C’mere.” The low rumble of his voice tore through your body just like the storm raging outside. Your eyes dragged up to his. “I’ve got you.”
The last thing you saw was the blue of his eyes almost completely black, pupils blown wide.
Then his mouth was on yours.
You gasped into the kiss and he immediately swooped in, tongue tangling with yours in a groan.
You were kissing a complete stranger. Maybe possibly your future murderer.
And it was good.
You broke away. “We shouldn’t have done that.” Your eyes met his again and your voice grew small. “I don’t even know you.”
His lips slowly curved into the first real smile you’ve seen, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. It transformed his whole face and your lips parted on a small breath.
You forgot why you stopped kissing him.
“Wanna know me?”
With a nod you fisted your hands in his shirt and fell into his chest, lips crashing against his and smothering the low groan he let out. His arm snaked around you, drawing you impossibly closer, metal hand sliding up the back of your neck and into your hair.
He tilted you in his grasp, deepening the kiss, and you were lost. Lost in the taste of him, in the way his hands held you steady even as you came apart.
And that was just his kiss.
So when he turned your body, pressing you back into the couch and pulling away, your hands scramble to pull him back, your lips seeking his.
“Trust me.”
You fell back limply against the couch, pouting just a little. “You can’t go kissing a girl like that then leave her.”
But Bucky’s chuckle was wickedly low as he slid from the couch and kneeled on the floor before you. “Not leavin’ you, darlin’.”
His eyes, hooded and dark, drag from your pouty mouth down your neck, scored red from his stubble, over your heaving chest and to your legs.
“Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you hangin’.”
His hands clasped your knees, slowly, slowly, sliding up your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper, mind finally catching up. With his help you unbuttoned your pants, peeling the slightly rain-damp fabric from your legs, a few giggles and chuckles from each of you slowing the process.
Your panties quickly followed.
You think you should feel cold, but with the fire burning before you and Bucky’s hands swiftly acquainting themselves with your bare skin, your temperature was soaring.
His touch drove you wild. His calloused hand on your bare thigh in stark contrast to the smooth metal of his other hand, both gripping and rubbing your skin as he watched you intently. Your breaths sped up with every inch he climbed higher.
Where he leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, your stomach clenched and your hips rolled, and there was that low chuckle again, a rumble you felt resonate within you.
“C’mere.”
He encouraged you to hook your legs over his shoulders, opening you wide to his gaze, his stubble grazing against the soft skin of your inner thighs.
“You said yer a singer?”
You could do nothing else but nod frantically.
“Let me hear you high pitched then, honey.”
You held your breath.
With the fire behind him you couldn’t see his face, shadowed between your legs, but even in the contrasting dark you didn’t miss the determined glint in his eye when his tongue licked that first achingly slow stripe between your folds.
No warning, no gentling you through it. You couldn’t control how your jerked against him, you were so shocked at the molten touch.
He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you down, holding you apart.
You watched, mouth open, as he licked his lips and leaned in again, tongue flat as he lapped at you real slow.
His groan matched yours.
“Taste like sugar.”
Then he devoured you. Tongue delving deep or swirling with earth-shattering accuracy. One hand left your thigh to plunge one finger in, then two, stretching you wide, curling just right, soothing and building an ache within you all at once.
There’s a noise, louder than the rain and the wind, louder than the howling storm outside, and you slowly realise it’s you. Your keening cries as you bucked against his tongue, as your thighs tried to close around his head— but he ruthlessly held your legs apart with his metal hand, holding you down, making you take his fingers and his tongue until your thighs shook and you couldn’t think anymore.
His fingers crooked and you shattered.
Heels of your feet digging into his back, hands clutching desperately at his hair, you arched as you came hard against his tongue and around his fingers, his name a broken prayer on your lips.
Fitting since sin incarnate knelt before you, hair tousled and chin wet with you. He pressed soft kisses to your inner thigh, beard scratching gently and making you shiver.
He shrugged your legs off his shoulders.
“Hold on.”
Wrapping your legs around his waist and arms behind his neck, Bucky lifted you easily, metal arm under your ass to keep you steady.
He covered the length of the house in a handful of strides, toeing open the door you had spied earlier into his bedroom.
Shuffling you in his grasp he sat on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap, mouth seeking yours over and over again as his hands fumbled with the hem of your shirt. Finally he slid off your shirt and bra, baring you completely to his gaze.
He was still fully clothed.
Shivering, not from the cold but the sheer force of desire running through you, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He gave way, laying down on the bed, staring up at you with those hypnotising eyes that drank you in as you got to work on his shirt.
Unbuttoning slowly, you marvelled at every perfect inch of skin you revealed. Spreading the halves wide you stared down at him, not knowing your hips rocked a needy rhythm as you took in the sight of his chiselled body, honed from years of hard work, his dog tags and chain bright in the dark.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and this ain’t gonna last long.”
Palm pressed flat he ran his hand from your navel up your stomach and between your breasts before grasping the back of your neck and pulling you down for a searing kiss. You writhed against him, his skin scorching hot under yours.
“I have to have you,” you mumbled into his lips, body arching with the way his palms travelled the planes of your back.
“Top drawer.” His hands dropped to clasp your hips and ground you down on him.
But with a whine you shook your head. “I’m on the pill. And clean. Please?”
A guttural groan tore from him and his head dropped back onto the bed.
“Lord, this woman might kill me yet.”
And you’d thought him the murderer.
You couldn’t wait any longer. Sitting back you started on his belt and buckle, fingers fumbling in their haste, the straining heat of him making his jeans impossibly tight.
The button popped and he toed off his boots, helping you shove down his jeans and briefs until he finally sprang free.
A sharp breath escaped at the sight of him, thick and full, pearl glistening at the tip.
Bucky swore when he caught your stare.
“C’mere.”
A word had never held so much power over you before, but if you heard him say it one more time—
Dragging you forward he slid between your slick folds, tearing a moan from you both as he rutted up into your heat.
With one hand between you he palmed himself, settling you over his thick bulge, and eased himself in.
You sank down slowly, hand braced against his chest, taking him inch by delicious inch. He stretched you, filled you, until finally, fully seated, your name escaped his lips in a guttural groan.
The fullness of him choked you, your hips already rocking with the need to ease the ache and chase more of it.
Lips parting on a breathless moan, you began to ride, his hands like a brand against you, guiding your hips, grasp steady as he showed you how to take him. A sheen of sweat over your thighs made you shine in the dim light.
Bucky watched you, devoured you with his eyes, fucking up into you with a strength that had you gasping and moaning and begging for more.
His hand pressed between you, rubbing against that perfect spot right where you joined that hurtled you quickly to the edge.
Your head rolled back, thighs shaking, grinding down against him.
With a grunt Bucky sat up and flipped you onto your back. Settling between your thighs he entered you again with one devastating slow roll of his hips, sinking so fully inside you saw stars. Legs hooked around his waist, and hands clawing at his shoulders, you took it all as he pounded into you again and again. You could feel every inch, every drag of him against your walls, driving into you, quickly bringing you to the edge and sending you soaring.
His name left your lips over and over in a broken sob. It’s raw, unguarded, so precious it’s holy, and you hear how it affects him, his ragged breaths ripping through the air.
He comes with a sound that starts with your name but devolves into a ragged groan, hips slowing, thrusting shallowly as he rode it out.
Until he slumped over you, weight caught on his arms, face pressed against the hollow of your neck.
You don’t know how long you lay there, hands gentle against the planes of his back, feeling every ripple as your breath slowed to match his.
It’s quiet.
The storm still raged outside, wind and rain and lightening battling it out across the fields, but here in this house all you listen for is the sound of his breath.
Eventually he pushed away, brushing a kiss against your cheek and padding out of the room. His naked silhouette in the dim light of the night burnt into your memory.
There’s the sound of running water, then he’s back, wordlessly handing you a damp cloth to clean yourself up.
He fell into bed beside you with a sigh, arm slung up over his head and eyes closing.
Clean, you dropped the cloth to the floor, drawing the covers over you.
Quiet descends again.
“I don’t normally do this,” you whispered into the room.
Bucky’s voice was thick with sleep, his words slurring when he answered, “‘S alright. Can be a dream y’had once.”
You didn’t quite understand what he meant, though it sounded sweet.
“Girl came in with the rain …”
But when you propped yourself up on an elbow to question him further you could see his chest rose and fell slowly, eyelashes pillowed in perfect crescents against his cheek.
And when you laid down again, resting against his open side, he grunted something inaudible and snaked his arm around you, drawing you in closer.
The morning brought aching muscles and an empty space beside you. You sat up, wincing at the way your body protested the movement, and looked around for your discarded clothes.
They were neatly folding in a pile on the end of the bed. Dry.
You stared at the pile for a long time, taking in the kindness of the gesture, before eventually getting up and dressing.
Decent, you peered out into the living area only to find it, too, empty. Your heart sank.
A crumpled scrap of paper sat on the wooden dining table. Glancing around again you walked over to read.
Neighbours fence down with the storm. Won’t be back before you’re gone. -B.
Beneath was a rough drawn map to get you back to the main road.
His words the night before drifted back to you, and your fingers ghosted across your lips as you remembered the way he kissed you. Your body still ached with how he’d had you.
A dream indeed.
With a nod to yourself, you gathered your things and left quietly, the scrawled paper tucked away in your pocket.
And when he got back late that afternoon, the sun sitting low on the horizon and your departing tyre marks the only trace of you, Bucky sighed, staring off down the long dirt road out of this place.
The next time he saw your headlights he was mildly surprised, to say the least. It was only days later. His lips kicked up in a half smile as your boots swung out first.
“You lost?”
“Nope. Maps go both ways.”
There’s a familiar scrap of paper held in your hand.
A bark of laughter escaped him, and he turned for the door, shaking his head as he stomped inside.
He left the flyscreen wide open for you.
Bucky had half a mind to offer you another round of beer, but the moment you stepped inside you dropped your bag on the floor and wound your arms around his neck, pressing your sweet little mouth to his in a kiss that sent a bolt of lightening straight to his cock.
“Hmm still taste like rain.”
Since you asked so nicely, he laid you down right there on the kitchen counter, pressing your thighs apart and eating at you nice and slow like, then turned and fucked you on the dining table for dessert.
And in the aftermath, with his spent body sweaty and deliciously heavy pressing you down into the wooden surface, you felt laughter bubble up.
You were happy.
“What you laughin’ at?” He murmured against your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin with every word.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get second time around.”
You felt him exhale, then slowly he pushed up and away from you, finally pulling out of your body, and you sucked in a breath at the loss of him.
There was a decidedly smug lilt to his voice when he said, “We ain’t strangers and I don’t mind greetin’ you nice and proper.”
You’d walked in with such bravado, climbing those three steps of his porch under the swinging sign with his name like you knew them by heart, kissing him like you had every right to. But your insecurities and self-doubts crashed back to earth in the soft, emotional aftermath of sleeping with this unknown person. Again.
“I’m sorry for barging in—“
“I let you.”
“—and accosting you like a madwoman—“
“Can you accost me a few more times?”
“Bucky, please. I’m just trying to say—“
He shut you up the best way he knew how, with a slow, tender kiss that left you dazed and speechless when he pulled away again.
“‘S fine. You always this scared o’ yer own actions?”
He pressed his mouth to the valley between your breasts before hauling himself up, dog tags jangling, and he disappeared down the hall. Distantly you heard the sound of water running.
Were you always this scared?
You tried to lower your legs again and hissed at the way your hips protested the movement.
Your body was not used to being snapped in half this often in only so many days.
Bucky returned wearing a new pair of boxer briefs and with a damp towel in his hand.
“Here.”
With a tenderness you found surprising and endearing, he carefully helped clean your body.
There was a strange moment of bashful domesticity as you both hunted for your scattered clothing.
“Hungry?”
Dressed, silently musing all the while about whether Hollywood had taught you to never seize what you truly wanted, you perched on a stool at the counter and watched as he collected bread from the tin and fresh eggs from the pantry.
“Were you in the army?” You asked, motioning to his dog tags when he glanced your way.
“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Barnes.”
“Ooh Sarge,” you teased, and laughed at the withering stare he threw you that didn’t quite land, not when the smile that tugged at his lips gave him away.
“Me and my buddy, he was a Captain. Until I did this.” Bucky rotated his metal prosthetic. “Now it’s farm life for the rest of my days.”
You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the counter. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He nodded firmly. “That’s the truth of it.”
You looked down as your phone buzzed with a text from your friend, whose house you’d stayed at for the last two nights as planned, asking if you were making it home in good time. You felt your cheeks heat and decided not to answer right away.
Bucky hummed a tune quietly as he cooked, and your eyes flew up to watch him.
You knew that tune.
It was yours.
“Thought you didn’t know any of my music.”
“I didn’t.”
“And now?”
He shrugged casually but you caught the way the tips of his ears turned pink. “It’s not all bad.”
“You looked me up,” you accused him, and the embarrassed flush spread down his cheeks and neck.
You snickered softly, watching for the little glances he shot your way.
“Wasn’t hard to find you,” he said finally, flipping the egg battered bread in the pan. He pinned you with a stare then, and you hoped you didn’t imagine the admiration you spied in it. “Turns out yer quite somethin’, huh?”
Your last album was recently lauded as the fastest album of the decade to reach five times platinum in the US, barely beating your previous album which had broke that same record. This following the sensational performance of your third tour that just wrapped up—You dropped your gaze, shrugging at the reality of his question. “I do alright.”
Bucky snorted. “No, honey, I do alright. Ain’t got much but what I earn from the crops and animals. You?” He whistled, impressed.
“Okay,” you began, squaring your shoulders. “You’re right. I’ve accomplished a lot. But it’s not hard work, not when I love it so much.”
He cocked his head, gesturing with the spatula for you to go on.
“I love to craft my own melodies, my own lyrics. Or have the producers send me a sample of something new and my mind run away with ideas. I’m just lucky people seem to like what I make.”
Bucky nodded along, his gaze focussed on cooking.
“All yer songs, they always this boppy?“
“Pop.”
“That.”
You laughed. “Yes, Sarge.”
He hummed another melody and with another laugh you half-sung the words, sliding off the stool and running your hand along the kitchen counter as you rounded it to stand with him.
Helping him collect plates and toppings he requested from the fridge, you smiled when he presented you with a plate.
“Egg bread.”
“This is French toast.”
Bucky looked down at the plates, then the sauces and vegetables from the fridge. “But it’s savoury.”
“Still French toast.”
“Egg bread,” he insisted, with a finality to his tone that had you cocking a brow at him. “‘S what my Ma called it.”
“Well, I’d never argue with Mama Barnes.”
“She would’a liked you,” he said, offhand, and you wondered at the way joy swept your body and curled your toes.
So you ate, talked, stared into his eyes far too long to be polite, and grinned more than once at the way you kept catching him doing the same. But this was a working farm, and this farmer had to get to it.
It was difficult to convince both of you of that when, after clearing up, he’d lifted you into the counter again, stepped between your legs, and kissed you senseless.
“I’d love to stay and …” he trailed off, gaze slowly dropping to where his hands squeezed your thighs, “… chat.”
He didn’t look like he wanted to chat. He looked like he wanted to devour you whole. Again.
“But I got some girls in the bottom paddock that need seein’ to.”
“Can I help?”
“Doubt it.”
No malice, just honesty.
“Yer welcome to stay,” donning his hat, his smile turned down at the corners, “But I imagine you got plenty important places to be.”
He was right. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t.
He jerked his head toward the dining table. “Left a present for you.”
And with one last kiss he was gone.
You lazily watched his figure cross the yard, admiring the way his jeans hugged tight, and his corded, tanned arm and stunningly designed prosthetic looked with his sleeves rolled up just so.
You’d stumbled on a diamond in the rough. In a storm, no less.
Finally dragging your gaze away you searched for his supposed present.
A scrawled note sat on the sturdy wooden table. Same place as before.
Next time doesn’t have to be a surprise - B.
And his phone number.
All you saw in your mind’s eye was blue. That pretty horizon over rolling hills. The colour rain clouds turned before lightening had its way. The covers on the cushions of a rusty swing chair on the porch. The faded paint of a old beat up Ford that saw better days long before he drove it.
And those eyes. Eyes deeper than the ocean and brighter than the sky. Eyes that saw right through you and saw all of you at the same time.
Eyes you’d only seen twice and already you hoped you could keep staring into them for the rest of your life.
You stepped inside the door of your New York townhouse, shutting it quickly behind you, blocking out the sound of camera shutters and probing questions of the paparazzi and fans lurking outside.
With a deep, fortifying breath, you carried your bags through to the living area and dropped them onto your couch with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scents.
It was good to be home.
But you grabbed your phone and snapped a quick picture right there in the room, your eyes tired and hair still tousled from the long drive. You sent it without overthinking too much, typing out ‘Home safe but thinking of rain and dirt roads’.
A reply came almost instantly.
‘When can you get lost again?’
Several visits later, there’s a tension to your shoulders he realised he’s seen before but hadn’t recognised. Your eyes were tired, skin flawless and beautiful as always but lacking the light that usually glowed from within.
You were exhausted.
“What’re they doing to you up in the city, huh?”
Your mumbled response was lost against his chest as he enveloped you in his arms. He could feel the way you sagged against him, clinging like only he could give you what you need.
He decides he can.
Hands under your thighs he lifts you easily, ignoring your shrill gasp as he tucked your body against his, and carried you into the farmhouse, kicking the door shut behind him.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled of hay, sweat, and something uniquely him.
You pressed closer to breathe in more.
He carried you through the house, old floorboards creaking their telltale tune all the way to the bathroom where he gently set you down until your feet touched the tiles. The huge clawed bathtub, generally unused, became your salvation as he begins to let it fill with piping hot water. You perched on its cold edge while you wait.
When it’s full he wordlessly accepts your clothes, the banked heat in his eyes as they sweep your body a mere promise of what’s to come.
Later.
First, you step gingerly into the bathtub, hissing at the blissful heat, and you sink in with a long drawn out sigh.
You were exhausted, and you hated that he saw it.
But you couldn’t hate this.
Eyes closing, you let yourself drift. Let the smells of the farmhouse envelop you, let the warmth of the water ease everything else away.
There had been contract questions. An interview. Some papers about the new project you were working on, and a bunch of people who decided their time with you was more important than everything else.
And you loved it. That was the hardest part; you relished every second of it. Of fitting so much into one day, of the balancing act. Sometimes the games too, because right now you were on a winning streak.
But as you drove and the roads turned rougher, the tiredness overwhelmed you. It was regrettably stronger than your excitement at seeing Bucky again.
So when he’d opened that door and you’d collapsed in his arms, you’d trusted him to catch you.
It was nice.
Even with the window propped open for the steam, it’s quiet. Just the fresh breeze outside, the far off sound of animals, and Bucky quietly moving through the house.
You doze in and out, mindful of slipping beneath the water, tension and worries leaching away as this house, this place, and the care of this farmer lulled you into an ease you had only ever found here.
Your whole body felt languid when you eventually stepped out, steam rising off your skin, colour darker with the heat. Humming, you dried off, dipping into your bag for fresh clothes, and ventured back into the house.
A wailing soulful tune lured you to the verandah.
Bucky sat on the wooden edge, afternoon sun burnishing his hair a deep brown, metal arm gleaming as he riffed a blues melody on his harmonica.
Eyes trailing from him out to gold and green fields specked with cattle, to the old barn and the endless open horizon beyond, you breathed it all in.
Without a word you sat beside him on the verandah, legs dangling off the edge as he bends notes on the harp, playing any kind of tune as it comes to him like he would on any other night.
When you learn his key and catch the beat, you hum along whatever melody comes to you first, and he places his free hand on your knee, thumb rubbing back and forth until the sun sets.
He’s up before you. When you see him, leaning against the wall by the hallway, arms crossed and staring right at you, you smile. The same one you always have when you set eyes on him.
A smile that grows larger when his face softens and his eyes crinkle just so. What he wears isn’t quite a smile, but it warms you like one just the same.
He pushed off and stalked toward you, heavy boots thudding loud in the room. Taking your shoulders in his hands, he drew you in to press a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes.
“I got some friends stopping by for lunch,” he told you, voice a low rumble and his breath fanning over your hair. “Steve and his missus. You gonna be right with that?”
Your heart thumped so loud you were sure he could hear it in the quiet of the day. Wrapping your arms around his waist and spreading your legs to pull him in, you nodded. “I’ll be alright.”
His lips brushed your skin. “Can I ask a favour?”
“Sure.” Reluctantly drawing away you looked up at him. “What kind of favour?”
“I need a couple things in town. Will you drive us in?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, but there was something about his gaze that had yours narrowing, skeptical.
“A couple things? My car’s not built to carry much.”
“Nah, that’s why you’ll be in my truck.”
Brow raised you looked at him wide eyed. “I’ve never driven one that big.”
The smirk on his face said it all. “Sure you have, darlin’.”
It’s a challenge to ignore the rush of heat pooling low within you.
“You want me to drive your truck?”
“Maybe I want you to be seen drivin’ my truck.”
“This feels like some kind of next step business,” you muse, heart fluttering. He wants you to meet his friends and be seen with him, it was enough giddiness to make you feel like a high schooler.
He shrugged, and you kissed the small smile playing across his lips.
The trip was eye opening, and not just because of the truck. The turning circle was wider than you’re used to, but you puttered along the tracks and road just fine.
No, what kept you entertained was discovering a new facet of the man you were still getting to know.
Bucky is even more tight-lipped here than in his own home, and no sooner had you jumped out of the truck, Sam Wilson was by the bumper welcoming you to town and slinging his arm around your shoulder like you were the oldest of friends.
The tic in Bucky’s jaw could not jump higher as he ground his teeth.
But when he asks if the stockfeed is open and if Sarah was working today, Sam is immediately stony faced and grumbling, telling him to stay in his lane. You learn quickly that not only can Sam Wilson get under his skin but Bucky lets him; a mutually aggravating camaraderie you don’t understand.
It’s in stark difference to the polite, gentlemanly way he speaks to Sarah at the stockfeed and hardware store, which makes you all the more curious to find out she and Sam are siblings.
Except when Bucky plops his Stetson on your head as you head back out onto the street, and you watch the identical way they cross their arms and watch him with matching eyes sharper than all the paparazzi in the city. You just know he’s gonna hear an earful when they get him alone next.
The meaning of wearing his hat is lost on you, but it gleams in both their eyes and everyone else’s on the street that day as you lug two bags of fence clips back to his vehicle.
You’re tempted to record the way he loads feed bags in the back of the truck like they weigh nothing. You imagine you’re one of them, slung over his shoulder until he grabs your waist with two hands and swings you down onto your back—
“Ready to go?”
With a gulp you nod and climb in.
Many eyes fervently follow your dust trail down the road.
You watch through the window as a flatbed truck pulls up the drive, and busy yourself setting out plates on the dining table.
Two doors slam and there’s a murmur of voices coming closer up the steps.
“What happened to the wagon?”
“On the fritz. Plus I’m picking up some hay when we leave.”
Wait a minute.
You knew that voice.
A tall blonde swung open the flyscreen, politely removing his hat and nodding hello before freezing in place.
“Steve?”
He paused in the doorway, looking at you slack jawed, when—
“Don’t block the door, I’m in dire need of a sit-down.”
“Peggy!”
In waddled your very dear, very pregnant and very surprised friend.
She blinked, mouth forming a delighted oh as you rushed in to hug her.
“Long time no see!” She says in a daze, clutching you close before holding you out at arms length, head shaking incredulously. “But how is it that you’re here?”
You helped her to a seat at the table, her eyes darting between you and Bucky who looked equally bewildered. Steve moved to his side, murmuring something low at his friend you couldn’t hear, and Bucky shrugged his response.
“Remember when I was delayed a day coming to see you? With the storm?”
“Yes,” Peggy said, hand covering yours on the table. “You had us worried sick. I had images of you lost in a ditch somewhere.”
She’d said as much the next day when you eventually turned up.
Ducking your head you admitted, “I didn’t stop at a motel like I said.” Your gaze rose and met hers. “I ended up here.”
“You’re the girl that blew in with the storm,” Steve said, his voice tinged with laughter. You looked over and Bucky was a delightful shade of pink, the flush high in his cheeks and running all the way down beneath the vee of his shirt.
Peggy regarded you warmly, her eyes gleaming with a new wealth of knowledge that put you on edge.
“I’m sure he took great care of you.”
“Alright, Peg,” Bucky interrupted with a grumble. “Steve? Want to take a look at that gear?”
When the men walked outside to the barn, gesturing animatedly and discussing farming things you had no idea about, Peggy followed you out and sat back into Bucky’s verandah swing chair with a sigh.
“I’ve loved every moment of this pregnancy,” she said through gritted teeth. “But my feet may never recover.”
You laughed, settling on the cushion next to her and helping her twist in the seat until she could lay back with her legs across your lap.
“I’ve wanted to set the two of you up for years now, you know.”
“The two of—“ Something clicked in your brain, several long-ago conversations crowding in all at once of a young feller with a rough exterior but a kind heart. “—This is James?”
He’d asked you to call him Bucky, you’d completely forgotten. Your eyes glanced up to the sign swinging gently in the breeze, emblazoned with his initials.
And Steve was a Captain! From the moment he was off active duty he and Peggy had tried for a baby, this pregnancy being the magic one that finally took.
A pregnancy that brought you out of the city for the first time in years to see your dear friend that you hadn’t visited in so long, only to end up on this very porch with Bucky Barnes sweeping you off your feet.
There was no way to know this could happen, but the threads were there. Your mind whirled, unable to consider the odds.
“And you said you’d never date a country boy.” Her voice was so smug you could do nothing but shrug.
“He’s no boy,” you whispered, and Peggy’s laughter peeled out across the yard, drawing Steve’s attention who smiled indulgently at his wife and gave you both a little wave.
Bucky was staring, face unreadable at this distance, but you could feel his eyes like a brand.
He watched you sitting there, so comfortable in his home, friends with his friends, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen you.
Steve made a noise next to him, and he turned to see his best friend smirking and shaking his head.
“You got something to say, Rogers?”
“She’ll make an honest man outta you.”
Bucky scowled. “How would you know that?”
“I know you’ve never looked this happy since your folks passed and Becca moved away.”
Kicking at a weed tuft in the gravel, Bucky grumbled, “Yeah, well, you never mentioned you had a damn famous person as a friend.”
“Why would I?” Steve laughed. “Had you even heard of her before she fell in your lap?”
Bucky shrugged a non-answer.
“Besides, she’s not like that with us. And Peggy knew her from before all that anyhow.” As if that settled that matter.
He watched you there with Peggy, giggling like schoolgirls and all the while cradling her legs, making sure she was comfortable. In his house.
His voice was quiet but sure when he told Steve, “I got a good feeling about this one, Cap.”
“Yeah, Buck. Yeah, me too.”
It was late at night. The house was still alive with boisterous conversations and delightful reminiscing. Lunch had turned into card games which had turned into dinner and sitting by the fire. Peggy regaled you with the worst kind of stories about the boys, who had the decency to look bashful before sharing a few tales of their own.
You’d hugged your dear friend close, wishing her well for the last weeks of her pregnancy, Bucky promising over your shoulder he’d live up to his godfathering duties if they ever needed a hand.
The moment they’d left, disappearing down the dirt drive into the dark of night, Bucky took your hand and drew you back to the fireplace, showing you in the most delicious way possible how happy he was with the day.
“So.”
Pillowed in his arm amongst blankets and pillows strewn on the floor, you dragged your eyes away from the gentle rise and fall of his chest to meet his steady gaze.
“When do I get to return the favour?”
Even after the last hour of pleasure your body clenched at his words, heat sweeping from your cheeks down your neck and chest.
“Bucky,” you whispered, scandalised. “I already came three times, you don’t—“
His bark of laughter surprised you.
“‘M flattered, darlin’, but not what I meant.”
He rolled then, body curving into yours and his metal arm snaking around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“When can I come to New York?”
Nothing about him changed, there was no shift in tone, but something in the question appeared so small and earnest, so hopeful, that your heart doubled over.
“You want to come to the big smoke with me?”
You felt his nod against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin reverently.
“Wanna see your world, darlin’.”
You liked the escapism, that out here you’re just you, no watching over your shoulder or calculating the hidden meaning of every word spoken to you. With Bucky you could be yourself, and not consider the PR implications of an honest reaction.
But even out here in the calm, parts of your soul longed for home.
And one particular part buried in your chest swelled at the thought of showing off your gorgeous farmer to the world.
“What about the farm?”
“I got plenty o’ favours to call in.”
The first visit was a blur of motion.
The long miles faded quickly behind him, buildings piling up on the horizon as he drove his old truck steadily down the highway, but Bucky was unfazed.
When Becca left with her new husband he’d been into the cities a few times.
Turns out this was not like those times.
There was a country mile difference between walking the streets of New York and walking the streets of New York on your arm.
‘Be there in a song.’
When he arrived it was to the interested looks of people lurking outside your door, all who swiftly drew their cameras and phones when he walked up and knocked.
And there you were, thousand-watt smile and hands grabbing him, dragging him indoors to the sound of fast shutters as the photographers captured the moment. But how could he care about them when the second he was inside behind closed doors you squeaked a happy, ‘Hi Sarge,’ and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him like you needed his mouth to draw breath.
“You got gawkers outside,” he murmured to your lips, nudging his nose against yours.
“Nevermind them,” you said dismissively, taking his hand and showing him your expensive town house.
It’s big. Foot-for-square-foot it was bigger than his family home, but filled to the brim with life. Your life. Awards and photographs and music, so much music everywhere.
“So, this is where you spin yer tunes,” he said, pressing down the keys of your keyboard and frowning when they emitted no sound.
“It’s an electric keyboard,” you tell him, and his cheeks heat.
“Right. Of course.”
“Actually, it’s a workstation. It plays, but I also use it for sampling and recording when I’m struck by any new ideas.”
He plucks the silent keys a couple more times for good measure and lets you lead him on.
Through the tour he quietly takes note of how much money is invested around your house alone, and feels something within him tighten. No, strengthen.
You’re really something. He had an idea of it, of course, after searching you up online and learning. But it was a little different seeing the fruits of your labours here in person.
Bucky knew he’d better prove he’s worthy of you. That he could meet you halfway in all this.
“So, that’s everything!”
Your smile was brighter than the sun and hadn’t dimmed since the moment you set eyes on him.
“Ready for lunch?”
The little smile playing around Bucky’s lips, one that had his eyes softening and his head tilting just so, set your heart aflutter. He stared at you, simply taking you in.
“What?” You touched your cheek, then your nose. “You gave me pash rash with that kiss, didn’t you?”
He shook his head, slow and measured, and laughed to himself. You didn’t know the joke.
“You said lunch?” He collected his keys from his bag.
“Oh, um—“ you placed your hand over his, shaking your head, “—my driver is waiting to take us.”
His brow furrowed. “But my truck’s just out front.”
“And Happy is already waiting.” Embarrassment twisted inside you. What must he be thinking? This man who had seen war and managed a farm all on his own, while you have a driver for something as simple as lunch.
But Bucky gestured for you to lead the way, popping his Stetson back in place and tipping the brim low.
As promised, Happy Hogan and the black sedan sat just outside, beside Bucky’s beaten truck.
You took his hand, knowing yours was clammy as your nerves spiked with the onset of cameras and people calling your name.
You should’ve warned him.
Too late now.
The crowd pressed in, larger than when he had arrived, likely drawn in by the news of a stranger at your door. They surrounded the car, surround the two of you, and Bucky forcibly placed himself between you and them.
“Who’s your visitor?”
“Seeing someone new?”
“Sir, look this way!”
Keeping Bucky close down the stairs and the sidewalk, you smiled gratefully at Happy who hurried around to get your door.
“Welcome to New York, Mr Barnes,” he said as you both hopped into the car, and he promptly shut you away from prying eyes.
You turned to him immediately, watching the way his gaze lingered out the window at the gathered crowd as the car pulled away. “Was that a lot?”
“Do you have, uh—“ Bucky fumbled for words as he faced you, a deeply etched frown on his face. “A bodyguard? Or somethin’?”
“Yes.” You gestured beyond the privacy screen at the passenger side front seat where your bodyguard sat beside Happy. “Bruce? Say hello?”
Bruce Banner twisted in the seat and smiled brightly at Bucky, uttering a quiet hello before turning back.
Bucky’s face was all hard lines, a tic in his jaw jumping as he thought. Then his eyes met yours and you saw the concern etched there.
“They look after me,” you whisper. “I promise.”
He nods once, barely satisfied, and takes your hand in his. “Where we headed today?”
Twining your fingers in his, relishing the callouses that graze your palm, you tell him, “Burgers first. Then I wanted to take you to the studio.”
You smiled, watching the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. The way his eyes, weather worn, crinkled at the edges and the sun spots dusting his cheeks lifted with the apple of his smile matching yours.
And all the while he’s watching you back, unable to stop the way his lips curve as you stare up at him with those pretty eyes sparkling with something he hasn’t seen before.
This time when you step out the car, he’s prepared. Bruce opens the door first, helping you to your feet, and Bucky immediately follows behind. He has a hand around your waist, grasping your side firmly, but his eyes are up and out over the heads of people around them, guiding and shielding you in Bruce’s wake.
It’s not as pointed at last time, fewer people expecting your arrival, but there’s no mistaking the piqued interest at the company you brought. At him and the obvious connection between you.
Inside the restaurant in no time, Bucky politely slid off his Stetson. He blinked slowly, banishing the afterglow of camera flashes, his only tell that this wasn’t normal. Seeing your concerned face as you waited, he grinned at you, hand outstretched, gesturing to follow the server as they lead you to a table.
Bucky’s eyes flickered around, noting the stares and the phones sneaking photos of the two of you. He took it all in, cataloguing his surroundings. Keeping his expression neutral, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of his neck at being watched so closely by so many complete strangers, he made sure you were comfortably seated before sitting.
Only once did he ask, “Is it always like this?” and you didn’t hesitate, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Yes. You get used to it.”
Even he was unsure if his grunted reply was agreement or not.
Frowning down at the menu, he took in his options.
“These ain’t gonna to be those tiny meals I see on TV, are they?” He murmured quietly.
A snort escaped before you could help yourself. “No!” Bucky’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No, Bucky, I promise these burgers will fill up even a strapping lad like you.”
And when his eyes widened as your plates were delivered, you allowed yourself a moment to gloat as he gauged how best to eat the massive meal before him.
He thought he’d fed you hearty meals back on the farm, but there was a primal kind of satisfaction inside him at seeing you dig into a meaty burger that felt a little caveman-like.
He liked a woman that could eat, and he especially liked knowing you were taken care of.
Plus these burgers were darn tasty.
He kept his voice low over lunch, not for anyone else to hear, concerned for the other patrons and staff who are clearly listening in for a little celebrity gossip. A small part of him flinched at the idea of you being lumped in with a country hick, a regular ol’ redneck, and though he’s never been ashamed of his home he has a vague idea of what that might mean to these city folk.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say at one point, your expression so openly warm and pleased that he sits a little straighter.
“Darlin’, I’d follow you to the end of the earth if you keep smilin’ at me like that,” he told you gruffly.
His shoulders stiffen when he hears a faint collective ‘aww’ and sigh from the table over, but you’re oblivious, flushed from his compliment, hand snaking over the table to capture his prosthetic one and squeezing tight.
He risked a glance up and sees a table of women, friends hanging out he supposes, looking at the two of you with stars in their eyes. They made themselves look busy when they realised he was looking their way.
“Burger was good?”
He cleared his throat. “Ain’t as good as Sam’s brisket, let me tell you. But yeah.”
He looked between both your now-empty plates.
“Should we get goin’? Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Hang on,” you said earnestly, waving over the server, “you have to try their pie.”
He placed a hand on his stomach. “Honey, I don’t think I got room.”
“Sure you do, cowboy.”
A slice was placed down on the table.
As you carved out a piece for yourself, Bucky’s spoon knocked yours. Deliberately. Giggling, you spared back, crossing his spoon with yours and making him drop the mouthful he had scooped up.
“It’s like that, is it?” He chuckled, holding up his spoon like a fencer before his face.
“Oh, Sarge.” You pointed your spoon directly at his chest. “It’s on.”
Your spoons clashed together in a loud twang and your laughter rang out through the restaurant, Bucky’s tenor underscoring it.
It wasn’t until you caught a server looking curiously at your spoon fight did you take in your surroundings, noticing the number of eyes and phones pointed toward your table. With a gentle cough you lowered your weaponised spoon.
“I yield. Even though you didn’t have room for it.”
Bucky chuckled, digging into the slice of pie, taking a large mouthful and grinning as he chewed.
“‘S real good.”
You lowered your gaze to the plate and carved out another piece for yourself, missing the charming smile and small salute Bucky gave the nosy table next to yours who continued to gawk.
You’re glad timing worked out the way it did, as you checked the text that just came in. You had a tiny surprise lined up for your dear farmer.
“Now we swing by the studio for five minutes,” you tell him in the car, Happy already making his way there. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Honey, I’m here for you. Whatever you got to do, I’m a foot behind you.”
Stark Studios was surprisingly busy for midday, people from all walks of life bustling through its doors. But there was one in particular who promised they’d be there, and as you twined your arm around Bucky’s you felt giddy knowing he would find this fun.
The main lobby run off into a little gallery, pictures, posters, album covers and exemplary statistics showing just what a powerhouse Stark Studios was in the music business.
You’d left Bucky there to talk a little business with your manager and record executive, and when you returned twenty minutes later with someone else on your arm, you found him standing in front of the wall dedicated to you and your work. Your career so far.
There was a blank space still to be filled, with a cheeky sign stating, ‘For her future hits.’ Tony had thought it was both motivating for you and a challenge declared to the other artists signed to the record label.
Bucky chuckled and nodded when he saw it.
“Hey, cowboy? I want to introduce you to someone.”
You indulged him in dragging his feet, wide eyes taking in all the signed memorabilia and photographs.
This would be a treat.
But when you stood in front of the red head and gave their introductions, you smirked knowingly at his slack-jawed expression.
No, he hadn’t known of you when you first met, but Natasha Romanoff?
You’d found not one but three of her albums by the Queen of country music in his home one visit, and some of his favourite tunes to play on the harmonica were harmonies from her songs.
His ears tinged pink as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Do I look that old, son?”
His gaze flickered to you, uncertainty clouding his baby blues, and you hip checked Natasha out of her pointed stare.
“‘Tasha, you’re scaring the poor boy.”
His eyes flashed. You smiled at him sweetly, knowingly.
You’d pay for that comment later.
And the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed. Natasha’s eyes were wickedly bright when she said, “I’m waiting for him to stomp around like an unbroken horse.”
He snorted out a breath heavily through his nose and that cracked her. She broke into a genuine smile, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”
You stepped away and he clasped your elbow firm enough to draw your complete attention.
“Call me boy again and I’ll remind you what this man can do.”
He felt the shiver that wracked your whole body.
Stood to one side while he spoke with Natasha, you mouthed a thank you to your friend when she gifted him a signed poster and kissed him on the cheek, lipstick stain lingering and all.
You weren’t jealous of the starry eyed expression on his face, nor the way he rambled like a schoolboy all the way back to the car. Honestly, you were pleased he’d liked the surprise so much.
You still felt a little reminder of how much you cared was in order.
Bucky motioned you into the car first, watchful eyes on the street and surrounds, ever vigilante.
But he didn’t see you coming.
Pulling him roughly to the backseat, you could barely wait for Happy to shut the door before you got to work on his belt.
“Christ, darlin’, what—“
Kissing him firmly, you pulled back only enough to tell him, “Let me.”
His jaw clenched hard but his eyes were already darkening. You felt him twitch beneath your hands.
Bucky’s eyes flickered to the front seat over the privacy partition where Happy climbed in to drive them home.
Biting your lip, you pressed the button for the privacy screen to close.
“Bye, Happy.”
You ignored the man’s knowing smile in the rear view mirror as the glass slid in place.
Belt undone and jeans quickly pried open, you delved in, humming happily as your hand closed around his cock, already thick and heavy in your grasp. He bucked up into your touch and his head thunked back against the seatrest.
“Yer a madwoman,” he muttered, watching from beneath hooded eyes as you knelt on the seat and lowered your mouth to him.
The first touch of your lips made him jerk again, smearing precum against your mouth. Licking your lips to the sound of his gasp, you twirled your tongue against the swollen head and took him in, inch by inch, all the way until your lips touched your hand at his base.
“Darlin’, you can’t. You—“ he choked on a guttural groan as you swallowed around him.
You pulled away with an audible pop.
“Ssh, Bucky.” You didn’t recognise your own voice, deep and husky with want for him. “You don’t want someone to hear you.”
His cock twitched in your hand, his fist clenching hard.
“Be a good boy and stay quiet for me, Sarge,” you whispered, and took him in your mouth again.
When he began to rut up into your mouth you hummed your approval, your eyes rolling back as you felt him hot and heavy at the back of your throat.
And when he came for you on a muffled groan as you swallowed everything he gave you, you delighted in how wrecked he looked sprawled out in the car seat, mouth parted with heavy breaths.
He stared at you, your lips swollen and lipstick smeared, and grit his teeth, sending out a silent prayer to whoever listened for dropping you in his path.
Awake long before you, farm hours never gifting him the luxury of a sleep in, Bucky lounged in bed. Arm slung behind his head, nothing better to do with his time, he browsed the internet for something he never thought he’d care for.
Gossip.
He searched your name, searched his, scrolled through social media and news blogs, unable to fathom how quickly the world moved up here.
Day one in New York and he could map it through these posts and stories almost to the minute.
Photos of his arrival at your door, of his guarding you from the onslaught of attention. Where the two of you ate, who you saw at the studio.
Even analysis of where to buy a hat just like his. That got his hackles raised.
He felt you stir next to him, gorgeous limbs flexing and stretching like they ached from hard work.
He knew his grin turned wolfish at the reminder of how thoroughly you’d welcomed him to the city late into the night.
“Good morning.”
And what a good morning it was. Your hair tousled on the pillow, smile languid and warm, hand pressed against his bare stomach.
“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice the only thing not yet woken from slumber. “Wanna know what the world thinks of your farmer debut?”
You huff out a laugh and shuffle closer, pressing your face against his side. “What do they say?”
“Mostly talk about how good-lookin’ I am.”
You thump him lightly with your fist.
Chuckling, he reads a passage from a particularly kind blog, one that called him rakishly handsome, softly spoken, and only drew on his military history. He chuckled reading it again.
“I gave ‘em nothing to talk about.”
“You can do that,” you pout. “If I don’t talk I’m labelled a snob.”
“That’s not quite what they say here.”
Interested, you pushed further up the bed, settling into the crook of his arm.
He kept his tone light while he read. “‘So smitten with her new beau, our pop princess barely spoke to anyone else, preferring to keep her attention — and her lips — on him.’”
He tilted his phone toward you, showing you the last photograph anyone had captured of the two of you yesterday.
A photo of you both stepping out of Happy’s sedan onto the sidewalk outside the townhouse, a close up of the red lipstick stains in his stubble and your perfect lip line all but disappeared, smudged around your swollen lips.
The bedsheets did nothing to hide his body’s reaction at the reminder of your gift to him in the car.
“They missed one thing,” he said, dropping his phone and rolling until he hovered over your body, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other tracing a line from the hollow of your neck down your chest.
You blinked up at him, eyes still sleepy but warming quickly to his line of thinking. “And what’s that?”
“That I can’t keep my hands off you either.”
His fingers found your side, tickling mercilessly.
With a shriek and a giggle you squirmed under his hands until the sounds devolved into moans, your body writhing in a different way as he settled between your legs.
The noise is constant. The texts, emails, calls. But also the voices, the cars, the underlying hum of everything.
He learns quickly that Happy and Bruce see you as a friend, a responsibility, not just a job, and he warms to them immediately.
He especially likes when your bodyguard hangs back because they know in Bucky’s hands you’re safer than you’ll ever be.
He doesn’t like the photographers and reporters in your face, urgent words and desperate requests jostling you when you’re only trying to get to the car, and he quickly becomes acquainted with how bodily the guarding of you keeps him occupied on every outing.
Until the day an arrogant paparazzo tries to get too close between him and your bodyguard.
“Get the fuck outta her way or I’ll bury you in a field where no one will find you.”
But somehow even that is brushed off, twisted into some heroic act, no mention of threats or an investigation.
The world is enamoured by the pop star and her farm boy, and for now you can’t go wrong.
He hates that whenever you step outside your home you’re no longer your own person, open to the whims of the paparazzi, fans on the street, demands on your time for stupid reasons like being seen in the right places and with the right people.
But he loves how you handle it all. Your grace and determination, especially when it’s your fans begging for a scrap of your attention, and you give it to them willingly because, as you say, who would you be without them?
He pictures you in his barn, hand gentle on his horse’s flank as he shows you how to whisper sweet words to his girl, and he thinks he has a pretty good idea of who you can be no matter where you are or who your audience is.
What he loves most are the evenings, the quiet hours nearing then passing midnight, when he can take you in his arms and soothe away the trials of the day. When he can make you tense and relax in the best way he knows how. And especially after, when you curl up against him like only he can hold the world at bay.
And for you he would.
There are days on the farm he wished he could say ‘no more’. Long, tiring days when the hard labour pulls too much and he entertains thoughts of throwing in the towel.
But watching you here in your giant plush king bed, the tension slowly leaching from your shoulders as you rest, your eyes still creased with the struggles you endure, he wonders how you push yourself through. No one works as hard as you.
“Yer guarded out here.”
His words made the hair on your head ruffle where he’s pressed his cheek to your crown.
You hummed. “I’m on display here.”
“‘S why yer so tired all’a time.” His accent thickened as he too felt tiredness set in.
Sighing, you buried your face closer, breathing him in. “It doesn’t help.”
“‘N why you question e’rythin’ you do.”
You felt for the seem of his prosthetic beneath his shirt, tracing the line over the fabric.
“Lucky I’ve got my own slice of paradise to escape to, huh?”
“Where’s that?”
Tilting your head back, you gave him a small smile. “Your place.”
“Hmm.”
He gazed down at you and you let yourself get lost in his big blue eyes.
“Can’t really keep chickens here anyhow.”
Scoffing, you pressed your face to his chest again.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Sergeant Idiot. And you picked me. In a storm no less.”
“Yeah,” you said, your hand resting over his fast bearing heart. “Yeah I did.”
You’re fussing over him, flitting through the townhouse like a whirlwind to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.
He knew he hadn’t, knew everything was inside the duffle bag at his feet, but he didn’t mind leaving you distracted as he carefully he noted down the name and make of your keyboard, taking a photo for good measure.
You’d lamented the missing of it on one visit, dragging the whole thing stand, cords and all on another. He thought to save you the trouble next time.
What he did mind was the pain you tried to hide as you kissed him goodbye. He didn’t always have the luxury of seeing your face when the two of you parted, the farm always ensuring he was up at the crack of dawn and leaving you sleeping soundly in his bed until you were ready to drive. It was bittersweet, but in some ways easier.
Then he wouldn’t have to feel the tremor in your hand as you held his, walking him to the door and promising you’d see him soon.
And as you watched him leave, watched his old truck peel away from the curb and take the sunshine with him, you felt a pang in your chest that never truly went away until you were in his arms again.
The drive back to the farm was the longest he’d ever driven. Not by miles, but by the road stretching behind him.
The growing distance between him and you.
He’d never felt it so succinctly, seeing your car amble away down the the dirt track. But this ached in his chest in a way he’d never felt before.
He knew the name of that feeling. Knew those four letters without a doubt. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to only think it once the dust began to kick up behind his truck.
Nevermind. He’d tell you next time.
When he found not one but three separate photographers slinking around on his property, sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t because this was private land, he called the sheriff.
He promptly installed two shining new signs on the outer gate at the property line, warning about private property, trespassing and prosecution.
He chuckled as he surveyed them, snapping a photo to send you because he knew you’d get a kick out of it. And he wondered how different his life would be right now if he’d had those signs up on that fateful stormy day.
Probably no different at all, not back then. Same ol’ country boy on his family farm, labouring away day in and day out. This was the different future he’d longed for. You were the difference.
He was glad you’d never been warned away. He was glad you came in with the rain.
Another month, another country drive.
Cutting the engine in what had become your parking spot, you stepped out onto the grass and dirt of Bucky’s front yard and looked around.
His old Ford was parked up, but in one of the distant fields you could see some dust on the horizon.
Looks like you had a wait on your hands.
You glanced at the swing chair on the verandah, but something behind you tugged hard. You turned, your eyes settling on the wood of the fence line, and started forward.
You step first onto the bottom beam, pulling yourself up by the top second beam, then you swung your leg up and over, hauling yourself up to straddle the fence line. You rested your ass on the fence post and surveyed everything around you.
Gently rolling meadows. Fields of greens. A clear sky as blue as the eyes of the man you waited for.
You bit your lip, an idea for lyrics slowly swirling and forming in your mind, and you dug out your phone to capture the moment of inspiration.
And that’s how Bucky found you, an hour later, humming a tune into the receiver end of your phone as it recorded.
You visibly gulped when you caught sight of him, and didn’t miss the unmistakeable way his walk turned swagger as he approached.
He knew what he looked like, shirt plastered against his body, hands, arms and jeans dusty and dirt smeared from hard work, sweat beading deliciously on his forehead under the wide brim of his Stetson that drove you utterly wild.
“Hey there, honey.”
There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he helped you down, hands clasping your hips firmly and not letting go when he set you on your feet.
“Turn around.”
A voice of steel, commanding, slicing through you and melting any thought of denying him.
You turned in his grasp.
“Hands on the fence.”
You rushed to obey, hands gripping the top wooden beam.
He made a tsk sound and you trembled.
“Bottom one.”
Your face flushed hot as his hands encouraged you to slowly hinge at the hips, to bend over and place your hands on the lower beam.
“Good girl.”
He ground himself against you then with a slow roll and you felt exactly how happy he was to see you from the hot, hard length of him pressing against your core.
His hands dipped around, roughly unbuttoning your pants and shoving them down in one swift motion. You gasped when your panties followed suit.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
You squirmed as the cool afternoon air breezed against the most sensitive parts of you, damp flesh tingling cold. A soft whimper escaped, unbidden, and his chuckle stung with a little cruelty.
“You need somethin’, honey?”
You felt your body sway back, searching for that press of him against you again, but instead you cried out as his hand came down in a stinging slap against the bare skin of your ass.
“Use your words.”
It hit you then that you hadn’t spoken since he appeared from the barn, struck dumb by the sight of him.
Turned even dumber by this.
When you could speak, it came out broken and breathy. “B-Bucky, please—“
“Please, what?”
You didn’t know. You had no clue what to expect let alone what you wanted most. All you knew was you didn’t want him to stop.
“Please, I need more. I need— n-need”
“Know exactly what you be needin’, darlin’. And I’m gonna give it to you.”
A booted foot pressed between yours, nudging your stance wider, and the soft whoosh of him dropping to his knees in the grass behind you had you dragging in a deep breath.
But you lost it again a second later when he buried his mouth against your slit.
A groan escaped him at the first taste, guttural and ragged, his hands clasping each cheek and spreading you apart. You moaned with him as his tongue plunged deep.
He ate at you fiercely, like you were the first meal he had all day and he was a man starved. His tongue lapped and laved, his lips and mouth sucking and sipping at your flesh, drinking you in. You tried hard to contain the sounds desperate to spill out of you, but Bucky would have none of it.
“Let me hear you, darlin’,” he rasped, hand replacing his tongue as he gathered the slick drooling out of you and used it to circle your entrance. “Tell the meadows yer mine.”
He pressed a single finger in, thick and deep inside you, and your strangled cry echoed throughout the yard. Slowly, a second finger joined the first, stretching you wider, curling just so until you clenched hard around him.
And when his mouth fastened around your clit, sucking hard as his fingers pistoned in and out of you, you devolved into a mess of babbled words and broken moans as your orgasm tore through you with lightening speed. Still his mouth stayed on you, fingers deep but gentling, easing you through the waves and keeping you on edge.
Your legs buckled, and he wrapped his metal arm around your thighs.
“Got you.”
But he didn’t lower you down, didn’t gather you into his arms. No, Bucky pushed forward, easily lifting you inches off the ground and pressing you up and over the wooden beam until you rested on it. Your hands scrambled for purchase, your still-shaking body burning where the hard edge of the wood pressed into your skin, your shirt hardly softening the edge.
“Bucky, wha—“
When the sound of his belt unbuckling hit your ears you twisted around.
The sight you beheld would never leave your memory for as long as you lived.
Bucky behind you, jeans shoved down around his thighs, palming his raging erection with the hand still slick from you, the tip of him angry red and leaking. His shirt pushed up out of the way, his lean stomach and abs on display for your needy gaze.
He rested his metal hand against the small of your back, lining himself up with you, and only then did he glance down and catch you watching him.
His eyes were dark, blue swallowed whole by black, arousal flushed high on his cheeks and mouth open in heated admiration. His damn Stetson was as crooked as the smile he gave you as he rasped, “Ready f’me?”
He didn’t give you time to answer.
His gaze held yours as he pressed in, the thick heat of him stretching you in a delicious burn as he pushed every inch.
Your ragged moan covered his grunt of pleasure when he bottomed out inside you, filling you so completely your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut.
“Welcome back, honey.”
In one long breath he drew out again, then brutally drove home.
Your hips stung with every thrust as he pushed you against the fence beam over and over, and you knew come morning you’d be bruised and sore, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t, not when he fucked you so deeply, when he heaped praise and desperate grunts upon you in equal measure.
“So fuckin’ good,” he told you, each word panting out with a snap of his hips. “Missed this. Missed you. Fuck, I missed you.”
His words became lost in a series of groans as you clenched around him, your second orgasm drawing in, and his hips stuttered.
“Got another f’me?”
Your hips pressed back against him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that high only Bucky could give you. Your legs were shaking, your voice hoarse as you whined and moaned for him, your fingers white-knuckled where you clutched the fence.
He bent forward and thrust up into you, the angle driving the length of him against that sweet spot deep inside that had you bucking wildly in his grasp. His hand snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing with single minded determination.
You came with a strangled cry.
Bucky swore violently and fucked into you once, twice more, before burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside. You could feel every pulse, every bit of him as you clenched and fluttered around him in the aftermath.
The yard fell quiet, save for the sounds of both your soft panting breaths.
Bucky gently eased you back, gathering you into his arms as he lifted you and sat down on the ground against the fence post, folding you across his lap. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat strong and rhythmic against you, and you sighed.
In the distance a cow mooed and you giggled helplessly.
“Who knew it could be like this,” you whispered, uncaring if there was an answer.
Bucky was quiet for a time, his cheek resting against your head and his hand idly tracing shapes against your thigh.
“I was ticked off when I saw headlights that night.”
Another laugh huffed out of you. “I thought you might murder me.”
You felt his chest shake with silent laughter.
“Now I get all melancholy when it rains and yer not here with me.”
“You mean that?” Your voice was small and you didn’t draw back to look at him, didn’t know how to handle whatever answer he gave you.
“‘M sittin’ bare-ass in the grass right now. Only f’ you.”
“Bucky.”
You felt his shrug, his lips pressing gently to your forehead.
“Fell in love with you when you ran up those there steps and kissed me. E’rythin’ else fell into place around that.”
That’s when you pulled back to look at him.
He met your gaze openly, no holding back, no doubt in his eyes. Only the surety of his feelings.
You didn’t say it then.
He didn’t need you to, kissing first the tip of your nose then pressing his lips to yours in an achingly soft kiss.
But later, when you winced as you climbed into bed beside him and he touched the line of bruises across your hips reverently, kissing your skin and apologising over and over for being so rough with you, it slipped out like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
He hummed agreement, his thumb rubbing soft circles against your skin, hoping to soothe the angry marks with touch alone.
“Yeah. I am.”
There was always something to do on the farm, and the animals always needed tending, but he felt a tug on his heart and an itch under his skin as the days stretched on.
So he texted you for another trip.
You called back that night, uncertain.
“I’m really busy with work,” you say, and it’s not an excuse to push him away, he knows that. It’s just your crazy schedule isn’t as routine as farm chores and country life.
He’s sitting in his truck, parked outside Sam’s bar, music and voices spilling out with the light from the door, and he knows there’s a cold beer waiting for him inside.
But he’d miss it all to keep talking with you.
“There’s an awards things coming up, and—“
“You gotta get dolled up?” That perked his interest. “Wear one of those slinky dresses, your hair all twisted up nice. Struttin’ down that red carpet like you already won?”
He pulls laughter from you, the tinkling sounds better than any song of yours he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t even mind when you chide him gently. He just laughs too.
Until your soft confession punches the breath out of him, setting his heart beating so hard his ribs would bruise. “I want to show everyone how in love with you I am.”
“Then I’ll come to the show,” he said gruffly. “You on my arm, the whole world knows who I belong to.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.” So cocky. So confident. Easiest thing in the world, to declare you were his. And he yours.
“Can I buy you a suit?”
“I got a suit.”
“Bucky.”
Ah, right. This was a fancy thing. “Not the right suit, hm?”
“I want to get you something tailored.” There’s a wistfulness to your voice that sends a bolt of heat straight through him. “Something that hugs you perfectly, shows off your shoulders and your arms—“
You broke off, letting out a soft sound he’s heard a million times before, and he wants to crawl through the phone to get at you.
“Yer gettin’ all wet just thinkin’ ‘bout me in those clothes. Wait ‘til you get ‘em off.” His accent comes out thick with a growl, and you whimper, actually whimper, making him curse and shift in his seat as his jeans grow too tight.
His voice is low and husky when he promises, “You can get me whatever you’d like, darlin’. Just let me be there with you.”
He doesn’t have a regular parking spot in New York, not like you do back home. There isn’t a growing bare patch in the concrete where his tyres sat while you were out and worked business all day.
Truth be told he kinda liked the way his dull paintwork stood out against the shiny black sedans, the stupid Teslas, and the little electric things. He liked that someone could glance down the street and see something different had arrived.
But he especially liked it when he got the spot right outside your building, those cold looking grey stairs leading from his rusty Ford door to the one that let him enter the one place in the big city that felt like a little entering heavens gates.
‘Cause they brought him to you.
And despite your hectic schedule, despite people vying for your attention all over town, you’re right there at the doorway every time he knocks to great him nice and proper with a kiss.
There’s a fitting at some snazzy building in the middle of the city, a private tailor upstairs from offices who go through more money in one day than he sees in a year.
It makes his head spin a little, but your pleased grin when he stands up on the podium wearing the suit you’d ordered is all he really needs to worry about.
“What do you think?”
The tailor is a lanky older gentleman, the type you see in all the old movies, and Bucky turns this way and that as he looks at himself.
If only his folks could see him now. They wouldn’t recognise him in all this.
“I don’t have a dog in this fight, sir.” He turned to you, sitting on the little couch by the window, looking pretty as a peach in a dress and smiling up at him. “Lady’s call.”
You stand, approaching him slow, your eyes telling him without a doubt exactly how good you think he looks.
“You’ll do,” you say on a sigh, and even the tailor chuckled. “Thank you, Jarvis.”
When Jarvis leaves the room, Bucky finds enough confidence to nod at his Stetson you carry in your hands. “Reckon they’ll let me wear it on the red carpet?”
You match his cheeky grin with one of your own, reaching up to place the hat on his head and turning him back to the mirror.
“Why do you think I picked this colour?”
You enjoy every moment of his surprise when he takes in the whole perfectly matching ensemble.
Time moved like an avalanche in New York. One minute he was sharing a light breakfast and early morning kisses with you, and the next you’re both in a hotel suite near Madison Square Garden. Hair and makeup stylists fussed over you in a seat before a mirror while wardrobe people and your management team talked logistics and the possibilities for the night ahead.
You sat in the middle of all the chaos, letting them paint your face and play with your hair, and all Bucky could do was stand to the side and let it all happen around him.
They’d already dressed him and messed with his hair and face an hour ago.
“Would you like us to shine your— um, your, uh…”
One of the poor wardrobe girls gestured hopelessly at his prosthetic and Bucky arched a brow at her. “What you gonna shine with? Shoe polish?”
She looked like the floor could’ve swallowed her whole.
“It’s a well-meaning thought, but not necessary,” you called out, your voice carefully measured. But when Bucky looked your way you seemed conflicted between rage on his behalf and the urge to laugh at the girl’s predicament.
He stepped forward to cool your temper, and put that fire to better use.
“All this pampering is, uh—“ he brushed his knuckles against his stubble and through his hair, peering at himself in the mirror over your shoulder. “It’s a fuss, but nice. Didn’t know it could sit like this.”
“Hmm a little clean for my liking.” You meet his gaze in the reflection.
“Yeah?”
“I like my farmer a little … rougher.”
“You like me dirty.”
There was a soft gasp from somewhere behind you both, but you didn’t care what they overheard. Not with the way Bucky’s eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to the soft robe you were wearing.
The robe with nothing beneath it.
“I have to dress,” you said quietly.
“Don’t need the robe to dress,” he said back, voice low enough for only you to hear.
Your eyes burned with the desire to give in, but you couldn’t. Not this time.
“If you let me dress in private now, I’ll let you take it off me later.”
He scoffed, lips curving in an entirely too-smug smile. “Let me?” He said, shaking his head and lifting your hand to brush a kiss against your knuckle. “Try to stop me.”
Because he hadn’t seen the dress before having only arrived in town long enough to have his suit finished, but he knew whatever design they had cooked up for you was going to knock him dead.
Time ticked by as he stood in the other room with your management team, Tony explaining to him exactly how the red carpet and ceremony would run, when the wardrobe team returned to the room.
He felt his hands grew clammy as you called out, “Ready?”
This felt like it could be his damn wedding day with how nervous he found himself.
But when you stepped into the room, everything else faded away. You were a vision, glowing in your gown with your hair perfectly pinned and face painted just right. You were always gorgeous in his eyes, but the hours of work they put in now finally seemed justified.
They turned you into a goddess.
“Do you like it?”
He laughed because how could you not know?
“Yeah, darlin’, it’s—“
But then he looked.
Really looked.
And his mouth fell open.
The colour. The colour stopped his heart.
Inky dark and shimmering, the black fabric hugged your figure and swept down around you, the stark colour the perfect background for the spears of brilliant golden arcs crossing and flowing, like lightening slashing across your body
Your dress matched his prosthetic.
For a moment Bucky was speechless,his hand reaching out to hover over the lines of gold reverently, mapping your body like he was learning you all over again.
“I asked them to make it look like kintsugi and lightening,” you told him quietly.
He said your name on a broken whisper. You could see in his eyes his emotions choked him.
“I told you, Bucky. I want the world to know who my heart belongs to.”
He met your gaze then.
He knew how long it had taken to perfectly apply your foundation and makeup. He knew and he didn’t care.
He kissed you. With all the force of the love beating hard in his chest, he took your face in his hands and kissed you like he could infuse every ounce of his being into you in that moment.
He stole your breath but he gave you back so much more.
“Are you ready?”
They asked you, but the question was clearly directed at Bucky.
He flashed his most charming smile, donning his hat and turning to offer you his hand so you could step out the vehicle.
“I’ll manage. And if I can’t, I’ll just stare at her.”
Like he could drag his eyes away.
Honestly the cameras were dazzling. He saw stars. He thought he was handling it well, expression stoic, steady hand at your back, thumb rubbing circles against your bare skin.
He stands where he’s told to stand, helps guide you where you’re told to go, only stepping away when your red carpet handler asked him to leave space for photos.
And when you looked at him, your thousand watt smile banishing any doubts as you murmur, “Eyes on me, Sarge,” he knew how much this mattered.
He’s here for you. He’ll do this right for you.
Later, in the grand open space full of hundreds of your peers, everyone seated according to who was who in the industry, you hold his hand and smile at him like he’s the only one there.
When your name is read from an envelope and you throw your arms around him in elation, he knows the two of you have got this thing right.
Until you steal his hat, hurrying away as you place it on your head to accept your award.
He doesn’t see the camera focussed on his face, capturing his wondrous laugh as he claps and beams with pride. He only has eyes for you up on stage, gushing with gratitude and thanking the world that helped you reach this pinnacle.
“And to the man that brought me here tonight—“
Your gaze locked with his from beneath his Stetson, eyes misty and smile shining brighter than the award in your hands.
“I do this for you,” you said, pointing through the fancy crowd right at him.
He thinks out of all the people here tonight, and for all these coveted awards, he might actually be the biggest winner of the evening.
a/n: this is officially the first smut I’ve ever written 🫣 only for you dear Decaf. Have a moodboard for Bucky’s farm to make up for it, and what I vaguely think the dress would look like
Summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows?
Tags/Warnings: strangers to lovers, smut (unprotected p in v, oral (m and f receiving), one spank, egregious use of a wooden fence), Bucky in a Stetson, no use of y/n, petnames (darlin’ and honey, Sarge and cowboy), alcohol consumption but no drunkenness, maybe vague implied animal farming, shifting POVs, yer
Note: Written for my darling @buckysdecaflove for the Dear My Darling Reader Valentine Fic Exchange hosted by the delightful @salty-tang. As promised because of our little matchmaking trio, the barest hint of a TSwift reference lolol
Word Count: 17k
Currently Listening: “Come In With the Rain” by Taylor Swift & “Good Directions” by Billy Currington 🎵
I'll leave my window open
'Cause I'm too tired tonight to call your name
Just know I'm right here hoping
That you'll come in with the rain …
Event Masterlist
His harmonica wailed out a lonely tune into the stormy night.
He’d watched the dark clouds blow in early afternoon, his small herd already crowding against the outer barn wall, bawling and mooing, making their agitation known. He’d pushed open the doors, letting his best girls amble into the barn for their safety while he cleared up for the day. Even Alpine, the fiercest prissy barn cat he’d ever met, had disappeared into the top rafters of the hay loft. Her bunker for the night ahead.
He stored the four-wheeler in the shed, the tractor already put away that morning, stowed his tools, and shut up for the night.
And he did it all alone.
When the sun disappeared, he didn’t know, the sky already painted black and blue with clouds.
Now, sitting out on the sheltered verandah, Stetson tilted low and bending notes on the blues harp as fast wind and heavy rain tore through his property, he didn’t bother to lament the devastation the storm was causing to his crops. Couldn’t think now about the old northern fence line that might not hold up in this weather. Instead Bucky found his mind wandering, craving the kind of company a cold, wet night like this always demanded.
What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body in his bed tonight. Someone desperate beneath him, their cries and warmth chasing off the chill of the storm. Someone to fall asleep to, to hold tight as the night cooled, and to pull closer as the morning filtered in.
A flash of lightening to the east broke his reverie and drew his gaze, and in the distance he saw it.
Two beams of light recklessly arcing over his field as some tiny car made its way down his property drive.
His hands dropped to his lap with the harmonica and he cursed, grumbling about idiots getting lost on country roads, taking the wrong turn-offs, disturbing his peace.
He hauled himself to his feet when the car ambled into his yard, a tiny thing not suited to long country drives, and watched until the engine cut and the figure inside peered up at him.
He walked back into the house.
You bit your lip as you approached the house slowly. A lone light shone in one window but the rain was crashing so hard against your windscreen you couldn’t make out anything else.
With every bump in the road as you rolled over uneven ground, you cursed the weather, the poor cell service, the shoddy country signage, and even your childhood friend who you had driven out to see in your precious spare time.
Your twenty-three-city-sixty-two-show tour of the US was over, most of the major music awards done with just one to go. You’d agreed to see your darling friend in her third trimester who was, as she said, in dire need of civilised company.
Inching along this wet dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the rain battering your poor car, desperately trying to reach the only buildings you had seen for miles, you were feeling rather un-civilised about the whole endeavour.
And what would you even say when you pulled up? The truth made you feel so foolish. Assuming whoever lived in this house didn’t abduct you or worse upon recognising you instantly.
You weren’t egotistical, but as the number one pop singer in the country regularly topping the charts, you were thoroughly aware of the cursed enormity of fame that dogged you like this storm chased your tailpipe.
Your headlights ambled hesitantly past the last posts flanking the dirt drive. Passing the final fence line you entered the bare bones yard, open grass to one side and an old rusted wreck to the other. The tracks you followed led further on to a parked beaten truck, but you halted directly in front of the house.
The windscreen wipers ticked frantically and the shadow of a person obscured by the rain stepped forward out of the dark, making you gasp.
At least now you were sure there was life out here.
You switched off the car but the roar of the rain was louder, unceasing noise as it battered your car with the wind.
A sign hanging from the verandah roofline swung in the wind and caught your eye. There was some word burned into the wood that you squinted to see in the low light…
J. B. BARNES
The stranger, whose shrouded figure you could barely see, promptly turned and headed back indoors.
Probably to fetch a shotgun to tell you to get off their property.
You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but a door in the face before you’d even stepped a foot out was a bit much.
Gathering your things that had scattered during the drive into your handbag, you pulled yourself together and prepared to run for your life.
You opened the car door, the rain barrelling in immediately. Scrambling, your sandalled foot dropping straight into a muddy puddle, you clutched your handbag close, not even needing to close the door behind you—it slammed shut with the force of the wind. You hurried through grass and mud up to the verandah, hands uselessly trying to shield your face from the rain that soaked through your thin cardigan in seconds.
Climbing the wooden steps to shelter you halted, panting, looking back out at the blustery weather you’d braved, and gulped. The wood farmhouse broke the storm about you, wind and rain held at bay by its warm old bones, and you were grateful for the reprieve.
The farmhouse door opened, and you weren’t sure if the man that stepped out was a killer or not.
In that moment you didn’t care.
He was the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever seen.
Hollywood was full of models, men groomed and primed to polished perfection, but this rugged man before you drew your attention in the most primal way. His chiseled jaw was shadowed by a few days worth of scruff. His button-down shirt sat taught across his broad chest and arms, the top few buttons undone revealing a hint of chest hair and a chain that disappeared beneath where your hands itched to follow, the fabric hugging down his body to jeans that barely contained his strong thighs.
But when he tilted his head to look at you out from under his dark brimmed hat, it was his eyes, pools of stormy blue boring into you with barely held frustration, that had you swaying closer toward him.
“You lost.”
You tried to blink away your stupor. “Yes. I’m so sorry, my phone dropped reception and—“
“Wasn’t a question.”
Taken aback by his abrupt response, the words died in your throat.
Oh he was definitely going to murder you and bury you in a field somewhere. Maybe throw you in a pig pen like those documentaries. No one would ever know, they would never find you, you would be—
“There’s bad weather,” he said matter of fact, like you were stupid enough to miss it. “Come inside.”
And he walked back in without another word.
You hesitated by the door, looking down at your muddy sandals and feet. Gingerly you toed them off, swiping your feet on the doormat to try to remove the grime, before stepping inside.
The house smelled earthy, of lingering smoke and wood from the lit fireplace which closely warmed a couch and solid wood coffee table. A bureau sat disused in the corner surrounded by shelves, and the remaining open space was dwarfed with a heavy rustic dining table. The kitchen was surprisingly modern, still country but in a magazine-chic way, and your hero-slash-murderer rounded the counter, his presence filling the room and leaving a delightfully male scent in his wake.
Finally, in the soft light overhead, you caught the glimmer of a metal prosthetic as he palmed his phone and dialled out a number without saying another word to you
“Yeah, Sam. You still open?” Cold blue eyes settled on you. “Had a stray blow in with the storm.”
His face clouded over, eyes flashing, and he cursed to himself.
Obviously Sam didnt provide the answer he was looking for.
You inched forward, clutching your handbag tightly to you, knowing you should say something but not sure what.
He turned his back to you, leaning back against the counter, and you felt your mouth hang slack at the sight. He might as well be naked with how perfectly his shirt hugged every ripple of his back and shoulders.
A long ago conversation about not wanting country boys flew in your face. This man before you broke every rule you’d ever thought to set.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, and you tucked your wet hair behind your ear to listen in closer.
“… yeah, whole crops gonna be drowned come mornin’. Nothin’ I can do now.” A pause. “You sittin’ pretty out there?” Another pause. “And Sara?”
You found yourself smiling at the way his chuckle turned wickedly cheeky, barely hearing the agitated ear-bashing this Sam was giving him over the din of the rain. “Just being neighbourly is all. A’ight, man. Later.”
He turned back, tossing the phone onto the counter, and stared at you. His face was more relaxed now than it had been before, the laughter having eased the hard lines, but you still found yourself caught under his steady gaze.
“What’s yer name?”
You tensed. Eyes narrowing on him you hesitated to answer, looking for some kind of trick or prank. Did he not recognise you after all? Finding no reason in his openly bored expression not to respond, you told him your first name only.
No flash of recognition. No reaction at all really.
So you asked, “What’s yours?”
“Bucky,” he said instantly. Then— “James.” His faced twisted like he was annoyed at himself. “Everyone calls me Bucky.”
He cleared his throat.
“Want a beer?”
You nod.
“Bathroom’s down on the right.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, and you stood still for a moment longer, unsure why he was offering up that information.
But curiosity about your reluctant host spiked, and you decide to investigate the bathroom. If that’s where he wanted you to go.
Floorboards creaked between flashes of lightening and you lightly traced your path down the hall with your fingertips against the faded yellow wallpaper.
A door at the end of the hall, cracked open, revealed the barest outline of a bed from the light from the hall. Quietly, you turn to the door on your right.
When you stepped foot in the bathroom, you realised exactly why he sent you.
Your hair, soaked from your dash in the rain, was still dripping and plastered to your head. Your makeup, not waterproof, had half dried again in ghostly trails across your cheeks, mascara now smudged in an unintentional smoky eye. Your cardigan was doing more harm than good, soaked as it was and making you colder. With a grimace you made for the sink, grabbing a fluffy towel for your hair, and tried to make yourself presentable again.
All the while you marvelled that for all his gruff behaviour he hadn’t said a thing about your messy appearance.
Back in the kitchen, Bucky was still staring off down the hallway, gaze unfocused as he awaited your return.
The sight of your sleek form, clothes rain-plastered around your gorgeous curves, seared like hot iron across his brain.
His streak was as dry as a dusty dirt road and you swanned into his farmhouse like a wet dream, all prim and proper. Just begging to be ridden dirty for a country mile ‘til you were stained with it.
He pressed the heel of his palm to his now too-tight jeans, trying to ease the rise you got out of him.
He’d retreated behind the kitchen counter to not scare away the poor city girl looking for a rescue.
And he had no doubt you weren’t from around here. No where near. Your doe-eyed expression was one thing, but you were too shiny. Too perfect. From the Big Apple license plate on your fancy car to your clothes and the way you held yourself, you were too good for where you found yourself stranded.
Maybe the devil himself had heard him and delivered temptation right to his door.
Hearing the water shut off, Bucky shook his head to temper his racing thoughts and cracked opened two beer bottles as you walked back into the room.
But he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes raked over you from head to toe when you reemerged.
Fresh faced and drier than before, you looked far too pretty standing in his living room, clutching your bag and soaking wet jumper nervously.
So he pushed a bottle at you and took your jumper without a word, walking around to drag a chair away from the dining table toward the fireplace. He draped your piece of clothing over the chair back, arranging it so it would dry quick as a whip by the firelight, wondering what you thought that scrap of fabric was going to keep at bay in this weather.
Finally he dropped onto the couch, feet kicking up to rest on the solid wood coffee table and arm draping over the back cushions.
“Might as well get comfortable. Storm won’t clear ‘til mornin’.”
Only then did you move, placing your bag on the floor.
“I’m so sorry for intruding like this,” you began, rounding the couch and your eyes darting to the open space on the couch next to him. Though you still wouldn’t sit down. “I lost reception and my navigation dropped out. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Bucky sighed, taking a long drag from the bottle. Didn’t anyone keep maps anymore?
“In clearer weather you’d best have backtracked to somewhere you knew. But out here in this—“ he sucked on his teeth, shaking his head, “— roads this far out of town might wash away if the rain keeps up. Yer better off here than out there.”
You don’t look relieved by his statement and he wanted to laugh. So skittish. Probably never had a bad day in your life before now.
Poor city girl.
“Where you headed?”
Wrong question. Your expression shuttered and body tensed, same as before when he’d asked your name.
He held up a hand to stay the answer you weren’t going to give anyway. “Nevermind. Not my business.”
Your eyes softened and he felt strangely elated at having read you so easily.
“Who is Sam?” You inched closer, still no intention to sit, the beer bottle turning in your hands as nervous fingers sought to ease your tension. “That you called earlier? About me.”
“Owns the bar in town. Has a couple rooms upstairs.” Bucky shrugged, taking another sip. “But he’d locked up and left already.”
He eyed you over again and you shivered under his gaze. It definitely wasn’t from the cold— you were warm all over every time he looked at you.
Lightening flashed so brightly it illuminated everything outside the wide windows, and seconds later a crack of thunder nearby made you jump.
Bucky cursed under his breath. “Sit down already so I don’t gotta crane my neck to look at you.”
With another apology you quickly sat down next to him, the warmth in your body ticking up a notch higher as you feel the brush of his fingers against your shoulder where his arm resting on the back of the couch. Directly behind you.
Doing your best to ignore it, you twisted in the seat to better talk with him—and immediately regretted it. Only you didn’t, not really.
If you thought he looked delicious before, here before the fire, shadows and dancing light making the angles of his face harder and his eyes glow ocean-blue, he was absolutely sinful.
You bit your lip and desperately told yourself to ignore the way his eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Ain’t got much by way of lodgings, but you can crash here on the couch for the night.” His mouth pulled to one side in a not-quite smile. “Guest room ain’t prepped for guests, and wouldn’t be right f’me to let you head back out in this.“ Thunder rolled overhead, ominous and low, lending weight to his words.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” you murmured, the guilt mounting again at appearing on his doorstep like this. “I appreciate the kindness. Yours was the only place I could see around.”
He took another swig of beer instead of replying, and your gaze lingered on his prosthetic, fascinated. The firelight made its inset gold turn molten, the dark metal surrounds inky black as the night sky. It was a work of art.
Much like its wearer.
“So, what do you do, city girl?”
You shifted, still uncomfortable with his questions, but where was the harm? You were sure by now he either didn’t know who you were, or was a skilled liar. Based on his blatant honesty so far, that seemed unlikely. “I’m a singer.”
His brow raised, eyes showing nothing but interest — and not just in your answer. “Oh yeah? Have I ever heard yer stuff?”
“What do you listen to?”
You watched the way his mouth twisted as he mused on that for a moment. “Forties and fifties, mostly.”
“Then probably not.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. He motioned with his beer toward the shelves you’d spied earlier, saying, “Got grandmama’s old gramophone over there.”
You glanced back, spotting it nestled amongst the books and papers, and though you were fascinated it didn’t quite draw your attention the same way Bucky did.
“That’s neat,” you say politely. “I’ve never heard one play before.”
He nodded, his thumb gently gathering the condensation on the side of the bottle he held. Your eyes followed as one rivulet formed and rolled down, down, catching the bottom rung as a droplet before falling to his jeans clothed thigh.
In your mind, it hissed on contact.
“Ma used to love playing it on nights like this.”
You hummed a response, forgetting the conversation entirely, your mouth parched in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.
You took a swig of beer anyway.
He watched the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.
“You live alone out here?”
He nodded slow, his eyes locking on your mouth. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and you tracked the movement, bottom lip dragging between your teeth as you wondered what his lips taste like.
Thunder cracked directly overhead, the booming sound shaking the old walls of the farmhouse, and a strangled shriek escaped you.
Much to Bucky’s amusement. As his soft chuckle soothed your frayed nerves, you felt his fingertips at your shoulder again, touching burning into your skin, his arm on the back of the couch curving into you.
“Yer a flighty filly, hm?”
You realised you had plastered yourself to his side, clutching at his shirt, and yet you didn’t want to let go.
He took your beer bottle and his, placing them on the coffee table, and turned back to you.
“C’mere.” The low rumble of his voice tore through your body just like the storm raging outside. Your eyes dragged up to his. “I’ve got you.”
The last thing you saw was the blue of his eyes almost completely black, pupils blown wide.
Then his mouth was on yours.
You gasped into the kiss and he immediately swooped in, tongue tangling with yours in a groan.
You were kissing a complete stranger. Maybe possibly your future murderer.
And it was good.
You broke away. “We shouldn’t have done that.” Your eyes met his again and your voice grew small. “I don’t even know you.”
His lips slowly curved into the first real smile you’ve seen, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. It transformed his whole face and your lips parted on a small breath.
You forgot why you stopped kissing him.
“Wanna know me?”
With a nod you fisted your hands in his shirt and fell into his chest, lips crashing against his and smothering the low groan he let out. His arm snaked around you, drawing you impossibly closer, metal hand sliding up the back of your neck and into your hair.
He tilted you in his grasp, deepening the kiss, and you were lost. Lost in the taste of him, in the way his hands held you steady even as you came apart.
And that was just his kiss.
So when he turned your body, pressing you back into the couch and pulling away, your hands scramble to pull him back, your lips seeking his.
“Trust me.”
You fell back limply against the couch, pouting just a little. “You can’t go kissing a girl like that then leave her.”
But Bucky’s chuckle was wickedly low as he slid from the couch and kneeled on the floor before you. “Not leavin’ you, darlin’.”
His eyes, hooded and dark, drag from your pouty mouth down your neck, scored red from his stubble, over your heaving chest and to your legs.
“Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you hangin’.”
His hands clasped your knees, slowly, slowly, sliding up your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper, mind finally catching up. With his help you unbuttoned your pants, peeling the slightly rain-damp fabric from your legs, a few giggles and chuckles from each of you slowing the process.
Your panties quickly followed.
You think you should feel cold, but with the fire burning before you and Bucky’s hands swiftly acquainting themselves with your bare skin, your temperature was soaring.
His touch drove you wild. His calloused hand on your bare thigh in stark contrast to the smooth metal of his other hand, both gripping and rubbing your skin as he watched you intently. Your breaths sped up with every inch he climbed higher.
Where he leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, your stomach clenched and your hips rolled, and there was that low chuckle again, a rumble you felt resonate within you.
“C’mere.”
He encouraged you to hook your legs over his shoulders, opening you wide to his gaze, his stubble grazing against the soft skin of your inner thighs.
“You said yer a singer?”
You could do nothing else but nod frantically.
“Let me hear you high pitched then, honey.”
You held your breath.
With the fire behind him you couldn’t see his face, shadowed between your legs, but even in the contrasting dark you didn’t miss the determined glint in his eye when his tongue licked that first achingly slow stripe between your folds.
No warning, no gentling you through it. You couldn’t control how your jerked against him, you were so shocked at the molten touch.
He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you down, holding you apart.
You watched, mouth open, as he licked his lips and leaned in again, tongue flat as he lapped at you real slow.
His groan matched yours.
“Taste like sugar.”
Then he devoured you. Tongue delving deep or swirling with earth-shattering accuracy. One hand left your thigh to plunge one finger in, then two, stretching you wide, curling just right, soothing and building an ache within you all at once.
There’s a noise, louder than the rain and the wind, louder than the howling storm outside, and you slowly realise it’s you. Your keening cries as you bucked against his tongue, as your thighs tried to close around his head— but he ruthlessly held your legs apart with his metal hand, holding you down, making you take his fingers and his tongue until your thighs shook and you couldn’t think anymore.
His fingers crooked and you shattered.
Heels of your feet digging into his back, hands clutching desperately at his hair, you arched as you came hard against his tongue and around his fingers, his name a broken prayer on your lips.
Fitting since sin incarnate knelt before you, hair tousled and chin wet with you. He pressed soft kisses to your inner thigh, beard scratching gently and making you shiver.
He shrugged your legs off his shoulders.
“Hold on.”
Wrapping your legs around his waist and arms behind his neck, Bucky lifted you easily, metal arm under your ass to keep you steady.
He covered the length of the house in a handful of strides, toeing open the door you had spied earlier into his bedroom.
Shuffling you in his grasp he sat on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap, mouth seeking yours over and over again as his hands fumbled with the hem of your shirt. Finally he slid off your shirt and bra, baring you completely to his gaze.
He was still fully clothed.
Shivering, not from the cold but the sheer force of desire running through you, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He gave way, laying down on the bed, staring up at you with those hypnotising eyes that drank you in as you got to work on his shirt.
Unbuttoning slowly, you marvelled at every perfect inch of skin you revealed. Spreading the halves wide you stared down at him, not knowing your hips rocked a needy rhythm as you took in the sight of his chiselled body, honed from years of hard work, his dog tags and chain bright in the dark.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and this ain’t gonna last long.”
Palm pressed flat he ran his hand from your navel up your stomach and between your breasts before grasping the back of your neck and pulling you down for a searing kiss. You writhed against him, his skin scorching hot under yours.
“I have to have you,” you mumbled into his lips, body arching with the way his palms travelled the planes of your back.
“Top drawer.” His hands dropped to clasp your hips and ground you down on him.
But with a whine you shook your head. “I’m on the pill. And clean. Please?”
A guttural groan tore from him and his head dropped back onto the bed.
“Lord, this woman might kill me yet.”
And you’d thought him the murderer.
You couldn’t wait any longer. Sitting back you started on his belt and buckle, fingers fumbling in their haste, the straining heat of him making his jeans impossibly tight.
The button popped and he toed off his boots, helping you shove down his jeans and briefs until he finally sprang free.
A sharp breath escaped at the sight of him, thick and full, pearl glistening at the tip.
Bucky swore when he caught your stare.
“C’mere.”
A word had never held so much power over you before, but if you heard him say it one more time—
Dragging you forward he slid between your slick folds, tearing a moan from you both as he rutted up into your heat.
With one hand between you he palmed himself, settling you over his thick bulge, and eased himself in.
You sank down slowly, hand braced against his chest, taking him inch by delicious inch. He stretched you, filled you, until finally, fully seated, your name escaped his lips in a guttural groan.
The fullness of him choked you, your hips already rocking with the need to ease the ache and chase more of it.
Lips parting on a breathless moan, you began to ride, his hands like a brand against you, guiding your hips, grasp steady as he showed you how to take him. A sheen of sweat over your thighs made you shine in the dim light.
Bucky watched you, devoured you with his eyes, fucking up into you with a strength that had you gasping and moaning and begging for more.
His hand pressed between you, rubbing against that perfect spot right where you joined that hurtled you quickly to the edge.
Your head rolled back, thighs shaking, grinding down against him.
With a grunt Bucky sat up and flipped you onto your back. Settling between your thighs he entered you again with one devastating slow roll of his hips, sinking so fully inside you saw stars. Legs hooked around his waist, and hands clawing at his shoulders, you took it all as he pounded into you again and again. You could feel every inch, every drag of him against your walls, driving into you, quickly bringing you to the edge and sending you soaring.
His name left your lips over and over in a broken sob. It’s raw, unguarded, so precious it’s holy, and you hear how it affects him, his ragged breaths ripping through the air.
He comes with a sound that starts with your name but devolves into a ragged groan, hips slowing, thrusting shallowly as he rode it out.
Until he slumped over you, weight caught on his arms, face pressed against the hollow of your neck.
You don’t know how long you lay there, hands gentle against the planes of his back, feeling every ripple as your breath slowed to match his.
It’s quiet.
The storm still raged outside, wind and rain and lightening battling it out across the fields, but here in this house all you listen for is the sound of his breath.
Eventually he pushed away, brushing a kiss against your cheek and padding out of the room. His naked silhouette in the dim light of the night burnt into your memory.
There’s the sound of running water, then he’s back, wordlessly handing you a damp cloth to clean yourself up.
He fell into bed beside you with a sigh, arm slung up over his head and eyes closing.
Clean, you dropped the cloth to the floor, drawing the covers over you.
Quiet descends again.
“I don’t normally do this,” you whispered into the room.
Bucky’s voice was thick with sleep, his words slurring when he answered, “‘S alright. Can be a dream y’had once.”
You didn’t quite understand what he meant, though it sounded sweet.
“Girl came in with the rain …”
But when you propped yourself up on an elbow to question him further you could see his chest rose and fell slowly, eyelashes pillowed in perfect crescents against his cheek.
And when you laid down again, resting against his open side, he grunted something inaudible and snaked his arm around you, drawing you in closer.
The morning brought aching muscles and an empty space beside you. You sat up, wincing at the way your body protested the movement, and looked around for your discarded clothes.
They were neatly folding in a pile on the end of the bed. Dry.
You stared at the pile for a long time, taking in the kindness of the gesture, before eventually getting up and dressing.
Decent, you peered out into the living area only to find it, too, empty. Your heart sank.
A crumpled scrap of paper sat on the wooden dining table. Glancing around again you walked over to read.
Neighbours fence down with the storm. Won’t be back before you’re gone. -B.
Beneath was a rough drawn map to get you back to the main road.
His words the night before drifted back to you, and your fingers ghosted across your lips as you remembered the way he kissed you. Your body still ached with how he’d had you.
A dream indeed.
With a nod to yourself, you gathered your things and left quietly, the scrawled paper tucked away in your pocket.
And when he got back late that afternoon, the sun sitting low on the horizon and your departing tyre marks the only trace of you, Bucky sighed, staring off down the long dirt road out of this place.
The next time he saw your headlights he was mildly surprised, to say the least. It was only days later. His lips kicked up in a half smile as your boots swung out first.
“You lost?”
“Nope. Maps go both ways.”
There’s a familiar scrap of paper held in your hand.
A bark of laughter escaped him, and he turned for the door, shaking his head as he stomped inside.
He left the flyscreen wide open for you.
Bucky had half a mind to offer you another round of beer, but the moment you stepped inside you dropped your bag on the floor and wound your arms around his neck, pressing your sweet little mouth to his in a kiss that sent a bolt of lightening straight to his cock.
“Hmm still taste like rain.”
Since you asked so nicely, he laid you down right there on the kitchen counter, pressing your thighs apart and eating at you nice and slow like, then turned and fucked you on the dining table for dessert.
And in the aftermath, with his spent body sweaty and deliciously heavy pressing you down into the wooden surface, you felt laughter bubble up.
You were happy.
“What you laughin’ at?” He murmured against your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin with every word.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get second time around.”
You felt him exhale, then slowly he pushed up and away from you, finally pulling out of your body, and you sucked in a breath at the loss of him.
There was a decidedly smug lilt to his voice when he said, “We ain’t strangers and I don’t mind greetin’ you nice and proper.”
You’d walked in with such bravado, climbing those three steps of his porch under the swinging sign with his name like you knew them by heart, kissing him like you had every right to. But your insecurities and self-doubts crashed back to earth in the soft, emotional aftermath of sleeping with this unknown person. Again.
“I’m sorry for barging in—“
“I let you.”
“—and accosting you like a madwoman—“
“Can you accost me a few more times?”
“Bucky, please. I’m just trying to say—“
He shut you up the best way he knew how, with a slow, tender kiss that left you dazed and speechless when he pulled away again.
“‘S fine. You always this scared o’ yer own actions?”
He pressed his mouth to the valley between your breasts before hauling himself up, dog tags jangling, and he disappeared down the hall. Distantly you heard the sound of water running.
Were you always this scared?
You tried to lower your legs again and hissed at the way your hips protested the movement.
Your body was not used to being snapped in half this often in only so many days.
Bucky returned wearing a new pair of boxer briefs and with a damp towel in his hand.
“Here.”
With a tenderness you found surprising and endearing, he carefully helped clean your body.
There was a strange moment of bashful domesticity as you both hunted for your scattered clothing.
“Hungry?”
Dressed, silently musing all the while about whether Hollywood had taught you to never seize what you truly wanted, you perched on a stool at the counter and watched as he collected bread from the tin and fresh eggs from the pantry.
“Were you in the army?” You asked, motioning to his dog tags when he glanced your way.
“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Barnes.”
“Ooh Sarge,” you teased, and laughed at the withering stare he threw you that didn’t quite land, not when the smile that tugged at his lips gave him away.
“Me and my buddy, he was a Captain. Until I did this.” Bucky rotated his metal prosthetic. “Now it’s farm life for the rest of my days.”
You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the counter. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He nodded firmly. “That’s the truth of it.”
You looked down as your phone buzzed with a text from your friend, whose house you’d stayed at for the last two nights as planned, asking if you were making it home in good time. You felt your cheeks heat and decided not to answer right away.
Bucky hummed a tune quietly as he cooked, and your eyes flew up to watch him.
You knew that tune.
It was yours.
“Thought you didn’t know any of my music.”
“I didn’t.”
“And now?”
He shrugged casually but you caught the way the tips of his ears turned pink. “It’s not all bad.”
“You looked me up,” you accused him, and the embarrassed flush spread down his cheeks and neck.
You snickered softly, watching for the little glances he shot your way.
“Wasn’t hard to find you,” he said finally, flipping the egg battered bread in the pan. He pinned you with a stare then, and you hoped you didn’t imagine the admiration you spied in it. “Turns out yer quite somethin’, huh?”
Your last album was recently lauded as the fastest album of the decade to reach five times platinum in the US, barely beating your previous album which had broke that same record. This following the sensational performance of your third tour that just wrapped up—You dropped your gaze, shrugging at the reality of his question. “I do alright.”
Bucky snorted. “No, honey, I do alright. Ain’t got much but what I earn from the crops and animals. You?” He whistled, impressed.
“Okay,” you began, squaring your shoulders. “You’re right. I’ve accomplished a lot. But it’s not hard work, not when I love it so much.”
He cocked his head, gesturing with the spatula for you to go on.
“I love to craft my own melodies, my own lyrics. Or have the producers send me a sample of something new and my mind run away with ideas. I’m just lucky people seem to like what I make.”
Bucky nodded along, his gaze focussed on cooking.
“All yer songs, they always this boppy?“
“Pop.”
“That.”
You laughed. “Yes, Sarge.”
He hummed another melody and with another laugh you half-sung the words, sliding off the stool and running your hand along the kitchen counter as you rounded it to stand with him.
Helping him collect plates and toppings he requested from the fridge, you smiled when he presented you with a plate.
“Egg bread.”
“This is French toast.”
Bucky looked down at the plates, then the sauces and vegetables from the fridge. “But it’s savoury.”
“Still French toast.”
“Egg bread,” he insisted, with a finality to his tone that had you cocking a brow at him. “‘S what my Ma called it.”
“Well, I’d never argue with Mama Barnes.”
“She would’a liked you,” he said, offhand, and you wondered at the way joy swept your body and curled your toes.
So you ate, talked, stared into his eyes far too long to be polite, and grinned more than once at the way you kept catching him doing the same. But this was a working farm, and this farmer had to get to it.
It was difficult to convince both of you of that when, after clearing up, he’d lifted you into the counter again, stepped between your legs, and kissed you senseless.
“I’d love to stay and …” he trailed off, gaze slowly dropping to where his hands squeezed your thighs, “… chat.”
He didn’t look like he wanted to chat. He looked like he wanted to devour you whole. Again.
“But I got some girls in the bottom paddock that need seein’ to.”
“Can I help?”
“Doubt it.”
No malice, just honesty.
“Yer welcome to stay,” donning his hat, his smile turned down at the corners, “But I imagine you got plenty important places to be.”
He was right. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t.
He jerked his head toward the dining table. “Left a present for you.”
And with one last kiss he was gone.
You lazily watched his figure cross the yard, admiring the way his jeans hugged tight, and his corded, tanned arm and stunningly designed prosthetic looked with his sleeves rolled up just so.
You’d stumbled on a diamond in the rough. In a storm, no less.
Finally dragging your gaze away you searched for his supposed present.
A scrawled note sat on the sturdy wooden table. Same place as before.
Next time doesn’t have to be a surprise - B.
And his phone number.
All you saw in your mind’s eye was blue. That pretty horizon over rolling hills. The colour rain clouds turned before lightening had its way. The covers on the cushions of a rusty swing chair on the porch. The faded paint of a old beat up Ford that saw better days long before he drove it.
And those eyes. Eyes deeper than the ocean and brighter than the sky. Eyes that saw right through you and saw all of you at the same time.
Eyes you’d only seen twice and already you hoped you could keep staring into them for the rest of your life.
You stepped inside the door of your New York townhouse, shutting it quickly behind you, blocking out the sound of camera shutters and probing questions of the paparazzi and fans lurking outside.
With a deep, fortifying breath, you carried your bags through to the living area and dropped them onto your couch with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scents.
It was good to be home.
But you grabbed your phone and snapped a quick picture right there in the room, your eyes tired and hair still tousled from the long drive. You sent it without overthinking too much, typing out ‘Home safe but thinking of rain and dirt roads’.
A reply came almost instantly.
‘When can you get lost again?’
Several visits later, there’s a tension to your shoulders he realised he’s seen before but hadn’t recognised. Your eyes were tired, skin flawless and beautiful as always but lacking the light that usually glowed from within.
You were exhausted.
“What’re they doing to you up in the city, huh?”
Your mumbled response was lost against his chest as he enveloped you in his arms. He could feel the way you sagged against him, clinging like only he could give you what you need.
He decides he can.
Hands under your thighs he lifts you easily, ignoring your shrill gasp as he tucked your body against his, and carried you into the farmhouse, kicking the door shut behind him.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled of hay, sweat, and something uniquely him.
You pressed closer to breathe in more.
He carried you through the house, old floorboards creaking their telltale tune all the way to the bathroom where he gently set you down until your feet touched the tiles. The huge clawed bathtub, generally unused, became your salvation as he begins to let it fill with piping hot water. You perched on its cold edge while you wait.
When it’s full he wordlessly accepts your clothes, the banked heat in his eyes as they sweep your body a mere promise of what’s to come.
Later.
First, you step gingerly into the bathtub, hissing at the blissful heat, and you sink in with a long drawn out sigh.
You were exhausted, and you hated that he saw it.
But you couldn’t hate this.
Eyes closing, you let yourself drift. Let the smells of the farmhouse envelop you, let the warmth of the water ease everything else away.
There had been contract questions. An interview. Some papers about the new project you were working on, and a bunch of people who decided their time with you was more important than everything else.
And you loved it. That was the hardest part; you relished every second of it. Of fitting so much into one day, of the balancing act. Sometimes the games too, because right now you were on a winning streak.
But as you drove and the roads turned rougher, the tiredness overwhelmed you. It was regrettably stronger than your excitement at seeing Bucky again.
So when he’d opened that door and you’d collapsed in his arms, you’d trusted him to catch you.
It was nice.
Even with the window propped open for the steam, it’s quiet. Just the fresh breeze outside, the far off sound of animals, and Bucky quietly moving through the house.
You doze in and out, mindful of slipping beneath the water, tension and worries leaching away as this house, this place, and the care of this farmer lulled you into an ease you had only ever found here.
Your whole body felt languid when you eventually stepped out, steam rising off your skin, colour darker with the heat. Humming, you dried off, dipping into your bag for fresh clothes, and ventured back into the house.
A wailing soulful tune lured you to the verandah.
Bucky sat on the wooden edge, afternoon sun burnishing his hair a deep brown, metal arm gleaming as he riffed a blues melody on his harmonica.
Eyes trailing from him out to gold and green fields specked with cattle, to the old barn and the endless open horizon beyond, you breathed it all in.
Without a word you sat beside him on the verandah, legs dangling off the edge as he bends notes on the harp, playing any kind of tune as it comes to him like he would on any other night.
When you learn his key and catch the beat, you hum along whatever melody comes to you first, and he places his free hand on your knee, thumb rubbing back and forth until the sun sets.
He’s up before you. When you see him, leaning against the wall by the hallway, arms crossed and staring right at you, you smile. The same one you always have when you set eyes on him.
A smile that grows larger when his face softens and his eyes crinkle just so. What he wears isn’t quite a smile, but it warms you like one just the same.
He pushed off and stalked toward you, heavy boots thudding loud in the room. Taking your shoulders in his hands, he drew you in to press a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes.
“I got some friends stopping by for lunch,” he told you, voice a low rumble and his breath fanning over your hair. “Steve and his missus. You gonna be right with that?”
Your heart thumped so loud you were sure he could hear it in the quiet of the day. Wrapping your arms around his waist and spreading your legs to pull him in, you nodded. “I’ll be alright.”
His lips brushed your skin. “Can I ask a favour?”
“Sure.” Reluctantly drawing away you looked up at him. “What kind of favour?”
“I need a couple things in town. Will you drive us in?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, but there was something about his gaze that had yours narrowing, skeptical.
“A couple things? My car’s not built to carry much.”
“Nah, that’s why you’ll be in my truck.”
Brow raised you looked at him wide eyed. “I’ve never driven one that big.”
The smirk on his face said it all. “Sure you have, darlin’.”
It’s a challenge to ignore the rush of heat pooling low within you.
“You want me to drive your truck?”
“Maybe I want you to be seen drivin’ my truck.”
“This feels like some kind of next step business,” you muse, heart fluttering. He wants you to meet his friends and be seen with him, it was enough giddiness to make you feel like a high schooler.
He shrugged, and you kissed the small smile playing across his lips.
The trip was eye opening, and not just because of the truck. The turning circle was wider than you’re used to, but you puttered along the tracks and road just fine.
No, what kept you entertained was discovering a new facet of the man you were still getting to know.
Bucky is even more tight-lipped here than in his own home, and no sooner had you jumped out of the truck, Sam Wilson was by the bumper welcoming you to town and slinging his arm around your shoulder like you were the oldest of friends.
The tic in Bucky’s jaw could not jump higher as he ground his teeth.
But when he asks if the stockfeed is open and if Sarah was working today, Sam is immediately stony faced and grumbling, telling him to stay in his lane. You learn quickly that not only can Sam Wilson get under his skin but Bucky lets him; a mutually aggravating camaraderie you don’t understand.
It’s in stark difference to the polite, gentlemanly way he speaks to Sarah at the stockfeed and hardware store, which makes you all the more curious to find out she and Sam are siblings.
Except when Bucky plops his Stetson on your head as you head back out onto the street, and you watch the identical way they cross their arms and watch him with matching eyes sharper than all the paparazzi in the city. You just know he’s gonna hear an earful when they get him alone next.
The meaning of wearing his hat is lost on you, but it gleams in both their eyes and everyone else’s on the street that day as you lug two bags of fence clips back to his vehicle.
You’re tempted to record the way he loads feed bags in the back of the truck like they weigh nothing. You imagine you’re one of them, slung over his shoulder until he grabs your waist with two hands and swings you down onto your back—
“Ready to go?”
With a gulp you nod and climb in.
Many eyes fervently follow your dust trail down the road.
You watch through the window as a flatbed truck pulls up the drive, and busy yourself setting out plates on the dining table.
Two doors slam and there’s a murmur of voices coming closer up the steps.
“What happened to the wagon?”
“On the fritz. Plus I’m picking up some hay when we leave.”
Wait a minute.
You knew that voice.
A tall blonde swung open the flyscreen, politely removing his hat and nodding hello before freezing in place.
“Steve?”
He paused in the doorway, looking at you slack jawed, when—
“Don’t block the door, I’m in dire need of a sit-down.”
“Peggy!”
In waddled your very dear, very pregnant and very surprised friend.
She blinked, mouth forming a delighted oh as you rushed in to hug her.
“Long time no see!” She says in a daze, clutching you close before holding you out at arms length, head shaking incredulously. “But how is it that you’re here?”
You helped her to a seat at the table, her eyes darting between you and Bucky who looked equally bewildered. Steve moved to his side, murmuring something low at his friend you couldn’t hear, and Bucky shrugged his response.
“Remember when I was delayed a day coming to see you? With the storm?”
“Yes,” Peggy said, hand covering yours on the table. “You had us worried sick. I had images of you lost in a ditch somewhere.”
She’d said as much the next day when you eventually turned up.
Ducking your head you admitted, “I didn’t stop at a motel like I said.” Your gaze rose and met hers. “I ended up here.”
“You’re the girl that blew in with the storm,” Steve said, his voice tinged with laughter. You looked over and Bucky was a delightful shade of pink, the flush high in his cheeks and running all the way down beneath the vee of his shirt.
Peggy regarded you warmly, her eyes gleaming with a new wealth of knowledge that put you on edge.
“I’m sure he took great care of you.”
“Alright, Peg,” Bucky interrupted with a grumble. “Steve? Want to take a look at that gear?”
When the men walked outside to the barn, gesturing animatedly and discussing farming things you had no idea about, Peggy followed you out and sat back into Bucky’s verandah swing chair with a sigh.
“I’ve loved every moment of this pregnancy,” she said through gritted teeth. “But my feet may never recover.”
You laughed, settling on the cushion next to her and helping her twist in the seat until she could lay back with her legs across your lap.
“I’ve wanted to set the two of you up for years now, you know.”
“The two of—“ Something clicked in your brain, several long-ago conversations crowding in all at once of a young feller with a rough exterior but a kind heart. “—This is James?”
He’d asked you to call him Bucky, you’d completely forgotten. Your eyes glanced up to the sign swinging gently in the breeze, emblazoned with his initials.
And Steve was a Captain! From the moment he was off active duty he and Peggy had tried for a baby, this pregnancy being the magic one that finally took.
A pregnancy that brought you out of the city for the first time in years to see your dear friend that you hadn’t visited in so long, only to end up on this very porch with Bucky Barnes sweeping you off your feet.
There was no way to know this could happen, but the threads were there. Your mind whirled, unable to consider the odds.
“And you said you’d never date a country boy.” Her voice was so smug you could do nothing but shrug.
“He’s no boy,” you whispered, and Peggy’s laughter peeled out across the yard, drawing Steve’s attention who smiled indulgently at his wife and gave you both a little wave.
Bucky was staring, face unreadable at this distance, but you could feel his eyes like a brand.
He watched you sitting there, so comfortable in his home, friends with his friends, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen you.
Steve made a noise next to him, and he turned to see his best friend smirking and shaking his head.
“You got something to say, Rogers?”
“She’ll make an honest man outta you.”
Bucky scowled. “How would you know that?”
“I know you’ve never looked this happy since your folks passed and Becca moved away.”
Kicking at a weed tuft in the gravel, Bucky grumbled, “Yeah, well, you never mentioned you had a damn famous person as a friend.”
“Why would I?” Steve laughed. “Had you even heard of her before she fell in your lap?”
Bucky shrugged a non-answer.
“Besides, she’s not like that with us. And Peggy knew her from before all that anyhow.” As if that settled that matter.
He watched you there with Peggy, giggling like schoolgirls and all the while cradling her legs, making sure she was comfortable. In his house.
His voice was quiet but sure when he told Steve, “I got a good feeling about this one, Cap.”
“Yeah, Buck. Yeah, me too.”
It was late at night. The house was still alive with boisterous conversations and delightful reminiscing. Lunch had turned into card games which had turned into dinner and sitting by the fire. Peggy regaled you with the worst kind of stories about the boys, who had the decency to look bashful before sharing a few tales of their own.
You’d hugged your dear friend close, wishing her well for the last weeks of her pregnancy, Bucky promising over your shoulder he’d live up to his godfathering duties if they ever needed a hand.
The moment they’d left, disappearing down the dirt drive into the dark of night, Bucky took your hand and drew you back to the fireplace, showing you in the most delicious way possible how happy he was with the day.
“So.”
Pillowed in his arm amongst blankets and pillows strewn on the floor, you dragged your eyes away from the gentle rise and fall of his chest to meet his steady gaze.
“When do I get to return the favour?”
Even after the last hour of pleasure your body clenched at his words, heat sweeping from your cheeks down your neck and chest.
“Bucky,” you whispered, scandalised. “I already came three times, you don’t—“
His bark of laughter surprised you.
“‘M flattered, darlin’, but not what I meant.”
He rolled then, body curving into yours and his metal arm snaking around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“When can I come to New York?”
Nothing about him changed, there was no shift in tone, but something in the question appeared so small and earnest, so hopeful, that your heart doubled over.
“You want to come to the big smoke with me?”
You felt his nod against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin reverently.
“Wanna see your world, darlin’.”
You liked the escapism, that out here you’re just you, no watching over your shoulder or calculating the hidden meaning of every word spoken to you. With Bucky you could be yourself, and not consider the PR implications of an honest reaction.
But even out here in the calm, parts of your soul longed for home.
And one particular part buried in your chest swelled at the thought of showing off your gorgeous farmer to the world.
“What about the farm?”
“I got plenty o’ favours to call in.”
The first visit was a blur of motion.
The long miles faded quickly behind him, buildings piling up on the horizon as he drove his old truck steadily down the highway, but Bucky was unfazed.
When Becca left with her new husband he’d been into the cities a few times.
Turns out this was not like those times.
There was a country mile difference between walking the streets of New York and walking the streets of New York on your arm.
‘Be there in a song.’
When he arrived it was to the interested looks of people lurking outside your door, all who swiftly drew their cameras and phones when he walked up and knocked.
And there you were, thousand-watt smile and hands grabbing him, dragging him indoors to the sound of fast shutters as the photographers captured the moment. But how could he care about them when the second he was inside behind closed doors you squeaked a happy, ‘Hi Sarge,’ and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him like you needed his mouth to draw breath.
“You got gawkers outside,” he murmured to your lips, nudging his nose against yours.
“Nevermind them,” you said dismissively, taking his hand and showing him your expensive town house.
It’s big. Foot-for-square-foot it was bigger than his family home, but filled to the brim with life. Your life. Awards and photographs and music, so much music everywhere.
“So, this is where you spin yer tunes,” he said, pressing down the keys of your keyboard and frowning when they emitted no sound.
“It’s an electric keyboard,” you tell him, and his cheeks heat.
“Right. Of course.”
“Actually, it’s a workstation. It plays, but I also use it for sampling and recording when I’m struck by any new ideas.”
He plucks the silent keys a couple more times for good measure and lets you lead him on.
Through the tour he quietly takes note of how much money is invested around your house alone, and feels something within him tighten. No, strengthen.
You’re really something. He had an idea of it, of course, after searching you up online and learning. But it was a little different seeing the fruits of your labours here in person.
Bucky knew he’d better prove he’s worthy of you. That he could meet you halfway in all this.
“So, that’s everything!”
Your smile was brighter than the sun and hadn’t dimmed since the moment you set eyes on him.
“Ready for lunch?”
The little smile playing around Bucky’s lips, one that had his eyes softening and his head tilting just so, set your heart aflutter. He stared at you, simply taking you in.
“What?” You touched your cheek, then your nose. “You gave me pash rash with that kiss, didn’t you?”
He shook his head, slow and measured, and laughed to himself. You didn’t know the joke.
“You said lunch?” He collected his keys from his bag.
“Oh, um—“ you placed your hand over his, shaking your head, “—my driver is waiting to take us.”
His brow furrowed. “But my truck’s just out front.”
“And Happy is already waiting.” Embarrassment twisted inside you. What must he be thinking? This man who had seen war and managed a farm all on his own, while you have a driver for something as simple as lunch.
But Bucky gestured for you to lead the way, popping his Stetson back in place and tipping the brim low.
As promised, Happy Hogan and the black sedan sat just outside, beside Bucky’s beaten truck.
You took his hand, knowing yours was clammy as your nerves spiked with the onset of cameras and people calling your name.
You should’ve warned him.
Too late now.
The crowd pressed in, larger than when he had arrived, likely drawn in by the news of a stranger at your door. They surrounded the car, surround the two of you, and Bucky forcibly placed himself between you and them.
“Who’s your visitor?”
“Seeing someone new?”
“Sir, look this way!”
Keeping Bucky close down the stairs and the sidewalk, you smiled gratefully at Happy who hurried around to get your door.
“Welcome to New York, Mr Barnes,” he said as you both hopped into the car, and he promptly shut you away from prying eyes.
You turned to him immediately, watching the way his gaze lingered out the window at the gathered crowd as the car pulled away. “Was that a lot?”
“Do you have, uh—“ Bucky fumbled for words as he faced you, a deeply etched frown on his face. “A bodyguard? Or somethin’?”
“Yes.” You gestured beyond the privacy screen at the passenger side front seat where your bodyguard sat beside Happy. “Bruce? Say hello?”
Bruce Banner twisted in the seat and smiled brightly at Bucky, uttering a quiet hello before turning back.
Bucky’s face was all hard lines, a tic in his jaw jumping as he thought. Then his eyes met yours and you saw the concern etched there.
“They look after me,” you whisper. “I promise.”
He nods once, barely satisfied, and takes your hand in his. “Where we headed today?”
Twining your fingers in his, relishing the callouses that graze your palm, you tell him, “Burgers first. Then I wanted to take you to the studio.”
You smiled, watching the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. The way his eyes, weather worn, crinkled at the edges and the sun spots dusting his cheeks lifted with the apple of his smile matching yours.
And all the while he’s watching you back, unable to stop the way his lips curve as you stare up at him with those pretty eyes sparkling with something he hasn’t seen before.
This time when you step out the car, he’s prepared. Bruce opens the door first, helping you to your feet, and Bucky immediately follows behind. He has a hand around your waist, grasping your side firmly, but his eyes are up and out over the heads of people around them, guiding and shielding you in Bruce’s wake.
It’s not as pointed at last time, fewer people expecting your arrival, but there’s no mistaking the piqued interest at the company you brought. At him and the obvious connection between you.
Inside the restaurant in no time, Bucky politely slid off his Stetson. He blinked slowly, banishing the afterglow of camera flashes, his only tell that this wasn’t normal. Seeing your concerned face as you waited, he grinned at you, hand outstretched, gesturing to follow the server as they lead you to a table.
Bucky’s eyes flickered around, noting the stares and the phones sneaking photos of the two of you. He took it all in, cataloguing his surroundings. Keeping his expression neutral, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of his neck at being watched so closely by so many complete strangers, he made sure you were comfortably seated before sitting.
Only once did he ask, “Is it always like this?” and you didn’t hesitate, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Yes. You get used to it.”
Even he was unsure if his grunted reply was agreement or not.
Frowning down at the menu, he took in his options.
“These ain’t gonna to be those tiny meals I see on TV, are they?” He murmured quietly.
A snort escaped before you could help yourself. “No!” Bucky’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No, Bucky, I promise these burgers will fill up even a strapping lad like you.”
And when his eyes widened as your plates were delivered, you allowed yourself a moment to gloat as he gauged how best to eat the massive meal before him.
He thought he’d fed you hearty meals back on the farm, but there was a primal kind of satisfaction inside him at seeing you dig into a meaty burger that felt a little caveman-like.
He liked a woman that could eat, and he especially liked knowing you were taken care of.
Plus these burgers were darn tasty.
He kept his voice low over lunch, not for anyone else to hear, concerned for the other patrons and staff who are clearly listening in for a little celebrity gossip. A small part of him flinched at the idea of you being lumped in with a country hick, a regular ol’ redneck, and though he’s never been ashamed of his home he has a vague idea of what that might mean to these city folk.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say at one point, your expression so openly warm and pleased that he sits a little straighter.
“Darlin’, I’d follow you to the end of the earth if you keep smilin’ at me like that,” he told you gruffly.
His shoulders stiffen when he hears a faint collective ‘aww’ and sigh from the table over, but you’re oblivious, flushed from his compliment, hand snaking over the table to capture his prosthetic one and squeezing tight.
He risked a glance up and sees a table of women, friends hanging out he supposes, looking at the two of you with stars in their eyes. They made themselves look busy when they realised he was looking their way.
“Burger was good?”
He cleared his throat. “Ain’t as good as Sam’s brisket, let me tell you. But yeah.”
He looked between both your now-empty plates.
“Should we get goin’? Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Hang on,” you said earnestly, waving over the server, “you have to try their pie.”
He placed a hand on his stomach. “Honey, I don’t think I got room.”
“Sure you do, cowboy.”
A slice was placed down on the table.
As you carved out a piece for yourself, Bucky’s spoon knocked yours. Deliberately. Giggling, you spared back, crossing his spoon with yours and making him drop the mouthful he had scooped up.
“It’s like that, is it?” He chuckled, holding up his spoon like a fencer before his face.
“Oh, Sarge.” You pointed your spoon directly at his chest. “It’s on.”
Your spoons clashed together in a loud twang and your laughter rang out through the restaurant, Bucky’s tenor underscoring it.
It wasn’t until you caught a server looking curiously at your spoon fight did you take in your surroundings, noticing the number of eyes and phones pointed toward your table. With a gentle cough you lowered your weaponised spoon.
“I yield. Even though you didn’t have room for it.”
Bucky chuckled, digging into the slice of pie, taking a large mouthful and grinning as he chewed.
“‘S real good.”
You lowered your gaze to the plate and carved out another piece for yourself, missing the charming smile and small salute Bucky gave the nosy table next to yours who continued to gawk.
You’re glad timing worked out the way it did, as you checked the text that just came in. You had a tiny surprise lined up for your dear farmer.
“Now we swing by the studio for five minutes,” you tell him in the car, Happy already making his way there. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Honey, I’m here for you. Whatever you got to do, I’m a foot behind you.”
Stark Studios was surprisingly busy for midday, people from all walks of life bustling through its doors. But there was one in particular who promised they’d be there, and as you twined your arm around Bucky’s you felt giddy knowing he would find this fun.
The main lobby run off into a little gallery, pictures, posters, album covers and exemplary statistics showing just what a powerhouse Stark Studios was in the music business.
You’d left Bucky there to talk a little business with your manager and record executive, and when you returned twenty minutes later with someone else on your arm, you found him standing in front of the wall dedicated to you and your work. Your career so far.
There was a blank space still to be filled, with a cheeky sign stating, ‘For her future hits.’ Tony had thought it was both motivating for you and a challenge declared to the other artists signed to the record label.
Bucky chuckled and nodded when he saw it.
“Hey, cowboy? I want to introduce you to someone.”
You indulged him in dragging his feet, wide eyes taking in all the signed memorabilia and photographs.
This would be a treat.
But when you stood in front of the red head and gave their introductions, you smirked knowingly at his slack-jawed expression.
No, he hadn’t known of you when you first met, but Natasha Romanoff?
You’d found not one but three of her albums by the Queen of country music in his home one visit, and some of his favourite tunes to play on the harmonica were harmonies from her songs.
His ears tinged pink as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Do I look that old, son?”
His gaze flickered to you, uncertainty clouding his baby blues, and you hip checked Natasha out of her pointed stare.
“‘Tasha, you’re scaring the poor boy.”
His eyes flashed. You smiled at him sweetly, knowingly.
You’d pay for that comment later.
And the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed. Natasha’s eyes were wickedly bright when she said, “I’m waiting for him to stomp around like an unbroken horse.”
He snorted out a breath heavily through his nose and that cracked her. She broke into a genuine smile, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”
You stepped away and he clasped your elbow firm enough to draw your complete attention.
“Call me boy again and I’ll remind you what this man can do.”
He felt the shiver that wracked your whole body.
Stood to one side while he spoke with Natasha, you mouthed a thank you to your friend when she gifted him a signed poster and kissed him on the cheek, lipstick stain lingering and all.
You weren’t jealous of the starry eyed expression on his face, nor the way he rambled like a schoolboy all the way back to the car. Honestly, you were pleased he’d liked the surprise so much.
You still felt a little reminder of how much you cared was in order.
Bucky motioned you into the car first, watchful eyes on the street and surrounds, ever vigilante.
But he didn’t see you coming.
Pulling him roughly to the backseat, you could barely wait for Happy to shut the door before you got to work on his belt.
“Christ, darlin’, what—“
Kissing him firmly, you pulled back only enough to tell him, “Let me.”
His jaw clenched hard but his eyes were already darkening. You felt him twitch beneath your hands.
Bucky’s eyes flickered to the front seat over the privacy partition where Happy climbed in to drive them home.
Biting your lip, you pressed the button for the privacy screen to close.
“Bye, Happy.”
You ignored the man’s knowing smile in the rear view mirror as the glass slid in place.
Belt undone and jeans quickly pried open, you delved in, humming happily as your hand closed around his cock, already thick and heavy in your grasp. He bucked up into your touch and his head thunked back against the seatrest.
“Yer a madwoman,” he muttered, watching from beneath hooded eyes as you knelt on the seat and lowered your mouth to him.
The first touch of your lips made him jerk again, smearing precum against your mouth. Licking your lips to the sound of his gasp, you twirled your tongue against the swollen head and took him in, inch by inch, all the way until your lips touched your hand at his base.
“Darlin’, you can’t. You—“ he choked on a guttural groan as you swallowed around him.
You pulled away with an audible pop.
“Ssh, Bucky.” You didn’t recognise your own voice, deep and husky with want for him. “You don’t want someone to hear you.”
His cock twitched in your hand, his fist clenching hard.
“Be a good boy and stay quiet for me, Sarge,” you whispered, and took him in your mouth again.
When he began to rut up into your mouth you hummed your approval, your eyes rolling back as you felt him hot and heavy at the back of your throat.
And when he came for you on a muffled groan as you swallowed everything he gave you, you delighted in how wrecked he looked sprawled out in the car seat, mouth parted with heavy breaths.
He stared at you, your lips swollen and lipstick smeared, and grit his teeth, sending out a silent prayer to whoever listened for dropping you in his path.
Awake long before you, farm hours never gifting him the luxury of a sleep in, Bucky lounged in bed. Arm slung behind his head, nothing better to do with his time, he browsed the internet for something he never thought he’d care for.
Gossip.
He searched your name, searched his, scrolled through social media and news blogs, unable to fathom how quickly the world moved up here.
Day one in New York and he could map it through these posts and stories almost to the minute.
Photos of his arrival at your door, of his guarding you from the onslaught of attention. Where the two of you ate, who you saw at the studio.
Even analysis of where to buy a hat just like his. That got his hackles raised.
He felt you stir next to him, gorgeous limbs flexing and stretching like they ached from hard work.
He knew his grin turned wolfish at the reminder of how thoroughly you’d welcomed him to the city late into the night.
“Good morning.”
And what a good morning it was. Your hair tousled on the pillow, smile languid and warm, hand pressed against his bare stomach.
“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice the only thing not yet woken from slumber. “Wanna know what the world thinks of your farmer debut?”
You huff out a laugh and shuffle closer, pressing your face against his side. “What do they say?”
“Mostly talk about how good-lookin’ I am.”
You thump him lightly with your fist.
Chuckling, he reads a passage from a particularly kind blog, one that called him rakishly handsome, softly spoken, and only drew on his military history. He chuckled reading it again.
“I gave ‘em nothing to talk about.”
“You can do that,” you pout. “If I don’t talk I’m labelled a snob.”
“That’s not quite what they say here.”
Interested, you pushed further up the bed, settling into the crook of his arm.
He kept his tone light while he read. “‘So smitten with her new beau, our pop princess barely spoke to anyone else, preferring to keep her attention — and her lips — on him.’”
He tilted his phone toward you, showing you the last photograph anyone had captured of the two of you yesterday.
A photo of you both stepping out of Happy’s sedan onto the sidewalk outside the townhouse, a close up of the red lipstick stains in his stubble and your perfect lip line all but disappeared, smudged around your swollen lips.
The bedsheets did nothing to hide his body’s reaction at the reminder of your gift to him in the car.
“They missed one thing,” he said, dropping his phone and rolling until he hovered over your body, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other tracing a line from the hollow of your neck down your chest.
You blinked up at him, eyes still sleepy but warming quickly to his line of thinking. “And what’s that?”
“That I can’t keep my hands off you either.”
His fingers found your side, tickling mercilessly.
With a shriek and a giggle you squirmed under his hands until the sounds devolved into moans, your body writhing in a different way as he settled between your legs.
The noise is constant. The texts, emails, calls. But also the voices, the cars, the underlying hum of everything.
He learns quickly that Happy and Bruce see you as a friend, a responsibility, not just a job, and he warms to them immediately.
He especially likes when your bodyguard hangs back because they know in Bucky’s hands you’re safer than you’ll ever be.
He doesn’t like the photographers and reporters in your face, urgent words and desperate requests jostling you when you’re only trying to get to the car, and he quickly becomes acquainted with how bodily the guarding of you keeps him occupied on every outing.
Until the day an arrogant paparazzo tries to get too close between him and your bodyguard.
“Get the fuck outta her way or I’ll bury you in a field where no one will find you.”
But somehow even that is brushed off, twisted into some heroic act, no mention of threats or an investigation.
The world is enamoured by the pop star and her farm boy, and for now you can’t go wrong.
He hates that whenever you step outside your home you’re no longer your own person, open to the whims of the paparazzi, fans on the street, demands on your time for stupid reasons like being seen in the right places and with the right people.
But he loves how you handle it all. Your grace and determination, especially when it’s your fans begging for a scrap of your attention, and you give it to them willingly because, as you say, who would you be without them?
He pictures you in his barn, hand gentle on his horse’s flank as he shows you how to whisper sweet words to his girl, and he thinks he has a pretty good idea of who you can be no matter where you are or who your audience is.
What he loves most are the evenings, the quiet hours nearing then passing midnight, when he can take you in his arms and soothe away the trials of the day. When he can make you tense and relax in the best way he knows how. And especially after, when you curl up against him like only he can hold the world at bay.
And for you he would.
There are days on the farm he wished he could say ‘no more’. Long, tiring days when the hard labour pulls too much and he entertains thoughts of throwing in the towel.
But watching you here in your giant plush king bed, the tension slowly leaching from your shoulders as you rest, your eyes still creased with the struggles you endure, he wonders how you push yourself through. No one works as hard as you.
“Yer guarded out here.”
His words made the hair on your head ruffle where he’s pressed his cheek to your crown.
You hummed. “I’m on display here.”
“‘S why yer so tired all’a time.” His accent thickened as he too felt tiredness set in.
Sighing, you buried your face closer, breathing him in. “It doesn’t help.”
“‘N why you question e’rythin’ you do.”
You felt for the seem of his prosthetic beneath his shirt, tracing the line over the fabric.
“Lucky I’ve got my own slice of paradise to escape to, huh?”
“Where’s that?”
Tilting your head back, you gave him a small smile. “Your place.”
“Hmm.”
He gazed down at you and you let yourself get lost in his big blue eyes.
“Can’t really keep chickens here anyhow.”
Scoffing, you pressed your face to his chest again.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Sergeant Idiot. And you picked me. In a storm no less.”
“Yeah,” you said, your hand resting over his fast bearing heart. “Yeah I did.”
You’re fussing over him, flitting through the townhouse like a whirlwind to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.
He knew he hadn’t, knew everything was inside the duffle bag at his feet, but he didn’t mind leaving you distracted as he carefully he noted down the name and make of your keyboard, taking a photo for good measure.
You’d lamented the missing of it on one visit, dragging the whole thing stand, cords and all on another. He thought to save you the trouble next time.
What he did mind was the pain you tried to hide as you kissed him goodbye. He didn’t always have the luxury of seeing your face when the two of you parted, the farm always ensuring he was up at the crack of dawn and leaving you sleeping soundly in his bed until you were ready to drive. It was bittersweet, but in some ways easier.
Then he wouldn’t have to feel the tremor in your hand as you held his, walking him to the door and promising you’d see him soon.
And as you watched him leave, watched his old truck peel away from the curb and take the sunshine with him, you felt a pang in your chest that never truly went away until you were in his arms again.
The drive back to the farm was the longest he’d ever driven. Not by miles, but by the road stretching behind him.
The growing distance between him and you.
He’d never felt it so succinctly, seeing your car amble away down the the dirt track. But this ached in his chest in a way he’d never felt before.
He knew the name of that feeling. Knew those four letters without a doubt. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to only think it once the dust began to kick up behind his truck.
Nevermind. He’d tell you next time.
When he found not one but three separate photographers slinking around on his property, sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t because this was private land, he called the sheriff.
He promptly installed two shining new signs on the outer gate at the property line, warning about private property, trespassing and prosecution.
He chuckled as he surveyed them, snapping a photo to send you because he knew you’d get a kick out of it. And he wondered how different his life would be right now if he’d had those signs up on that fateful stormy day.
Probably no different at all, not back then. Same ol’ country boy on his family farm, labouring away day in and day out. This was the different future he’d longed for. You were the difference.
He was glad you’d never been warned away. He was glad you came in with the rain.
Another month, another country drive.
Cutting the engine in what had become your parking spot, you stepped out onto the grass and dirt of Bucky’s front yard and looked around.
His old Ford was parked up, but in one of the distant fields you could see some dust on the horizon.
Looks like you had a wait on your hands.
You glanced at the swing chair on the verandah, but something behind you tugged hard. You turned, your eyes settling on the wood of the fence line, and started forward.
You step first onto the bottom beam, pulling yourself up by the top second beam, then you swung your leg up and over, hauling yourself up to straddle the fence line. You rested your ass on the fence post and surveyed everything around you.
Gently rolling meadows. Fields of greens. A clear sky as blue as the eyes of the man you waited for.
You bit your lip, an idea for lyrics slowly swirling and forming in your mind, and you dug out your phone to capture the moment of inspiration.
And that’s how Bucky found you, an hour later, humming a tune into the receiver end of your phone as it recorded.
You visibly gulped when you caught sight of him, and didn’t miss the unmistakeable way his walk turned swagger as he approached.
He knew what he looked like, shirt plastered against his body, hands, arms and jeans dusty and dirt smeared from hard work, sweat beading deliciously on his forehead under the wide brim of his Stetson that drove you utterly wild.
“Hey there, honey.”
There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he helped you down, hands clasping your hips firmly and not letting go when he set you on your feet.
“Turn around.”
A voice of steel, commanding, slicing through you and melting any thought of denying him.
You turned in his grasp.
“Hands on the fence.”
You rushed to obey, hands gripping the top wooden beam.
He made a tsk sound and you trembled.
“Bottom one.”
Your face flushed hot as his hands encouraged you to slowly hinge at the hips, to bend over and place your hands on the lower beam.
“Good girl.”
He ground himself against you then with a slow roll and you felt exactly how happy he was to see you from the hot, hard length of him pressing against your core.
His hands dipped around, roughly unbuttoning your pants and shoving them down in one swift motion. You gasped when your panties followed suit.
Bucky groaned at the sight.
You squirmed as the cool afternoon air breezed against the most sensitive parts of you, damp flesh tingling cold. A soft whimper escaped, unbidden, and his chuckle stung with a little cruelty.
“You need somethin’, honey?”
You felt your body sway back, searching for that press of him against you again, but instead you cried out as his hand came down in a stinging slap against the bare skin of your ass.
“Use your words.”
It hit you then that you hadn’t spoken since he appeared from the barn, struck dumb by the sight of him.
Turned even dumber by this.
When you could speak, it came out broken and breathy. “B-Bucky, please—“
“Please, what?”
You didn’t know. You had no clue what to expect let alone what you wanted most. All you knew was you didn’t want him to stop.
“Please, I need more. I need— n-need”
“Know exactly what you be needin’, darlin’. And I’m gonna give it to you.”
A booted foot pressed between yours, nudging your stance wider, and the soft whoosh of him dropping to his knees in the grass behind you had you dragging in a deep breath.
But you lost it again a second later when he buried his mouth against your slit.
A groan escaped him at the first taste, guttural and ragged, his hands clasping each cheek and spreading you apart. You moaned with him as his tongue plunged deep.
He ate at you fiercely, like you were the first meal he had all day and he was a man starved. His tongue lapped and laved, his lips and mouth sucking and sipping at your flesh, drinking you in. You tried hard to contain the sounds desperate to spill out of you, but Bucky would have none of it.
“Let me hear you, darlin’,” he rasped, hand replacing his tongue as he gathered the slick drooling out of you and used it to circle your entrance. “Tell the meadows yer mine.”
He pressed a single finger in, thick and deep inside you, and your strangled cry echoed throughout the yard. Slowly, a second finger joined the first, stretching you wider, curling just so until you clenched hard around him.
And when his mouth fastened around your clit, sucking hard as his fingers pistoned in and out of you, you devolved into a mess of babbled words and broken moans as your orgasm tore through you with lightening speed. Still his mouth stayed on you, fingers deep but gentling, easing you through the waves and keeping you on edge.
Your legs buckled, and he wrapped his metal arm around your thighs.
“Got you.”
But he didn’t lower you down, didn’t gather you into his arms. No, Bucky pushed forward, easily lifting you inches off the ground and pressing you up and over the wooden beam until you rested on it. Your hands scrambled for purchase, your still-shaking body burning where the hard edge of the wood pressed into your skin, your shirt hardly softening the edge.
“Bucky, wha—“
When the sound of his belt unbuckling hit your ears you twisted around.
The sight you beheld would never leave your memory for as long as you lived.
Bucky behind you, jeans shoved down around his thighs, palming his raging erection with the hand still slick from you, the tip of him angry red and leaking. His shirt pushed up out of the way, his lean stomach and abs on display for your needy gaze.
He rested his metal hand against the small of your back, lining himself up with you, and only then did he glance down and catch you watching him.
His eyes were dark, blue swallowed whole by black, arousal flushed high on his cheeks and mouth open in heated admiration. His damn Stetson was as crooked as the smile he gave you as he rasped, “Ready f’me?”
He didn’t give you time to answer.
His gaze held yours as he pressed in, the thick heat of him stretching you in a delicious burn as he pushed every inch.
Your ragged moan covered his grunt of pleasure when he bottomed out inside you, filling you so completely your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut.
“Welcome back, honey.”
In one long breath he drew out again, then brutally drove home.
Your hips stung with every thrust as he pushed you against the fence beam over and over, and you knew come morning you’d be bruised and sore, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t, not when he fucked you so deeply, when he heaped praise and desperate grunts upon you in equal measure.
“So fuckin’ good,” he told you, each word panting out with a snap of his hips. “Missed this. Missed you. Fuck, I missed you.”
His words became lost in a series of groans as you clenched around him, your second orgasm drawing in, and his hips stuttered.
“Got another f’me?”
Your hips pressed back against him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that high only Bucky could give you. Your legs were shaking, your voice hoarse as you whined and moaned for him, your fingers white-knuckled where you clutched the fence.
He bent forward and thrust up into you, the angle driving the length of him against that sweet spot deep inside that had you bucking wildly in his grasp. His hand snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing with single minded determination.
You came with a strangled cry.
Bucky swore violently and fucked into you once, twice more, before burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside. You could feel every pulse, every bit of him as you clenched and fluttered around him in the aftermath.
The yard fell quiet, save for the sounds of both your soft panting breaths.
Bucky gently eased you back, gathering you into his arms as he lifted you and sat down on the ground against the fence post, folding you across his lap. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat strong and rhythmic against you, and you sighed.
In the distance a cow mooed and you giggled helplessly.
“Who knew it could be like this,” you whispered, uncaring if there was an answer.
Bucky was quiet for a time, his cheek resting against your head and his hand idly tracing shapes against your thigh.
“I was ticked off when I saw headlights that night.”
Another laugh huffed out of you. “I thought you might murder me.”
You felt his chest shake with silent laughter.
“Now I get all melancholy when it rains and yer not here with me.”
“You mean that?” Your voice was small and you didn’t draw back to look at him, didn’t know how to handle whatever answer he gave you.
“‘M sittin’ bare-ass in the grass right now. Only f’ you.”
“Bucky.”
You felt his shrug, his lips pressing gently to your forehead.
“Fell in love with you when you ran up those there steps and kissed me. E’rythin’ else fell into place around that.”
That’s when you pulled back to look at him.
He met your gaze openly, no holding back, no doubt in his eyes. Only the surety of his feelings.
You didn’t say it then.
He didn’t need you to, kissing first the tip of your nose then pressing his lips to yours in an achingly soft kiss.
But later, when you winced as you climbed into bed beside him and he touched the line of bruises across your hips reverently, kissing your skin and apologising over and over for being so rough with you, it slipped out like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
He hummed agreement, his thumb rubbing soft circles against your skin, hoping to soothe the angry marks with touch alone.
“Yeah. I am.”
There was always something to do on the farm, and the animals always needed tending, but he felt a tug on his heart and an itch under his skin as the days stretched on.
So he texted you for another trip.
You called back that night, uncertain.
“I’m really busy with work,” you say, and it’s not an excuse to push him away, he knows that. It’s just your crazy schedule isn’t as routine as farm chores and country life.
He’s sitting in his truck, parked outside Sam’s bar, music and voices spilling out with the light from the door, and he knows there’s a cold beer waiting for him inside.
But he’d miss it all to keep talking with you.
“There’s an awards things coming up, and—“
“You gotta get dolled up?” That perked his interest. “Wear one of those slinky dresses, your hair all twisted up nice. Struttin’ down that red carpet like you already won?”
He pulls laughter from you, the tinkling sounds better than any song of yours he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t even mind when you chide him gently. He just laughs too.
Until your soft confession punches the breath out of him, setting his heart beating so hard his ribs would bruise. “I want to show everyone how in love with you I am.”
“Then I’ll come to the show,” he said gruffly. “You on my arm, the whole world knows who I belong to.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.” So cocky. So confident. Easiest thing in the world, to declare you were his. And he yours.
“Can I buy you a suit?”
“I got a suit.”
“Bucky.”
Ah, right. This was a fancy thing. “Not the right suit, hm?”
“I want to get you something tailored.” There’s a wistfulness to your voice that sends a bolt of heat straight through him. “Something that hugs you perfectly, shows off your shoulders and your arms—“
You broke off, letting out a soft sound he’s heard a million times before, and he wants to crawl through the phone to get at you.
“Yer gettin’ all wet just thinkin’ ‘bout me in those clothes. Wait ‘til you get ‘em off.” His accent comes out thick with a growl, and you whimper, actually whimper, making him curse and shift in his seat as his jeans grow too tight.
His voice is low and husky when he promises, “You can get me whatever you’d like, darlin’. Just let me be there with you.”
He doesn’t have a regular parking spot in New York, not like you do back home. There isn’t a growing bare patch in the concrete where his tyres sat while you were out and worked business all day.
Truth be told he kinda liked the way his dull paintwork stood out against the shiny black sedans, the stupid Teslas, and the little electric things. He liked that someone could glance down the street and see something different had arrived.
But he especially liked it when he got the spot right outside your building, those cold looking grey stairs leading from his rusty Ford door to the one that let him enter the one place in the big city that felt like a little entering heavens gates.
‘Cause they brought him to you.
And despite your hectic schedule, despite people vying for your attention all over town, you’re right there at the doorway every time he knocks to great him nice and proper with a kiss.
There’s a fitting at some snazzy building in the middle of the city, a private tailor upstairs from offices who go through more money in one day than he sees in a year.
It makes his head spin a little, but your pleased grin when he stands up on the podium wearing the suit you’d ordered is all he really needs to worry about.
“What do you think?”
The tailor is a lanky older gentleman, the type you see in all the old movies, and Bucky turns this way and that as he looks at himself.
If only his folks could see him now. They wouldn’t recognise him in all this.
“I don’t have a dog in this fight, sir.” He turned to you, sitting on the little couch by the window, looking pretty as a peach in a dress and smiling up at him. “Lady’s call.”
You stand, approaching him slow, your eyes telling him without a doubt exactly how good you think he looks.
“You’ll do,” you say on a sigh, and even the tailor chuckled. “Thank you, Jarvis.”
When Jarvis leaves the room, Bucky finds enough confidence to nod at his Stetson you carry in your hands. “Reckon they’ll let me wear it on the red carpet?”
You match his cheeky grin with one of your own, reaching up to place the hat on his head and turning him back to the mirror.
“Why do you think I picked this colour?”
You enjoy every moment of his surprise when he takes in the whole perfectly matching ensemble.
Time moved like an avalanche in New York. One minute he was sharing a light breakfast and early morning kisses with you, and the next you’re both in a hotel suite near Madison Square Garden. Hair and makeup stylists fussed over you in a seat before a mirror while wardrobe people and your management team talked logistics and the possibilities for the night ahead.
You sat in the middle of all the chaos, letting them paint your face and play with your hair, and all Bucky could do was stand to the side and let it all happen around him.
They’d already dressed him and messed with his hair and face an hour ago.
“Would you like us to shine your— um, your, uh…”
One of the poor wardrobe girls gestured hopelessly at his prosthetic and Bucky arched a brow at her. “What you gonna shine with? Shoe polish?”
She looked like the floor could’ve swallowed her whole.
“It’s a well-meaning thought, but not necessary,” you called out, your voice carefully measured. But when Bucky looked your way you seemed conflicted between rage on his behalf and the urge to laugh at the girl’s predicament.
He stepped forward to cool your temper, and put that fire to better use.
“All this pampering is, uh—“ he brushed his knuckles against his stubble and through his hair, peering at himself in the mirror over your shoulder. “It’s a fuss, but nice. Didn’t know it could sit like this.”
“Hmm a little clean for my liking.” You meet his gaze in the reflection.
“Yeah?”
“I like my farmer a little … rougher.”
“You like me dirty.”
There was a soft gasp from somewhere behind you both, but you didn’t care what they overheard. Not with the way Bucky’s eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to the soft robe you were wearing.
The robe with nothing beneath it.
“I have to dress,” you said quietly.
“Don’t need the robe to dress,” he said back, voice low enough for only you to hear.
Your eyes burned with the desire to give in, but you couldn’t. Not this time.
“If you let me dress in private now, I’ll let you take it off me later.”
He scoffed, lips curving in an entirely too-smug smile. “Let me?” He said, shaking his head and lifting your hand to brush a kiss against your knuckle. “Try to stop me.”
Because he hadn’t seen the dress before having only arrived in town long enough to have his suit finished, but he knew whatever design they had cooked up for you was going to knock him dead.
Time ticked by as he stood in the other room with your management team, Tony explaining to him exactly how the red carpet and ceremony would run, when the wardrobe team returned to the room.
He felt his hands grew clammy as you called out, “Ready?”
This felt like it could be his damn wedding day with how nervous he found himself.
But when you stepped into the room, everything else faded away. You were a vision, glowing in your gown with your hair perfectly pinned and face painted just right. You were always gorgeous in his eyes, but the hours of work they put in now finally seemed justified.
They turned you into a goddess.
“Do you like it?”
He laughed because how could you not know?
“Yeah, darlin’, it’s—“
But then he looked.
Really looked.
And his mouth fell open.
The colour. The colour stopped his heart.
Inky dark and shimmering, the black fabric hugged your figure and swept down around you, the stark colour the perfect background for the spears of brilliant golden arcs crossing and flowing, like lightening slashing across your body
Your dress matched his prosthetic.
For a moment Bucky was speechless,his hand reaching out to hover over the lines of gold reverently, mapping your body like he was learning you all over again.
“I asked them to make it look like kintsugi and lightening,” you told him quietly.
He said your name on a broken whisper. You could see in his eyes his emotions choked him.
“I told you, Bucky. I want the world to know who my heart belongs to.”
He met your gaze then.
He knew how long it had taken to perfectly apply your foundation and makeup. He knew and he didn’t care.
He kissed you. With all the force of the love beating hard in his chest, he took your face in his hands and kissed you like he could infuse every ounce of his being into you in that moment.
He stole your breath but he gave you back so much more.
“Are you ready?”
They asked you, but the question was clearly directed at Bucky.
He flashed his most charming smile, donning his hat and turning to offer you his hand so you could step out the vehicle.
“I’ll manage. And if I can’t, I’ll just stare at her.”
Like he could drag his eyes away.
Honestly the cameras were dazzling. He saw stars. He thought he was handling it well, expression stoic, steady hand at your back, thumb rubbing circles against your bare skin.
He stands where he’s told to stand, helps guide you where you’re told to go, only stepping away when your red carpet handler asked him to leave space for photos.
And when you looked at him, your thousand watt smile banishing any doubts as you murmur, “Eyes on me, Sarge,” he knew how much this mattered.
He’s here for you. He’ll do this right for you.
Later, in the grand open space full of hundreds of your peers, everyone seated according to who was who in the industry, you hold his hand and smile at him like he’s the only one there.
When your name is read from an envelope and you throw your arms around him in elation, he knows the two of you have got this thing right.
Until you steal his hat, hurrying away as you place it on your head to accept your award.
He doesn’t see the camera focussed on his face, capturing his wondrous laugh as he claps and beams with pride. He only has eyes for you up on stage, gushing with gratitude and thanking the world that helped you reach this pinnacle.
“And to the man that brought me here tonight—“
Your gaze locked with his from beneath his Stetson, eyes misty and smile shining brighter than the award in your hands.
“I do this for you,” you said, pointing through the fancy crowd right at him.
He thinks out of all the people here tonight, and for all these coveted awards, he might actually be the biggest winner of the evening.
a/n: this is officially the first smut I’ve ever written 🫣 only for you dear Decaf. Have a moodboard for Bucky’s farm to make up for it, and what I vaguely think the dress would look like
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦summary: Bucky keeps you secret from his team, but your effect on his life might not be something he can hide.✦
✦warnings/tags: thunderbolts!bucky, wife!reader, no use of y/n, soft Bucky Barnes, no description of reader, shenanigans, tooth-rotting fluff, he's so down bad for you it's crazy ✦
✦wc: 6.1k✦
✦Author's Note: request from anon! i love letting him be happy like he'd be such a wife guy trust me✦
Bucky Barnes has been bringing a lunchbox on missions.
It’s not a sparkly lunchbox. Nothing flashy that grabs attention—like Yelena’s bedazzled, personalized lunchbox and it’s three hundred rhinestones, required to stay in the jet no matter how much she insists upon it being an asset—but everyone notices anyway.
Not because of the lunchbox itself, made of smooth black metal and could easily be mistaken for just another part of the jet. Because of it’s contents.
Strawberries.
Heart-shaped strawberries, put in a baby blue Tupperware and arranged neatly in a little circle around some honey.
“You dip fruit in honey, Bucky Barnes?” Alexei asked when he saw it.
Bucky had only shrugged. “It tastes good.”
“Would be sweet, no? Very sweet. Like cream.”
“It’s not like cream.”
“No, not cream, cream.”
Bucky had stared at him incredulously, and Alexei had sighed, snapping his fingers.
“Yelena, what is word for cream in English.”
“Cream is word for cream.” Yelena hadn’t looked up from her phone, and Alexei had sigh.
“No, cream is word cream. This is other cream. White and fluffy like cat. Soft, like baby’s bottom, sweet like world between woman’s legs-“
“Jesus, man.” Walker had groans. “Are you talking fucking whipped cream?”
Alexei had clapped his hands with a grin, everyone had started groaning, and Bucky and his strawberries had gone unnoticed for the rest of the flight.
But the next one, it was Yelena asking if he bought them, or cut them himself. Walker wanted to know if Bucky liked strawberries because they were girl fruit, and Yelena punched him in the face. Bob nervously asked to taste one, and Bucky had handed it over because he was the only one not being an ass about this. Even Ava teased that if he could do heart, he must do other shapes, and everyone distracted themselves coming up with what other form the strawberries could be cut into.
They seemed to be entertained by the thought of Bucky eating strawberries cut in the shape of dicks, and Bucky had let them laugh. It didn’t bother him all that much, when he was the one eating them, they tasted perfect—you’d done something with cinnamon that he didn’t understand, but was as amazing as you were—and he knew the answer to all their questions, no matter how mocking they were.
“Why honey?” He’d asked you while you cut them, leaning over your body with his chin on the top of your head.
“Because it goes with cinnamon.” You’d hummed, and Bucky had grunted.
“Well, why cinnamon.”
“Because it tastes good, James.”
“Why.”
“Because.” You’d leaned back, giving him an amused look. “You’re like a toddler, you know that?”
Bucky had smiled—the small, secret smile he saved only for you—and leaned down to press a deep, sweet kiss to your lips.
“Only for you.” He’d murmured, and you’d smiled, looking back to the strawberries with a pretty flush.
He loved standing like this. Where you were wrapped tight in his arms, and he could pretend he was never going to have to let go. He could bury his nose in your hair and smell the shea butter you made him use as well, but always just smelled better on you. He could rub his hands on your sides and feel you squirm, just press his face into your neck and feel your every word vibrate through his body.
Bucky would stand like this forever, if he could.
But he did have a job. A job he had to go do, soon.
So you made him lunch, to tide him over until he saw you again. A little reminder that he was loved, that someone as good as you loved him. The rest of the team could have their jokes, because Bucky was loved.
Loved by a woman who he might’ve been able to woo in his best years—before he was missing a damn arm and woke up in the middle of the night fighting ghosts—but who he’d never even dared to dream of having a chance with now.
He didn’t like strawberries before you liked them. He didn’t care to bring lunch to work—he didn’t even need it, if he had a large breakfast—before you started volunteering to make it for him.
“I don’t want you to get hungry.” You’d said, pouting up at him, and he’d have to be a fool to tell you no.
Not when you take so much time to make it, just for him. Not when you can do other shapes—stars and moons and flowers and even a damn snowflake, and probably a dick if Bucky asked, although you might start giggling so much it wouldn’t be safe to let you near a knife—but you do hearts just for Bucky.
Because somehow, you’re something that’s just for Bucky.
A secret, good thing that he doesn’t have to share with the team.
Love that isn’t caught up in politics or old fights that bleed through time. Just you, and Bucky, and heart-shaped strawberries.
He lets the team keep teasing.
It’s hard to mind, when he’s the one who gets to eat the strawberries in the end.
Yelena notices it first.
They’re in the truck on some mission in Alaska, with no wifi for streaming and the truck rattling so loud it gives her a headache. She asks Bucky to put on the radio while he drives. He says no. She keeps asking, over and over, until he caves and turns it on with a scowl.
And she’s happy with it. It’s just a top 100 station—some good, some bad, depending on taste—but Yelena likes it plenty, and it’s enough to calm her brain down.
Once her brain is calm, she starts to notice things.
Things like Bucky’s hand tapping on the wheel. Like his mouth, moving silently along with the lyrics of a few songs.
How his nose scrunches when some songs start—like he knows they’re going to be bad—but he smiles to himself for others. His knee bounces with some baselines. His head bobs along with the music.
He knows the songs.
“You like pop music?” Yelena asked, and Bucky started slightly. Like he forgot she was there.
“No.” He grunted, and Yelena scoffed.
“Really.”
“Yeah. We’ve had this conversation. I like-“
“40s music. I’ve heard.” Yelena narrowed her eyes, watching him carefully. “You seem to know the radio songs.”
His jaw ticked. “I have ears. I remember things.”
“Impressive, since you are a million years old.”
Bucky gave her a tired look. “I’m a hundred.”
“Most people have no minds by a hundred. But you- Look at you. You enjoy Lady Gaga.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
He was lying through his damn teeth, and they both knew it, but Bucky was pretty sure he had the upper hand. Yelena could accuse him all she wanted, she’d never guess why Bucky already knew all the songs. Never be able to work out that he listened them so he’d know what you liked. That he liked certain ones more than others because he’d think of you singing them in the shower. That he hated certain ones because you hated them, and you knew more than he did.
Bucky would sit at your feet and listen to you ramble about racist country singers for the rest of his damn life, if he could. He’d listen to you talk about anything, because you were passionate about everything, and you never looked prettier than when you cared.
You’d get all flushed, your nose would wrinkle, your hands would wave around as you gestured, and Bucky didn’t understand half of the actual words you were using—what a stan was, how idol seemed to have a meaning very different that he remembered, or what the hell a fandom was—but he liked how you said them. Like how you’d just pet his head sometimes while you spoke, and how happy you’d look when he repeated something you said a few days later, to prove he’d been listening.
So he’d learned all the words to your favorite songs, because it made you happy. Just like you’d learned how to dance to 40s music with him in the kitchen, even if you stepped on his shoes and mostly just stared at him with shining eyes while he led you around.
He didn’t mind doing that, either. It felt like heaven to have you in his arms. And you’d always giggle when he spun you around, and ask him questions about the 40s he only would ever give you the answers to. You’d smile at all his stories. You’d ask to watch the movies he liked, read the books he’d enjoyed, listen to more of his music.
The least he could do was memorize a few songs. It made you smile.
And Bucky felt like a real good husband, when he made you smile.
Nobody needed to know that the Winter Soldier enjoyed pop music. That didn’t strike fear in the hearts of adversaries, and people would probably want to know his opinions, when they were just yours echoed.
He did sing along to the next song, though. Under his breath, but audible. Just to mess with Yelena.
She gaped at him. “You- You are singing-“
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bucky drawled, smirking at the road.
Yelena narrowed her eyes. Turned down the radio and leaned forward, scanning over Bucky’s face.
He gave her a bored look, brows raised in amusement.
Yelena leaned closer.
“You are strange, Bucky Barnes.” She muttered, and Bucky snorted.
“Really? Hadn’t noticed.”
“Stranger than usual.” Yelena continued, like she hadn’t heard him at all. “Very strange.”
Bucky just shrugged, and Yelena hummed.
“I am onto you. I will figure out what strange music secrets you keep.”
Bucky laughed again. “You do that.”
“I will.”
“Alright.”
“Alright.” Yelena mocked, slumping back into her seat. “What do you think of Rihanna, Bucky Barnes?”
Bucky knew what you thought of Rihanna. Knew that you wished she’d make more music, something he actually agreed with. The woman had good beats, and used a lot of real instruments. Those had been some of the easier songs to get through.
“I don’t know who that is.” He repeated, but probably after pausing for too long.
Yelena huffed like she didn’t believe him. Bucky was probably playing with fire, by not shutting this down firmly. But he really couldn’t bring himself to care.
He wouldn’t stop listening to the songs. And it wasn’t his fault they were so damn catchy.
He did wish Yelena could hear you sing along to them, though. You did it a hell of a lot better than he did.
And Bucky got lost in thought about you again. He didn’t feel his grin, pulling at his face from the thought of you.
Yelena narrowed her eyes.
Something was up with Bucky Barnes. Music and strawberries. Soft things, for soft people, which he was not. Maybe he had been kidnapped, and this was a clone. Yelena could fight a clone. That would be quite easy.
But the easy thing was rarely the answer. Which was annoying.
It didn’t matter.
Yelena would figure out what Bucky was hiding.
And if it was something that let her fight a clone, well. Worse, stranger things have happened.
Bob and Ava realize next.
They’ve known about the strawberries. Everyone has known about the strawberries. Only Bob knows about the music—Yelena told him—but Ava’s noticed things as well.
Liking Bucky smiling at his phone. Going to bed before everyone else, and waking up before them as well. And it shouldn’t be strange that a solider goes to bed early, but it’s how he goes to bed.
Bucky makes a big show of it. He stands up, announces that not to bother him unless someone is dying, and still try to handle that yourselves, then marches off to his room.
Ava walked past it last week. And she knows she’s not supposed to—something about privacy—but Bucky had a book she’d wanted, and doors are just suggestions that people think keep them safe anyway.
She phased through the wall, and found the room empty. Completely and totally empty. No noise from the bathroom, no lump in the sheets. Nothing.
The book had been on the nightstand. She’d taken it and gone, but wondered.
If the room was always empty.
If Barnes was up to something.
Bob just thought the music thing was nice.
“Maybe he just likes pop music?” He’d offered to Yelena, who’d shaken her head.
“No. Bucky Barnes does not like this.”
“I- That can’t be true-“
“It is.”
“He likes some books.” Bob had said, a little desperately. “And… Sam Wilson’s his friend. They have to do something together.”
“They fix boats.”
“See! That’s liking something-“
“This is not a boat, Bob.” Yelena had snapped. “This is music. It is important, because Bucky likes it, and he does not like things.”
And that wasn’t entirely true.
Bucky didn’t like most things. He didn’t like crowds, or snow, or most movies until you liked them and suddenly he understood what everyone was making such a big deal about. He didn’t like planes or trains, and boats were fine, and he hated going most anywhere until you’d started riding on the motorcycle with him. He didn’t like resting, or eating, or the dark, but then you made him do spa nights with him and suddenly all those things were fine.
“Your hair is better than mine.” You’d murmurs, running your fingers through it, and he’d sighed.
“That’s not true, doll.”
“It is.”
“Nothin’ I got is better than you.”
You’d hummed, smiling to yourself as you started to braid on of the thicker locks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He’d sighed, like he was pained you didn’t believe him. “I don’t sneak around for just anyone y’know.”
“Well, you don’t have to sneak around for me-“
Bucky had said your name, rolling onto his back with a sigh.
You’d given him an innocent look, and he’d swallowed. Reached up to trace your features, his voice low and serious.
“You know I can’t risk something happenin’ to you. I don’t like hiding either, but-“
“I know.” You’d kissed the inside of his wrist. “I’m just reminding you. Just in case.”
You’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled slowly back. His eyes shining with that quiet, relaxed awe that was yours, and yours alone.
The world could have Bucky in whatever role they made him play. He always went along with it, as long as he was helping, no matter how many times you casually floated the idea of him retiring. There was always another reason he had to keep going. Another part of him they wanted to take away from you.
But this, the peace and silent, but immeasurably powerful love that radiated off of him, it was all yours.
“I love you.” He’d murmured, and you’d brushed a little hair from his face.
“I know.”
He’d frowned. “You’re not gonna say it back?”
“You know I love you-“
“Yeah, but I like hearin’ you say it, doll-“
“I love you, James, I love you so much-“
Bucky had rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just bein’ mean to me.”
You’d giggled, leaning down until you were hovering only inches away. “You like it,” you’d whispered. “Gives you an excuse for later.”
Bucky’s eyes had flashed, his hand slowly sliding down around your neck, and you’d laughed again. Sat back up and gently nudged his shoulder.
“I love you, old man.” You’d pushed a little harder. “Flip over, I’m braiding your hair.”
He’d groaned, but still flipped back onto his stomach. His face had been pressed into your thigh, one arm around your middle and the other rubbing up and down your calves as you braided. When you’d finished, you’d tied it, and he’d dove for you like an animal.
The braid had somehow survived the night, even if you couldn’t really walk.
And Bucky had kept it in. It was a little under the thicker top layer of his hair, so no one would see it, and if he couldn’t wear his ring at work he wanted something that was made of you.
Then the hair tie would got lost in a fight, and the braid came almost completely undone. He used to go back to you, and sheepishly ask you to redo it. And you always would with a smile and no complaints, and Bucky could never hate time he got to spend at your feet, but he also liked learning things.
Braids were good for ropes. They could busy his hands, if he was stuck on the jet too long and no one was looking at him.
If you ever had daughters together, he’d need to know how to do them, the exact way you did.
So he asked, and you taught him.
And Bob and Ava are in the common room talking about the Baby Shark song with Ava tries to braid her hair, but she’s not all that good at it. She usually just keeps it inside the suit.
Bob offers to help. He’s worse.
They’re seconds from going to grab Yelena when Bucky walks in with a bored expression, and finds Bob’s hands in Ava’s hair, both of them looking like they just got caught doing something wrong.
“What’s wrong with you two.”
“Bob can’t braid hair.” Ava says plainly, and Bob frowns.
“Well I- I’m trying- But it’s- There’s so much of it-“
“Yeah, I got it.” Bucky sighs, then frowns at Ava. “Can’t you braid your own hair?”
Ava sniffs, raising her chin. “I never learned. But thank you, for reminding me of that childhood norm I missed out on-“
“Christ, it’s not like I’m all sunshine and-“ Bucky had sighed, ran a hand over his face, then nodded to himself. “Alright. Bob, move.”
Bob had moved, hands in the air like a surrender, and Bucky had taken his place.
He’d worked fast. Very fast. Fast and neat, because he’d been practicing on himself and you, and he was pretty damn good at it now.
That was a good braid. Bucky stood back with his hands on his hips, nodded, and marched out without another word.
Bob and Ava sat there for a moment. Bob stared, and Ava reached back carefully to touch the braid.
It felt alright. There weren’t stray hairs, and the pattern was tight.
Which meant Bucky had given her a braid of… Above average quality.
Ava looked at Bob, and found his mouth open. Their eyes met, neither really sure what to say other than-
“What the fuck was that?”
Alexei notices next.
He doesn’t know it, but the rest of them have a running bet. Yelena told Bob about her theory, Bob pulled Ava into the room, and they all put a week of chores on the line for who’s going to realize last.
Yelena thinks it’s going to be Bucky, not picking up on the fact that everyone is onto him. Ava thinks it’s John, his head too far up his ass to make such observations. Bob thinks it’s Alexei, simply because no one else had money on Alexei, and he wasn’t allowed to simply not participate.
For a while, it seems that they’re all on even footing. Bucky keeps coming and going, smiling at his phone and suddenly knowing how face masks and baking and different soaps work, and no one else seems to be picking up on anything odd.
Then Alexei asks Bucky to go out with him.
“Night on the town, Bucky Barnes.” Alexei claps his shoulder with a wide grin. “We will find many beautiful woman, all looking for attention from great Red Guardian and Winter Soldier!”
Bucky grunts. “I’m good, thanks.”
“I know, you enjoy moping around Watchtower, why am I so alone, where is love- It is because you hide, I will help you stop hiding-“
“I’m not-“ Bucky sighs, and shakes his head. “Maybe next week. I’ve got plans tonight.”
He walks away, leaving Alexei frozen in the middle of the room.
Bucky Barnes does not have plans. He does not do plans. He’s dragged places by his neck, then returns to sulking in mysterious places around the tower. Usually when Alexei asks him to go out, he gets a very similar no, but then he asks again and gets a grumbled fine.
Alexei doesn’t want to go out anymore anyway. There is no better drinking partner than Bucky Barnes. His moody, handsome face pulls in attention, and Alexei gets to swoop in and charm everyone that Bucky turns down with tight words and a half apology. It’s a perfect system.
Bucky is messing with the perfect system.
“Yelena.” He stomps into the living area with a scowl. “Something is wrong with Bucky Barnes.”
Bob groans. He’s the first person to lose the bet.
Alexei doesn’t believe it at first, when they lay it out for him. Strawberries and pop music are not evidence of having a woman. Hair is not either. Alexei can braid hair. He used to do it for Yelena and Natasha, all the time.
“Mother taught you how.” Yelena points out, and that is a fair point. He’d leave it in knots before Melina showed him how not to.
But he would have noticed, if Bucky Barnes had a girlfriend. He lives in the tower. Alexei is Guardian, he knows who comes in and out of their home. If Barnes was hiding secret girl, he would have been the first to realize.
“Or she doesn’t live in the tower.” Ava drawls. “Bucky has been hiding an awful lot, lately. Maybe he goes to her.”
Alexei thinks this is insane. Why would one ever leave the Watchtower? It has magic robots, a kitchen with two ovens, and a pool. America is beautiful country. Robots. Ovens. Pools.
But Ava is exactly right.
The first few months of your relationship, Bucky had still been staying at the Watchtower. He’d entertain Alexei’s outings, knowing he was just there for—as you say it—eye candy. He’d drink and mope about not being with you, maybe call you and tell you how pretty you are, then stumble home and dream about being in your arms. Sometimes he would end up in your arms, managing to drink enough that it actually effected him, thinking home when he got in the Taxi, and ending up swaying on your doorstep.
You’d smile at him, when you opened the door.
“Did you drink the whole bar?”
“Only half.” He’d mumble, leaning against your door. “I love you.”
You’d giggle. He loved your giggle. It was a sound of pure joy, almost like the songs his Ma used to make him sing in church.
He understands church more, now that he has you. He’d build a whole house in your name, and make sure it was even half as beautiful as you were. He talks to you every day, texting even when he knows you won’t respond for hours, the chance of your attention worth every bit of his time.
“I love you too.” You’d say, flushing and beaming at him. You’d get bashful and nervous, the first times he’d say it. Like you weren’t sure it was real.
And back then, he’d have to linger like a street dog at your door, staring at you hopefully under you asked him inside.
Now he has a key. He takes off from the Watchtower while no one is paying attention. Stops at the corner store to get you chocolate and flowers—he does this every time, you’re considering opening a shop—before heading to the other side of town.
To you.
He has a key to your apartment now. It’s his apartment too.
Houses are the kind of thing you have to share, when you’re married.
“You’re an hour early.” You say when he opens the door, and he chuckles.
“Can’t be early to my damn home, doll-“
“Bucky-“
He turns from closing the door, and his jaw almost falls off his face.
He is very early.
You’re in one of those thin, lacy things you get yourself to try and give him a damn heart attack. Sheer and tight, highlighting curves and making you somehow more than naked. There’s still the small robe, but it doesn’t hide anything at all.
But your hair isn’t done, your face clear of makeup for him to ruin.
Part of him likes it more. You look like an angel.
And it would be a shame for him to make you waste all your fancy products and put in so much effort, when he’s going to wreck you no matter what.
“I’m early.” He rasps, and you cross your arms.
“You have to go out. I’m not ready yet-“
“You look pretty ready to me, doll.”
You flush under his heated, almost rabid gaze. You’re already getting sore between your thighs, and he’s just standing across the room.
Setting down the flowers and rolling up his sleeves. Waiting patiently for you to beckon him over, tongue darting over his lips as his gaze rakes over your body, and your knees are getting weak.
“I’m trying to give you something nice.” You squeak, and Bucky laughs.
“You are giving me somethin’ nice-“
“Well, it- It’s going to be better than this-“
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
You breathe sharply, and Bucky raises his brows.
He’d been ravenous before you were married. Somehow, now, it’s even more than before. He touches you like he’s trying to leave a mark. To remind you that even when he can’t be home, there isn’t a single moment you’re not on his mind.
“Green light?” He mutters.
You nod, then remember the rule.
Words.
“Yes. Please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
And outside, Yelena, Ava, Bob, and Alexei, frown up at the series of windows, trying to figure out which one Bucky disappeared into. It was Alexei’s idea to follow. He wanted to prove Bucky was simply sick, rather than leaving him to try and pick up women alone.
Right now, his odds aren’t looking good. Bucky doesn’t buy chocolate and flowers for himself.
“Maybe he’s on the other side of the building?” Bob suggests, after almost an hour of staring at Bucky-less windows.
The words are barely out of his mouth before Yelena spots it.
Bucky and a strange woman, stumbling into a room, their mouths practically attached. His shirt is gone. She’s wearing something that looks like it used to be lingerie. Bucky tosses her onto the bed, kisses her ankle, then moves to the window.
He closes the blinds, leaving the team gaping up on the street, all thinking the same thing.
Bucky Barnes has a secret girlfriend.
John notices last.
They’re on a mission in some small city, and it’s fast. Clean. No slip-ups—for once—which means no extra paperwork to file. Yelena makes them go to the mall. They have a Petco, five makeup stores, and a cinnabun. There’s never going to be another chance like this.
It’s in one of the makeup stores that John finally gets clued in. Yelena doesn’t like any of the perfumes she’s looked at—and made everyone else look at, because they should all stop smelling like sweet and damp ass—and Bucky points out that she hasn’t been cleansing her nose after each one with the coffee.
He suggests a specific perfume. It’s not overly floral and sweet like what Yelena’s been trying. He thinks she’d like it, and she does.
And John is suspicious.
“Barnes has a wife.” He hisses to Ava, and she snorts.
“Aren’t you late.”
“What does that mean-“
“It means we’ve all known he has a girlfriend for months, you’re the last person to-“
“No. I didn’t say girlfriend. If he’s with someone, it’s a wife.”
Ava pauses. Looks over her shoulder, to where Bucky is staring at this phone, lost to the world.
He smiles at something on the screen, then looks up like he’s checking nobody saw.
“Why do you think it’s a wife.” She says slowly, and John shrugs.
“He knew perfumes.” Walker says loftily. “You don’t learn perfumes for a girlfriend. That’s wife shit.”
Ava frowns. His logic is flawed. Downright incorrect.
But he did reach the right conclusion, even with the wrong equation.
Bucky learned perfumes for you before you were even engaged. Before he got a key to your apartment, or you talked about a future, or he bought the ring. And he’d gotten that ring fairly early, too.
Right after he spent three hours before your anniversary, researching perfumes to figure out the exact kind you’d like as a gift. He’d gone to stores, looked up guides on line, even sneakily asked Yelena questions to figure out what she liked, how it related to her personality, then apply his findings to you.
He’d been nervous when he’d made his choice. He didn’t get nervous anymore, but his palms had been sweating, his thoughts racing at what might happen if you hated the gift. You were too sweet to break up with him over just a perfume, but Bucky knows how small things can crumble a whole foundation. A good gift showed you he cared. That he’d been paying attention. It build trust, and grew affection. With that, he’d be showing you how serious he was about this. If you knew he was serious, that opened a million more doors that he’d only been holding as fantasies.
Moving in together, sharing a life. Marriage. Maybe partial retirement, removal from the public eye. Being allowed to go out with you in public without having to be so damn careful. Eventually getting a house. Maybe a cat—he liked cats—and, if you wanted it, one or two kids.
But none of that would happen if you didn’t know he was serious. If he’d already messed up by getting you the wrong perfume.
He’d played it super normal, when he’d given you the bag. Collected and suave, not sweating out of his ass, certainly not praying to the whole universe that you’d at least not hate it-
“Bucky.” You’d gasped, holding the bottle with delicate hands, like it was made of crystal. Like it was his heart, rather than some glass. “You didn’t have to-“
“Wanted to.” He’d grunted. “Do you-“
“I love it. I- I’ve wanted this one for a while, actually, but- James, I know how much this costs-“
Bucky had kissed your cheek, letting the prideful, golden feeling in his chest bloom.
“You’re worth it.” He’d muttered, and your smile had been worth more than a whole damn store of perfumes.
He’d gotten the ring that Monday, before he went back to the tower. Spent every moment apart from you that weekend researching cuts and carats, just like he had the perfumes.
When he’d proposed, he’d told you that he’d been half a man before you.
You’d told him that even if that was true, you would’ve fallen in love with him if he was a tenth of a man. That just a sliver of him was easier to love than every other man on the planet combined.
They’re all dancing around it. How to tell Bucky they know about his girlfriend—or wife, as John keeps loudly insisting.
A few times, Alexei tries to start a conversation about what kind of women Bucky likes. Bucky stares at him, giving only grunts as answers, and Alexei gives up fast. Yelena asks if he’d want to go on a vacation to the Bahamas with anyone, and he just shrugs. Ava’s taken to stalking him through the tower, trying to catch a slip-up that gives her the perfect moment for confrontation. Walker has been talking about jewelry and perfume so much, Bucky asks if he’s getting back together with his ex.
Bob doesn’t really want a part of any of this. He thinks that if Bucky wants this to be a secret, they should respect that.
Everyone else thinks that’s boring.
They’ve pooled their time, to manipulate the perfect way to reveal that they know. It’s a needlessly elaborate plan, with far too many uses of a t-shirt gun, a blimp, and a pure-bred horse.
But it will work. They’ve spent months getting it right. By the end of the week, Bucky will admit he has a girlfriend—or wife—and they can start teasing him about it, as is their right.
The plan will be implemented tomorrow. They’ve prepared. Nothing will go wrong.
Then, in the middle of a meeting about some organization either having too many automatic rifles—or not enough, but none of them are really paying attention—there’s a knock on the door.
Everyone freezes. There’s not a single person in the building, who doesn’t know the rule. Never interrupt Valentina. Not even if the world is ending. You wait until she’s ready to hear about the apocalypse, then you speak.
She’s scowling at the head of the table, but waves a tight hand for Mel to answer the door.
When she does, everyone cranes their head to see who’s about to get fired. But it’s not an employee or agent, standing in the hallway.
It’s a beautiful, anxious looking woman holding a smooth lunchbox. She’s shifting on her feet, wearing a thick coat and diamond ring, looking around like the walls are the tallest thing she’s ever seen, and-
She’s the girl from the window.
Wearing a ring.
John would be smug, if he wasn’t trying to wrap his head around how that was Bucky’s wife. But it’s not just him.
You’d looked pretty from the window. Up close, it’s no wonder Bucky wanted to keep you to himself. You might’ve been able to defeat Thanos with a smile.
“Hi,” your voice is soft, your expression like a doe in headlights. “I- Um- Bucky forgot his lunch.”
You hold up the black box, and Valentina clears her throat.
“And you’re who exactly?”
“Um-“
“An assistant?” She shoots Bucky a glare. “I don’t see why you should get an assistant, James, you barely even do anything-“
“Bucky does things.” You stand a little taller, eyes narrowing on Valentina. “He does a lot of things, and- You don’t even give him pet insurance-“
“He doesn’t need pet insurance-“
“Yeah, because my boss is a nice person-“
“Darling.” Bucky stands up quickly, moving to block you from Valentina’s venomous glare. “You didn’t tell me you were coming, I would’ve met you downstairs-“
“I wanted to surprise you.” You mumble, lips pulling into a pout. “Sorry.”
“’S alright.” He glances over his shoulder, to everyone’s aghast, almost offensively shocked expression. “I gotta finish this meeting, you know where my room is?”
You nod, still looking too damn sad, and Bucky sighs. He leans forward to kiss your cheek, keeping his voice low enough only you’ll hear.
“I coulda gotten something from the café, y’know.”
“Yeah, but- You’d forget to.”
Bucky chuckles, squeezing your waist gently. “You’re too good to me, doll.”
“Hm.” Your smile returns, paired with a pretty flush. “I don’t think I am.”
You touch his arm, leaning forward to press a tiny, quick kiss to his lips. It takes everything Bucky has, not to drag you back and make out until you’re both dizzy. The only thing that manages to stop him is the eyes of his teammates, glaring daggers into his back.
You walk away with one last smile over your shoulder, and Bucky waves with a foolish grin.
Then he turns, braces his hands on his hips, and sighs.
“We’re gonna do this now, aren’t we?”
Valentina scoffs. “Do what, make you explain why you’re bringing your little civilian into the tower without approval-“
“She is approved.” Bucky grunts. “She’s my emergency contact, that grants her automatic access.”
Bob’s eyes widens. “Wow, it’s- You’re that serious? Not that you wouldn’t be, just- I didn’t know girlfriends could be emergency contacts. I always thought it was, um- Family. Only?”
“Anyone can be a contact.” Bucky grunts. “And- Jesus-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face.
There’s no point lying about it now. Might as well get it over with.
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my wife.”
Walker shouts I knew it. Yelena starts demanding her winnings from Ava, and Alexei starts grumbling about not being invited to the wedding.
But none of them are all that surprised.
“Did you all… Know?” Bucky snaps, and Yelena rolls her eyes.
“Of course. You were obvious, like dog after bone.”
“I was not, and- That doesn’t make sense-“
“We all knew, Bucky.” Ava shrugs. “But it makes sense. She’s beautiful.”
At that, Bucky grins. He’ll be angry at them later.
Right now, he’s just standing tall with pride.
“Yeah. She is.”
✦End note: deeply upsetting that we're probably only going to get the one Thunderbolts movie I was 50 of them like the Avengers.✦
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✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
✮ word count: 10.6k
✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
main masterlist
The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"
"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Bucky—"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if I—" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naïve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow down—"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buck—"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. But—"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let me—"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I said—"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnes—"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer and—"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's not—"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You are—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
Summary: The team knew something was off about you, the one who kept hijacking their comms and saving their asses with pop music and precision. What they don’t know is that you’re Bucky Barnes’ secret wife.
MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: blood and injury detail, combat violence, gunfire, language, references to past trauma, mentions of HYDRA and Red Room conditioning, high-adrenaline tension, implied PTSD, emotionally repressed idiots in love
Word Count: 9.3k
Author’s Note: ok this was unhinged levels of fun to write and i regret nothing. i love the chaos. thank you again to the incredible request!! will i be writing more of this flavor of secret marriage? absolutely. also: i’m working through more requests soon so if i haven’t gotten to yours yet, i promise i haven’t forgotten!! thank you for being here and screaming with me always <3
The mission had gone to shit six minutes ago.
Yelena had called it first, with that vicious kind of sarcasm she reserved for the moments just before blood hit the concrete. “Ah, yes. Reinforcements. Wonderful. So glad we were not warned about that.” Somewhere ahead of her, gunfire cracked in frantic bursts, too far left for the recon drone’s range. The team had split off in the chaos. Ava had gone radio silent, Alexei had wandered too far into the smoke, and John—somewhere in the middle of it all—was bleeding too much for someone who insisted he had it handled.
Bucky moved like a phantom, silent and sharp, pulse pacing steadily with the beat of crisis. Not panic. Not anymore. He’d spent too many years being the last line between chaos and carnage to waste energy on nerves. But this was the kind of mission that reeked. Hasty intel. Unexpected players. A mess of underpaid mercenaries with too much firepower and no clear objective.
Something was wrong. And it wasn’t just the lack of backup.
He ducked behind a half-collapsed column, adjusting the comms in his ear. “Ghost, come in.”
Nothing.
“Belova, status?”
“Busy,” Yelena snapped back, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting concrete.
“Walker?”
Crackling. Then, “Still upright. Not loving it.”
Not a lot to love. Their extraction point had been pushed back two miles, and the enemies just kept coming. Sloppy formation, uncoordinated, like someone was using them to smoke them out. But why? Sure, they were the newly named “Avengers”, but they weren’t even a proper unit yet. Just a bandage stretched too tight across a bleeding world.
A second burst of gunfire lit up the smoke ahead of him. Bucky pressed forward, adjusting the rifle over his shoulder.
His ribs ached. Something had cracked when he hit the wall earlier, but he was used to working broken. There wasn’t time to slow down. Another figure emerged from the mist and he recognized the clumsy footwork, the huffing breath. Walker. He was limping, red blooming across his arm, jaw clenched tight enough to crack enamel.
“They’re circling back,” he growled. “Either we regroup or we go down swinging.”
“We’re not dying here,” Bucky said simply.
The comms hissed.
Just a stutter of static at first. Barely enough to make anyone flinch. Then a pulse. Faint. Rhythmic. Almost like—
“Oh god,” Bucky breathed, just as the bass dropped.
It was unmistakable. Blown-out, over-compressed pop blaring directly into his left ear. Not military comms. Not interference. Music. High-energy, aggressively hyper-feminine, shamelessly catchy.
“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me…”
“Are you—what is that?” Walker barked, slapping at his ear like the sound had crawled inside it.
Yelena’s voice buzzed back into the channel. “Is someone playing Pussycat Dolls on our frequency?”
Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His blood had turned to static. That song. That voice—not the lyrics, but the one threaded over the top of it, smooth and low and familiar. One he hadn’t heard in weeks and one he wasn’t supposed to be hearing for another few days.
“Miss me?”
Bucky turned and it was like watching the opening beat of a nightmare you hadn’t allowed yourself to dream in years.
The smoke curled around you first—black against the pale concrete, shivering in the aftermath of a concussion blast—and then you stepped through. Leather at your thighs, a familiar half-mask pulled just low enough to show your mouth, batons already swinging. One of the mercenaries clocked you too late. You dropped him with a strike to the temple, pivoted cleanly into another, ducked a swing and hit back twice as hard.
You weren’t supposed to be here.
Not in this fight, not in this city, not in this life.
At least, not anymore.
You had promised. Not with words, never with words, but in the quiet, liminal moments between missions. The soft touches passed like contraband between bodies that only knew how to break things. The way you said enough without ever needing to say it. The way you’d disappeared, with him, years ago, when it became clear the world didn’t need you anymore.
But you’d always needed him.
That much, apparently, hadn’t changed.
“Who the hell—” John started, eyes wide as he tracked your path through the battlefield.
“Shut up,” Bucky snapped. Too loud. Too fast. Too revealing. He kept his eyes on you. Didn’t dare blink.
You moved like you’d never stopped. Like the years hadn’t dulled you. Like civilian life had been a dream someone else lived for you.
Another merc tried to grab you from behind. You shattered his kneecap without looking, then tased him mid-collapse with a baton charged enough to light his vision up for a week. You were grinning now. Not wide. Not cocky. But with the same edge he’d seen years ago when you’d told him you didn’t believe in peace, just long stretches of boredom between moments worth bleeding for.
The team closed in slowly, instinct dragging them toward you without understanding why. Ava reappeared from a wall, phasing in with her hand on her weapon. Alexei lumbered forward, red suit charred at the edges. No one said a word. They all watched as you handled the remaining mercs like it was nothing. Like it was fun.
Then came more boots.
Bucky heard them before anyone else did, just barely, just over the last distorted chorus still crackling through the comms. A dull percussion of heavy soles slamming rhythmically into the concrete, coming fast through the fog of gunpowder and ruin. More reinforcements. He didn’t need eyes on them to know they weren’t freelancers this time. These steps were uniform. Trained. Unrushed.
Whatever this operation had started as, it had just shifted into something colder. Measured. Intentional.
“Movement,” he said, sharp into the mic. “East side. Full formation.”
Ava phased halfway through a concrete wall, scanning. “Tactical gear. Gas masks. No insignia.”
They were boxed in. Walker had maybe one clip left. Ava was half in and half out of phase, red bleeding under her ribs. Yelena’s shoulder was hit. Alexei’s arm was dislocated again and he kept wrenching it back into place like it was a door hinge.
And then there was you.
Standing calmly in the center of the chaos, blood on your knuckles, mask cracked at the jawline. Not tense. Not afraid. Just… assessing. Like you’d seen this play out already.
The first soldier in the oncoming wave raised a weapon.
And you moved.
Not back. Not for cover. Forward.
The stereo signal shifted with you, leaping from Bucky’s comms to the mercenaries’ headsets, hijacking every open frequency on-site. A different song—now louder, sharper, folding itself into the space like a knife into bone. The bass thudded through the pavement, disorienting, impossible to ignore.
“This place’s about to blow—”
The lyric hit just as you sprinted toward the advancing line, coat flaring behind you, batons tucked back into your belt. You didn’t need them now.
Two soldiers opened fire. You dropped low into a slide beneath their aim, boots skimming waterlogged concrete. You came up spinning, driving an elbow into one throat, then swinging around to knee the second across the jaw with enough force to crack his visor.
Bucky couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
You were in the center of it now, alone. Completely surrounded.
And utterly untouchable.
One mercenary tried to grab you in a bearhold from behind. Your head snapped back into his face before he could tighten the grip, cartilage crunching under the blow. You twisted free, used his moment of stunned pain to launch yourself off his chest, flipping backward into a double-leg kick that sent two more sprawling.
They were trying to flank you. Six at once now. You moved too fast to corner, slipped between them like smoke through fingers.
You caught a rifle midair—torn from one man’s grip—then swung it by the barrel, not to shoot but to break. Shattered it across another soldier’s helmet. Sparks flew. He screamed.
You tossed the ruined weapon aside like trash.
Another tried for a taser jab. You caught his wrist in one hand, yanked it forward, and let your forehead crack against his temple with a sickening thunk. He dropped. You rolled over his body, grabbed a sidearm from his hip, twisted the battery cell out of it mid-motion, and used the casing as a projectile. Hurled it into the next man’s throat with such force that he stumbled backward coughing blood.
You weren’t improvising. You were performing. A display in violence so surgical, it felt rehearsed.
There was nothing showy about it. No wasted breath. No excess.
But it was beautiful.
More than one of them hesitated now. The last cluster fell back into each other’s lines, rifles up—but jittering. Off-sync. Unsteady. You were outnumbered five-to-one and you looked like you were winning.
No comms. No backup. No partner on your six, despite Bucky standing right there.
And still, no one could touch you.
Alexei had frozen, one hand still holding his dislocated shoulder. He squinted through the haze. “Is that—are they doing this without a gun?”
“She’s using a speaker and spite,” Yelena said, breathless.
Bucky barely heard them. Every atom in him had locked onto you.
He hadn’t seen you like this in years. Not since the war-torn corners of places no one dared map. Not since missions that left no record. He’d watched you walk away from this life—bloody, ragged, swearing you were done with men who handed out orders and didn’t come home.
But here you were.
“This place's about to blow—oh oh oh—”
The beat peaked again. You moved with it.
Bucky didn’t realize until later, until the playback logs came through, that you’d used the signal bounce from the comm hijack to trigger a proximity ping in one of the mercenaries’ own mines. Subtle. Elegant. Just a single pressure charge set beneath the concrete underpass.
You’d timed it to the music.
The explosions hit not with a flash, but a boom—a deep, guttural bass that ripped through the center of the formation. It threw bodies. Concrete cracked. Rebar snapped like bones. The wave of force didn’t kill anyone outright—it was too clean for that. But it sent the force scattering, screaming, radios buzzing with confused shouts in languages the translation software couldn’t keep up with.
You walked through the smoke, now. No urgency.
One of the last men standing raised a trembling pistol.
You were on him in a breath—disarmed him with a spin, yanked the weapon apart in two brutal motions, and slammed the butt of the magazine into his vest until he collapsed, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief.
Bucky took a step forward. And then another. He didn’t know he was moving until the smoke curled at his boots.
Silence followed like a held breath.
When the last one fell, your music still bumping faintly over the comms, you finally looked at Bucky.
“Hi, baby.”
It wasn’t breathless. It wasn’t mocking. Just a quiet, dangerous kind of intimacy.
His heart felt like it stopped.
You moved to him casually, eyes raking over the bruise at his temple, the smear of blood under his collar. You tilted your head, inspecting him like he was a car you’d loaned out and found parked crooked in the wrong neighborhood.
The mask muffled your voice slightly, but not enough to hide the dryness in your tone. “Now that was a proper encore.”
The comms crackled again, faint and dazed.
“…Okay,” Walker muttered. “What the fuck just happened.”
No answer. Not from anyone.
Bucky approached you like someone walking through a minefield he already knew was active. Your eyes met his, slow and deliberate, as you reached up and peeled the broken edge of your mask back enough to speak.
“You look like shit,” you said simply.
“You blew up a fucking parking garage.”
“I nudged the pressure plate,” you corrected. “The garage blew itself up. Poor structural planning.”
Yelena finally spoke, somewhere off to the right. “Who are you?”
You didn’t look at her. Just exhaled through your nose like the question barely warranted a pause. “Old friend,” you said simply. “Fewer ethics, better taste in music.”
It hung there, ambiguous enough to pass but barbed enough that it didn’t invite further questions. You knew exactly how to deflect. How to disappear even while standing in plain sight.
You turned back to Bucky. The tilt of your head, the shift of your voice—both softened, only fractionally, but enough that he would feel it in his ribs. That awful, aching familiarity.
“You weren’t going to tell me about this op,” you said flatly, voice low, just for him.
“You're not supposed to be tracking me.”
You hummed. “And yet.” You tapped a gloved finger to his chest. Right above the hidden seam of his tac vest. He knew there was a tracker there. Or, he would now.
Behind you, the others were beginning to recover, weapons slack in their hands, confusion settling in like dust.
“Again, who is that?” Ava asked, still half in phase, her eyes narrowed.
“Nobody,” Bucky said quickly.
You turned to him again, one brow lifted.
He didn’t flinch.
The silence pressed in again. You could hear Walker muttering something—something about vigilantes, unregistered allies, probably some offhand comment about being underpaid—but it didn’t matter. Not right now.
You leaned in close enough for only Bucky to hear. “I don’t care who you work for now,” you murmured. “But if you’re going to keep playing hero, I’m not going to sit at home hoping you come back with all your pieces. You trained me better than that.”
“I didn’t train you to break into comms systems mid-op and hijack the sound system with—what was that?”
“Don’t Cha.” You smiled faintly. “It slaps.”
He closed his eyes for half a second. Breathed deep. Then opened them again. “You can’t do this.”
“Sure I can. I’m not a part of your team. I don’t need clearance. I just need one good signal bounce and an encrypted network to patch into.”
“And a speaker,” he added, dry.
You shrugged. “I improvise.”
Another pause.
“I’m not here to start saving the world again,” you said. “But I will show up when you’re two seconds from bleeding out in a parking garage in Bratislava because your team has shit intel and someone decided not to bring extra clips.”
He didn’t argue.
You patted his cheek briefly. Nothing overt, just enough to make the breath catch in his throat.
Then you turned, vanishing into the smoke just as casually as you’d arrived, music still pulsing faintly behind you.
Yelena said what everyone was thinking.
“What the fuck just happened?”
No one had an answer.
Bucky didn’t offer one either.
He just stood there, aching in every limb, and wondered how many more of his missions were going to end with Pussycat Dolls blaring through government-issued earpieces—and how many more trackers he was going to have to tear out of his suit.
The debrief had ended thirty minutes ago.
No one had left.
Yelena sat cross-legged in one of the overstuffed chairs, a protein bar crumpled in her palm like she’d forgotten she was holding it. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a half-twisted bun that had begun to unravel midway through the meeting, and her expression had only grown more pointed with every breath Bucky refused to waste explaining you.
Across from her, Walker was pacing—slow, agitated, like a caged animal that hadn’t quite figured out what corner to piss in yet. He’d ditched the tac vest but kept the sleeves rolled, flexing a bruised bicep every time he turned. Alexei had already snagged half of the post-mission snacks from the shared kitchenette and was now loudly crunching on something suspiciously orange. Ava sat against the far wall next to Bob, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded, as silent and sharp as a scalpel.
Bucky sat alone near the far end of the table, arms folded loosely across his chest, gaze fixed on the blacked-out screen of a wall monitor.
“So,” Yelena said, picking at the wrapper. “Are you going to tell us who they were, or do I have to keep guessing?”
Bucky didn’t move.
Alexei pointed a carrot stick in his direction. “They knew you. Very well. This is not up for debate. They called you ‘baby.’” A pause. “Is that normal? Do coworkers in America do that now?”
“She hijacked our comms with bubblegum pop and flipped a full tactical team without breaking a sweat,” Ava said quietly. “I’d like to know who’s training with that kind of precision and not wearing a uniform.”
“She’s not on any registry,” Yelena added. “I checked. No files. No background. No facial ID. She doesn’t exist.”
“She’s not a threat,” Bucky said. Flat. Final. The tone of someone who’d been interrogated before and wasn’t interested in playing along.
“No. You don’t get to do that,” Yelena said, sliding off the table with a thud. “You don’t get to stand there all quiet and broody after someone cartwheeled through an active war zone, made our entire unit look like unpaid interns, and then blew up a parking garage with what I’m pretty sure was a Bluetooth speaker.”
Walker let out a bark of laughter and didn’t bother hiding it. “Thank you. Finally. I thought I’d imagined that.”
“You did not,” Ava said flatly, still watching the skyline. “I checked the audio logs. She used a frequency bounce to route music through nine of their channels simultaneously. Bounced it again to mask her own comm signature. She was using earpieces as echo chambers.”
“That’s not even real,” Walker scoffed. “That’s comic book shit.”
“So are we,” Yelena shot back.
Bucky rubbed his jaw, said nothing.
Bob looked up from where he’d been twiddling with the strap of his watch in the corner of the room. “I liked the song.”
Four heads turned toward him.
He blinked slowly. “I listened to the audio logs too. It was catchy.”
Alexei made a noise like he was preparing to argue with the furniture itself. “She took out twenty-five men, minimum. With her hands. And rhythm. I am sorry, but this is not someone who just wandered in from the street. This is not some random playlist enthusiast. You know her.”
Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
That answer hung there, not quite satisfying.
Yelena stepped closer, arms folded, chin tilted like she was examining a lie for cracks. “Okay. So who is she. What’s her name.”
“I don’t know if she’s using one right now,” Bucky lied easily. “We worked together a long time ago. That’s all.”
Walker barked out another laugh. “Bullshit.”
“We ran ops in a couple regions,” Bucky said. “Mostly when things got too quiet for comfort. Off-books. Years ago. She walked away before everything really came apart.”
“She tracked you across a continent,” Yelena said.
He met her eyes. “She likes to be thorough.”
“Was she CIA?” Ava asked. “Because I’ve seen their psychological profiles and that was not the average ex-operative response to stress.”
Bucky shook his head. “No. Not Langley.”
“HYDRA?” Walker said too quickly.
“Jesus,” Yelena muttered.
“She moved like someone from a program,” Ava said, voice quiet but deliberate. “Someone conditioned. That kind of precision doesn’t come from basic black-ops.”
“She trained under someone worse than HYDRA,” Bucky said.
And just like that, the room shifted. The quiet got heavier. Bob looked away. Alexei stopped fidgeting. Ava stilled completely.
Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Red Room?”
“I didn’t ask,” Bucky said. “Didn’t need to.”
“But she knew you.” Ava again, calm, focused. “That kind of familiarity doesn’t just show up after a few jobs.”
Bucky looked up at her. “I didn’t say it was just a few.”
“You said she walked away.”
He paused.
“She did.”
Silence again.
Walker shifted, elbow on the back of his chair. “Well, wherever she walked to, she kept your damn tracking frequency. I still can’t get the ringing out of my left ear.”
Bucky didn’t look at him. “You’re welcome, by the way. For being alive.”
“Sure,” Walker said dryly. “Thanks to your mystery friend with a war crime mixtape.”
“And now she’s… what? A rogue asset?” Ava asked, tilting her head. “A merc? A vigilante with a playlist?”
“She’s not on anyone’s leash,” Bucky said simply.
“Except yours,” Walker muttered.
Bucky’s glare snapped to him. “She doesn’t answer to anyone. Not to me. Not to you.”
Alexei muttered something in Russian under his breath that sounded vaguely admiring and possibly inappropriate.
Bob finally spoke again, more alert this time. “She’s not joining us, is she?”
“No,” Bucky said.
He said it fast.
A beat.
“I’m sorry, why not,” Alexei said, throwing both hands into the air. “We have room! We have so much room! She could have the bunk above mine, I would even switch.”
“She doesn’t want to be on a team,” Bucky said. “She’s not the type.”
“You mean she’s not the type to follow orders,” Yelena said, eyes narrowing again.
“No,” he said slowly. “I mean she doesn’t give a shit about headlines, or missions, or doing this the right way. She shows up because she wants to. That’s it.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Ava asked. “Someone that volatile just showing up whenever she decides?”
“She’s not volatile,” Bucky said, the words a little sharper than intended.
Yelena caught it. Instantly.
She stepped forward, crossing into his space—not aggressive, but direct. Like someone circling a bruise. “You trust her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” she said, “but you didn’t have to.”
Bucky didn’t speak.
“She’s not just an old op,” Yelena said, eyes still locked on his. “That wasn’t nostalgia out there. That was instinct. You moved like someone watching something yours walk into fire.”
Ava glanced between them. “She did save your life.”
“She saved all of us,” Bucky threw back.
“Okay, but why doesn’t she have a file,” Walker cut in. “Why doesn’t anyone know about her? If she’s that good, someone would’ve picked her up.”
“She’s good at disappearing,” Bucky said.
“And you just let her go?” Walker said. “After she pulls a fucking Mission: Impossible and struts off into the fog like a Bond girl?”
“I don’t let her do anything,” Bucky said. “She’s not mine to handle.”
Yelena leaned back in her chair. The protein bar wrapper crinkled in her palm.
“She’s not going to show up again, is she?”
Bucky shrugged. “Depends on whether I do something stupid again.”
He didn’t mention that you’d texted him two hours ago asking if he wanted to stop for groceries on his way back. He didn’t mention that the front porch light would be on tonight. That you’d probably be curled on the couch in socks and one of his old shirts, pretending you hadn’t crossed any borders this week.
They didn’t need to know that.
He rose from the table and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. The room watched him like he was walking out of an interrogation and back into something no one else could follow.
“Tell Val I’ll finish the debrief report tomorrow,” he said.
Yelena tilted her head. “And where are you going?”
Bucky paused in the doorway.
He didn’t look back.
“Home,” he said.
And then he was gone.
The porch light was on.
Not a floodlight, not a security cam. Just the soft golden bulb above the narrow step that flickered twice when the wind caught it wrong. One of the screws had loosened a few months back during a storm. Bucky had said he’d fix it. You’d said it didn’t bother you. It still hadn’t been fixed.
His boots were scuffed and his shoulder ached and there was probably still smoke in his hair, but he stood on the welcome mat for a second longer than necessary anyway, hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to feel something solid.
Then he unlocked it. Quiet. Familiar. Two clicks, one turn.
Inside smelled like clean laundry and old books and that lemongrass balm you always used for burns.
The record player was humming in the background, stylus long since run dry. You must’ve forgotten to turn it off again. He stepped into the living room and shrugged off his jacket, moving through the space like muscle memory. His eyes caught on the half-finished mug on the end table, a folded blanket on the couch, the sleeves of one of his shirts pushed up over your forearms where you were curled up sideways, knees tucked, reading a book with your bare feet propped against the armrest.
You didn’t look up. Just turned a page.
“I thought you’d be home earlier,” you said softly.
“Got cornered by the team.”
Your voice was light, almost teasing. “They want answers?”
“They want blood.”
You snorted and finally glanced over the edge of the book. “Yelena first?”
“Obviously.”
“Did she throw anything?”
“Just looks.”
You hummed and set the book aside, leaning forward to make room as he collapsed onto the couch beside you. He sat like a man whose bones hadn’t stopped vibrating. You shifted, swung your legs over his lap, and rested one arm lazily across his chest like it had always belonged there.
He didn’t speak. Just closed his eyes for a moment, the side of his head tilted toward yours.
You let the silence stretch. He needed that.
Then—
“Bob said he liked the song.”
You grinned against his shoulder. “He’s got taste.”
“He said it was catchy.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“Again, you blew up a parking garage.”
“I was subtle.”
“You were wearing a speaker rig stitched into your coat.”
“I didn’t say I was quiet.”
He huffed, a small thing. Almost a laugh.
You leaned your head back against the cushion and studied the ceiling. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”
He didn’t ask what.
You didn’t clarify.
“They’ll dig,” you continued, “because that’s what they do. Not because they don’t trust you. But because they can’t afford not to. You don’t keep ghosts around without asking where they sleep at night.”
“They’re not stupid.”
“No,” you said. “Just loyal.”
He rubbed a thumb along the inside of your wrist. You’d skinned it, just barely, probably during that slide beneath the gunfire.
“They think we’re ex-coworkers,” he said after a beat.
“Mm. That won’t last.”
“I know.”
You shifted to look at him, gaze steady. “You want me to stay gone next time?”
“No.”
It came out faster than he meant it to. And quieter.
You didn’t say anything.
His fingers ghosted across the edge of your thigh. “I just—this thing with the team. It’s still new. Messy. They’re watching me like I might snap. Or disappear.”
“You’ve earned that,” you said, not unkindly.
He nodded.
“They trust you more than they think,” you added after a moment. “Even Walker.”
“Walker thinks I’m one fight away from dragging a metal arm through a convenience store and snapping someone in half over a cereal shelf.”
You smiled. “You did that once.”
“I was sleep-deprived and the guy had it coming.”
“I’m just saying,” you murmured. “They’re not wrong to wonder.”
He let the silence settle again, the weight of your legs grounding him where he sat. Then he glanced over at you. “And you?”
You raised a brow. “Do I think you’re going to snap and kill the team in a cereal aisle?”
“Do you think you’re going to keep crashing my missions with bubblegum pop and a body count?”
You smiled, sharp and warm at once. “Only if you keep making it interesting.”
He stared at you for a moment. Then he reached out, brushed his fingers under your jaw—light, thoughtful, like he was confirming you were still here.
“I meant what I said,” you added, quiet now. “I wasn’t there to play hero. I’m not looking for redemption. Or recognition. That world chewed me up and spat me out long before I met you. I’m not going back.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll always come back. For you.”
His throat tightened.
You felt the shift before he said anything. The way his fingers stilled just under your jaw, how his gaze dropped for the barest second, like whatever he was about to admit weighed more than it should have.
“They’re going to find out,” he said finally. Voice low. Steady, but only just. “Not just who you are. What we are.”
You didn’t look away. “You sound like you’re bracing for it.”
“I am.” He leaned back slightly, enough to study your face. “I’ve kept a lot of things buried over the years. Some of it for good reason. Some of it because I didn’t know how to tell anyone without it sounding like a confession. But this—us—it’s not something I want in the crosshairs.”
You tilted your head. “You think they’ll aim at it?”
“I think people don’t like what they can’t label. And right now, you’re an anomaly with a body count, a comms breach, and no file. Add in a secret marriage to someone like me, and that’s a storm waiting to happen.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then: “You really didn’t tell them anything?”
“No.”
“Not even that we live together?”
“No.”
You nodded. Not in judgment. Just understanding.
“You scared they’ll treat me like a threat?”
He hesitated. “No. I’m scared they’ll treat us like one. Like I’ve been compromised. Like I’m… hiding something dangerous.”
“You are,” you said, with a small, lopsided smile. “But that’s never stopped you before.”
He didn’t smile back. Just ran a hand down his face, thumb braced at his temple. “Yelena’s already circling. Ava’s not far behind. Walker’s an idiot, but even he knows something’s off. And Alexei—Christ, I think he’s trying to adopt you.”
“I could do worse,” you deadpanned.
“He asked if you wanted the bunk above his. Said he’d move.”
You laughed, soft and sharp. “God, he’s going to be crushed when he finds out I’m not single.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “That’s not funny.”
You reached for his hand, interlaced your fingers with his. His skin was calloused, palms scarred, familiar in ways your body had memorized years ago.
“James,” you said, and your voice gentled, “I don’t care if they like me. Or believe in this. Or approve. I don’t need them to. I didn’t marry them. I married you.”
His eyes flicked to yours, something fierce and unspoken just behind them.
“You’re not a risk I regret,” you added. “And if they want to dig, let them dig. We’ve survived worse than a nosy debrief room.”
He leaned forward again, this time slower, and rested his forehead against yours. The press of skin, the shared breath, the quiet tension wound tight between your ribs—none of it felt like surrender. Just something harder to name.
He spoke quietly. “If this gets out, they’ll question my judgment.”
“Let them.”
“They’ll dig into your past.”
“Let them.”
“They’ll—” He cut himself off, exhaled. “They’ll try to separate us.”
You tilted your chin. “They can’t.”
It wasn’t a challenge. It was a fact. Solid. Unmoving.
Bucky didn’t answer, but you felt the way his breath dragged out through his nose, how his grip on your hand shifted—fingers tightening, not like fear, but habit. Like holding onto you was muscle memory. Like letting go wasn’t an option he entertained anymore.
You reached up with your free hand and pushed your fingers into his hair, slow and loose at the nape where it was just starting to curl from the heat. It was damp. He hadn’t showered yet. He hadn’t really come home yet. Just crossed the threshold.
“Go wash off the garage dust,” you said. “You smell like diesel and nerves.”
“Thought you liked how I smelled.”
“I do,” you murmured. “But I like it better when it’s under cedar soap and not post-combat sweat.”
He stayed where he was for another beat, forehead still resting against yours. Then he pulled back enough to look at you, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth. He didn’t kiss you. Just studied you the way he always did when you told him the truth—like he was adding it to some invisible tally, a list only he kept track of.
Then he rose without a word.
You watched him walk down the hallway, unzipping the tactical vest as he went, shoulder muscles moving beneath the black fabric like tension still hadn’t learned how to let go. The bathroom door clicked open. You heard the water pressure shift in the pipes before the sound of the shower started.
You waited thirty seconds. Then you stood, peeled his shirt off your frame, and followed.
It had been nearly five months since Bratislava.
Since the parking garage. Since the Pussycat Dolls. Since you’d lit up half a mercenary task force with a smirk and a frequency bounce. Since you’d vanished again into the smoke like a goddamn myth, only to be curled up on the couch that next night asking if he wanted to split a sandwich or order out after the two of you spent far too long in the shower.
In that time, the team had gotten better. Not good, no one in that unit would ever be clean enough to call themselves that, but sharper. More in sync. Intel got vetted. Missions ran smoother. Yelena had even stopped threatening to stab Walker more than once per week.
But the bruises still came. The blood still dried in the seams of their suits. And when shit did go sideways, which it inevitably did, it was always in ways that no one could predict.
The second time you showed up, Bucky had barely made it through the post-mission patch-up before Yelena cornered him outside medical with her arms crossed and murder in her eyes.
“Was that Britney Spears?”
He didn’t answer.
She didn’t need him to. Ava had already ID’d the audio footprint as a hacked signal ping bounced from a cell tower two miles outside the safe zone. Alexei had hummed the song for three days afterward. Walker sulked about it until Bob offered him a playlist of his own.
Three weeks after that, you crashed an op in the Balkans with the entirety of Beyoncé’s Renaissance album queued up in reverse order. You landed halfway through “Pure/Honey,” took down thirteen hostiles, winked at the drone cam, and disappeared before the satellite feed could reorient.
By the time mission four hit, some remote hellhole near the Georgian border with shit reception and worse exits, the team was already halfway joking about which track you’d use next.
It was Kesha again. Naturally.
You’d popped out of a burning APC with "TiK ToK" already mid-chorus and a grin like you’d been waiting for someone to hit the big red button. That time, you didn't leave right away. You passed Bucky a protein bar before the team got on the extraction chopper, kissed his temple, and told Alexei he had a nice ass. He hadn't shut up since.
They were still digging, of course. Yelena and Ava, mostly. Alexei kept making increasingly unhinged guesses about your background—sometimes Russian ballet, sometimes MI6, sometimes something about Vatican ninjas that no one had the heart to correct. Bob just watched. Always quiet. Always listening. And Walker…
Walker had developed a twitch.
He’d started referring to you—loudly, bitterly—as “Bucky’s little bat-signal,” like if he said it enough times it’d turn into a punchline and not an ache. It never landed. Not really.
No one could prove anything. Not about your identity. Not about your methods. You moved too fast. You left nothing behind.
And Bucky never said much.
He never needed to.
But they were all watching. Closer. Louder. Testing the tension in every mission like they were waiting for it to snap.
Which is why, when everything finally went to hell, no one was surprised when Yelena snapped first.
The op was supposed to be simple. In and out. A weapons drop moving across eastern borders, underground tech funneled through an abandoned train yard. Bucky had checked the coordinates himself. The team had split into pairs. Ava and Walker on overwatch. Alexei by the perimeter with a surveillance drone. Yelena at Bucky’s six, teeth gritted, gun loaded.
It wasn’t an ambush.
It was an execution.
There had been too many of them, real mercenaries this time. Not freelancers. Not idiots. Not chaos agents looking for a payout. These ones moved together. Synchronized. Coordinated. Ava had gone down first, wounded. Not out, but down. Phasing between pain. Walker had followed, clipped hard in the leg, trying to cover her.
Alexei was pinned.
And Bucky was breathing too hard, right arm shattered at the elbow, the sound of blood slapping metal every time he moved.
Yelena was cursing. Loud and vicious. Ducking behind rusted train cars as bullets slammed through metal and concrete like the world had narrowed to pure impact.
“Fuck,” she spat, reloading. “We are going to die in a parking lot for stolen tech and Valentina’s shitty paycheck—”
Bucky’s teeth were red. His side was worse.
He grunted, low. “We’ve been through worse.”
“Speak for yourself,” she hissed. “This is bad. This is the bad kind. Unless your little friend plans to show up again with backup dancers and a boom box, we’re dead.”
Bucky would have replied—maybe something bitter, something deflective—but his jaw locked before he could open his mouth. His vision was graying at the edges, muscles refusing to follow orders. His right arm was entirely dead weight now, slung awkwardly against his chest, blood still slick at the wrist. He couldn’t tell if the warmth in his boots was from a burst vein or just the heat of the rail yard’s scorched concrete.
And you weren’t here.
That was the thought that hit him hardest. Not the pain, not the bodies, not the brutal math of angles and ammunition. You weren’t here.
You’d always been here before.
Not early. Not announced. But you showed up. On the edge of disaster, somewhere between the breaking point and the fallout, wrapped in leather and snatched frequencies and songs that shouldn’t have made sense on a battlefield but always did when it was you. And he never called you, never asked. You just came.
Because you always found him.
Because you tracked him.
Because you always knew.
He’d grown used to it without realizing. The hum of music bleeding in when the comms got too quiet. The shape of you moving through smoke like it wasn’t a threat but a threshold. He’d never said it aloud, but it had comforted him. Knowing you were out there, watching, waiting. Knowing he couldn’t disappear without you noticing.
But this time?
This was the worst it had been in months.
And still… nothing.
A part of him, the part that hadn’t already fractured under the pressure, felt it like abandonment. A dull edge of fear pressed hard to his sternum. Not because he doubted you, but because it meant something was wrong. Maybe the tracker hadn’t worked. Maybe the jet wasn’t prepped. Maybe you were late. Maybe you were hurt.
Before Bucky could fully spiral into his own thoughts, a sound split the air.
A low, dull rumble that climbed too fast, too smooth, to be more gunfire.
His head snapped toward the east quadrant of the yard, vision still smeared at the edges from blood loss. The others heard it next—Yelena ducked lower, muttering another string of obscenities. Walker flinched, dragging Ava back behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, weapon raised. Alexei braced one arm against a splintered wall of aluminum and groaned something about incoming air support.
“Jet,” Ava gritted out, barely upright. “No clearance on the feed. That’s not ours.”
Bucky blinked once. Hard.
The shape sliced low across the clouds. A short-range VTOL, clearly military-grade, but gutted and rebuilt. Fast. Loud.
Yours.
And then the music hit.
“Let’s go, girls.”
“Is that—” Walker squinted, staggering.
“I swear to God,” Yelena muttered, slapping another magazine into place. “If that hatch opens and she’s wearing denim, I’m going to cry.”
The jet didn’t touch down gently. It landed loud and hot, braking hard against concrete and kicking up a storm of soot that coated every blown-out car and corpse in a hundred-foot radius. The engines hadn’t even cooled before the rear hatch cracked open with a hiss and the speakers ratcheted louder.
“Man, I feel like a woman…”
And there you stood.
Framed by smoke and floodlights, one hand braced on the hydraulic frame, the other already holding a med bag like you’d jumped in from a dream with combat boots and a temper.
No weapons. No fanfare. Just get in the fucking jet energy radiating off your entire body.
“Everyone in,” you barked. “Now.”
Walker didn’t wait. He hauled Ava toward the ramp with one arm slung around her waist. She was still phasing in and out, blood coating her knuckles, the blur of her shoulder wound sparking faint with tech static.
Alexei limped next, muttering something about Canadian pop singers and spinal trauma. Bucky barely registered it. He couldn’t feel his arm. Could barely hear the pounding in his ears over the scream of the engines and the bassline.
You moved before he could, stepping off the ramp and into the smoke, boots crunching across grit and glass as you crossed the yard at a dead sprint.
“Jesus,” you snapped as you reached him, one hand already going to the blood-soaked hem of his jacket. “What the fuck, James.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You pressed one palm to his side, felt the heat radiating off his ribs, and looped your other arm under him to carry him to the jet.
“I couldn’t get the signal,” you said, voice tight. “The tracker was acting up.”
He hissed through his teeth as you shifted his weight, setting him down on one of the jet seats. “Where was it this time?”
You didn’t blink. “The right boot. Back corner. You never put your shoes back in the closet, so I figured I’d stick one there.”
Yelena turned her head so sharply it was audible. “What?”
You ignored her.
Bucky narrowed his eyes, breath still ragged. “I hadn’t even worn those boots in a week.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice edged and sharp, as you tugged off his jacket, “and you left them by the dryer again, James, so guess what? That’s where I put it. Along with three aspirin packets, a ten-dollar bill, and the spare keys you keep forgetting to bring with you.”
Yelena’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Wait, what?”
“Not now,” you snapped. “Stitches first, questions later.”
Yelena froze.
She had just stepped into the bay behind Alexei, one arm looped around a support pole, blood streaked down her left cheek. Her head turned slowly—very slowly—back toward the now closing loading ramp, where you were currently pressing gauze to Bucky’s side and muttering something about his inability to buy new med kits even though you were the one who’d asked for them on the last Target run.
“Hold on. Spare keys,” Yelena repeated, voice pitching up like a red flag had just gone up in her brain and she was sprinting to catch it.
You didn’t look up.
Neither did Bucky.
There was a beat—just one—but Bucky felt it ripple through the cabin like a hairline fracture under pressure. Yelena didn’t blink. Ava, still bleeding and silent, lifted her head just an inch off the headrest. Walker muttered something low under his breath, too quiet to catch. Alexei stilled completely.
You were still working.
You’d stripped back the ruined plate of his tac vest, fingers moving fast over the gauze tape. Your hands weren’t shaking, but they weren’t calm either—tight at the knuckles, decisive in that way they always were when someone you cared about had bled more than they should have.
Bucky sucked in a breath. It rattled at the end.
He could feel it happening. The shift. The attention tilting, zeroing in. It was like watching a tripwire get brushed in real time.
“Did you just say Target run?” Yelena’s voice cracked straight through the tension. “Like the store?”
You didn’t respond.
Walker made a strangled sound. “Hold on. You’re telling me this—this frequency-hacking psycho just casually shops for med kits in her downtime for you?”
“I didn’t say I shopped,” you muttered. “I said I asked. He’s the one who keeps forgetting the list.”
“I got the shampoo,” Bucky said through his teeth.
“You got the wrong shampoo.”
“It had the same label!”
“It was 3-in-1.”
“That’s efficient—”
“It’s disgusting, James.”
And just like that, the whole jet tilted again—only this time it wasn’t from blood loss or the pitch of the wind. It was the silence. The stunned, dawning silence that came from realizing something was very, very off.
Ava blinked. “James?”
Yelena’s mouth opened.
Then: “No, no. You don’t get to just drop a spare key confession mid-evac and not explain. What the fuck are you two on about?”
“Explain what?” Bucky barked, more out of pain than defensiveness, but it landed anyway.
Alexei staggered up from his seat, bleeding from the shoulder and grinning like he’d just watched his favorite soap opera hit a mid-season twist. “You two live together, yes?”
“No,” you said, at the same time Bucky said, “Yes.”
Yelena stopped cold. “What.”
“Fine. She has a drawer,” Bucky muttered, wincing as you pressed harder with the gauze.
“You have a drawer?” Yelena repeated, voice rising. “Do you have a shared grocery list too? Matching towels?”
“Technically,” you said, “we share an Amazon account, but only because I hate ads—”
“You share an address?”
You didn’t answer.
Walker limped past, dragging himself into the seat across the aisle. “I swear to God, if this turns into some Mr. and Mrs. Smith bullshit, I’m out.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like,” Yelena snapped. “Because the last I checked, secret girlfriends don’t get comm access and personal extraction aircraft with customized playlists!”
“She’s not—” Bucky started, then stopped.
You paused, fingers frozen just inside his tac vest as you reached for the dressing pack in his inner lining. “James.”
His jaw flexed. “She’s not some secret girlfriend.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Yelena said, eyes wide now, practically vibrating with the sudden thrill of someone else’s exposed personal business. “Are you saying she’s not a girlfriend because she’s a roommate with benefits, or because she’s a literal government ghost you, what? Accidentally fell into bed with during an overseas op and neglected to tell us for five fucking months—”
“She’s my wife.”
The words snapped out like a misfired round—loud, brutal, final.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
You straightened slowly, the antiseptic wipe still in your hand, now hovering somewhere between the edge of Bucky’s ribs and the cratered hole in his bloodstained shirt.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Then Walker, voice hoarse and stunned: “I’m sorry. Wife?”
Ava, barely conscious, cracked one eye open. “What?”
Alexei groaned from the corner. “I knew it. I said they were either married or psychic. Maybe both.”
“Wait. Wait, no,” Walker held up a hand, bleeding. “You’re married? Like—married married? To her?”
You finally looked up. “Do you have another her in mind?”
Bucky winced. “Now’s not the time—”
“No, no, I think it is exactly the time,” Yelena said, stepping forward, pointing between the two of you. “Because we’ve all been getting tossed around like ragdolls for months while you two have been playing he’s mine, she’s chaos behind the scenes.”
You rose slowly, blood on your palms, face shadowed by the hatch lighting.
“We weren’t hiding it,” you said simply.
Yelena threw both arms in the air. “You were absolutely hiding it!”
“We were keeping it quiet,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Walker sat down hard on the floor. “I’m gonna pass out.”
Ava, leaning against the wall, finally let out a low breath that might have been a laugh. “That explains so much.”
“I—what the fuck?” Walker’s mouth opened and closed twice. “Like with rings and vows and tax brackets?”
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “It was a courthouse in Budapest. No photographer. No playlist. Not even a Pinterest board.”
Alexei, who had been silently mouthing tax brackets, perked up. “How long?”
“None of your business,” Bucky said immediately.
“Four years,” you said, at the exact same time.
Yelena made a noise like a cat being punched.
“Four years?” she barked. “You’ve been married for four years and not one of us knew? Not even a hint? Not even a bad fake name on your emergency contact form?”
“Technically, it’s under her alias,” Bucky said, wincing as you pressed gauze to his side with more force than strictly necessary.
“Her alias,” Ava echoed from the back, eyebrows barely raised but eyes locked on you. “That’s comforting.”
Yelena dragged her hands down her face. “I need to sit down.”
“You’re already sitting down,” Walker said numbly. “We’re all sitting down. In hell.”
Alexei was shaking his head slowly, staring at you like you’d sprouted horns. “I can’t believe we have been flying into death zones with Captain Popsicle and his mystery combat Barbie and the two of you have been married this whole time?”
“Don’t call her that,” Bucky snapped.
“I meant it with admiration!”
“She’s a human being,” Ava said flatly.
“And his wife,” Yelena added, throwing her hands up again. “Which apparently gives her license to break every rule of engagement we’ve ever signed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you bit out, finally stepping away from Bucky just long enough to snap a fresh syringe out of the case and toss it to Ava. “Would you have preferred I not show up with an extraction vehicle and leave you all dying in a pile of your own egos?”
“You’re not even cleared!” Walker said, still stuck somewhere between disbelief and cardiac arrest. “You don’t have files. You don’t have a record. You married a former Hydra asset with no fucking paper trail—”
“John,” Bucky said, and his voice didn’t rise, didn’t shout. But the threat in it stopped everything.
Dead.
Walker’s mouth clamped shut.
You turned your back and crouched again, cracking open a package of suture strips with steady, sharp fingers. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t move away either.
“You married him,” Yelena said slowly, like she was putting the last piece into a conspiracy board. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”
“Correct,” you said, without looking up.
“Why?”
You paused. For the first time since stepping onto the jet, you were still.
Then, quieter: “Because it was ours.”
Yelena blinked.
Walker slumped sideways, muttering something that sounded like Jesus Christ, I’m too concussed for this.
Ava didn’t say anything. She just studied you like she was adding this new truth to a map no one else could read yet.
And no one, not one of them, could argue with that.
No one said anything for a long time.
The jet rumbled beneath them, steady now. Altitude rising. Stabilizers evening out. The air had gone colder, thinner. Bucky could feel it in his lungs. How the heat of the rail yard had been replaced by that sterile chill of recycled pressurized air and drying blood.
He sat slumped against the inner wall of the aircraft, the pain at his side dulled but ever-present, a pulse of heat beneath the bandages. The lights overhead buzzed faintly. Across from him, Walker had gone quiet. Not passed out, just silent. That silence that came when you didn’t know how to re-enter a world that had just rearranged itself without warning.
Yelena didn’t have that problem.
“Where are the rings?”
You didn’t even blink. Just kept pressing the edge of a suture strip flat against Bucky’s ribs, calm as ever. “We don’t wear them on missions.”
“No, I mean—where are they. What are they. Are they like, hidden daggers? Laser-tracking nanotech? Poison darts? Do they explode?”
“We got tungsten bands off a street vendor in Pest,” you said, flicking the end of the strip down with surgical precision. “Ten bucks each. Mine’s probably under the couch.”
Yelena stared. “You’re telling me you got married with street metal and hid it like it was a war crime?”
You finally looked up. “We didn’t hide it. We protected it. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah,” Yelena muttered, flopping back against the padded bulkhead, “try that line at our next psych eval.”
Alexei perked up slightly. “Did you write vows?”
“Alexei—”
“No, I’m curious! Was it romantic? Did she threaten him? Did he cry?”
You turned to Bucky then, not grinning, not smirking—just steady. “Did you?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He remembered the cold marble floor of the consulate. The cheap pen. The tension in your hand when you signed. The way you didn’t smile, not once, but your shoulders had dropped like something finally let go. He remembered how you’d kissed him afterward, not like a new beginning but like something that had already been burned into your bones and you were just honoring the facts of it now.
He hadn't cried.
But he remembered feeling something break open inside his chest that hadn’t fully closed since.
“No,” he said quietly. “You did.”
That earned a scoff from Walker, who still looked half-sick. “You people are insane.”
“And you’re alive, you’re welcome,” you shot back, not even looking at him.
That shut him up.
Ava tilted her head slightly from where she sat, chin resting against her shoulder. “Are there any other secrets we should be aware of? Kids? A bunker in the Alps? Shared Spotify?”
“We don’t talk about the Spotify,” you said immediately, too flat to be joking.
“I knew you had a playlist,” Yelena muttered.
“Who do you think you’re talking to? I have several,” you corrected.
Bucky let the rhythm of your voice wash over him, the way it always had. It calmed something in him he didn’t have the words for. He wasn't sure he'd ever have the words for it. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You’d never asked for the language of it. You just stayed. When everything else fractured. When he did.
He let his head tip back against the wall, the throb of the flight engines a dull hum against his skull.
You kept talking.
Yelena asked about Budapest—what song was playing in the cab, what flavor the celebratory gelato was, whether you’d told anyone or if you’d just ghosted the next assignment like it never happened. You didn’t flinch under any of it. You answered what you wanted to. Dodged the rest with a precision that made it clear you'd spent years doing exactly that.
And Bucky watched you.
Listened to the cadences you used with the team—how they shifted only slightly when you got tired, how your sarcasm always dulled at the edges when you were checking someone's wound without being obvious about it. How you deferred to Ava without making it feel like yielding. How you redirected Yelena’s prying with just enough detail to satisfy, just enough space to stay unreadable.
They’d come around.
Eventually.
They always did.
But it wasn’t for them that you showed up in a jet at the eleventh hour. It wasn’t for glory. Or redemption. Or to earn your seat.
It was for him.
And that, Bucky thought, pressing a blood-soaked gauze pad tighter against his ribs, was something no intel report could ever quantify.
He let his eyes slip shut, your voice still in his ears, arguing now with Yelena about the legality of impersonating air traffic control in four different countries. He didn’t smile. Not really.
But he breathed easier.
For the first time in hours.
Maybe days.
Maybe longer.
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