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“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for your old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect to the hands he holds down, and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, placing a bruising kiss on your lips as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!

The law has a simpler system still. 

One that decrees who is a man and who is a wanted man. It prints the latter on paper and nails it somewhere decent folk can see. Ink drawings of men with shadowed eyes and a jaw made harsher by the hand that drew it. Beneath that is the list of wrongs they have done, and a number in dollars that someone is willing to pay to see him answer for them.

Fifty dollars for a fool. Five hundred for a danger. Five thousand for a dead man walking.

Women, of course, have their own sorting. Just like bad men, women have a value. Only women are rarely granted the dignity of being weighed by their own choices. Instead, they too are valued by a bad man’s wrongdoings. 

What he has done to her. Or what he is rumoured to have done with her. Or what he wanted badly enough to lie about. That is how a town makes its ladies. That is how it makes its whores, too.

There are no other kinds of women. Not in this town, or anywhere else for that matter. A third kind would require people to admit women have lives beyond the reach of men’s hands, and no one is in any hurry to go inviting that sort of trouble.

By all accounts, the town had decided kindly on you. A credit to the schoolhouse and a blessing to the children you teach. They would say that you are a fine young lady, and that any good man would be lucky to have you.

No good man, so far, has come and asked. Perhaps that should worry you more than it did. After all, a woman could only remain a fine young lady for so long before the title began to sour on her. A woman in your position was expected to want a steady hand, a clean name,and a ring bought with honest wages. A good man, by the town’s binary judgement.

Your heart, unfortunately, had never shown much interest in good men.

So that’s why tonight, like every other night, your walk home is made alone. Save for the company of crickets keeping up their endless racket, and the watchful hum of a town that likes to sleep with one eye open.

Your skirts hush against the dry grass as you walk further beyond the last few houses, where the town thins to prairie. There waits your little house at the edge of it all, porch sunk crooked in the middle and windows dark as shut eyes. Except the window over the washstand that’s still open; it never sits quite right in its frame. It swells in the summer heat, shrinks in the winter cold, and no matter the season, refuses to latch unless you lean your weight against it. 

You’ve been putting off fixing it for months. A respectable man might have fixed it for you by now, had one ever made himself useful.

By the time you step through your front door, the night has drawn close around the house. Moonlight slips through the narrow gap in the curtains, laying a soft glow across the floorboards. Enough to not bother with a lamp.

The schoolbooks go on the table. You set your hat beside them. Your boots are worked off by the bed, left where they fall. Then your fingers find the buttons of your dress.

The first slips free at your throat, then the second follows. The dress loosens by degrees, surrendering the shape of the schoolteacher the town knows so well, until all that remains is the woman beneath it. You drag in a deeper breath, eyes falling shut for a moment as the pressure eases. There is no sweeter mercy than taking off the day. No greater pleasure than unlacing yourself from what the world expected you to be.

With one hand still at your bodice, you turn towards the washstand. 

Your eyes catch on a shadow in the chair by your bed. A shocked gasp leaves your lips before you can stop it, sharp and uselessly small in the dark of your room. 

At first, he is only a shape amongst shapes. 

But the shadow is too still for a drunk, too quiet for a fool, and too comfortable for any man with honest business in a woman’s bedroom after dark. The chair complains beneath the size of him. One boot is planted flat against the floorboards, the other stretches lazily before him. A hand rests on his thigh, and something metallic in it glints in the moonlight.

It points straight at you.

Your breath stalls somewhere high in your chest, trapped behind the open buttons at your throat as your vision adjusts slowly to the dim light. His coat hangs open over a shirt that used to be white, now marked with trail dust and the stain of something you hope is mud.

The gunman tilts his head, and only then does the dark give up the glinting blue of his eyes - fixed on you with the possessive satisfaction of a man finding what he came for. They drop slowly to where your dress has come loose at your throat, exposing the delicate slope beneath your collarbone, and the first soft swell of your chest. Enough skin to make a decent man look away and a worse one very glad he didn’t.

An appreciative rumble hums low from his lips, before his thumb draws back the hammer of his gun with a pointed click.

“Don’t stop on my account, sweetheart.”

For a moment, you’re frozen. Just standing there with your fingers still curled in the loosened front of your dress, breath held tight beneath your ribs. The room narrows to the man in your chair and the gun pointed steady in his hand. He watches you without speaking, patient as a hunter, until he gives an expectant nod of the head.

Slowly, your fingers move again, buttons slipping free beneath your touch. His eyes fixate on the reveal, tongue dipping out the wet his bottom lip in anticipation.

By any measure the town would use, he is a bad man. By the sheriff’s ledger, or by the schoolmaster’s careful catechism about the sorts of men a young lady ought to avoid, the man in your chair is exactly the kind of ruin women are warned against.

You have never much cared for the schoolmaster’s catechism.

Instead your gaze drags over him in return, less innocent than the gasp you might have given. Over the breadth of his shoulders where his shirt pulls tight beneath his open coat. Over the narrowness of his waist and the careless sprawl of his body in your chair, as though he belongs there. Over the powerful thighs spread wide as he sat, revealing the hard, unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his trousers. Indecent in its honesty and all the more shameless for the way he makes no attempt to hide it.

He watches you notice it, too. Watches your eyes catch and linger, watches your throat work around the breath you have not quite managed to take.

The last button slips free.

Your dress gives way, sliding from your shoulders and falling in a soft heap around your feet. It leaves you in your chemise, though the thin cotton does such a poor job of covering you that the word feels generous. Moonlight passes through it almost cleanly, turning the fabric pale and sheer over the shape of your body: the curve of your waist, the shadow between your thighs, the soft weight of your breasts barely hidden beneath it. 

Your nipples tighten into hard little points against the cloth, visible enough that you know he must see them. The knowledge makes your skin burn hotter than any shame ought to allow.

A deep, pleased groan escapes his chest.

The gun stays steady in his hand, but the other shifts against his thigh, fingers flexing into the worn fabric before his palm slides higher. He presses over himself through his trousers, just enough to ease some of the ache there. Just enough to make no secret of what the sight of you has done to him.

“Good girl,” he drawls, “prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”

Your stomach pulls tight at the praise, and your thighs press together beneath the thin fall of your chemise before you can think better of giving him any satisfaction.

But the satisfaction arrives in the slight curve of his mouth before he rises from the chair. God, he’s tall, taller than he looks sitting down. And broader too.

If the dark had made a threat of him, the moonlight makes something worse. It loves him. There’s no other word for the way it lingers on him as he steps closer. 

It slips first over the dirty blond hair that has fallen loose beneath the brim of his hat. Then it catches on his face, and there’s no mercy for you in how gently it treats him. Long lashes cast low shadows under his eyes, and whatever blue hasn’t been swallowed by desire or the dark gleams too bright. His mouth is plusher than it ought to be on a man with a gun in his hand. Soft in a way the beard can’t rough out, though it tries.

It decorates his jaw, dragging a little danger back over a face that might have been too pretty without it.

The kind of face you know.

It’s nailed up outside the mercantile for decent folk to study and condemn. Some sheriff’s artist had done his best to make a villain of him in ink, darkening the eyes, sharpening the jaw, flattening the mouth into something easier to fear. Anything, perhaps, to keep a lady from looking too long and noticing what the moonlight gives away in your bedroom. 

Better, then, to look beneath his name at the hefty four figure sum printed there. And remember what kind of man earns a price like that.

A careful one, you would think.

A man worth that much should know better than to stand so close. And he should definitely know better than to let his defences drop. Most of all, he should know better than to let desire soften the hand with the gun in it. 

You move quickly. A sharp twist, a shift of your weight, and the revolver is in your hand instead of his. Then your palm hits the centre of his chest and you shove your weight against his chest.

He falls a little too easily back onto the bed with a rough laugh, his hat knocked loose and tumbling somewhere behind him. You follow before he can sit up, climbing over him with one knee pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips. The chemise rides high on your thighs as you settle your weight over him, and his hands instantly find a home there. 

You the press barrel up under his jaw with enough pressure to make him tilt his head back against the quilt, exposing the long line of his throat. All that arrogant ease goes still beneath you. Then his Adam's apple bobs beneath the rough gold of his beard, and the ridiculous blue of his eyes go wide.

He looks stunned. Worse, even, he looks delighted, as though some wicked part of him had been hoping all along that you would do exactly this.

You lean down until only inches remain between you, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate further, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“You’re late, Rogers.”

He doesn’t reply straightaway. Instead, his eyes move over your face as though the rest of the room has fallen away, as though the weeks and the miles have all narrowed done to this - to you. Sat above him in the moonlight, furious and half-naked and close enough to touch. There’s something in his expression far too soft for the size of him, too tender for the outlaw laid out beneath you with a revolver pressed to his throat.

Something that looks almost like disbelief, as if he had spent the whole ride dreaming of you and even still, you looked sweeter than his dreams. Like he can’t quite believe the world has been kind enough to put you in front of him again, and now that he’s here, he means to drink down every inch of you before it can change its mind.

Then the tension eases out of him all at once.

His body goes loose beneath yours, the last of the game slipping from his shoulders as his hands slide higher up your thighs. They wrap around your ass, warm and possessive. The corner of his mouth curves, slow and devastatingly boyish beneath the ruggedness of his beard. Entirely too pleased for a man currently pinned beneath his own gun.

“Missed me?” he drawls, already sure of the answer

You press the gun harder into the soft skin beneath his jaw in answer. His fingers tighten on your thighs, as his hips shift beneath yours. It’s only a small, helpless grind, but it’s enough for you to feel the hard line of his cock twitch against the heat between your legs. The satisfaction of feeling his need for you is almost enough to make you forget you’re angry. 

Almost.

“You were supposed to be here three days ago,” you remind him, intending to be stern, but not convinced you achieved it.

“Train was delayed,” Steve replies, his blue eyes bright with the kind of trouble men get hanged for.

Your eyes narrow. He has the decency to look a little sheepish.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Train was delayed ‘cause I robbed it.”

His thumbs trace slow circles over your hipbones, familiar and possessive, like he has any right to soothe you after being the source of your concern. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”

You scoff, “I was debating whether, if the bounty hunters didn’t put a bullet in you, I ought to do it myself.”

It would’ve sounded better if your voice hadn’t come out breathier than you intended. If his body were not so solid and warm beneath you, his thighs hard muscle under your spread legs, his hands moving against your skin as though he had been starving for the feel of it.

“Gun’s not loaded,” His voice goes quieter there, the teasing easing at the edges. “Never is. You think I’d point a loaded gun at you?”

You hate him a little for that. For the empty gun. For the fact that some stubborn, tender part of him had crossed God knows how many miles with a bounty on his head and still remembered to make his filthy little performance safe. 

You hate him more for making you care enough to count the days. For making the nights stretch mean when he doesn’t come when he’s meant to. For making you understand, with an anger that burns too hot to be good, what sort of woman waits on a bad man.

“Don’t mean I’m not angry with you,” you whisper, though there’s no bite in your voice.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“Yeah?” His hands slide back along your thighs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten, high enough to make the thin cotton of your chemise feel like no barrier at all. “Want to show me how angry?”

Your throat tightens. The revolver drops from your hand onto the quilt beside his head. Steve’s eyes lift to yours, and there he is beneath the outlaw. Tired, alive, and yours for the few hours he has no right to give you.

You kiss him hard, pouring all that fear and anger and need into his mouth.

Steve takes it with a groan, his head dropping back against the quilt again. One hand leaves your thigh to catch the back of your neck and drag you closer. This isn't a careful reunion. He bites your lip and the sound you make against his mouth ruins whatever patience he had left.

His tongue pushes possessively into your mouth, licking into you until your fingers twist in the front of his shirt just to have something to hold. When you rock down against him, grinding the damp heat of your pussy over the hard line of his cock through too much fabric, his answering sound catches high and helpless in his throat.

“I ought to punish you for makin’ me wait,” you breathe against his mouth, though the threat loses some of its dignity when your hips roll down again and your own breath breaks at the friction.

Steve’s hand tightens on your neck, keeping you close enough that his lips brush yours when he answers. “You ought to.”

Your hands shove at his coat, dragging it off his shoulders with more force than grace. Steve only helps enough to get free, too busy chasing your mouth again, greedy and open, his tongue sweeping against yours like he’s trying to taste every desperate sound he’s pulled from you. You tug at the buttons of his shirt next, fingers clumsy on the open collar before patience fails you entirely and you pull hard enough to strain the buttons.

You need skin. Need the warmth of him under your palms and the pulse of him beneath your mouth.

“I ought to send you back out the window you came in.”

His grin returns at that, mischief bright in his eyes despite the way his cock twitches under you. “You ought to get that fixed,” he rumbles, one hand sliding possessive over your waist. “Who knows what kind of bad men could get in?”

You punish him for the clever little comment with another roll of your hips. Steve’s fingers clamp around your waist and the sound he makes is almost a whine, mouth falling open against yours.

His chest rises hard beneath your hands, broad and golden in the moonlight, warm muscle shifting under your palms with every rough breath he takes. Scars litter his skin - some you know the stories of and some he has never given you. You touch them anyway, touch him anyway, needing the proof of him beneath your palms. Then your hips grind down again, and his stomach flexes, abs pulling tight as he lets out a rough groan.

“I ought to make you beg,” you whisper, mouth dragging down over his jaw, his beard rough against your lips as you kiss the place where his heartbeat pounds beneath his skin.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve breathes, hands holding you tight over the thick, straining shape of him. “You ought to.”

Your chemise has ridden high over your thighs, and every drag of your body over his makes the ache in you sharper.

“Start with sorry,” you instruct.

Steve’s breath catches when you slow the roll of your hips, turning the grind into something almost cruel. His hands flex at your waist, big enough to move you if he wanted, strong enough that he could flip you easily. But instead he lies there beneath you, shirt open and cock hard under your weight, letting you make him wait. Letting you have this dizzying power over him and looking up at you like he would let you ruin him if you asked sweetly enough.

His throat works beneath your mouth.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmurs.

You lift your head just enough to look at him, raising an expectant brow. His thumbs stroke once over your hips, softernow.

Steve’s eyes flick over your face, softening at whatever he finds there. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Satisfied with his obedience, you lean down to kiss him again in reward. But Steve catches the breath between your mouths, his lips brushing yours when he adds, quieter, “I’m sorry I have to leave again at dawn.”

You still completely. Steve’s eyes find yours beneath his mussed hair, and there is and ache there so open it makes your chest hurt. Too honest for a man who’s worth more dead than most men will ever be alive. You can’t bare it for long. Your mouth finds his again, harder this time, before the feeling can name itself. That foolish hope of keeping a man who only ever comes to you with one foot already out the door.

“Then don’t waste my night, cowboy,” you breathe against his lips, rolling your hips down until his cock jerks beneath you. “You’ve got a lot to make up for.”

Steve answers with his hands. A sudden greed of them at your waist, then sliding further up beneath your chemise. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. Then he’s tugging the fabric higher, impatient now, and you lift your arms before he has to ask. 

He drags the cotton over your head, tossing it aside with the rest of your clothes until the night air has you bare above him.

His gaze rakes over you with such naked want that your stomach clenches. Over the tight peaks of your nipples, and lower still till to where you are spread over him in nothing but your drawers and stockings, already damp enough that the fabric clings between your thighs.

Steve’s hands tighten at your hips, his thumbs dragging once over the bare skin above your drawers. 

“You missed me somethin’ awful, didn’t you?” he teases, the corner of his mouth twitching, though his voice comes out rougher than the smile deserves.

You should scold him for that. You mean to, truly. But then his mouth closes over your breast, and the words break apart in your throat.

His beard scrapes over your skin as he sucks your nipple between his lips, tongue dragging over the tight peak before his teeth catch, sharp enough to make you dry out. Your hands fly to his hair, and you tug - meaner than you intend - but Steve groans against your tit, delighted.

“Love it when you’re mean,” he pants against your skin, mouth moving to the other breast, leaving the first wet with his spit in the moonlight.

His head tips beneath your grip, golden hair sliding through your fingers. He lets you guide him, all that size and strength beautiful under your hands. Because for all his sins, Steve is clever enough to know there’s power in obedience when it comes to the right woman.

His hands shove your drawers down over your hips, hurried and clumsy for the first time all night. They catch at your knees before you kick them away, leaving you naked above him, trembling with the kind of want no decent woman was ever supposed to admit by name.

Your fingers go to his trousers, but the buttons take too long. You curse them for it, and Steve gives a breathless little laugh that dies the second your hand slips inside and wraps around him. His cock springs free, slapping heavy against your thigh, already leaking at the tip. Precum smears against your skin as he twitches there, hard enough to make your mouth go dry.

It’s like you forget just how big he is until he’s in your hand again, fat and veined and heavy enough to make you wonder if he’ll still fit. But your cunt clenches desperately around nothing like it already knows the answer.

You sink your teeth into your lower lip and drag yourself over him, sliding the wet heat of your pussy along the length of his cock. He groans at the first slick pass, at the way your folds part around him, coating him in creamy white wetness until every rock of your hips makes an obscene, sticky sound between you.

The fat head catches against your clit with each pass, enough to make your hips stutter and your head tip back with a needy little whine. But Steve’s arms clamp over your hips, muscles flexing as he keeps you humping his cock. His precum mixes with the mess dripping from your needy hole, smearing over his shaft and down onto the golden muscle of his stomach under you.

“Fuck, ‘atta girl,” he rasps, head falling back against the quilt. “Get my cock nice and wet. Make yourself feel good, use me.”

So you grind down harder, slicking his cock with the mess he’s made of you, feeling his abs flex beneath your hands every time his tip nudges your tight entrance.

“Steve,” you whine, nails digging into this skin hard enough to leave marks. “I want it. I want your cock in me.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, and the little edge of a grin he tries for doesn’t last. Not when you reach between you, wrap your hand around the thick, wet length of him. “Then take it, ma’am. It’s yours.”

You push up on your knees, thighs trembling on either side of him, the thick muscle of Steve’s biceps bunching as he holds you steady. His cock pulses with anticipation in your grip, veins standing out beneath your palm as you line him up with your entrance. 

You’re both wet enough that it should be easy, your cream smeared down his shaft, his precum sticky on your fingers. But the first push of the mushroom tip stretches you open with a burn so sweet and full it feels like being split in half. Your mouth falls open the same moment his does, both of you moaning at the sensation after weeks without each other. 

Your pussy flutters around him, tight and greedy, sucking him in with little needy clenches that make his hands dig harder into your hips. 

“Missed this,” he groans, every muscle in him straining with the effort not to thrust up and take more than you give. “Missed your tight cunt so bad I damn near wore out my own fist thinkin’ about it.”

The filthy praise goes straight to your cunt, sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping around him as you sink lower. Your head tips back, his name spilling from your lips in broken little sounds as you take him inch by inch.

Steve’s eyes fix on where you’re joined, watching the slow, wet slide of himself disappearing inside you. His jaw clenches beneath his beard, every muscle in him pulled taut like the sight of your tight pussy struggling around him might make him spill inside you before you’ve even taken all of him. 

When your hips finally meet his, the fat tip of his cock kisses your cervix and it empties your head clean of any coherent though. You feel him twitch inside you as your walls give a wet squeeze around him, your cunt clinging tight like it needs a second to believe it’s taken all of him. 

“Fuck, Steve,” you whine, nails dragging over his chest. “You’re so big.”

You slowly try and find a rhythm, rolling your hips down until the tip of his cock hits deep enough to make your whole body jolt. The first few strokes are messy, your thighs trembling as you lift and sink. But Steve’s palms stay firm at your hips, helping you find the rhythm, holding you steady while you fuck yourself down onto him.

“But you’re takin’ it, sweet girl,” he groans, helping you down harder, pulling you into each stroke until your tits bounce and the room fills with the slick slap of your body meeting his. “Takin’ my cock so pretty. Always do.”

The bed complains beneath you, wood knocking softly against the wall, but it’s nothing compared to the wet, shameless sound of your pussy taking him over and over. 

“Steve—” Your voice breaks into a cry when he hits that deep spot again, “Need—fuck—”

Your pace turns desperate, hips rolling and lifting, chasing the thick slide of him inside you. Every time you sink down, your cunt grips him tighter, cream slicking the base of his cock in a white ring that smears against his skin and drips lower, making a filthy mess of his heavy balls.

Steve’s eye’s darken at the sight. “Pretty cunt’s makin’ such a mess on my cock, can feel her squeezin’ me. Feel you gettin’ close.”

You nod, pathetic and needy. “I need you,” you gasp, “Steve, please, I’m—”

His hand leaves your hip and slips between you, thumb finding your swollen clit. Your rhythm breaks, hips jerking as a needy moan catches in your throat. You try to keep riding him, but it turns sloppy fast, more grinding than bouncing now, your body chasing his hand while his cock stays buried deep inside you.

“That’s what you needed, sweetheart?” Steve rasps, watching you fall apart above him. “Then let me feel that tight pussy come on my cock.”

The pressure snaps tight in your belly, sharp enough to steal the air from you. One more stroke of his thumb, one more dirty grind down on his cock, and your orgasm crashes through you.

Your cunt strangles his cock, pulsing around him in tight, wet flutters. “Fuck,” he grunts out, hands grabbing for hips as his restraint finally snaps. “Fuck, ma’am, can’t—”

One second you’re on top of him, shaking through it, and the next his strength is under you and around you, flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing at all. Steve settles between your thighs with a groan as he drives back into your soaked cunt in one deep thrust that punches the breath from your lungs.

“Steve!” You sob his name, oversensitive and helpless under him, but your legs hook around his waist anyway. Steve fucks into you harder, deeper, mouth catching yours in a messy kiss.

“There you go,” he grits out, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh high against his hip. “‘Atta girl. Fuck, you feel too good, this cunt’s tryin’ to keep me.”

You can’t answer, not properly. Not with him pounding into you like this, all that leashed strength finally let loose, his cock dragging over your oversensitive walls while your legs shake around him. All you can do is cling to him and babble his name, too ruined to do anything but take it.

His thrusts turn rougher as his cock throbs inside you. At the last second, Steve pulls out with a broken groan, his hand wrapping around his slick cock as he spills hot over your stomach. Hot white ropes spill across your skin while his hips jerk into his fist, eyes fixed on the mess he’s making of you like it’s the prettiest thing he’s seen in weeks.

Steve’s strokes slow, his fist still wrapped around himself as the last of his release spills over your belly. His eyes drag from the mess on your skin to your face, and his expression softens instantly. 

“Good girl,” he rumbles, thumb smearing through the mess he’s made before he seems to remember himself. His mouth finds yours once, beards scratching softly over your skin as you make a tired little sound against his mouth. “Took me so good, sweets. So fuckin’ good for me.”

His lips move over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, murmuring praise between each kiss, until the words sink under your skin. Then he forces himself away with a rough breath, tugging his shirt the rest of the way off before shoving his trousers down his hips. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the rest of his clothes.

Naked, he crosses to the washstand with all that golden muscle and road-worn swagger, shoulders broad in the moonlight, hair mussed from your hands. He comes back with a damp cloth and cleans you himself. 

One big hand rests tenderly at your hip while the other wipes his come from your stomach. His gaze flicks up to yours once when you shiver, mouth curving beneath his beard, but he doesn’t tease. He only drags the cloth lower, gentle between your thighs, cleaning the sticky mess from your skin.

“So perfect,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just beneath your ribs when he’s done. “My best girl.”

Tossing the cloth aside, he climbs into bed beside you, greedy for your warmth. His arm hooks around you waist instantly, dragging you back against him like even the few inches between your bodies are more than he can spare. His chest presses warm against your back, his thigh slides between yours, and his mouth finds your shoulder before you’ve even settled.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Steve keeps kissing you anyway, and his hand rests heavy over your stomach, fingers spread wide like he means to keep you against him forever. But his thumb moves gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. A quiet apology against your skin. You’re half asleep by the time your voice finds him again.

“Missed you Stevie,” you mumble, so low he might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening for every breath. “Was worried.”

Steve goes still behind you for a moment, then his thumb starts moving again, slow over the bare skin of your stomach like he can soothe the ache he put there. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to leave you countin’ days.”

“What really happened?”

Steve exhales slowly behind you, mouth pressing to your shoulder before he answers, like he can feel the tightness gathering there already. “Train job got messy. Payroll car was heavier than we heard, and the guard had more friends than sense. Had to ride south after, lose a posse near the creekbed.” His hand tightens when your brow pinches in worry, though your eyes stay closed. “No, honey. Not like that. They got a shot off, but it only grazed me.”

Your eyes crack open. “Only?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” he breathes, trying for that crooked little arrogance and not quite managing it. “Takes more than that to put me down.”

You make a sleepy, displeased sound and press back harder into him, grumbling something unkind into the pillow

Steve huffs a quiet laugh and presses his smile to your shoulder. “Mean little thing,” he whispers, but his arm tightens around you, and his lips linger. “I’m alright. Truly. Just took longer than I wanted.”

After that, the room settles around you. His hand stays where it is, warm and broad over your middle, and his breathing slows behind you.You’re almost asleep when the thought slips out of you, small and wounded.

“Don’t wake me when you leave.”

His chest stops moving against your back.

“I mean it,” you add, fingers finding his where they rest over your stomach. “I can’t watch you choose the door.”

That one hurts him. You feel his arm curl tighter around your waist like some selfish part of him wants to promise he won’t go at all. For a second, you think he might argue. But Steve Rogers has never been cruel enough to promise something so foolish.

“Alright,” he whispers, voice rough. “I’ll leave quiet.”

You nod once, already drifting, but your fingers tighten around his. Steve turns his hand beneath yours and holds on. “But I’m here now,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin. “Sleep, honey. I’ve got you.”

Morning doesn’t wake you kindly.

One moment you’re warm enough to feel the man behind you, and the next your hand is sliding across the mattress, reaching for a body that is no longer there. Still, you lie with your hand pressed to the place where Steve had been, as if there might still be enough of him left in the sheets to count for something.

The scrape of his beard still burns faintly along your shoulder. Your thighs ache when you shift. Proof everywhere, and still no man beside you.

The day doesn’t care. It waits for no woman, least of all one foolish enough to miss a man with four figures under his name. So you get up.There is no use in grieving a man who is not dead, and no sense in missing a man who warned you he would go.

You go about your morning routine and pull on your dress, fastening every button back into place until the schoolteacher returns piece by piece. Nothing to suggest what an outlaw had done to her in the dark. By the time your books are gathered, your hands have almost stopped shaking.

You check the stove before you leave. The door latch. The chair by the bed, sitting innocent in the morning light, as if it hadn’t held an outlaw the night before. Last, out of habit more than thought, you cross to the window over the washstand.

Your hand is already braced to force it closed when you freeze. The window is shut.

Not forced down, not wedged in crooked, not sitting stubborn in its swollen frame. Shut. Properly shut. The latch sits clean in its catch, holding firm beneath the careful press of your fingers.

It’s silly, really, to stand there with your throat gone tight over a fixed window. But it’s what almost does you in. Your bad man, making sure no worse men can get in.

Weeks pass with no word from your outlaw.

You tell yourself that’s likely for the best. Good news rarely travels fast where men like Steve Rogers are concerned; bad news, however, travels like wildfire. Still, each morning you find yourself scanning the newspaper columns with a sour twist in your stomach, looking for his name with morbid compulsion and praying not to find it. It’s the same grim, self-torturous routine every day, waiting for the one where some column out west reports Steve Rogers and the Winter Kid dead, captured, or hanged.

By night, the worry is worse. It follows you into bed and slips into your dreams, filling up the space Steve left empty. You sleep poorly when sleep comes at all, one ear tuned toward the road like a fool, listening for hoofbeats you’ve no good reason to expect, yet hope for all the same.

But it isn’t hoofbeats that pull you from slumber tonight.

It’s the violent thud of a fist hammering on your front door, hard enough to shake the frame and send you bolting upright with your heat already halfway up your throat.

“Hello?!” a man shouts through the door, breathless and frantic. “Miss! For God’s sake, tell me you’re in there!”

He swears under his breath, his voice comes again, but lower this time. “Goddammit, Rogers, if you gave me the wrong damn house—”

His fist hits the door again, harder now, rattling the latch in its frame.

“Open up! Please, open the door!” he yells. “Name’s Barnes—Bucky Barnes—I’ve got Rogers with me, and he’s shot real bad!”

Steve. Shot badly.

The words make your blood run cold, but fear is not enough to make you foolish. Graveyards are full of women who opened up because they believed bad men with good stories.

“Miss!” Barnes shouts, followed by a strained grunt and the scrape of boots dragging over your porch boards. “Please! I ain’t got time to stand here proper, he’s slippin’!”

Steve had spoken of a Bucky Barnes before, of course he had - Buck, usually, said with the kind of rough fondness he tried to hide and never quite managed - but knowing a name isn’t the same as knowing a voice through the door in the middle of the night.

You move for the shotgun. A lady might have felt shame keeping such a thing so close to her bed. A woman who lives alone knows better.

You cock it loud enough for the sound to carry through the door.

The knocking stops. When you speak, your voice is steadier than the rest of you feels. “If you’re lyin’, Mr. Barnes, you ought to know I’ve got a shotgun pointed at this door.”

“Lady, you can shoot me after if you’re still of a mind to,” he shouts back. “Right now I need you to open the damn door before Rogers bleeds out on your porch!”

Before you can answer, a low groan drags from the other side of the door, followed by Bucky swearing under his breath. Then you recognise Steve’s voice, frailer than you’ve ever heard it, trying to make your name out of what little strength he has left. It makes the shotgun feel useless in your hands.

You flip the latch up before you can think better of it, though you keep one hand on the shotgun as you pull the door open - barrel tipped down but ready. 

Bucky Barnes is braced on your porch, with Steve Rogers sagging against him.

His jaw is clenched from the strain of the weight, one shoulder shoved beneath Steve’s arm, with his own locked tight around Steve’s waist. Steve’s boots scrape uselessly over the boards when Bucky shifts him higher. It is clear, terribly clear, that Steve is only standing because Bucky has decided he will.

He’s bent nearly double, folded into the wound, hanging off Bucky with no strength of his own. His head dips heavy towards his chest, and he might almost look drunk if his skin were not so pale beneath the dirt, or if every breath didn’t seem to pull through him with effort. 

One hand rests low on his abdomen, fingers spread over a blooming red patch that has soaked through his shirt and keeps smearing beneath his palm. But the hand is slack. His arm trembles with the effort of keeping it over the wound, slipping through the blood rather than stopping it. Every breath drags through him shallow and uneven as though his body has begun bargaining over what it can afford.

“Steve!”

The shotgun clatters to the floor in an instant, forgotten in your panic. You reach for him instantly, palms cupping his face because you need to see his eyes. Need some proof behind the boneless sag of him. His skin is damp beneath your hands and it’s too cold for a man sweating so badly. When you lift his head, it comes slowly, with too much weight in it, his neck offering almost no help at all.

He looks worse than any newspaper ever managed to make him.

His mouth hangs open around each thin pull of breath, lips dry and parted beneath the rough gold of his beard. Dirt clings to the sweat along his hairline. There is a smear of blood near his lip, and his jaw has gone loose under your hands, all that stubborn Rogers grit worn down to something frighteningly human.

His eyes slide over you without settling, and that scares you more than the blood.

“Steve,” you repeat, thumb brushing his cheek. “Look at me. Please, look at me.”

Recognition gathers slowly, blue eyes dragging themselves back from somewhere far away. Then the worry comes with it, because even like this, Steve Rogers is sorry. His brows draw together as if he has been carrying one thought all the way to your porch and means to set it down before his body gives out beneath him.

“Told Buck not to wake you,” he slurs, stopping after it to drag in another shallow breath. “Told him you needed sleep.”

Bucky grunts a disbelieving laugh next to you. 

“Alright, Romeo, that’s real touching,” he snaps, shifting Steve’s weight higher with a grunt, “but you’re bleeding on the lady’s porch. Miss, I need him flat, I need light, and I need clean cloths. Now.”

The kitchen table is where Bucky wants him. There’s no time to argue about the indecency of it, or the blood, or how Bucky’s supposed to get him up there without injuring Steve further. 

Bucky pulls Steve through the door with one brutal shift of his weight, dragging him over the threshold whilst Steve’s boots scrape and stumble over your floor. The wound pulls with the movement, wrenching a raw, bitten-off sound deep from his chest.

“Clear it,” Bucky orders, jerking his chin toward the oak table. 

And you move only because your body takes over. A book hits the floor. Then the bowl you left out after supper, shattering somewhere near your feet. You don’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.

Bucky gets one hand under Steve’s arm and the other braced hard at his back. “Alright, Stevie,” he mutters, more to himself than to Steve. “Up we go.”

The lift tears a brutal cry out of Steve.

You’ve never heard that sound from him before. Pain has pulled groans from him, curses too, all stubbornly swallowed before anyone could make much of them. But Steve’s too far gone to care about that now.

“I know,” Bucky says at once, voice gone tight as he arranges Steve onto the table. “I know, I know. M’sorry, Stevie. I’m sorry.”

Steve is too far under to hear him properly. His head rolls against the wood, lashes fluttering, mouth open around another broken sound when Bucky drags his legs up after him. The table creaks beneath his weight. Blood smears across the pale grain in a dark, ugly sweep. Then Bucky plants one hand low on Steve’s abdomen and presses down hard.

Steve’s whole body jerks.

“Shit,” Bucky grunts out, leaning his weight into it when Steve tries to curl away from the pressure. “I know, pal. Ain’t got a choice.”

You just stand there, frozen.

That’s the shame in it. You stand there with your hands curled uselessly at your sides and your bare feet near broken crockery, staring at your outlaw bleeding out across your kitchen table. There is some part of you, in the back of your head, that understands the urgency of the scene, begging you to move. But the rest of you is somewhere else entirely, watching from a distance as the biggest, most capable man you have ever known lies pale as linen and fights for the next breath.

“Lady,” Bucky snaps. “I need you with me.”

But you don’t answer, eyes fixed on the slow rile and fall of Steve’s chest. The terrible wait between each shallow pull of air and the next. The horrible stillness after every breath, when your heart seems to stop with his and only starts again when his chest moves.

Bucky’s bloody hand slams against the table. “Miss!”

Your eyes jerk to him, though the rest of you stays frozen in place. He looks furious - terrified too, but masked beneath the practical need to keep moving. His jaw is set, his breathing hard, one hand still pressed down over Steve’s wound while the other points at you like he can drag sense back into you by force.

“You can stare at him dead or you can help me keep him livin’,” he says. “Pick quick.”

The words snap you back to reality. Your throat tightens, and you take a steadying breath, “What do you need?”

You scramble through your own house, trying to remember everything Bucky lists as fast as he names it. 

Lamps first, hands shaking hard enough that the chimney glass knocks against the metal. Then cloths from the press. The clean sheet from your bed, yanked free with one sharp pull and bundled under your arm. Thread from the sewing box. Needle. Whiskey from the cupboard that you only keep in for Steve. You put water on the stove and nearly drop the pot before you get it settled.

Behind you, Bucky cuts Steve’s shirt open. The sound of Steve groaning under the movement turns your stomach, but Bucky only mutters a low apology and keeps working, dragging ruined cloth away from ruined skin before reaching for the whiskey and one of the clean rags you brought him. He wipes around the wound with brisk, careful pressure, until the blood smears thinner and the shape of the damage begins to show.

You wish at once that he hadn’t. 

It looks smaller than it should for all the red it has made, one ugly hole low on Steve’s abdomen, close to his hip, and swollen angry at the edges. Blood keeps welling steadily no matter how quickly Bucky clears it. Steve’s stomach jumps beneath every touch, muscle pulling tight before giving out again.

“Bullet’s still in,” Bucky confirms, mouth grim. “Ain’t deep. That’s the good news. Bad news is you’re takin’ it out and sewin’ him up.”

“No!” You’re shaking your head before the word has even finished leaving your mouth. “You crazy, mister? I can’t do that!”

Steve makes a rough sound, half breath, half pain, and Bucky glances down long enough for something scared to flash over his face.

“Well, little lady, unless you reckon you can hold down two hundred pounds of half-delirious cowboy when he starts thrashin’ while I go fishin’ through his guts, then yes, you can.” Bucky’s hand clamps harder over Steve’s middle when Steve shifts with a broken sound, his shoulders lifting from the table before the strength goes out of him again. “Because if he comes off this table, he’ll tear himself up worse than he already is, and I can’t hold him and dig the bullet out at the same time.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing follows.

The lamp catches the sweat on Steve’s throat and the red glistening on Bucky’s hands. Too much of it. Too much on the table, too much soaked into Steve’s shirt, too much slipping between Bucky’s fingers no matter how hard he presses.

You nod once, firm, forcing the fear down into something more useful. Some of the harshness leaves Bucky’s face, not enough to soften him completely, but enough for you to see the man Steve must have trusted with all the worst parts of himself. 

“Good girl, I’ll talk you through it,” Bucky says, already reaching for the whiskey. “Steady hands is all I need from you”

So you give him steady hands. Or try to.

You wash them until the water in the basin clouds pink from blood. Bucky talks all the while, voice firm enough to keep you moving from one instruction to the next. He pours a splash of whiskey over the wound and Steve flinches from the table with a staggered cry, only for Bucky to catch him hard across the chest and shove him back down.

“I know, I’m sorry, pal,” Bucky murmurs, hands firm at Steve’s shoulders. “But you gotta try and stay still Stevie, please.”

The softness in his voice does nothing to gentle his grip. If anything, that’s what makes it worse: the way he bends close to Steve’s ear and coaxes him like a wounded horse whilst holding him down with enough strength to bruise. He gets the belt from his own waist and folds the leather between Steve’s teeth, fingers careful at his jaw.

“Bite down,” he instructs. “Before you break your damn teeth trying not to make noise.”

Steve’s lashes flutter, eyes too glassy to find either of you properly, but his teeth close around the leather. Bucky’s hand lingers one second at the side of Steve’s face before he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small roll of oilcloth, the kind of thing only carried by men on the wrong side of the law with no doctor waiting.

Inside is a short knife, and a pair of narrow steel forceps. He snatches those up first and presses them into your palm.

You take a steadying breath. It doesn’t help much

The first touch of metal to torn flesh makes Steve cry out around the belt, the sound muffled and awful. His hand slams against the table hard enough to rattle the bowl, but Bucky catches his wrist and pins it down without looking away from the wound. He murmurs something too low for you to catch.

Apology, prayer, curse; with men like them, there may not be much difference.

Under Bucky’s instruction, you search for the bullet, stopping every time Steve’s body bucks beneath Bucky’s hold. It feels endless, a handful of seconds stretched cruel by the sound of Steve’s breathing and the red shining over your fingers. Then the forceps catch on something hard, something that does not belong inside a man, and Bucky’s voice cuts through the room at once.

“That’s it. Easy now. Pull straight.”

The bullet comes free slick with blood and drops into the bowl with a dull little clink. For all the damage it has done, it looks far too small.

Bucky lets out a breath, but he doesn’t let go of Steve. “Good,” he praises, rough. “That’s real good, darlin’. Now stitch him.”

Threading the needle takes three tries and a muttered curse before the thread finally slips through. Cloth never prepared you for this - it stays put under your hands. Flesh has a give to it that turns your stomach, but you swallow it down and focus on the path of the needle, in one side and out the other, the thread slowly drawing the wound closed.

Bucky watches the first one go through, then the second, and whatever he sees must satisfy him enough to turn more of his attention back to Steve.

“Doin’ good, Stevie,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. There you go. Tough bastard like you don’t get to die in a schoolteacher’s kitchen.”

Steve makes a sound around the belt, weak now, worn down by pain and blood loss until even agony seems to cost too much effort. Then the needle catches wrong, just enough to make his body twitch beneath Bucky’s grip.

“Fuck—I’m sorry Steve,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, pulling the stitch through with a shaking hand. “I’m nearly done, promise.”

Bucky glances at you, then back down at him. “Hear that, Rogers? Lady’s apologisin’ to you while saving your sorry hide. You better live long enough to thank her proper.”

By the time you tie off the final stitch, your back aches, your hands are cramped, and your nightdress is ruined past saving. Bucky binds the wound tight with strips torn from your clean sheet, wrapping them firm while you hold Steve’s hand and try not to notice how loosely his fingers curl around yours now.

When Bucky finally steps away, the room seems to take its first full breath since two outlaws crashed into your evening. He wipes his hands on the edge of the sheet, eyes tracking over Steve, watching for any fresh red spilling through the bandage. He nods once to himself when none does.

“Alright,” Bucky says at last. “Now we keep him warm, and thank God he’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”

With the worst of the work done, the night settles into a long, sleepless vigil.

Steve is covered with every blanket you own, and neither of you can tear your eyes away from him long enough to do much beyond tend to him. His body has finally given itself over the exhaustion, sleeping so deeply you watch for his breaths to make sure he’s still alive. You clean what you can from him with a wet cloth - the dirt on his cheek, the sweat from his brow, the blood on his hands.

Bucky stays in the chair by Steve’s head.

He looks half-dead himself, shoulders bowed beneath exhaustion, eyes shadowed, jaw slackening each time sleep nearly takes him before he drags himself back from it. Every time Steve’s breathing changes, Bucky’s head lifts. Every time Steve shifts, Bucky’s hand is already there, soothing him back to stillness. Small, tender brushes of his hand through damp blond strands. He does it without thinking, with the ease of habit, and you get the feeling you’re seeing something usually kept from view.

It’s a strange thing to witness from a man with his name on a wanted poster. It’s a strange thing to witness from a man at all, really.

‘The Winter Kid’ the papers call him - always printed near Steve’s name like one shadow following another. He’s younger than the posters make him look, or maybe just more human. Handsome too, though that thought feels poorly timed and unwelcome. But true all the same.

Maybe he can feel you looking, because his eyes lift to yours a moment later. They’re unfairly blue against the tan of his skin and the dark fall of his hair,and for one strange second you feel caught in them the way you do in Steve’s.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head.

You shrug, a little embarrassed, but you hold his gaze. “You don’t look much like your picture.”

“Yeah, well.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and for the first time you feel that charm Steve warned you about, battered but not dead. “They charge extra for likeness.”

A small laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Bucky hears it, and the corner of his mouth seems to twitch a fraction further up, pleased with himself. The air between you seems a little lighter after that, still ruled by Steve’s breathing, but less like two strangers keeping watch over a dying man and more like two people bound, against all better judgement, to the same stubborn fool. “I expected you shorter,” you admit, causing Bucky to raise a brow. “You know, from the name.”

Bucky groans like this is a wound all its own, head tipping back against the chair for half a second. “Christ. Not you too.”

“Well, it does give a certain impression,” you add, just to goad.

“It gives me a headache is what it gives me.” He drags a tired hand down his face, though the shape of a smile keeps threatening at his mouth. “You know how hard it is to be taken serious by women when half of ’em start grinnin’ soon as they hear Kid?”

“From what Steve tells me,” you say, glancing down at the man asleep between you, “you seem to manage just fine.”

His expression shifts slightly at that. Surprise first, then something warmer he tries to hide by leaning back in his chair and letting the charm crawl into the corner of his mouth. Worse now you know to look for it.

“Oh yeah?” he drawls, voice smoother than it should be after all his shouting. “And what exactly has Rogers told you about how I treat a lady, darlin’?”

You reach for the damp cloth beside you and wring it out over the basin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. “Careful, Mr. Barnes. I’ve still a mind to pick my shotgun back up.”

Bucky seems more pleased by your threat than scared, but lifts his hands in surrender all the same, “Of course, Miss. I’ll behave.”

After that, the conversation drifts into exchanging stories about Steve. It feels odd to speak of him like this whilst he lies pale beneath your blankets, yet necessary too, as if each foolish little detail sets another small weight on the side of the scale that says living.

Eventually, though, you can’t avoid the question anymore.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s smile disappears instantly, replaced by a grimace. “Rumlow.” 

Just the name is enough to fill the room with dread.

Brock Rumlow has a reputation that travels ahead of him. Bounty hunter, most folk call him. Brutal killer, if folk were feeling honest. But a good man by the town’s measure because he kills with the sheriff’s blessing. 

“He caught our trail two days west,” he explains. “We thought we’d shaken him after the river crossin’. But Steve said the tracks were too clean, and of course he just had to be right.”

His mouth twists, though there’s no humour in it now.

“Rumlow had men waitin’ by the ridge. More than we counted on. First shot took my horse out from under me, and Steve came back for me like the damned fool he is.” Bucky’s hand goes to Steve’s hair again before he seems to notice it, fingers combing once through the damp strands before he pulls away. “I told him to ride. He didn’t.”

Of course he didn’t.

That is what hurts most, perhaps. Not the recklessness - you made your peace with that, or tried to. No, it’s the unfortunate fact that no part of you can imagine him doing anything else because you know by now that Steve has never had much sense when someone he cares for is in danger. He might be a wanted man, but he’s good down to the marrow.

“He drew their fire long enough for me to get my rifle,” Bucky continues. “I managed to drop one man, maybe two. Then Rumlow put a bullet in him from the rocks. Steve stayed in the saddle after, somehow. Long enough to swear at me for fussin’.”

“That sounds like him,” you say quietly, reaching for Steve’s hand beneath the blankets. His fingers are cool when you fold them into yours and loose in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Yeah.” Bucky huffs through his nose. “Stubborn bastard made it near six miles telling me it was only a graze. Then he went white as flour and damn near pitched off the horse.”

Your hand tightens around Steve’s before you can stop it. Bucky’s eyes catch it - for all his exhaustion, there is very little the man seems to miss.

“Kept off the road after that, muddied the trial in the creek too.” Bucky says. “Lost ’em for tonight, I reckon.”

“For tonight?”

His eyes lift to yours, and they give you the answer before his mouth does. “Rumlow’s still breathin’, ain’t he?”

That answers enough.

Bucky leans forward and peels the edge of the blanket back just far enough to check the bandage. With gentle fingers, he presses near your stitches, watching for fresh blood, and you find yourself holding your breath until he lets the blanket fall back into place.

“Stitches are holding,” he confirms. “You did good, darlin’, real good.”

Then his gaze drops to Steve, hand resting on his shoulder.

“Course,” he adds, murmuring almost to himself. “Rogers always did know how to pick good people.”

That makes you look back up at him, at the two of them together. And for a second you see it all playing out: Steve riding back into gunfire, Bucky dragging him through the dark, the two of them printed side by side on every wanted paper like the world has always known they come together.

“Yeah,” you reply softly, holding his gaze. “He does.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifts without any of the charm from before. This smile is smaller, more honest. Grateful in a way neither of you can bear to acknowledge. 

The next couple of days pass in pieces for Steve.

Pain consumes most of it, sharp enough to drag him sleep sometimes. But he always wakes to company and the cool drag of a cloth over his face when fever leaves him damp and restless. Sometimes the hand at his brow is yours. Sometimes it’s Bucky’s calloused palms, not a soft but no less careful for it.

When he shifts too quickly, one of you is always there to press him back down. Your voice comes sweet near his ear, telling him to to rest and stop being difficult. Bucky has less patience about it, muttering, “Quit bein’ a jackass, Rogers,”but the softness in his voice gives him away.

By the second day, he starts catching more of the world around him. Mostly, he catches the two of you speaking over him like he’s some troublesome piece of work you have mutually agreed to keep alive. He hears you show Bucky how to change the sheets without jostling him, and Bucky grumbling that you’re a bossy little thing. Your quiet snicker follows, easy enough by then to tell Steve you’ve already learnt not to be scared of Bucky’s bark. And it settles him enough to fall back into another slumber.

Yet, when Steve wakes properly, the house is quiet. His mind goes straight trouble - you and Bucky hurt, or worse, taken.Then he sees the fresh cloth waiting on the washstand, the cup of water set near the bed, the plate of food left within reach. Someone has even pulled the blanket back from the edge of his bandage so it won’t catch when he moves.

Still, his gaze flicks back to the empty chair, a little more wounded at being left alone than he’d admit. 

But then he hears voices drift in from the window. Yours first, bright enough to pull his eyes open properly. Bucky answers beneath it, rougher and far too pleased with himself, and Steve rolls his eyes fondly at the ceiling. He knows Bucky in that mood, and exactly the kind of trouble he thinks he’s charming his way out of.

The sound of you both laughing together is too sweet to resist, and it pulls at Steve before he can think better of it. So he presses one hand to his side, grits his teeth and pushes himself upright with a low grunt. 

By the time he makes it to the doorway, he’s sweating through his shirt, and lightheaded enough that he has to lean against the frame for support. But when his vision focuses on the two of you, the pain pulsing from his side seems to subside. 

Bucky’s leaning against the fence with his sleeves rolled to his elbows - an unabashed display of his toned forearms if Steve’s ever seen one - hat tipped back and a loose board braced beneath his boot. He must have been fixing it before he got distracted. Or before you distracted him. Either way, he’s smiling at you like he knows just how handsome he is, which, Steve thinks fondly, he does.

“You call that fixed?” you ask, eyeing the board.

“It’s standin’, ain’t it?”

“It was standin’ before.”

“Well, now it’s standin’ better.”

Your mouth opens in disbelief, and Bucky’s grin widens like he has been waiting all morning to earn that exact look from you. He shifts the hammer in his hand, letting it hang loose at his side. “You this particular with all the men who do chores for you?”

“Only the ones who do half a job and then stand there lookin’ pleased with themselves.” You jibe, mouth curving before you can help it. “Steve never gives me cause to complain.”

Bucky presses a hand to his chest, wounded clean through. “Darlin’, I am beginnin’ to think you don’t appreciate the quality of my help.”

Steve watches your face as you say it, the way your smile tugs despite your best efforts to keep stern. You’re standing closer than you need to. Close enough to swat his arm when he mutters something about schoolteachers being as scary as he remembers. Bucky catches your wrist before your hand drops, letting his thumb skim once across the inside of it before he lets it go.

Too friendly, some part of Steve thinks. He should mind that. He knows himself well enough to expect the old ugly twist, the hard little claim in his chest that has no manners and less patience. His girl. His Buck.

“You remember I have a shotgun, right? Any more excuses from you and I’ll get it back out and see if it motivates you proper,” you warn, though there is too much warmth in it to do much harm.

Bucky looks far too pleased by that. “How could I forget?” He dips his head, absolutely unrepentant. “Pretty thing like you pointin’ a gun at me ain’t a picture a man forgets easy.”

He really should mind that. 

Only the longer he watches, the more it just seems… right. That’s the simple answer. The more complicated one is that there’s a want in him he hasn’t allowed himself to acknowledge until now. 

Then Bucky says something softer, and whatever it is makes your expression change. The teasing slips. You step forward and wrap your arms around him, gentle at first, then tighter when Bucky folds around you in return. His hand spreads over your back, yours presses between his shoulders, and he rests his chin on your head.

Something in Steve’s stomach twists hot, and it’s not the bullet wound. 

Oh.

Well.

That explains a few things.

When you pull back, your fingers drag lightly down Bucky’s sleeve before falling away. And then your eyes catch Steve in the doorway.

The smile drops straight off your face.

“Steve!” you chide. “Good lord, you shouldn’t be standin’ up yet!”

Bucky turns fast, all charm gone in an instant. “You stupid son of a—”

“Why aren’t you in bed?” you demand, already crossing the yard towards him. “You’re meant to be resting. You’ll tear the stitches, you’ll—”

“What’re you doin’?” Steve asks.

His voice is rough from sleep and disuse, but it cuts through your panic all the same. You stop a few feet short of him, caught between scolding him like one of your schoolchildren and reaching for him. Bucky has followed you, but that damn mouth of his curves back into his signature smirk.

“Stealin’ your woman?” he replies.

Steve huffs a laugh at that, breath catching a little in his chest from the pull of it. He shakes his head, looking between the two of you with something warm and wry beneath the exhaustion.

“Take her,” he shrugs, turning back towards the house, pretending with little success that every step doesn’t pull at his side.

You both go quiet behind him. Steve pauses at the doorway just long enough to glance back, tired eyes moving between the two of you.

“What?” he says, mouth twitching as he makes his slow way back to bed. “Take her.”

Bucky watches him go, grin crooked and eyes a little too soft. “Well, you’re a romantic bastard, I’ll give you that.”

You climb into bed that night tentatively, careful to keep your distance from Steve so you can’t accidentally hurt him.

He watches you fuss with tired amusement, flat on his back beneath the blankets. He’s been patient all day because he’s had no choice in the matter, but now, with you so close, what little patience he has left wears thin.

His arm reaches for you beneath the quilt. “C’mere.”

“But you need to be careful—”

He tugs you closer before you can finish, stubborn as always, and though the movement pulls a faint wince from him, it also draws a low, pleased rumble from his chest when you end up pressed along his side.

“Steve,” you hiss, braced on one elbow, already trying to take some of your weight off him. “You’re going’ to hurt yourself.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs.

You open your mouth to argue, but his lips find your shoulder first. He kisses over your skin lazily, as if he has all the time in the world and no bounty hunter breathing down the road. Then moves to side of your throat, where his beard scrapes softly enough to make your breath catch. Any protest thins in your mouth and dies there, useless, and the ease with which you melt for him makes Steve smile against your skin.

“Missed you,” he hums, pleased with himself.

The words catch somewhere tender, and before you can stop it, the fear you’ve been holding back for days slips free. “I thought you were going’ to die.”

Steve’s mouth stills against your skin. For a moment, he says nothing, then his jaw sets with all the stubborn bravado of a man determined to make the thing smaller than it was. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

You stare at him, eyes burning, and Steve’s bravado doesn’t survive it. His expression softens before he pulls you closer despite the faint wince it costs him, burying his face against your neck.

“No,” he murmurs, voice rough now. “Make a big deal out of it.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. Steve kisses your temple and lets you hold him as hard as you need to, though you can feel the care he takes with every breath. 

“You’re a fool,” you grumble against his chest.

“I know,” he agrees easily.

“And stubborn.”

“I know that too,” he adds, the hint of a smile returning to his voice.

You lift your head enough to glare at him through the last sting behind your eyes. “Don’t sound so smug.”

“Can’t help it.” His hand slides from your waist, broad palm warm through the thin cotton of your nightdress. “You get awful sweet when you forget to be cross with me, ma’am.”

You should scold him. You mean to. Instead your head tips, giving him more room, and Steve’s breath warms where your pulse has already started tripping under his mouth. Then his fingers drift lower, gathering your nightdress up slowly so his hand can hand slip between your thighs, and what comes out of you isn’t an answer at all. It’s too soft, too needy, your hips shifting before your pride can stop them.

Steve only hums, like that tells him everything he needs to know.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked already.”

You make a small sound of protest, breath catching as your hips shift against his palm. “You should be resting.”

“I am resting,” he counters. “You’re the one making all that noise.”

Heat rushes straight through you. “Steve.”

He grins, because he knows what that tone means. His fingers drag through your pussy, spreading the slick of you over your skin until you can’t hold back the needy little moan that escapes. “Buck been winding you up all day, huh? Flashing those pretty eyes at you, running that mouth, standing too close every chance he got.”

You bite your lip hard, but Steve knows your body too well by now. The little tremor that goes through you when he presses two fingers to your entrance, and the way your knees loosen when he rubs his thumb over your clit.

“Mm. Saw the way you looked at him.” His thumb presses a little firmer, drawing another helpless sound from you as his voice drops rougher by your ear. “Saw the way he looked at you too. Like he was wondering how sweet you’d sound if somebody got a hand under your skirt.”

You turn your face into his shoulder, scandalised and burning, but the heat pooling low in you stomach tells a different story. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Seems I just did.”

His fingers push into you then, thick enough to make you clutch at his shirt, his name leaving you in a soft, broken sound. Steve goes still for a breath, jaw tightening as your pussy clenches around him, warm and slick and greedy enough to make him curse the wound in his side for keeping his cock out of you.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, voice rough at your ear. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs part around his hand, your body taking him with a helpless little roll of your hips. His cock twitches heavy against your leg, and the moan that slips out of you is louder than you mean it to be, needy enough to make heat rush to your face.

“That’s my girl,” Steve coos. “Been so good taking care of me, haven’t you? Let me take care of you now.”

“Wait—fuck—Stevie, he’ll hear us.” you protest weakly, eyes flicking toward the door, where Bucky is sleeping on the couch on the other side.

Steve’s fingers slow, but they don’t stop. If anything, his touch turns crueller, pumping in and out of your pussy with an unhurried drag as his thumb circles your clit.

“Good,” he says at last.

Your eyes widen.

Steve curls his fingers inside you, pressing just right, and your whole body jerks against him. “Let him.”

Your pussy tightens around him before you can pretend to be scandalised. Steve feels it and smiles, filthy and pleased, as another moan slips out of you. You try to swallow it down, but his thumb keeps stroking your clit and his fingers keep fucking you open, slow enough to make every wet sound feel obscene in the quiet room.

“S’okay, honey,” he encourages, kissing beneath your ear. “I don’t mind. You make those pretty noises for me and let Buck hear what he’s missin’ out on.”

“Steve,” you whimper into his neck, overwhelmed by the heat of it, by the way he says Buck’s name with no jealousy at all. Like it turns him on too. Like he knows exactly what he is doing to you.

His mouth brushes your jaw. “Poor bastard probably spent all afternoon thinkin’ about what you’d sound like if he got his hands on you,” he rumbles, fingers driving deeper until your breath catches sharp. “Now he’s out there listenin’ to me do it.”

Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt, hips moving against his hand now, chasing more. Steve makes a rough sound like the sight of you fucking yourself on his fingers might kill him faster than any bounty hunter ever could.

Then your hand slides lower before you can think better of it, finding the hard line of his cock through his drawers. He curses under his breath, hips twitching once into your palm before pain catches at him and makes his jaw clench.

You pull back instantly. “Steve—”

“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, stubborn even now, even with sweat at his temple and breath caught in his chest. “I’m fine, pretty girl, promise. Just need your hand on my cock. Need my girl to make it better.”

Your answering moan is too wanton to stifle, and out on the couch, Bucky hears it. 

He’s been awake for a while, one arm thrown over his eyes, every sore port of him arguing with the hard springs beneath the couch cushion. At first, he told himself he was just listening for Steve - that’s reasonable enough. A man has a right to keep an ear out for his best friend when said friend has nearly bled dry on a kitchen table. And if said friend is in bed with his pretty little woman, well, that’s hardly his fault, is it?

He knows should roll over and try to sleep. Or do literally anything other than listen to the needy catch in your breath when Steve’s fingers must find something good. Heat pulls through him before he can talk sense into himself. It’s been crawling under his skin all day. And now Steve’s voice is torturing him in the dark, coaxing the prettiest noises out of you like he means for Bucky to hear everyone.

His hand slides down over the hard ache in his trousers before he can pretend better of himself. His hips jerk into his palm at the first firm press. 

Bucky shuts his eyes as his lips part around a groan of relief. 

He should feel worse about it, probably. A gentleman might. Then again, he’s never made much of a claim to being one, and there’s nothing gentlemanly about Steve is talking to you through the door. Low and rough, sweet in all the wrong places, telling you how good you are for him whilst you make those soft ruined sounds that go straight to Bucky’s cock.

His fingers work the buttons of his trousers open, and he’s so wound up that the first touch to his throbbing length makes his hips jerk up. He’s already hard enough to hurt, thick and hot in his grip, precum slicking the head as he strokes once from base to tip. He has to force himself slower so he doesn’t spill too fast, listening to the shift of the bed in the next room and the wet sound of Steve’s fingers fucking you.

“Don’t hide from me,” Steve rumbles, voice carrying just enough. “Want him to hear how pretty you get when you come”

The needy moan you cry out in response, makes Bucky’s hand tighten and his eyes squeeze shut. He can picture it all wall for a man who hasn’t a right to see any of it. Your thighs spread under Steve’s hand, nightdress pushed up, tucking your face into Steve’s neck as you try and fail to keep quit. Steve, wounded and recovering, still generous enough to make sure Bucky knows what he’s missing. 

“Stevie,” you gasp, and Bucky’s cock jerks in his fist.

He drags his thumb over the swollen head with enough pressure to make his stomach pull tight. The couch springs creak beneath him when his hips jump into his hand, and he freezes momentarily, listening. But neither of you stop. If anything, Steve laughs, low and filthy, like he heard the sound and knows eaxctly what it means. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans. “Bet Buck’s got his hand around his cock right now, listenin’ to you. Bet he can’t help himself.”

Bucky presses his forearm over his mouth, a helpless grin pulling at him even as pleasure burns through his gut. Bastard. Mean, beautiful bastard. He strokes himself harder, giving up on pacing himself, fist slick and tight around his cock as your moans slip through the thin bedroom door and wrap around every filthy picture Steve puts in his head.

“Wish he could see you right now,” Steve goads, and Bucky nearly spills right there. “So wet for me. Sweet little pussy takin’ my fingers so good. He’d lose his fuckin’ mind.”

His hips buck desperately into his first, breath coming harsh through his nose as Steve keeps talking like he knows every dirty place Bucky’s mind has gone and means to walk you through all of them. Your moans pitcher higher, thinner, more desperate.

“Please Stevie—so close,” you whine, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more beautiful. 

“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” Steve coos. “Come for me. Let him hear.”

The sound you make as you fall apart under Steve’s hand is obscene. You pleasure spills out into the dark as Steve praises you in that honey-deep register like he’s got his fingers buried in the best thing he’s ever touched. Bucky strokes himself harder, cock slick in his fist, teeth digging into his wrist to keep his own noise down.

Then Steve groans low around a curse, and God, Bucky knows that sound. Learnt on cold nights under open sky when bedrolls were laid a polite distance apart and neither of them ever spoke of what they heard in the dark.

But hearing it now, with you, is enough to finish off what your moans started.

His hand works faster, rougher, chasing it until he spills over his own knuckles. He strokes himself through it, hips jerking up into his fist, hot cum slicking his fingers while the last of Steve’s filthy praise drifts through the door.

Head falling back against the couch, he throws his free hand over his eyes again as if that might make a decent man of him after the fact. But the other is still loose around his sensitive, softening cock. From the bedroom, Steve mutters something too low for him too catch, but you laugh in response, breathless.

Bucky smiles up at the ceiling, completely and utterly fucked. Both of you tucked under his skin, deep as a wound and twice as troublesome. 

“Romantic bastard,” he scoffs into the dark.

 You wake reaching for Steve, hands sliding over the sheets in search of the warmth that’s usually gone by the time daylight finds you. For one awful, familiar second, your heat braces for emptiness, and then your fingers meet his chest. Still there.

The joy it brings is so small and foolish it almost hurts. Steve’s still beside you, warm beneath your palm, alive beneath your hand, his breath moving slow and steady. You don’t mean to smile as hard as you do for something that won’t last, but you feel it happen anyway. 

Steve’s eyes crack open, tired blue finding you through the grey morning light. His mouth curves faintly. 

“Mornin’,” he rasps. 

He lifts a hand with more effort than he lets show and brushes his knuckles along your cheek before drawing you close enough to kiss your forehead. It is gentle. Domestic, almost, in a way that feels absurd given the blood dried somewhere in your kitchen and the wanted posters nailed up in town.

But then Steve starts trying to get up. He looks pale enough that you threaten him twice before he gets both feet on the floor. 

“You are pale enough to haunt this house, Steve Rogers. Sit still.”

His brows lift, innocent as sin. “Jus’ thinkin’ about breakfast is all, ma’am, swear.”

He takes your continued scolding with a faint curve to his mouth, one hand shielding the wound slightly, as you get up to help him dress. He even lets you fuss over him, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you see no red blooming on his bandages. 

By the time you get him into the kitchen, his jaw his set hard enough to make you narrow your eyes. Steve takes your silent warning and lowers himself into the chair before bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing the inside of it. Just a brief, warm brush of his lips, eyes lifting to yours in quiet apology for every minute he’s made your heart suffer these last few days.

The door opens before you can say anything soft enough to embarrass you both. Bucky steps inside with a sack under one arm; he’s been gone since first light, having ridden into town for coffee, cartridges, and whatever else two outlaws and one increasingly compromised schoolteacher might need. You’re expecting some crooked remark as he kicks the door shut behind him. Maybe something about Steve looking less like a corpse, or you running the kitchen like a jailhouse.

Instead, his face is grim.

Steve clocks it immediately, and his shoulders straighten. Pain forgotten under the old readiness that lives dormant in him until needed. “What?”

Bucky sets the sack on the table. “You feel well enough to ride?”

Steve frowns. “If I have to.”

“Good.” Bucky’s eyes flick over you, brows tightening, then back to Steve. “Rumlow’s in town, asking questions at the mercantile. Offered coin for anyone who knew anythin’ about Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid.”

Steve face flattens, jaw setting into that hardened mask he uses to cover whatever else he’s feeling. Nodding once, he pushes up from the chair.

“Steve—” you start at once.

He bends and kisses you before you can finish, once hand gentle at the side of your face. It tastes too close to a goodbye kiss for your heart to bare, and the panic rises in your throat.

“We’ll draw him off, honey,” he murmurs, clearly misinterpreting your worry. “He won’t know you had anything to do with us.”

Then he turns to Bucky. “Get the horses ready. We’ll cut south - maybe this time we stop talking about Mexico and actually head there.”

Mexico?

You look from Steve to Bucky, at the silent communication already passing between them, and the speed with which they become men leaving. Men packing their lives into saddlebags. Men deciding what they can carry and what must be left, including, apparently, you. 

“Take me with you.”

Both of them immediately stop.

Steve turns firs,t protest already written across his face. “Sweetheart, you can’t seriously —”

Bucky interrupts, sharper. “Absolutely not.”

“I wasn’t askin’,” you counter firmly, mustering up the same voice you use in the schoolhouse when a child thinks they might try their luck.

Steve’s brows pull together. “You don’t know what you’re suggestin’.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.” Bucky cuts in, which only makes you angrier. “This life ain’t—”

“Ain’t what?” you return. “For a lady?”

That closes his mouth. For once, Bucky Barnes has no clever answer ready, and Steve looks no better. The two of them stand there, each searching for the combination of words least likely to upset you further and finding none fast enough.

“After last night, I think any claim I had to bein’ a lady has been thoroughly mishandled.”

A flush climbs through the rough gold of Steve’s beard at once, and he drops his eyes to the table as if the wood grain has become a matter of deep interest. Bucky looks toward the window with equal dignity, which is to say very little, given what he had so clearly heard through your bedroom door. But you feel a little wild with it now. Freed by the strange relief of having already stepped over the edge in your own mind.

“I’m a schoolteacher in a town that’s been dyin’ for years,” you continue. “Folk still smile at me like I’m still respectable, but every year I stay unmarried, they look a little closer for the rot. And every night I come back to this house alone, and wait to hear news of Steve’s death.”

Steve’s face falls, and he looks at you with such earnest guilt that you have to look away or you’ll lose the nerve to finish. Your eyes sting badly enough that you have to blink hard and focus on staring at the floorboards.

“I’m no fool,” you say. “I know what I’m sayin’. Long days. Cold nights. Men with guns behind us. I know it won’t be some grand adventure out of a penny paper.” You lift your head again. “But I want a life I choose. I want more than waitin’ in this house for grief to come find me. And I want to be with you.”

Bucky looks at Steve then, and Steve returns it. They do that thing again where a whole conversation seems to pass without either of them opening their mouth, and you can already tell this is a feature of them that will get on your nerves. Still, you stand there and wait. You can see them weighing the right choice. You can also see, with a painful twist of hope, that neither of them likes the thought of leaving you behind.

Steve exhales through his nose. “You’d have to listen.”

“To both of us,” Bucky adds. “When it counts. If Steve says run, you run. If I say stay put, you don’t move a muscle.”

“You’ll ride until you ache,” Steve says, eyes searching your face for the first sign of regret. “Sleep under open sky. Eat beans out of a tin when there’s nothing else. Go without a proper bed more often than you’ll have one.”

Bucky leans his hip against the table, arms folding, his expression hard despite the tired edge of him. “And you’ll keep that shotgun close. Learn a pistol too, whether you like it or not. Pretty face won’t do much good if Rumlow catches up.”

“I’ll do it,” you agree, looking at Steve first, then Bucky, making yourself hold both their gazes long enough for them to see there’s fear in you, plenty of it. Just none useful enough to change your mind. “I’ll do it all, I promise.”

They seem satisfied enough to move again, almost. Steve’s hand twitches toward the supplies, Bucky’s eyes flick to the door. But you stop them before the moment can run away from you.

“The only thing I won’t do,” you continue, quieter, “is watch either of you die. I’ll skip that scene, if you don’t mind.”

Steve’s hand closes around yours before you can busy yourself with anything else, or turn away and pretend the words weren’t all too honest.

“Once we go,” his eyes hold steady on yours, “we go.”

There’s warning in it, but there’s promise too. You squeeze his hand in confirmation. 

“Then let’s go.”

You leave before the town has finished waking, with no grand farewell to your little house. Just five minutes to pack the essentials, and everything else left behind for the town to make stories about two bad men and the lady they corrupted.

For the first couple weeks, you ride with Bucky. At first, Steve enjoys watching the two of you grow closer. But a few days pass without your arms around his waist and the man starts acting abandoned. Nothing dramatic, of course. Steve Rogers is far too dignified for that. He only gets quieter, pouts into his coffee, and looks at you from under those ridiculous lashes with his pretty blue eyes, utterly wounded.

But there’s only so much sympathy you can give him when every jolt of his horse leaves his face tight and grey - having you pressed against his side would pull at the wound no matter how carefully you held him, so you sit behind Bucky instead. Your arms wrap around his middle, sometimes resting your cheek between his shoulder blades when the road stretches long.

He’s always warm - despite the nickname - and complains when your cold hands slip under his coat in the mornings, but never makes you move them.

It’s on one such morning that the question slips out before it’s even fully formed in your head. Absent in its curiosity. 

“Bucky?”

He turns his head back slightly, catching your face in the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”

Your chin is hooked over his shoulder, the brim of his hat shading your eyes from the sun. Steve is riding a bit ahead, far enough to pretend he’s not listening and close enough you know he is.

“Do you ever wonder, if I’d met you first, that we’d be the ones the get involved?”

Bucky makes a thoughtful sound, as though this is a matter requiring serious study. “But we are involved, sugar.”

You lift your head. “Are we?”

“You’re ridin’ my horse with me.” His hand covers yours where it rests against his stomach, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. “In some countries, that’s the same as being married.”

Steve glances back over his shoulder. “Name one.”

“Plenty, Stevie,” Bucky shoots back without missing a beat. “Just ‘cause you ain’t a romantic don’t mean it ain’t true.”

“That mean you don’t know any?”

“Means I’m a man of mystery, Rogers. Let me have that.”

You laugh into Bucky’s shoulder, and Steve turns forward again, shaking his head. Even from behind, you can see the curve at the corner of his mouth.

That becomes one of the biggest pleasures of the road, the two of them bickering like an old married couple with loaded guns and a shared talent for pretending they are the sensible one. Steve corrects Bucky’s directions. Bucky mocks Steve’s caution. Steve tells him caution is the reason he’s still alive, and Bucky retorts, “Barely,” with a pointed look at the bandage under his shirt. 

You learn to sit between it and smile into the back of Bucky’s coat, warm with the strange comfort of being folded into something that clearly existed long before you and somehow has made room for you anyway.

The weeks begin to fold into one another after that, measured less by days than by how far Steve can ride before pain makes him stubbornly quiet. He never says when it’s too much - of course he doesn’t. But you both learn the signs, so that when that happens, you or Bucky find an excuse to stop. Steve accepts each excuse with the grateful dignity of a man who knows precisely what you’re doing and lacks the strength to protest.

Some nights you find a town small enough to risk, and the three of you take one room under a false name while Steve lies stiff on the bed and Bucky sleeps in the chair with a gun across his lap. Other nights, there is only open country and the fire between you, Bucky’s coat under your head, Steve’s hand tucked around your waist, pleased now he can finally pull you close.

You learn quickly; you have to. 

How to ride until your thighs ache and keep your complaints mostly to yourself. How to drink bad coffee without making a face. How to keep your hair pinned under a hat when passing through towns where a woman travelling with two men draws more attention than a pair of wanted faces.

Bucky teaches you to shoot a pistol at a row of bottles outside an abandoned line shack, and Steve stands behind you, correcting your grip until Bucky accuses him of distracting you. 

Rumlow stays behind you like bad weather you can’t outride, always somewhere on the edge of the horizon. Some days there’s no sign of him at all. Other days Bucky comes back from a supply run with his jaw tight, or Steve sees something in the dirt that makes both men go quiet. Neither of them likes fear on your face, so you learn how to hide that, too.

By the time Steve’s stitches come out, the three of you have already become a kind of routine.

Steve reads the land ahead. Bucky watches what follows. You keep track of the food, the clean cloth, and all the small human things the two of them would forget in favour of keeping moving. You sleep between them when the nights turn cold, Bucky pressed at your back and Steve careful against your front, one arm laid over your waist like even in sleep he means to keep you safe. Nobody ever says much about it in the morning.

But the trouble with Mexico is that it keeps costing money. By the third month, the coins in Bucky’s purse have started to sound lonely, and Steve has taken to rationing his own portions to make sure you have enough. You always protest that he needs it more, but it falls on deaf ears.

“We need money,” Bucky says one evening, poking at the fire with a stick.

Steve doesn’t look up from the map. “I know.”

“We need quite a bit of money.”

“I know.”

You look between them. “Why do I get the feelin’ neither of you is about to suggest honest work?”

Bucky grins. Steve sighs.

A plan is soon in place, and you quickly realise you aren’t just being given soft work. They aren’t just tucking you safely away and asking you to wait pretty by the horses. No, you’re the distraction. Steve watches your face intently whilst they explain your part, searching for fear, and Bucky watches your hands to see if they shake. They do, a little. You tell him they shake less when people stop staring at them.

“Mean little thing when you’re nervous,” Bucky murmurs.

“You’d know better than to test me, then,” you snap back, much to his delight.

And that’s how you find yourself in your best dress two mornings later, walking into a town that has never heard your name and smiling sweetly at the bank clerk while Steve and Bucky do what Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid apparently do very well.

Soon, there’s a saddle under your hips, stolen money in Steve’s saddle bag and Bucky laughing as the town bell starts clanging behind you. Steve rides quietly beside you, one hand low on his reins, hat pulled low against the flare. He looks more pensive than you’d expect for a man who just planned and executed a successful robbery. 

“You know,” he considers, tilting his head. “When I was a kid, I always figured on bein’ a hero when I grew up.”

“Too late now,” Bucky shoots back instantly.

Steve turns in the saddle, mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout that almost looks genuinely hurt by the insinuation. “You didn’t have to say that—What’d you have to say that for?”

“Because we just robbed a bank and you’re gettin’ wistful about virtue. Felt like someone ought to keep you on track.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks betrayed for all of half a second before his own mouth gives him away.

“I could still be heroic,” he argues.

“Of course, Stevie,” you soothe, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “And if heroism ever starts includin’ bank robbery, you’ll be the first man I nominate.”

Steve shakes his head, but there’s warmth in it. There’s warmth amongst all three of you now. The money will carry you further south. Rumlow, for the moment, is behind you. And for one bright stretch of road, with the sun high and the horses steady beneath you, the three of you ride easy.

When you reach the next town just before dark, it’s mercifully large enough to have a hotel, though only just. The main building fronts the street, while a handful of squat lodging cabins stand behind it beside the stable yard, each containing little more than a bed, a washstand and a door that locks.

You’ve already separated from Bucky two streets over - two men and a woman trying to book one cabin would draw eyes. A man and his wife, tired from the road and keen to be left alone, draw far fewer.

Bucky will return after dark with supplies and come through the open window like any decent outlaw.

By now, the routine is well worn. Steve keeps his hat low and asks for a room for himself and his wife. Your stomach gives a foolish little turn at the word, which is unhelpful given the circumstances, so you tuck yourself closer into his side and play your part.

The clerk turns the ledger around. “Name?”

Steve takes the pen and writes one of the names agreed between the three of you, this time settling on Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale.

The clerks eyes move over Steve as he writes, a little too closely for your liking. Steve’s hat shadows most of his face, though there is only so much a brim can do against a jaw like his. Then the clerk’s gaze drops to you, lingering on the plain dress, the tired hem, the cheap ring on your finger where your hand rests neatly against Steve’s sleeve.

“Long road?” he asks.

“Long enough,” you answer before Steve can, sweet and harmless. “My husband’s been poor company since noon.”

The clerk’s mouth twitches. “That so?”

“I get hungry,” Steve says.

“He gets sulky,” you correct.

The clerk looks amused now, his suspicion giving way to the easier pleasure of watching a married couple prod at each other. He reaches for a key from the row behind him.

“Cabin four,” he says. “Out and to the right.”

Steve takes the key with a polite nod, your hand still tucked around his arm, and the two of you make your way to the cabin to wait for Bucky and whatever trouble he tends to bring back with him.

But exhaustion claims you before said trouble arrives. You barely manage to loosen your dress before crawling beneath the covers, telling Steve you only mean to close your eyes whilst he checks the room. The bed feels strangely wide after so many nights spent wedged between two warm bodies beneath the open sky. Even when there had only been Steve beside you, his arm always fond your waist before sleep did. 

Tonight, the empty space at your back bothers you more than it ought to, and you drift off feeling faintly abandoned by both outlaws. 

Until finally you stir to the mattress dipping behind you and warmth settling along your back. It’s broad and familiar enough that your half-asleep mind doesn’t ask questions. Instead, you arch back into him, pleased to have your outlaw close, fitting your ass against his hips. 

Impatiently, and a little pointedly, you reach back for the arm that has failed to wrap itself around you. You drag it over your waist and hold is hand beneath yours. 

“Took you long enough,” you mumble into the pillow, a little pout tucked into the words. After all those weeks of Steve looking wounded whenever you rode with Bucky, he might at least have the decency to act pleased now that he can pull you close whenever.

His body goes stiff, and you take the teasing for what it is, grinding back again. Slower this time, rolling your ass over the shape beneath his trousers until his cock begins to harden against you. A strained breath warms the back of your neck. Then another, rougher, when you press closer and keep moving, sleepy need gathering fast between your thighs.

Still, his hand remains where you put it.

Your brows pinch. Steve has never needed this much encouragement where you;re concerned. Usually, one soft sound from you is enough to have him pushing up your skirts and getting greedy with whatever he finds beneath them.

“Stevie,” you whine, catching his wrist again. “Quit makin’ me ask.”

You guide his hand down over your stomach and between your thighs, pressing his palm against the heat gathered beneath your drawers. His fingers flex once. The groan that leaves him is low and delicious beside your ear, and you answer it with a needy little roll of your hips, trying to coax his hand into giving you what you want.

“That’s it, honey.” You hear Steve drawl, but his voice doesn’t come from behind you. “Keep grindin’ that pretty ass over Buck’s cock, he’s been waitin’ weeks to feel how sweet you are.”

Your eyes snap open. 

Steve is sat in the chair near the window, one ankle hooked over the other, watching the two of you through the low lamplight. His hat rests on the table beside him, hair pushed back from his face, and the hard shape beneath his trousers leaves little doubt as to how much he’s been enjoying the view.

Behind you, Bucky has gone completely still. His hand remains trapped between your thighs where you placed it, fingers flexing once against the damp cloth of your drawers before stopping again.

Steve catches the hesitation on your face.

“Easy, pretty girl,” he coos, voice dropping softer. “You’re alright. Ain’t nobody cross with you.”

His gaze stays warm and steady on yours, settling some of the panic before it can take hold. Bucky makes no attempt to claim what you offered him in your sleep, leaving the choice entirely with you now that you’re awake, and the restraint loosens something in your chest.

You sink back against him again, and a quiet, needy “Steve” slips from your mouth. 

“Well, quit teasin’ him then, sweetheart. You dragged Buck’s hand down to that needy pussy yourself.” His eyes stay on yours, smile turning wicked. “You want him to touch you, don’t you?”

You nod, “Yes, Stevie, please.”

Approval rumbles from Steve across the room at the same moment Bucky groans against your shoulder. His hand finally moves, slipping beneath the damp cloth between your thighs and dragging two rough fingers through the slick gathered there.

“Christ,” Bucky breathes, the word warm against your neck. “You’re soaked through darlin’.”

Your hips chase his hand before you can help it, opening wider as his fingers circle your clit. He parts you slowly, gathering the mess of you over his fingertips before circling your clit. And God, does he learn quickly. Taking each broken breath and twitch of your thighs as instruction, until your body is rolling against him with shameless impatience.

“That feel good?” he murmurs. “Been wondering how sweet you’d get for me.”

You whine and press back against him, already impatient, already desperate for more than the teasing drag of his fingers. Bucky laughs softly into your neck, pleased by how quickly you come apart for him.

“Yeah, I can feel that.” One finger presses into your pussy, drawing a thin moan from you as he works it deeper. “Taking me so easy. Such a good girl for us.”

Bucky pushes a second finger into your pussy, and the stretch of them pulls a broken moan from you. His hand is rougher than Steve’s, the calluses catching at tender places as he works you open, but he watches every reaction with the same focused attention he gives everything. One curl of his fingers makes your thighs tremble, and he does it again immediately.

Steve watches from the chair with one hand resting over the hard shape in his trousers, his eyes fixed on the way you grind down over Bucky’s knuckles.

“That it?” he asks against your skin. “Right there, sugar?”

“Yes—God, Buck—”

Bucky curses when your walls tighten around him. “She’s so damn sweet, Stevie.”

Steve’s mouth curves.

“If you think she’s sweet around your fingers,” he says, voice low enough to make your stomach clench, “wait till you get a taste of her.”

The thought pulls a desperate sound from you. Bucky answers with a groan of his own, his fingers curling inside you as his gaze drops hungrily between your thighs from over your shoulder. Your hand is already reaching back, fingers tangling in his dark hair as you twist toward him and tug with very little patience left.

Bucky goes willingly, laughing once under his breath as he lets you pull him down the bed, tugging down your drawers as he goes.

“That eager, darlin’?”

“Yes,” you gasp, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate those broad shoulders. “Please.”

Steve leans back in the chair, hand now palming over his cock as he watches.

“Go on, Buck,” he drawls. “Show her that mouth’s good for something besides bein’ a clever jackass.”

The first slow drag of Bucky’s tongue through you tears a cry from your throat. His hands close around your hips at once, holding you open while he tastes you again, deeper this time, mouth working with none of the caution his fingers had shown. He licks through every slick fold, groaning against your pussy.

Then his tongue circles your clit, and your hips jerk sharply into his face.

“There,” Steve rumbles, hand pressing harder over his thick length, still trapped beneath too much fabric. “She likes it right there. Don’t rush her, Buck. Keep your tongue flat and make her grind on it.”

Bucky follows the instruction immediately. He spreads his mouth over you, tongue broad and slow beneath your clit while his grip shifts lower, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath your thighs to pull you closer. Your back arches, breath breaking into a helpless whine as you begin to move against him, too desperate to stay still and too overwhelmed to find any rhythm beyond chasing whatever his mouth gives you.

“That’s it,” Bucky praises against you. “Good girl. Use me.”

His words vibrate through your pussy and leave you clenching around nothing. He feels it, answers with another hungry groan, then slips two fingers back inside you while his mouth returns to your clit.

The room seems to tilt.

“Buck—Steve—God—”

Their names tangle together as Bucky curls his fingers into the place that makes your thighs shake. Steve keeps talking from across the room, telling Bucky when to press harder, when to keep his mouth where it is, every quiet command proving how well he knows your body and how willingly Bucky is learning it.

Pleasure builds so quickly that instinct has you trying to squirm away from it. Your hips twist even as they buck toward him, hands scrambling over the sheets while Bucky holds you firmly in place and refuses to let the distance grow.

“Easy, darlin’,” he soothes, breathless against you. “I’ve got you. Let me have it.”

But you can’t. You need more. Need both of them.

Your hand reaches blindly toward Steve even though he’s still too far away, fingers stretching uselessly through the space between you as his name leaves you in a broken plea. “Stevie.”

He’s out of the chair before the word has finished. Steve comes to the bedside and catches your reaching hand, pressing it against his chest as he bends over you.

“I’m here, pretty girl,” he coos. “You close?”

You nod frantically, one hand clutching his shirt and dragging him lower because words have abandoned you. Steve lets himself be pulled into the kiss, mouth covering yours just as Bucky’s tongue flicks hard over your clit again.

You moan against Steve’s lips as his hand slides into Bucky’s hair.

“Closer, Buck,” Steve pants into your mouth, pushing him more firmly between your thighs. “She’s trying to run from it. Don’t let her.”

Bucky groans and buries his face deeper, lips and tongue turning greedy while Steve kisses you through every broken sound. The hand in Bucky’s hair holds him just where you need him, and Steve’s other palm cups your jaw, keeping your mouth against his as your body begins to lose all control.

“That’s my best girl,” Steve praises between kisses. “Lettin’ me share this sweet pussy with Buck. Look how greedy you’ve got him.”

Your fingers knot in Steve’s shirt as your hips rise hard against Bucky’s face, chasing the relentless pressure of his tongue. Bucky holds you there and eats you through it, groaning when your thighs close around his head and the first desperate pulse of your orgasm rolls over his mouth.

You come with Steve’s name breaking against his lips and Bucky’s muffled beneath it, your whole body shuddering as slick spills over Bucky’s tongue and chin. Steve kisses every cry from you while Bucky greedily laps at everything you give him, refusing to stop until you are trembling and breathless between them.

Only then does Steve ease his hold in Bucky’s hair.

Bucky lifts his head slowly, mouth shining and eyes dark with satisfaction, looking every bit as wrecked as you feel. He’s knelt between your thighs, one hand warm against your hip, whilst Steve is still leant over you. It leaves them close enough that Steve’s gaze has nowhere else to fall but Bucky’s mouth.

“Fuck Stevie,” he breathes, wiping his thumb beneath his lip only to suck the taste from it. “Can’t believe you kept her to yourself for so long. Greedy bastard.”

But Steve’s gaze is too focused on Bucky’s swollen lips, glistening with your arousal, for his brain to think of a response. His tongue flicks out absently, sweeping over his lower lip as though he can already taste you there. The hunger in his face is so plain that your hand rises almost instinctively, fingers curling around his jaw and drawing him toward Bucky.

Their mouths meet hard enough to pull a startled sound from Bucky, and for one suspended second neither man moves. Steve’s hand stays curled around his jaw. Bucky’s fingers bunch in the front of Steve’s shirt. The rough scrape of stubble and the unfamiliar shape of another man’s mouth seem to catch them both off guard.

But then Bucky pulls him closer.

Steve takes hold of the back of his neck and kisses him properly, tongue pushing into Bucky’s mouth with a low groan, greedy for every trace of you left on his tongue. Bucky answers with all the hunger he had just spent between your thighs, opening for him as though this is something they have been circling for years without ever daring to name.

The sight of them together sends fresh heat curling low in your stomach.

Steve’s tongue pushes deeper into Bucky’s mouth, licking over his lips and teeth as though Bucky has become another place from which Steve can take his fill. Bucky groans, one hand sliding around the back of Steve’s neck while the other tightens possessively on your thigh. Every reckless rescue, every night spent back to back beneath the open sky, every time one of them chose the other without hesitation finally makes sense for what it has always been.

Your slick still glistens on Bucky’s chin. Steve’s mouth smears through it as the kiss deepens, and neither of them seems to care where one taste ends and the other begins. Years of rough affection and stranger devotion turn filthy in front of you, Steve holding Bucky by the jaw while Bucky bites lightly at his lower lip before drawing him back in, as if now they have finally started, neither of them knows how to stop.

Then Bucky’s hand drops between them. His palm settles over Steve’s straining cock, and Steve groans into the kiss. Bucky rubs him slowly through the fabric, swallowing each low moan Steve gives him while Steve keeps one hand firm at the back of his neck. They look made for this, rough hands and parted mouths, years of devotion finding a new language right in front of you, and the thought leaves you aching all over again.

Your thighs shift restlessly beneath them. One hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit while you watch Bucky palm Steve’s cock through his trousers. A moan escapes before you can smother it.

Their kiss breaks, both men looking down at you, though their foreheads remain pressed together. Bucky’s mouth is red and wet, Steve’s no better, and neither of them moves for a moment as they watch your fingers circle desperately between your thighs.

“Well, look at her,” Bucky murmurs, his hand still cupped around Steve. “Got herself all worked up watching us.”

You whine softly, pressing harder against your clit.

Steve’s eyes darken. “Poor pretty thing.”

Bucky gives Steve’s cock another slow squeeze, making his jaw tighten. “Reckon we ought to find that mouth something to do besides whine.”

Steve’s smile turns wicked. “Reckon you’re right.”

He shifts farther onto the bed and settles on his knees near the headboard, giving you room to turn beneath him. You move eagerly onto your hands and knees, facing Steve with Bucky still kneeling behind you, close enough that his thighs frame yours and his chest brushes your back when he leans over.

Bucky reaches around you before you can, fingers working open Steve’s trousers slowly at first, then surer when Steve does nothing to stop him. His hand closes around Steve’s cock as it spills free, heavy against his palm, the skin flushed deep at the head and drawn tight over the thick ridge beneath it. The vein you know so well runs dark along the underside, disappearing into Bucky’s fist when he gives one cautious stroke.

Steve’s head tips back on a broken groan.

The sound seems to delight Bucky, eyes dropping to watch his hand move again, slower this time, thumb dragging over the wet slit before sliding back down the length of him. Steve’s broad chest rises sharply beneath his shirt, every muscle in his shoulders pulled tight with the effort of holding still while Bucky learns how easily he can make him come apart.

Something needy catches inside you at the sight. You’ve heard that sound beneath your own hands too many times to let Bucky keep it all to himself.

You lean forward and press your lips to the swollen head, kissing it once before your tongue slips out to taste the slick Bucky has spread there. Steve’s breath breaks again, rougher now, and you follow the thick vein beneath his cock with a slow drag of your tongue, smiling when his hips twitch toward your mouth.

You kiss the tip again, softer this time, letting your lips linger around the crown. Steve’s hand braced against the headboard curls hard enough that the wood gives a quiet complaint beneath his grip.

Behind you, Bucky makes a low sound of disapproval.

“Now that ain’t kind,” he murmurs, gathering your hair away from your face with one hand. “Stevie’s been real good, lettin’ me have my fill of you, and here you are making him suffer for it.”

Steve tries to laugh, but it comes out rough and unsteady when you trace the underside of his cock with the tip of your tongue, following that thick vein until his hips jerk helplessly toward you again. Bucky’s fingers tighten in your hair.

“Think you oughta thank him proper.”

The push is slow but firm, guiding you down Steve’s length before you can tease him again. Your lips stretch around him as inch after inch slides over your tongue, Bucky holding your hair clear while he eases you forward until the swollen tip presses into your throat. You gag softly around him, eyes watering as your hands catch at Steve’s thighs, and the sound Steve makes is loud enough to fill the room.

His forehead drops against Bucky’s.

“Fuck,” he groans straight into Bucky’s mouth, breath breaking between them while your throat works helplessly around his cock. “Sweet girl, always so damn good to me.”

The praise goes straight through you. You moan around him, and Steve curses as the vibration rolls over his cock.

Bucky’s grip settles more firmly in your hair, guiding you back until Steve’s cock slips from your throat and then forward again in one slow, measured stroke. He controls the pace with an ease that makes your stomach tighten, keeping you steady while your lips drag over every inch of Steve. Each pass pulls another sound from Steve, his restraint coming apart piece by piece as the two of you work together to ruin him.

Bucky watches it happen with open satisfaction. His fingers tighten whenever Steve’s hips twitch, holding you in place long enough to make him feel the wet heat of your mouth before easing you back again. When your throat tightens around him and pulls another helpless groan from his chest, Bucky closes the distance and kisses him, swallowing every broken breath you pull from Steve as you bob on his cock.

 Then Steve seems to decide he’s had enough of Bucky being the only one left with any composure. His hand drops between you, fumbling once at Bucky’s trousers before dragging them open. Bucky’s breath breaks into the kiss when Steve wraps a fist around his cock, giving him an experimental stroke.

“Stevie,” Bucky groans against his lips.

Steve’s mouth curves against his. He pumps him again, firmer this time, and the sound Bucky makes rolls straight through you. It leaves you suddenly, painfully aware of the hard weight of him behind you, of how close his cock is to the slick heat between your thighs while his hand remains tangled in your hair.

Your knees edge farther apart without thought.

The movement opens you beneath him, your hips rocking back in a needy little invitation even as your mouth continues working over Steve. Bucky feels it immediately. His free hand slides down your spine and cups your ass, spreading you wider as his thumb traces through the slick already coating your inner thighs.

“Goddamn, sugar, look at you,” he breathes , looking down at the wet heat waiting behind you. “Spread wide and drippin’ all over yourself for my cock.”

Steve follows his gaze.

His fist slows around Bucky’s cock, drawing the swollen head through the mess between your thighs. You whimper around Steve as Bucky’s cock slides over your clit and nudges against your entrance.

Bucky presses forward slowly, teasing you with every inch of his cock. He isn’t as thick as Steve, but he is longer, the stretch different enough to wrench a muffled cry from you around the cock already filling your mouth. Your pussy opens greedily for him, slick walls fluttering as he sinks deeper until the head of him kisses your cervix and leaves you shuddering between them.

“Fuck me, Steve,” Bucky groans, driving in until his hips meet your ass. “You been fillin’ this pussy every chance you get and she’s still tight enough to choke my cock.”

Steve’s cock pulses over your tongue at the words. You barely have enough strength left to hold yourself upright, arms trembling beneath you while Bucky draws back and fills you again, each long stroke knocking the breath from your lungs. Steve’s hips begin to move with him, pushing into your mouth as Bucky fucks into your pussy, and soon there is no rhythm left for you to keep, only the one they make between them.

You let them have you.

Steve’s hands settle on either side of your face, keeping you steady as his cock slips wetly over your tongue. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth and spills down your chin. Every thrust from behind rocks you farther onto Steve, leaving you whining and gagging softly around him while Bucky’s cock reaches so deep your legs threaten to give beneath you.

“Look at her, Buck,” Steve rumbles, watching your lips stretch around him. “Can’t decide which cock she wants more, so she’s takin’ both like the greedy little thing she is.”

Bucky groans and drives in deeper, his hips pressing flush to your ass, causing your mouth to jolt forward around Steve. “She loves it, Stevie. Can feel her squeezin’ me every time you push down her throat.”

Your walls clench hard around Bucky at the filth in their words, milking his cock as another broken moan vibrates around Steve’s. 

“Think she likes hearing us talk about her.”

Steve’s gaze drops to you again, dark with affection and something far less gentle.

“Course she does,” he murmurs, thumb brushing through the spit shining on your chin. “Our filthy girl likes knowing she’s got both her outlaws pleased.”

Bucky’s thrusts begin to turn rougher behind you, each one driving you further onto Steve’s cock whilst Steve keeps one hand cradled against your jaw, thumb catching the drool that slips from the corner of your mouth. They feel your orgasm building, your pussy gripping Bucky and your moans breaking around Steve, and they chase it without mercy.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans, eyes fixed on yours. “Come for us. Let Buck feel what that greedy pussy does when she gets everything she wants.”

Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair as his hips snap into you again. “Go on, sugar. Come all over my cock while you choke on his. Show us how good we make you feel.”

It’s the words that push you over. Pleasure tears through you so hard your arms nearly buckle beneath it. You come with both of them filling you, Steve thick over your tongue and Bucky buried deep enough to empty every though from your head. It’s both too much and exactly what you need - the two of them wrapped around you, with the truth of what they are to each other finally laid out between you.

Your walls clamp down around Bucky in frantic, pulsing waves. “That’s it darlin’,” Bucky growls as your pussy milks him, hips stuttering against your ass. “Keep choking me like that and I’m gonna paint this pretty back with my come.”

He pulls out just in time. His fist closes around his cock, stroking fast as the first hot spill lands across your lower back, followed by another thick stripe over your ass. Bucky groans your name as he empties himself over you, watching his seed streak your skin while your body still trembles beneath him.

Steve stares at the mess his best friend has made of you, and his cock jerks at the sight of you marked by Bucky’s cum. It’s enough to break him, spilling down your throat with a broken groan, hand tightening against your jaw as pulse after pulse fills your mouth. You swallow greedily around him, taking every drop while Bucky’s palm smooths over your hip.

“Such a sweet little thing,” Bucky murmurs behind you, still breathless. “Think your girl likes being shared, Steve.”

Steve’s thumb strokes tenderly over your cheek as you swallow the last of him, eyes glassy and looking up at him with such devoted affection it pulls his heart.

“Our girl.”

The next morning, you stir to Steve trying to leave the bed without disturbing you. He almost manages it. But the mattress shifts beneath his weight, and the warmth pressed against your front begins to disappear before you make a soft, petulant sound and reach for him beneath the covers. Steve catches your searching hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leaning down to brush another against your forehead.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

You answer by tightening your fingers around his wrist, unwilling to surrender the place you have spent the night tucked between your two outlaws. Steve’s mouth softens, but Bucky solves the problem without properly waking. He makes a rough, sleepy noise behind you and pulls you firmly into his chest, one arm cinching around your waist until your back is fitted to him and there is no room left to complain about being abandoned.

“There,” Bucky mumbles into your hair. “Quit fussin’.”

You melt into him happily enough, eyes drifting shut again while Steve dresses nearby. Buck’s body is warm and heavy behind yours, his breath slow against your neck, and for a few precious moments the room feels safe enough to forget where you are. 

But then Steve’s curse cuts through the quiet.

“Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t move immediately. “Mm?”

“Get up.”

The tension in Steve’s voice does what the words alone can’t. Bucky’s arm disappears from around your waist as he pushes upright, sleep falling away from him in an instant. You sit up with the blanket clutched to your chest and find Steve beside the window, peering through the narrow gap he has made in the curtain. His gun belt is already fastened. One revolver rests in his hand while he checks the chamber of the other.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, reaching for his trousers.

Steve lets the curtain fall back into place. “We’ve got company.”

Bucky crosses the room barefoot, keeping himself close to the wall as he looks out. His expression hardens. “How many?”

“Too many.”

Your heart begins to pound. You drag the sheet around yourself and slip from the bed, though Steve catches sight of you moving and immediately shakes his head.

“Stay back from the window.”

“What’s happening?”

Neither answers quickly enough.

You look from one man to the other, watching the quick efficiency with which they arm themselves. Bucky pulls on his shirt without bothering to button it before buckling his holster. Steve gathers the ammunition from the table and divides it between them, his movements calm in a way that frightens you more than panic would have.

“Steve,” you push, and when Steve glances back at you, the desperation on your face is enough to make him stop pretending.

“Street’s surrounded,” he finally admits. “Sheriff’s got men covering the front, both ends of the alley and the stable yard. More on the roofs across from us.”

The words make you freeze. “How did they find us?”

Steve looks toward the door, jaw working once. “Maybe the clerk didn’t buy our performance after all.”

Bucky looks through the curtain again, studying the street below. “Back window?”

“Two men in the alley, three more watching the yard. We’d need to draw them round the front first.”

They continue to move through possibilities quickly, cutting each one down almost as soon as it’s spoken. There are too many men. That’s the truth beneath every low exchange, though neither of them says it aloud. Bucky begins loading his rifle. Steve watches him for a moment, then glances toward you. The look passing between them is brief, but you understand it anyway.

“No.”

Steve’s face closes. “Sweetheart—”

“No.”

Bucky sets the rifle down. “Sugar, listen.”

“I know that look.” Your voice shakes despite every effort to steady it. “You’re working out how to get me clear.”

Steve crosses to you, hands finding your cheeks and tilting your face to his. “Buck and I will draw them towards the front, and once they’re focused on us, you slip through the yard and take the first horse you can reach.”

Your eyes burn as you look between them. “And what chance does it give you?”

Neither man answers.

Months ago, when they let you ride away with them, you told them there was only one part of their life you wouldn’t share. You would endure the cold, the hunger, the long days in the saddle and every bullet sent chasing after them, but you wouldn’t stand by and watch either man die. Now they mean to hold you to it.

Bucky comes to stand beside you, one hand settling at the back of your neck. His thumb moves once over your skin, the touch unbearably gentle from a man preparing to walk into gunfire.

“You take the horse south,” he says. “Don’t stop in the next town. Just keep goin’ ‘till you can’t.”

You search their faces for another answer and find none. They’re terrified - you know them well enough now to see it. But they’re simply more frightened for you than they are for themselves. So you nod. 

Steve’s hands linger against your cheeks for another second before he releases you, and Bucky’s thumb brushes the back of your neck once more before both men turn away, returning to plan as they let you dress. 

Your fingers feel clumsy fastening your stays, though you force them through each familiar movement, pulling on yesterday’s dress and tying your hair back with shaking hands. Bucky crouches beside the bed and spreads their remaining cartridges across the floorboards, counting beneath his breath until a thought makes him pause with one round still caught between his fingers.

“Wait a minute - you didn’t see Rumlow out there, did you?”

Steve glances over from the rifle. “Rumlow? No. Why?”

“Thank God for that.” Bucky exhales and drops the cartridge onto the pile. “For a minute there, I thought we were in trouble.”

Steve’s expression flattens while a startled laugh escapes you despite everything, and the crooked grin Bucky sends your way suggests that was precisely what he’d been aiming for.

Steve returns to checking the rifle with a quiet shake of his head. “Idiot.”

Bucky’s smirk lingers only a moment before the boys begin getting ready in earnest. 

Steve fastens the last of the ammunition at his belt and checks both revolvers one final time, while Bucky gathers the remaining cartridges into his pockets and slings the rifle over his shoulder. You stand beside the bed with your coat half-buttoned and look between them, both armed now, both trying to pretend as though this is merely another bad plan they will laugh about by nightfall.

It’s Steve who comes to you first. He cups the back of your neck and kisses you hard, all the tenderness in him sharpened by the knowledge that he cannot afford to linger. You clutch at his shirt anyway, trying to hold him there, but he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Promise me you’ll run,” Steve begs against your lips.

Before you can respond, Bucky adds “And don’t look back.”

You turn toward him, already crying despite the effort you’ve made not to. Bucky’s expression softens. He reaches up and wipes beneath one of your eyes with his thumb before drawing you against him and kissing you with none of his usual teasing left in it.

“You promise us, sugar,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You hear the gunfire, you run.”

Your bottom lip trembles, tears spilling freely, but you manage to keep you voice steady enough to reply “I promise.”

They lead you to the back window and ease it open just enough for you to slip through when the time comes, before heading back to the front door.

“Sheriff’s moved two more men toward the front,” he observes, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. “Looks like they’re expecting us to make a grand entrance.”

Steve cocks his gun. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint.”

Bucky turns from the window with a faint smile, and just for a minute, the years between them seem to gather there in the quiet. They stand beside the door with their weapons ready, drawing one steadying breath before looking at each other.

“Till the end of the line,” Steve says.

Bucky’s answer comes without hesitation. “Always.”

Then they burst through the front door.

Gunfire erupts immediately, deafening in the close quarters, answered by the heavy crack of Steve’s revolver and the sharper report of Bucky’s rifle as they force the fight toward the front of the hotel. Every instinct in you screams to turn, to look, to run after them instead of away, but you cling to the promise you made and climb through the rear window once the coast is clear.

Then you run. Across the yard, past the stable wall and toward the first horse you can reach, every step carrying you farther from the two men you love. The law may have their names and faced printed on posters, may call them thieves and bad men, but you know better now.

Wanted men they may be, but they’re the best men you have ever known.

more mads: sooooo, i am so so sorry for how late i am for posting this. half of this was written in a sleep deprived, frantic haze so apologies if any of it gets confusing at any point, especially the ending. i had a different plan for it at first, but then i want to stay more loyal to the film, and i also needed to just get this fic done considering how late i already was to posting it. so this is what i landed on and i'm worried it hasn't quite worked :/ idk, this could be the sleep deprivation talking but i just started to hate this fic as i got closer to the end. hopefully you guys still enjoyed - if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33

You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”

You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face. 

—

So. 

How did you end up where you are? 

You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened. 

It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler. 

Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there. 

The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him. 

Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.” 

You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.

In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen. 

It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been. 

Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby. 

She grumbles on your hip. 

Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed. 

He stands there in quiet. 

Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person. 

“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air. 

His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born. 

“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat. 

You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him. 

“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous. 

He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest. 

“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”

To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.

“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.

You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you. 

Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly. 

He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation. 

“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask. 

Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”

You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce. 

“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say. 

“Yeah.” 

You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace. 

“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath. 

“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car. 

You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.

“Why?” she murmurs.

“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick. 

“Okay.”

You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think. 

Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings. 

You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked? 

Where’s your backbone?

Where’s your common sense?

With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright. 

You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life. 

“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change. 

“Mommy?”

“Mm?” you ask. 

Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks. 

“Two minutes.”

“Off.”

“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”

She whines long and loud.

“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”

Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?” 

“Yes!”

You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood. 

She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.

“Better,” she echoes. 

Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Who?” she asks. 

Uhhhh.

“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”

“Y’okay.” 

“Yeah?”

Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire. 

“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”

“Can we talk, first?”

You don’t blame him for asking. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?” 

“I’m not going to yell.”

“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.” 

“Are you angry?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”

You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows. 

The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her. 

She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV. 

Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now. 

“How old is she?” he asks finally.

“She’s turning two soon.”

Steve seems to be holding his tongue. 

“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”

“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”

You flinch. “What?”

“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”

“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”

“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”

This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?” 

“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”

“She’s my baby.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”

“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean. 

You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.” 

“I can be best for you both.”

You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means. 

“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says. 

“If?”

He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.” 

“She’s looked after.”

“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”

“You might not actually want her, Steve.” 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”

You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur. 

“I needed to see her for myself.”

“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”

“Keep us?” you ask indignantly. 

“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”

He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe— 

“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.

“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”

“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”

Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to. 

A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee. 

After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says. 

“Looks like her mom,” you mumble. 

“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”

You huff a weak laugh. 

“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks. 

“You want to be her dad?”

For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”

He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault. 

You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time. 

In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair. 

“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table. 

Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in. 

You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”

“Y’okay.”

“This is daddy.” 

You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return. 

“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.” 

“Huh?”

You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”

“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely. 

“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?” 

“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve. 

“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.

“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength. 

“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”

Leah gives him a good shake. 

—

“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”

Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle. 

“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound. 

“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”

Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks. 

Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”

“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.” 

He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby. 

He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers. 

Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby. 

He pauses on the spot. 

Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult. 

He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend. 

Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence. 

“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one. 

Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.

“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”

“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but. 

“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”

“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”

He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”

“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”

Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.” 

Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby. 

“She’s mine,” he says. 

“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”

He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”

“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”

“I’m still gonna go!”

“With what money?”

Steve will save again. It’s community college. 

Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”

“I’ll going, Rob.” 

“Fine. I believe you.”

“Can you help?”

She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly. 

Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac. 

He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway. 

You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all. 

“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon. 

“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”

“Is it cool that I’m early?”

You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”

“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”

“Right. Okay.” 

You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself. 

“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”

“You want me to go grab her?”

“Where is she?” 

“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”

“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”

You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”

“I wanted to.”

“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”

He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”

“I don’t think she knew.”

Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years. 

Steve Harrington does not love by halves. 

“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks. 

“We are leaving.” 

“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”

“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”

His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”

“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”

“Exactly.”

You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again. 

From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!” 

He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says softly. 

Leah hums her content. 

“Good nap?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”

She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word. 

She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you. 

“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”

Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.” 

“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly. 

Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.

“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks. 

You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum. 

“Yeah, of course she can.”

“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”

“Can have?” she asks. 

“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking  your face to make sure he’s not being weird. 

Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”

Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”

Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee. 

“Barbie!” she cries.

“With a puppy!” 

“Oh gosh.”

Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”

Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open. 

“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection. 

“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.” 

You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.” 

“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.” 

“It’s nice of you.” 

He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home. 

—

“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.” 

Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building. 

“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?” 

“Think so. Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”

The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”

“Sure. Thank you.” 

Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video. 

It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay. 

The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”

“Hi, Robin.”

“Hi,” she says. 

The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap. 

“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.” 

“Hi, bubby,” Leah says. 

Robin snorts. 

“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?” 

Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”

Leah looks up at her with huge eyes. 

“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?” 

“The duckies,” Leah says factually. 

“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.” 

You don’t question for a second that she means it. 

You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.” 

“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin. 

“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.” 

“Oh.”

“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”

“You’re not busy?” you ask. 

“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.” 

You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.

You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.

“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”

“The music, bubby,” you say. 

Leah gives a neck-breaking nod. 

“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?” 

“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say. 

“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”

Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles. 

“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”

Her hitting doesn’t slow. 

“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.” 

Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines. 

“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s  important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”

The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!” 

Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?” 

“Hi,” Leah says. 

“Hi.”

“Hug me now?”

Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”

She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life. 

“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose. 

“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.

Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back. 

Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware. 

Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again. 

You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry. 

“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No, yeah.”

“You sure?” 

He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.” 

It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her. 

You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid. 

His eyes widen at the sight of you. 

“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”

“Uh– did I?” 

“I know it was you.” 

Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”

“I saw you.”

“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”

You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”

“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”

“Well, thanks for trying.”

Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”

“We’re working things out.”

Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”

Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”

Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Leah says. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.” 

“Where to?” 

“Max’s.”

“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

“I’m not!” 

“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?” 

“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”

Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”

“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.

“For once.”

“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”

Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks. 

His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room. 

And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people. 

Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”

“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.” 

“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”

Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”

“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name. 

“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say. 

Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”

“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil. 

Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?” 

Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats. 

Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard. 

He is startlingly capable. 

You are startlingly hot. 

You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts. 

—

Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks. 

This is my baby, Leah.

The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home. 

Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!” 

She sobs. 

You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”

She sobs louder. 

Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.

“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.” 

Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage. 

“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”

“Not going,” Leah says. 

“Just for now!” 

“No!”

You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”

“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?” 

You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.” 

Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”

Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob. 

“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”

You falter.

The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”

“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”

“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”

“Yeah, I got one.”

“You got a car seat?”

“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.” 

Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek. 

“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?” 

Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”

“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave. 

You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask. 

“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?” 

“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Are you okay with me taking her?”

You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you? 

Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me. 

He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride. 

Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have. 

But it’s not everything he wants. 

“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?” 

“Okie dokie.”

Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah. 

“See you later, mommy,” Leah says. 

You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”

He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back. 

Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.

It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin. 

“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.

“Right, right!” 

He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out. 

Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.” 

“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles. 

“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”

“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”

“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.” 

“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her. 

“Wonky?” she asks.

“Does daddy look wonky?”

“Mm,” she says. 

“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?” 

She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.” 

He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Mom!” Robin says. 

“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.” 

He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.

It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.

Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear. 

Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth. 

“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully. 

“Right? She has my eyes.”

“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly. 

“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says. 

Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says. 

Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?” 

“Yessss.”

“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?” 

“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”

“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says. 

Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand. 

Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.” 

“Kill?”

“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.” 

“Y’okay.”

“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”

She giggles worse. 

He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out. 

Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?” 

He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

He urges you to take Leah. 

The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself. 

“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly. 

“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”

Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white. 

—

Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless. 

“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”

You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean. 

“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear. 

“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask. 

“Sleeping.”

“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”

Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”

“Yeah, do you want one?”

Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?” 

He groans. “Just a migraine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Feels like one.”

“You get them a lot?”

“More since you left.”

You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”

“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”

“Not my first one.”

You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask. 

“Had three.”

“You never told me.”

“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”

You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”

Steve covers his mouth with a big hand. 

You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.” 

He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.” 

“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.” 

“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”

“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”

“Steve.” 

“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–” 

“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.” 

You pull his hand off your face. Not without care. 

“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.

“I don’t need one.” 

“How do you know?” you whisper. 

He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”

You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came. 

You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”

“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”

His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”

“When?”

“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet. 

“The other times?”

“They can last for days.”

You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.

“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”

“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”

He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”

“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says. 

“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.” 

You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck. 

“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”

“We don’t have to do this again–”

“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.” 

“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.” 

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.” 

“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”

You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.” 

“It wouldn’t have been like that.”

“I realise that now.” 

His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth. 

“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples. 

“You don’t have to–”

“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”

You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either. 

“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.” 

His throat bobs. 

“S’it still hurting?” you murmur. 

“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.” 

“I can’t do this with you.” 

He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.” 

You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue. 

But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.  

A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his. 

“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.” 

He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”

—

The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze. 

“What side do you sleep on?”

Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering. 

“Left.” 

“Left side’s all yours.”

He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers. 

“Make room for me?” he asks Leah. 

She grins around her bottle. 

You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful. 

You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space. 

Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you. 

“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly. 

“You okay, daddy?” she asks. 

“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”

“Sleep?” she asks.

“With you, if that’s cool?”

“Cool,” she says decidedly. 

When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest. 

“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap. 

Refusing to think on it is the best way forward. 

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath. 

Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked. 

“Steve.” 

He blinks to attention. “Huh?”

“Pull the blanket up over yourself.” 

He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet. 

“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask. 

“No. I’ll be okay.”

You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted. 

Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough. 

“Can feel you staring,” he whispers. 

Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”

“Staring at me.”

“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.” 

“Still ‘live.”

You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.” 

He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says. 

“Missed you, too.” 

You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain. 

“You did?” he asks. 

“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling. 

He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”

“I wasn't.” 

“Would’ve looked after you, though.” 

“Steve…”

“I would’ve.”

“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”

He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.

“Do you still want that?” he asks. 

You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”

He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him. 

“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down. 

You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath. 

“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly. 

He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you. 

You press your forehead to his chin. 

“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss. 

Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip. 

“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words. 

—

In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows. 

“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually. 

“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”

“Yeah.”

“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”

“Am’ my toes,” she says. 

“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”

You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep. 

This is not going to go how you’d first thought. 

—

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

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Your phone buzzes in the middle of another spiraling of staring at a screen that is not going to change unless you press meaningless keys. Whatever moment you were going through, though, didn’t quite prepare you for what follows.

Seeing your mother’s name on the small screen at this hour doesn’t bring a sense of alarm. It instead brings a hollow tightness to your chest, the kind of heavy stillness that usually precedes a car crash. And when you pick up the phone, come the news, even though they don’t quite feel like that when they sound through the tiny speaker. It’s a physical weight, a heavy stone dropped into a pool, sending ripples that touch every single branch of your current life.

Your grandmother is gone.

The woman who used to smell like peppermint and potting soil, whose voice was the only thing that had ever truly made the world feel quiet. You had spent countless summers with her, back in the countryside, hands in the dirt as she taught you the right way to plant a rose, how to prune a tree so it could grow stronger. Suddenly, the spreadsheet still bright on your computer has shifted from a boring task to a full-on insult. How could the numbers and columns still be there, rigid and demanding, when the person who taught you how to breathe through a heatwave on a July afternoon is simply… gone?

Are you supposed to simply go back to your life as you think of her kitchen, of the way the sunlight always seemed to pool on the linoleum in a buttery square where her cat would always sleep? Or as you are swarmed with the memory of her hands, mapped with veins like the very rivers she lived near, strong enough to haul buckets of compost and yet still gentle enough to braid your hair?

Still on the phone, your mother tells you she has left behind the weathered cottage and the garden to your name. In your mind’s eye, you could already see it surrendering to the weeds way before her heart stopped beating. No one ever cared for it the way she did, even though it had been in your family for generations. Your grandmother had been sick for a while, now, and you’re sure no one else had taken the time to care for the one thing she always did. It was yours, now.

You spend the rest of that Wednesday night in a state of suspended animation. There’s no crying, at least not yet, but you move through your apartment like a ghost, packing a back with a mechanical efficiency you’re sure would scare your mother, folding clothes you haven’t worn in years. The decision to leave doesn’t come from a sense of duty, of being present for your mother or the clinical logistics of a funeral that always feel too heavy for people mourning. It is simply survival instinct, one that hits you so sharp and sudden it almost knocks the breath out of you. Looking around your cramped apartment, filled with ergonomic furniture you don’t really like and unfinished documents, you realized tonight you were running on empty. There was no more fuel to give the city. Your grandmother’s passing was the only trigger you needed to leave it behind. You needed to go back to the only place that still holds the scent of something real, even if that reality is currently buried under layers of grief.

And by dawn, your suitcase is thrown into the trunk of your car and you are leaving the city behind.

The drive is a blur of highway static and caffeine-induced insomnia until the asphalt finally gives way to the gray ribbons of the backroads. The further you get from the skyline, from the tall buildings that framed your every day for years now, the more the silence starts to ring in your ears, echoing the emptiness in your chest. Silence used to be nice. Whenever you visited your grandmother, left the busy days behind for maybe a week or two, the silence was comforting. A heated blanket, a balm that helped you heal.

But now, as you finally pull into the gravel drive of the cottage, silence is no longer the peaceful sanctuary you had promised yourself. It’s heavy. The house looks smaller than you remember, tired, as if without her spirit to hold it up, the walls are finally starting to give in to gravity.

When you stop your car and step out, you don’t go inside immediately. Instead, you walk around the side of the house, drawn to the back where the heart of her life used to beat.

And just like the silence you had craved, the peace you had always felt here crumbles, too, the moment you lay your eyes on the yard. The garden isn’t overgrown; you think you prefer calling it a green monster. It’s aggressive, a sprawling graveyard of things your grandmother used to love. Waist-high weeds have completely swallowed the lavender path, and the wild blackberry thorns have woven themselves into an impenetrable wall. The trellis, where her prized roses used to climb in disciplined rows, is now buckling under the weight of strangling vines that look like they’re trying to pull the cottage back into the earth. An old fountain is overrun.

Standing on the bottom step of the back porch, the scale of the neglect is paralyzing. Leaves you to wonder how long had been since your grandmother had been physically able to care for her own things. How long she had kept away from the flowers and plants that had always breathed happiness into her. Just like your own mind, her space, now yours, is tangled and messy, far too gone for one person to ever hope to fix. You look at your own hands, too soft and lacking callouses, and realize you don’t even know where to start. How are you supposed to honor her memory? When you don’t know the difference between tools, the right time to plant the seeds? Guilt hits you, then, with the kind of edge that drags a cold sweat down your spine. In her absence, the wild had claimed her legacy while you were busy in the city filling spreadsheets that mattered to no one. You want to make this house a home once more. But how does one do that with an empty heart?

The first two days are spent in a state of mourning that feels exactly like static, gray and thick. You stay inside, unable to look out the windows at the chaos, and move through the cottage like a diver underwater, every motion resisted by the weight of silence.

Tea goes cold before you remember to sip it. You stare at the floral wallpaper in the hallway until the patterns begin to resemble the columns and rows of your old work, except this wallpaper doesn’t scream at you in approaching deadlines. Here, time has no teeth. It doesn’t bite, just swallows.

For the last two nights, you’ve slept in the guest bed. Your old room feels too much like a museum of a person you outgrew and no longer recognize, and her room feels like hallowed ground you are nowhere near holy enough to tread upon.

By next morning, you find yourself in the kitchen, the buttery square of sunlight hitting the linoleum exactly as you remember it, except there isn’t a cat any longer. Hands begin to aimlessly open drawers, finding yourself needing a distraction, or trying to look for something, anything. Matches for a candle. A reason to stay despite finding this place so different from the one you’d once called your second home once. And you find it, tucked between a ball of twine and a stack of expired coupons, right in the middle of the junk drawer: grandma’s old address book with a faded floral cover that still smells faintly of the rose-scented hand cream she used every night. The edges of the pages are frayed, paper slightly yellowed. A small business card falls to the floor halfway through flicking through the pages.

Barnes Landscaping & Restoration

Something in your heart flips. Not because you recognize the name, but because you immediately see her familiar handwriting in it. Another piece of her left behind that now you get to keep.

“Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth.”

A sharp lump forms in your throat. This small note, mindless, written by your grandmother at a time she needed to keep a reminder, is the first thing that managed to pierce the numbness since the phone call announcing her passing. You can almost hear her voice saying it, the appreciative tone she used for people who worked with their backs and not just their mouths. And even though the grief cannot be fixed by a landscaper, you know now that there’s a flicker of hope of fixing everything else around here. You aren’t a gardener, just a person used to staring at gray bars on a screen. But an extra pair of professional hands surely will be perfect to help you face the thorns outside the house.

After you pick up the phone on the wall and dial the number, there’s two rings and then the line clicks open.

“Barnes,” the voice on the other side says. You freeze for half a second, like now you’re unsure what you’re even supposed to ask for.

“Hi,” you start, voice cracking slightly from days of disuse. You realize you haven’t said a single word since you’ve come here days ago. “I’m… I’m calling about the property on the old creek road. It’s my grandmother’s, Caroline… was. Sorry. She’s passed and I’ve just inherited the place and—” You look out the window at the waist-high weeds and strangling vines. “I think the garden has gone to war and I don’t have a way of winning that fight.”

There is a long pause on the other end. You hear the faint sound of a truck engine idling.

“Caroline was a very sweet woman. I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says, voice softening a fraction. “She spoke about you a lot. Said you were lost in the city.”

That stings a little. Mostly because it’s true.

“I’m not in the city anymore. This is my home now,” you whisper.

Another silence.

“If you’d like, I can come over this afternoon. Take a look at the garden, you can tell me what you’d like to do with it. First consultation is free for Caroline’s granddaughter.”

The afternoon sun is thick and syrupy, casting long shadows across the linoleum, when the silence of the old creak road is finally broken. You stay tucked behind the lace curtains of the kitchen window, watching heavy tires roll over unkempt gravel. A beat-up, dark blue truck pulls into view, a workhorse of a vehicle, mottled with patches of primer and the red clay of the country. The engine cuts out, and when the door creaks open, he steps out.

Barnes.

He doesn’t look like any type of contractor you’ve ever hired in the city. There’s no clipboard, no neon safety vest. He stands by the door of his truck for a long beat, hands sliding into the pockets of his dirt-stained denim, eyes surveying the “green monster” you were apparently too terrified of. From your vantage point, you see how his yellow plaid shirt, faded from too many washes and too much sun, first buttons open to reveal a white top underneath, stretches taut across a pair of shoulders that look like they were built for the sole purpose of carrying the heaviest of weights. But that’s not where your eyes linger.

Instead, they stay glued to his left arm. You don’t mean to stare. Not really. But the silver metal shines when the sunlight hits it and holds your gaze even if you try to look away. Spread across fingers, forearm, bicep, until it disappears under the short sleeve of his shirt. While watching him, you find no attempt on his side to hide that arm.

Barnes lets out a heavy sigh. Not a sigh of annoyance, or at least you don’t recognize it as such. He looks at the tangle of weeds and the buckling trellis not as nuisance, but as an old friend who has lost their way. There’s no rush to get the job done, no immediate knock on the door to get your attention. He is simply there, rounding the front of his truck as he looks around for details that surely escape you. Barnes looks like he belongs to the dirt, like the mud on his boots is a permanent part of his skin. He adjusts the brim of his cap, a movement that causes the fabric of his shirt to pull against the muscles of his back. There’s a quiet power in him, a “man of muscle” persona that’s just utilitarian, like he is a tool designed for this specific job. You can’t imagine him anywhere but here, amidst the messy chaos of your late grandma’s garden.

He touches a dry stalk, eyes some dead plants. The words from the address book return: he listens to the earth.

The door creaks behind you as you finally step out onto the porch, sneakers sinking slightly into the uneven boards, which have been worn down by years of sun and wind. You wrap your arms around yourself, though the day isn’t cold, just more of a habit that you’ve developed to shield yourself from the vastness of the yard that feels like it’s swallowing the cottage whole.

Barnes turns at the sound of you, and you then notice how he’s taller up close, broad through the shoulders in a way that makes the yellow plaid look borrowed from a smaller man. You don’t look at his metal arm again, and he doesn’t try to hide it or tuck it behind his body. It’s right there, part of him, gleaming faintly.

“Ma’am,” he says, removing his cap as a gesture all too long lost by men who called themselves gentlemen. The action reveals a sweep of dark hair damp at the temples from the heat, and without obstruction, you find it easier to see his eyes now, blue, color of ocean water. There’s no attempt to offer a handshake, and he doesn’t say anything more.

You offer your name back like it’s a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mister Barnes.”

“No need for the formalities. Haven’t been a Mister of much,” he corrects quietly. “I’m James. Most folks call me Bucky.”

His gaze drifts back to the yard, lingering on the strangled trellis. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Been a while since I was out here. Last time… must’ve been early summer. Told me the roses were coming in strong, wanted me to come trim the climbers before they got away from her. But I used to be here all the time. Helped her with some drainage plannin’, built the trellis for her.”

There’s a pause, and you see him narrow his eyes at a patch of what might once have been… well, anything, now lost under a sea of bindweed. “Should’ve checked when she went quiet. Figured she was just busy with her cannin’ or had some family visitin’. Didn’t feel right to push.”

You recognize the weight in the words. Guilt. A stranger who wasn’t a stranger to your grandmother, feeling the heaviness of not having visited her more often. It’s particular, how grief has a way of finding everyone who loved the same person and handing each of them their own particular version of it.

“She was good people. Always had coffee waitin’, strong enough to wake the dead. Talked about her grandaughter, well, you, a lot. Always said you were the prettiest girl in the big city. ‘suppose she wasn’t wrong.”

That lands too close to the bone while the numbness in your chest holds firm, a gray fog that keeps any sharper feelings at bay. Another time, in the city, you would have found Mister Barnes, James, Bucky, an incredibly handsome man. Maybe you would have said something warmer to him. You’re impressed, distantly, by the solid build, the quiet competence that radiates without needing to announce itself. But the grief sits too heavy, a stone lodged between your ribs. Flirting feels like a language from another life, one spoken under different air. Here, it doesn’t occur to you.

Bucky seems to interpret the silence on your end as discomfort. He clears his throat and gestures toward the almost collapsing trellis. “She loved those roses. So we’ll build them back up. Cut back what’s chokin’ ‘em, give the roots some air. They’re tougher than they look.”

We.

You don’t know what to do with that word. It does something to the wall of numbness you’ve been operating behind, finds a hairline crack and sits there. Something about the way he says it, not a sales pitch, not an empty promise to bill you later. This isn’t just a job for him. It’s a mission, a way to set right something that had slipped away while he wasn’t watching.

You nod, the motion feeling distant. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s a lot. And I’m not her, I barely know anything about this.”

He nods, once. Accepts that.

“It's a big job," Bucky says, back to practical. “Months, probably, before it looks like anythin’.” He glances at you sideways. "Depends what you want to do with the place."

You look at the cottage behind you, at the lace curtains still visible through the kitchen window.

“I want it to feel like her again,” you say. “Doesn’t need to be perfect. I just want it to feel like it has a reason to still be standing.”

Barnes is quiet for a moment. Then he says: “That's a good enough reason to start.”

The sound of a trunk horn wakes you up before the alarm goes off.

Your body registers it first of all, pulling you up from the unreliable sleep you’ve been managing since you arrived, and for one disoriented second, suspended in the gray space between dreaming and waking, your mind can barely place it itself. Then the floral wallpaper swims into focus, then the smell of old wood.

The clock on the nightstand reads 7:12. Outside, the truck engine cuts, a door swings open and closed, and then silence again. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening in to the silence.

Bucky didn’t say he’d come this early. He didn’t say much at all, in full honesty. But you can already recognize the sounds of someone beginning to work in the garden that is now yours.

There is something deeply strange about it, a man like him moving through the wreckage of your grief at 7 in the morning while you are still horizontal and unwashed, yet the strangeness has an undertone to it that you can’t quite name. Maybe the particular relief of knowing that a problem is being faced even when you are not yet capable of facing it yourself.

By the time you manage to get up and get downstairs, you have pulled your hair back and traded yesterday’s clothes for something cleaner, which feels like the upper limit of what you can reasonably ask of yourself before 8 AM. The kitchen is exactly as you left it when you enter it to fill the kettle and set it on the burner before standing at the window.

Bucky is already deep into it.

He has positioned himself in front of the trellis, the worst of it, the structure that had looked to you like a lost cause from the moment you first saw it. Strangling vines have grown over it in layers, and he is working from the top down with a pair of long-handled shears, cutting in sections, pulling the severed lengths away and piling them to the side. The patience with which he does it makes it look like a delicate surgery.

You watch him work the way you watched him last time from this same window, with the glass serving the necessary distance for someone who is not yet ready to be in the middle of things. He reaches up to cut a particularly stubborn length of vine and the motion pulls his shirt taut across his back. You notice, again, the funny implausibility of his size relative to the delicacy of what he is doing. Hands, one flesh, one metal, moving through the overgrowth with the precision of someone looking for something they don’t want to damage in the finding.

The kettle whistles.

You make two cups of coffee on autopilot, as if the memory has already been embedded into you.

The back door opens just as you finish pouring the two cups, and Bucky walks over, registers you, then the cups, but he remains impassive.

“Mornin’. Didn’t expect you up this early,” he says. Doesn’t apologize for arriving at 7 AM, you notice. He’s just a man who assumed starting before the heat peaked was a given.

“I heard the horn.” With careful steps, you walk towards him and offer him a mug. “Grandma always had coffee waiting. Would feel wrong not to do the same.”

He takes the mug you extend with his right hand, wrapping his fingers around it, and you notice then the state of them. The knuckles. The deep lines of the palm, the hardened skin at the base of each finger, the kind of callouses that take years to build, sustained by the repeated act of choosing hard work.

“Thank you,” is all he gives you. Without being told, you realize that this isn’t the kind of man who fills silences out of politeness. That you can stand here and drink your coffee and not be expected to perform conversation, and that this is, somehow, the most considerate thing he could offer you right now. So you do just that. Stand there. Drink your coffee.

Eventually, Bucky finishes his coffee and then he’s back out the door, and back to work. You follow him this time, trailing behind him as you look at vines he’s begun working with. Up close, the damage is more visible than it was from the window. The vines have threaded themselves through every joint, every crossbar, working their way into the structure the way roots look for water by branching out and filling every small gap. But the trellis itself, the bone of it all, is still standing. Barely, but there, in a very unexpected way.

“You built this, right?” And even though it’s a question it sounds more like a statement because you remember what he told you already.

“Few years back,” he crouches to free a length of vine from the base, pulling steadily, working it loose rather than snapping it. “Your grandma wanted something that could hold the climbers through winter. Most prefab wouldn’t cut it.” Bucky glances up at the structure appraisingly, and you recognize the look of someone looking at something they’ve made a long time ago and are no longer sure what to think of it now. “Needs a few joints repaired, but the frame’s sound.”

Through the morning, he works and you watch, still keeping to the edge of things, mug gradually emptying before you fill it back. In the meantime, Bucky has uncovered a significant section of the trellis frame, and it is in this newly exposed stretch that he stops, crouches low, and puts the shears down.

What he’s looking at is a rose cane; or rather, what remains of one. It is gray-brown and leafless and looks, to an untrained eye like yours, like everything else in this garden, something that has long given up. But Bucky is looking at it with a particular kind of focus, one that makes you wonder if he’s reading something written in a language you definitely don’t speak, his metal fingers hovering just above the bark without quite touching.

“Is it…” Dead? That word cannot even slip past your lips.

“Dormant,” he corrects hastily. “There’s a difference.”

Then, his fingers pinch a small section of the outer bark away from the cane and he shows you the inside, which is very unmistakably green.

Alive.

“Oh.”

He stands back up, retrieves his shears and keeps working. You stay where you are a little longer, looking at the exposed cane with it secret green interior.

“She had a catalogue. Like mail-order flowers or somethin’. Used to argue about it,” Bucky says after a while, from slightly above and to your left, his attention still on the vine he’s cutting. He doesn’t feel like he’s making conversation, more like he’s just thinking out loud. “There was this one climber she’d ordered, I forget the name, she was convinced it would come back every year without any help. I told her it wouldn’t survive the first frost without protection. Stubborn thing, planted it anyway, said she’d take her chances.”

“Did it survive?”

Scanning the remaining vines with a slow eye, Bucky points to the largest dormant canes, one that is thicker than the others at the base.

“Third year runnin’.”

He doesn’t say it smiling. But the corner of his mouth does something, a small upward shift, before he ducks his chin slightly like he is trying not to make a thing of it; then goes back to cutting.

You stand there for another moment, before going back inside to refill the kettle, because the alternative is to stand there, in the middle of his work, like you belong there, and you’re not quite ready to believe that yet.

Making him tea is an accident, the first time.

You hadn’t planned it. You are in the kitchen, making a cup for yourself, the way you have been every afternoon since you arrived, and your hand simply reaches for a second mug. Muscle memory, maybe, or the particular guilt of drinking something warm while a man is pulling thorns out of the ground thirty feet away. You bring it out without overthinking it, set it on the porch railing and go back inside before he has to acknowledge it.

Bucky leaves the mug empty on the railing when he leaves.

The second time is less accidental.

A lavender path runs along the south side of the garden and is entirely invisible under a season’s worth of bindweed and creeping grass. Bucky has moved on to it after working on the trellis for a while, and he approaches it with the same care he approached the roses.

You have been watching from the porch for most of the morning, cup of tea gone cold in your hands, when he stops and looks back over his shoulders at you.

“You could help with this part,” he says, a statement of fact he’s choosing to share. You look down at your hands, then back at him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know. Doesn’t matter for this, you’re just pulling.”

So you go in.

He hands you a pair of gloves without comment, the thick gardening kind, slightly too large, and you understand when you pull the first weed that this is why; the bindweed has thorns worked into it, a little too vicious, finding skin without any warning. You work at the edge of the path while he takes the denser middle section, and for a long stretch of time the only sounds are the pull and tear of vegetation.

The quiet between you has changed since the first day. It has lost the quality of two strangers being careful around each other, and it’s something simpler now. Still as quiet, but more comfortable now, like you’ve both established, without many words, that you trust each other enough to be silent together. You find that you can think in it, without the static that has followed you since the news broke.

“Is this one?” You hold up a stem you’re not sure about, something with small dark leaves that doesn’t quiet look like the rest of the weeds, but you also haven’t seen before.

Bucky glances over from where he’s kneeling. “Clover. Leave it.”

“…Why?”

“Pollinators like it. And it’s not hurtin’ anythin’.”

You put it back down carefully, tamping the soil around the base the way you’ve watched him do it, pressing with two fingers. There’s no comment from him on the imitation but you have the sense, even without looking his way, that he notices it. That’s the thing about Bucky, you’ve come to realize; he notices most things without making you feel watched.

Noticing without watching is a quality you have been trying put words to since the first day, when he looked at the rose cane the way most people look at something they love that has been damaged. There is a particular kind of attention he gives to things that is completely different from the attention you grew up being taught to pay. In the city, attention was a performance. In meetings, you looked at whoever was speaking to show them you were present, notes taken to demonstrate engagement. But here, Bucky’s attention is a different thing entirely. It is simply where his interest is. No performance, no proof. He looks at a plant and you believe that looking is the entire point of what he is doing.

And for the first time since his arrival, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have that quality of attention turned on you fully. Not the sideways glances you’ve caught, but the whole thing. If he’d find the flaws in your build, or if he’d look for the green under the bark.

Then you pull another weed, because this is not the time.

You are both working toward the center of the path from opposite ends when your hands converge on the same section, and you find the first live lavender stem. Bucky sees it first, a small cluster of gray-green stems, flattened under the weight of everything that has grown over them, but intact. He stops your hand and points.

“There.”

You lean closer, seeing the almost unrecognizable lavender, pressed flat and pale from the lack of light, but the leaves are still soft when you touch them, still releasing a faint dry fragrance that hits you all too softly. Then you hear him make a sound, like something has just occurred to him.

You glance over.

He is still looking at the ground, at the lavender next to you, an expression on his face like he’s actively deciding whether or not to let out whatever thought has come to mind.

Then, without looking up, without any preamble whatsoever:

"Why can't the flower ride his bike?"

You blink twice. Bucky’s jaw is set, expression aggressively neutral, like he has not just said what he said.

“… What?”

“… It’s just somethin’ that came to mind. An old joke I told your grandmother once.”

A pause hangs, your face doesn’t move except for your slightly furrowed brows.

“Okay. Why can’t the flower ride his bike?”

“Lost his petals.”

Bucky says it completely straight, the same tone he uses to tell you about drainage ingredients and soil composition and which weeds are worth keeping.

The laugh comes from somewhere so far down that it immediately surprises you on the way out. Not a small involuntary thing, but a bigger, louder laugh, one that takes over your whole chest and makes your eyes water before you’ve caught up to it. There’s no dignity to the sound that comes out of you, that escapes before grief has any chance to intervene. You press the back of your wrist to your mouth and it makes no difference at all.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s looking at you like he’s fighting very hard not smile, and losing that battle.

“That is the worst joke I have ever heard,” you manage, when you can speak again.

“Yeah. But you laughed. Was about time.”

The smile is still on your face when it happens.

It arrives quietly, the way the worst things do. One moment you are laughing, the sound of it still warm in your chest, and then something catches, a foot finding a loose board in the dark, and the warmth quickly dissipates.

Because the laughter had felt good. Physically good, the first thing in weeks that has cut cleanly through the haze, and the goodness of it is exactly what undoes you. The thought arrives fully formed and merciless: she will never hear you laugh again. Will never know you were here, in her garden, laughing at a terrible joke told by a man she liked very much.

The tears come before you can stop them.

You turn away from him immediately, a reflex, one hand coming up to cover your face. Tears that had been waiting, pressurized, behind the numbness for days, weeks, and are finally seeping through a moment of weakness. You try to breathe through it and can’t quite manage, and now you’re crying without much composure, without careful management you’ve been applying over your grief like a bandage of the wrong size.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”

“You don’t have to be.”

You don’t answer. You keep your hand over your face because looking at anything feels impossible right now.

“It’s not right,” you get out, eventually. “That I can laugh when she’s— I shouldn’t be laughing yet, it’s too soon, it means I’ve already started—”

“No.”

Bucky settles into stillness beside you, not touching, just present.

“Doesn’t work like that. Laughin’ doesn’t mean you’re done grievin’, or that you’re lettin’ go of anythin’. Just means you’re still here.”

You try to breathe.

“She would have wanted you to laugh. Grief will sometimes be loud, and then quiet, and then loud again. That’s okay.”

The tears are still coming but something in your chest has eased, just slightly. Finally, you lower your hand, and the garden comes back into focus. Bucky is giving you the courtesy of not watching you reassemble yourself, staring at something else which is, you think, exactly what your grandmother meant when she wrote that he listens to the earth. You’re part of it, too.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your shirt and exhale slowly.

“I’ve been holding that in for a while,” you say.

“I can tell.” Another pause. “You know your grandma had no patience for held-in things. Would’ve had you cryin’ into a cup of coffee on the first mornin’.” The corner of his mouth gives up the fight entirely, shows a real smile, there and then gone just as quickly. “You want to keep goin' or call it for today?”

“Let's keep going,” you say.

He nods, once. Puts his gloves back on and you do the same.

From then on, every afternoon, somewhere around the point when the sun peaks and the garden becomes briefly inhospitable, Bucky takes a break he doesn’t announce and appears at the edge of the porch. You have started timing the kettle to it, which you admit only to yourself and no one else. You sit on the steps, he leans against the railing, and the conversation comes in the same way everything does with him: unhurried, arriving when it arrives.

He tells you things about himself. Careful, not because he doesn’t want to share them, but because you can tell he’s not sure whether you want to hear them. (You do, you come to find out.) Then tells you things about the garden and about your grandmother in the same tone, as if they are the same subject. That she once spent an entire afternoon arguing with him about the correct way to stake a climbing rose, and he let her win, and she knew he let her win and never brought it up again.

“She said something about you,” you tell him eventually. “In the address book, next to your number. I don’t know if you’d want to know.”

Bucky just looks at you.

‘Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth,' you tell him. Exactly as she wrote it.

He looks away, out at the garden. Pulls the brim of his cap down a fraction, which you have figured is exactly what he does when something lands somewhere tender. There’s a long enough silence that you start to worry you’ve misstepped.

But then, quiet: “That’s good to know.”

That’s all.

The worrying starts a month in, and it announces itself in the most ordinary way.

You are inside the house when you hear it, a single sharp sound from somewhere in the garden, metal against stone, followed by a silence that has a different quality than the usual working silence.

When you move to the back door, what you find is Bucky standing very still beside the railing with his left hand pressed flat against his right forearm, metal protecting the flesh.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” He says it so quickly and flatly that it’s very obviously a lie.

“Bucky.”

He looks at you then, a brief evaluating look, and something about whatever he finds in your expression makes him relent. He lifts his metal hand to show you: a long shallow scratch along the inside of his forearm, from a piece of broken border edging he had been repositioning. Doesn’t look deep from where you’re standing, but the way he’d been holding it suggested it had stung considerably more than nothing.

“I have a first aid kit inside,” you say."

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t ask,” You say it the same way he says most things. A fact, not an argument. “Come inside.”

He does, and sits at the kitchen table carefully, as a man who has learned to take up the right amount of space and no more, while you find the first aid kit in the cupboard where your grandmother always kept it, between the spare candles and the batteries.

The scratch is genuinely minor. You clean it without ceremony and he watches the process with patience, and you are aware, more than you have been at any point working alongside him in the garden, of how close you are. The kitchen is small. His flesh arm is resting on the table and you are sitting in front of him, and the afternoon light is coming through the window at an angle that does something very specific to the planes of his face. It highlights the blue in his eyes, too.

You focus on the first aid kit instead.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, but there’s no mention that he wants you to stop. Maybe he just feels required to offer you the exit.

“She’d have done it,” you say simply.

His eyes move to the window. “You’re not her.”

A small thing. It doesn’t need to be more than it is. But he finishes it in a way that makes it harder to simplify it: “I like that about you.”

You press a small strip of gauze into place with your thumb, smoothing the tape at the edges. There is no logical reason to take this long finishing a minor scratch. You both seem to know that, but neither of you moves away.

Your eyes travel, briefly and without meaning to, to where his metal arm rests next to his body. The afternoon light catches the articulated joints, the way it sits completely still the way flesh and bone rarely does. Your eyes drift away before it becomes a thing, but he sees it.

“You can look,” Bucky says. Not an invitation exactly. He’s just handing you a door you didn’t know you were standing in front of. “Most people do. Just usually they try harder to pretend they don’t.”

“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop, because you were, a little. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been one of the only people in a long while who just… let it be there. First day I came out, you looked and moved on. Treated it like it was part of a person instead of the whole story of one.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you stay quiet and let him have the floor.

“Most people either stare and can’t stop, or they work so hard at not lookin’ that it becomes its own kind of starin’. Both make a man feel like a curiosity. You just… handed me coffee.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “People don’t always do the right thing.”

Another silence, but it’s more comfortable now. There’s no need to fill it, you’ve both learned how to live inside it, but you continue anyway. A breach in his persona that you intend to explore, if he’ll let you.

“How long have you had it?” you ask, and you say it to his arm, because starting there feels like less an inconvenience than meeting his eyes.

“Fifteen years, give or take.”

The number lands heavier than you expect. Fifteen years is long enough to become the shape of a person. Long enough that you cannot picture the version of him that preceded it, and you suspect, that maybe he can’t always either.

“Work accident,” he adds, not because you asked. Just because the words are sitting there and he’s decided to pick them up. “Land clearin’ job, upstate. Big contract, the kind you don’t turn down when you’re twenty-five and tryin’ to build somethin’ from nothin’. There was an equipment failure. It was fast. Everythin’ else after was slow, though.”

You don’t say sorry, because something tells you he has a particular and well-earned exhaustion with that phrase. Instead, you ask: “What was the hardest part? After.”

He considers it for a bit.

“Knowin’ what my hands were supposed to do and not being able to trust them to do it anymore.” Bucky glances down at his right hand, the lines in the palm, the built callouses. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen. This kind of work, specifically. It’s the one thing I knew how to be. For a while I genuinely didn’t know who I was without it. Or if there was a version of me that existed separate from it.”

“But there was,” you finish for him.

“Took some convincin’. And a lot of broken things. Broke more fence posts learnin’ to calibrate the grip on that side than I care to admit. Had to relearn the pressure for everythin’. Soil density, stone, root systems. The sensitivity is different, temperature reads different. But some things are easier now. The metal doesn’t tire, doesn’t cramp in the cold.” He makes a face then, without self-pity, but still a bit funny. “Other… things are still being figured out, ‘til this day.”

“Fifteen years in and still figuring it out?”

“Most things worth doin’ take longer than that.”

You sit with that for a moment.

“I used to think that people would always see it first and everythin’ else second. That it would just be the thing that preceded me into every room,” he says, arriving at something he doesn’t often take out into the world. “But I have found that some people make it easy to forget it ever felt like a problem.”

Although he doesn’t look directly at you when he says it, his eyes now on his metal arm, you know he means you, even through the subtext.

You smooth the edge of the bandage one more time, a gesture with no remaining practical purpose, and then you fold your hands in your lap.

“For what it’s worth… from where I’m standing, it’s a good arm.”

He blinks. It's the closest to caught off guard you've ever seen him.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The arm. It’s good. Found the green inside the rose cane, pulled the lavender out without breaking it. It’s done something good. Just thought someone should say it.”

“… Thank you.”

And he means every syllable.

When he leaves that afternoon and you stand at the kitchen window watching the truck back out over the gravel, you notice something funny that takes you a moment to identify, unfamiliar after weeks of weight.

You are already thinking about tomorrow.

Not with dread. Not with the gray, flat, nothing that has colored every day since you arrived. It’s hopeful. You want tomorrow to come because that means you’ll see him again.

It’s a Thursday morning when Bucky announces he’ll start working on the fountain at the center of the garden. You’d looked at it weeks ago, and it was left on standby to be dealt with eventually. That eventually is today, which is how you both end up here, on your knees in the dirt, staring at the vines that have overtaken it.

“Pull toward you,” Bucky says (for the third time) because you keep pulling sideaways and the vine system underneath is apparently connected in a way that means you’re undoing his work every time you do. “The root runs that direction. You’re fighting it.”

You scoff. “I know I’m fighting it, I’m trying to remove it.”

“You remove it by not fighting it.”

“… Very zen for someone covered in mud,” you shoot back, even though technically he’s not covered in mud. But there’s a streak of it along his jaw where he’d wiped his face with the back of his wrist without thinking, and his shirt has long given up on any pretense of cleanliness. He looks at you, patience of a woman who has decided not to rise to it, and then reaches across and repositions your hands on the vine, both of his hands, flesh and metal, bracketing yours briefly.

“There, now pull.”

You pull, and the vine comes away from the stone in one satisfying length, roots and all.

“Oh.”

The fountain is old. Limestone, you think, or something like it, pale gray and carved simply, a wide basin sitting on a short column. Someone, maybe your grandmother, maybe your grandmother with Bucky’s help, had planted climbing things around its base and they had done exactly what climbing things do when left without guidance: they engulfed it entirely.

Clearing it takes the better part of the morning.

The heat is real today, thick, settling into the back of your neck and staying. You’ve both abandoned the idea of breaks, working through the mess in sections, passing the shears back and forth without needing to ask. You’re working closer together than you have been before; when he reaches past you to get a root system threading the far side of the basin, his metal arm crosses your line of sight close enough that you could close your hand around it if you moved a few inches to the left.

“Hand me the trowel?”

Find it, pass it over, and he takes it with his right hand, the left braced flat against the side of the basin to keep his balance while he works at the base and you watch the metal fingers spread against the stone for a moment before you make yourself look at something else.

And by noon, the fountain is mostly exposed.

You both sit back on your heels and look at it. The limestone is dark with old moisture in places, and there’s green algae mapped across the north face where the water must have pooled and sat. The pipe inlet at the base of the column is corroded but present.

“Think it still works?” you ask.

“Possibly. I imagine the line was shut off some time ago. If it hasn’t cracked in the cold and the pump is still… Where’s the external water shutoff?”

Which is how you end up in the small utility space beside the back door, the two of you shoulder to shoulder in a space that was clearly not designed for more than one person, while Bucky shines his phone torch at the copper pipework running along the wall and explains what you’re looking at and what he intends to do with it.

You are not listening to him as carefully as you usually do.

This is new, and you’re aware of it as a thing that is new. In the early weeks, Bucky’s presence had been a comfort primarily because it was a constant and because it was directed outward, at the garden, at the definable and fixable concrete. You could absorb the company without it requiring anything of you. Somewhere in the middle weeks, it became something you looked forward to specifically, the two cups of coffee and the particular silence that had grown familiar.

But this, right now, is something else again.

It’s the awareness of him as him, in a utility cupboard, explaining the gate valve, and something in you has oriented toward the way he moves and talks to you. Helplessly and without drama, just the natural consequence of conditions.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’d thought it applied only to your garden.

“—so if you turn this one first, counterclockwise, and then the secondary valve gives, you’ll know the line is intact—”

“Bucky.”

“—and if it doesn’t, then we’re lookin’ at—”

“Bucky.”

He stops, looks at you, which in this space means looking at you closely.

“Sorry,” you say. “I missed the last part. Which one first?”

A brief pause, and then: “This one.” He takes your hand, your right and his right, and guides your fingers to the valve. “Counterclockwise. Slow.”

There’s a shudder in the pipework when you turn it, a gargle and the sound of water moving through old joints, and then: nothing catastrophic.

“Secondary,” Bucky continues, and you feel him behind your shoulder, leaning in to watch.

You turn the second valve, and the pipe hisses.

“Give it a minute.”

You give it a minute.

When you both walk back out to the garden, the fountain is running.

The water comes up through the basin inlet in a steady, narrow column, spills over itself and begins to fill the basin slowly, moving over the algae and the old stone. The sound of it is small and even and has been absent from this garden for long enough that it sounds almost strange to your ears.

Both of you dirty, both of you tired, you stand beside each other watching it, heat still pressing down from above.

“It works,” you say.

“It works,” he agrees.

Neither of you says anything else for a while.

You think about your grandmother's hands on this stone, over decades, the same hands that braided your hair and hauled compost and pressed the seeds into the earth. You think about Bucky standing at the edge of her overgrown garden on the first day.

Still here. That’s what he’d said when you’d been crying on the lavender path. Laughing doesn't mean you're done grieving. It means you're still here.

You are still here.

And you, here, don’t make a decision, exactly. Or if you do, it isn’t the kind you feel yourself making. It’s more like you just stop holding something.

Whatever small distance remains between you and Bucky as you watch the fountain is quickly closed when you shift toward him and kiss him.

It’s all too brief. Soft. His cheek is warm from the sun when you touch it, and he smells like turned earth, but nothing really compares to how his lips taste against yours. To how he kisses you back, for a full second, and you swear you can feel his body leaning in, and maybe you’ve got the power of sight because even with closed eyes, you can feel his metal hand hovering and reaching for your waist.

Except he doesn’t. He goes completely still and then steps back.

Bucky’s not unkind in the way he does it, but he does it nonetheless. One step that reestablishes a distance. Very briefly, he looks like a man who has just pressed his hand to a bruise he’d forgotten about.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s warmth in your face when you look at him now, but not from the heat. “No, I’m sorry, that was…”

Was… what?

“This isn’t a good idea.”

This is the part where you say something, a distant corner of your mind observes. But the embarrassment has arrived, sudden, and you’re caught between it and the question of what he had done in that one still second before he moved away. Because it had not been nothing. You are certain, with the certainty of someone who has spent the last weeks learning how to read a careful person, that the way he kissed you back, even for a split moment, had not been nothing.

“Okay.”

It’s the only word small enough not to make it worse.

Days later, you make lemonade for the first time. You don’t examine the decision too closely. It’s hot, genuinely hot, the first real heat of the season pressing down on the cottage and the garden like a hand, and lemonade makes sense in a way that has nothing to do with anything else. You bought lemons a few days ago after finding a recipe with your grandmother’s handwriting tucked inside a cookbook. You follow it exactly, including the ungodly amounts of sugar mentioned at the end.

When you carry the pitcher and two glasses out to the porch, Bucky is working at the far end of the garden on the vegetable patch and he sees you from a distance. Straightens up. Looks at you. Walks across the garden toward the porch.

There’s something different about watching him move toward you versus watching him work, something you register without deciding to. He takes the glass you pour and drinks most of it standing up, deeply thirsty, then looks at you with mild surprise.

“Tastes exactly like your grandmother’s.”

“Found the recipe in the cookbook.”

You pour him another glass when he hands you his empty one, a silent request for more. Then he sits on the porch steps instead of leaning on the railing, which he hasn't done before, and you sit beside him at a reasonable distance.

This isn’t so different from the first day you stood side by side looking at the green monster. Of course, the garden is changed now, less of a green monster and more of a slight green inconvenience, nowhere near finished, but visibly different. The trellis is cleared and the roses are staked and the lavender path is at least recognizable. There is structure reappearing where before there was only chaos. Clear evidence of work. Evidence that things can be found again if one is willing to look.

You sit on the porch steps and drink too-sweet lemonade that tastes like every summer you spent here, and beside you Bucky is quiet in the way he is always quiet, which is to say completely and without apology, and it makes you think about the lavender pressing itself flat in the dark for years and still releasing fragrance when someone touched it.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’re on the porch when a storm announces itself with the first roll of thunder somewhere past the treeline. Crouched by the vegetable patch, Bucky hears it too, and you see him pause his work and tilt his head back slightly, reading the lines of the sky.

The first drops are fat and isolated, hitting the porch boards, and then between one breath and the next, the sky opens entirely.

Bucky runs toward the porch steps in a few strides, and you both stand under the narrow overhang and watch the garden disappear into gray curtains of rain. The tin roof above you turns the downpour into something enormous, a sound that swallows everything else, and the smell of wet earth hits almost overwhelmingly.

“That came fast,” you almost yell over the rain.

“Saw it coming from the ridge about an hour ago. Didn’t think it’d move this quick.”

Wind picks up and drives the rain sideways under the overhang in a fine spray that finds your arms and your face, and Bucky shifts in front of you, blocking some of it.

“Come inside, there’s no point standing out here.”

The kitchen is dim with the storm light, and the sound of water on the roof fills the cottage from wall to wall. With careful hands, you put the kettle on, because that’s what you do, and Bucky leans against the doorframe that separates the kitchen from the hallway, carrying some self-containment of a man in someone else’s house, even after months.

You’ve noticed that he does this, chooses doorframes and porch railings and the edge of things, rather than the middle. Somehow, that makes you impatient today.

“You can sit down. You’ve been here every day for months.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to wear out the chair.”

In an act that almost feels like rebellion, he doesn’t move, and you turn back to the kettle. Rain is relentless against the roof, and the kitchen feels smaller than it usually does, storm drawing in the walls somehow.

After the water has boiled, you set his mug on the table and sit, before Bucky crosses to the table, pulls out a chair and sits with the kind of particular quietness he always does since the other week’s incident. He’s always too careful around you, now, since that kiss. Like you’re an explosive device he’s terrified of setting off.

He drinks his tea. You sit down across from him and drink your own.

This should be comfortable. They used to be, your silences, for long enough that you’d stopped noticing them as silences. But this one has something in it, something that has been building in the open field of your garden. Things changed that day at the fountain; nothing broke, not fully, but something bent, and now both of you have been carefully working around it, pretending it doesn’t change the entire geometry of your relationship.

“Roses are gonna need checkin’ after this,” he says eventually, trying to loosen up the air just a fraction. Another time, you would have appreciated the gesture, but right now it makes something unsettling burn in your throat. “Heavy rain on new stakes can—”

“Can we not?”

A pause. Bucky looks genuinely confused.

“Not what?”

“Talk about the garden. For like ten minutes. Can we just sit here and not make it about the garden?”

A brief recalibration moves across his face. “All right.”

“Look, I need to say something,” you start, and you hadn’t planned to start saying anything at all, but the storm and weeks of careful distance have apparently reached some sort of threshold. “About the fact that you come here every morning and we work together, and talk about my grandmother, and your arm, and roses, and yet… you still sit across the table from me like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to be in the room or not.”

His jaw does the small ticking thing while he chooses his next words very carefully.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to be…” He stops, then starts again. “There’s a line.”

“What line?”

Bucky exhales, slow. “You hired me to do a job. You were grieving’, no, you are grievin’. There’s a power in that, in me bein’ here every day while you’re in the middle of somethin’ that hard, and I have no interest in bein’ the kind of man who takes advantage of a situation because he—”

“Bucky, I kissed you.”

There it is, words laid on the table along with any dignity you might have left. Bucky looks at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, stripped of its usual careful management. Whatever he’s feeling, however, he’s trying hard to not let it show.

“I know.”

“And you stepped back.”

“I know that too.”

“I’m not asking for an explanation.” (You are, a little.) “I just… you said it wasn’t a good idea, but every day you come and you drink my tea and talk to me and notice everything while not saying anything and I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with you, with the fact that you didn’t want that.”

Rain is at its peak now, the downpour making the world outside the window entirely abstract and the kitchen feels like the only room left on earth.

Bucky has both hands around his mug, flesh and metal, and he’s looking at them rather than at you.

“Look… it’s not that I didn’t want to. That wasn’t the problem.”

“Then I don’t think I understand what the problem is.”

His expression does something complicated that you don’t find the vocabulary for. It isn’t closed, by any means, and that’s the thing that stays with you afterward, turning it over in the sleepless stretch of the night. It isn’t the face of a man who doesn’t feel anything. It’s the face of a man who feels something but has decided, for reasons you don’t have access to yet, that the feeling isn’t safe to act on.

The storm moves on eventually, and Bucky goes back outside as soon as the rain eases, checking the rose stakes just as he said he would.

Nothing, technically, changes in the following days. Nothing you can give a name to, anyway.

Bucky still comes at seven. The truck sounds the same on the gravel, the door swings open and closed with its own strange creak. Coffee gets made sometimes, other times tea (never again the lemonade). Work gets done.

But something shifts anyway.

He talks less. There’s no way to read it as a punishment, because it isn’t one, or as sulking. It’s not that. Afternoons on the porch steps, which had become part of the day you oriented toward without admitting it, still happen, but they’re shorter, and the conversation stays closer to a surface level. You talk about the garden and what needs to be done next week.

There’s nothing else that stretches into deeper roots, like the time he told you about how he lost his arm. Never again does he ask anything personal about you. Never mentions your grandmother again. Whatever personal territory he had slowly opened over weeks closed again as a quiet act of privacy.

It hits harder than you had expected it to.

Because he is scrupulous about the distance, about leaving every day at the same time, leaving no room for hope of a longer evening. There’s no more pause at the truck door before getting in, a small delay that wasn’t forgetfulness. He just leaves, now, and you stand on your porch watching him go.

And then comes an ordinary day when something breaks open.

It’s a regular Friday. You have been inside most of the morning, working through the last of your grandmother’s paperwork at the kitchen table, the administrative aftermath of a life that keeps arriving in envelopes even months after the fact.

You bring Bucky coffee after lunch, and when you come around the side of the cottage you find him crouched at the base of the climbing rose, admiring something fascinating: it’s blooming.

Pale red buds cracked open at the tips, three or four of them along the highest cane, reaching toward the afternoon light. You stand there with the mug in your hands, looking at the roses while something rises in your chest. This is the beginning of something. A second chance.

Bucky rises to his height next to you and you hand him his coffee without looking away from the roses. The quiet distance that has been maintained for weeks is gone, dissolved in the warmth of this moment, because there is no architecture of caution that holds up against the first bloom of something you’ve rebuilt together.

When you finally turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you.

And that’s really all it takes, comically. That is the entire mechanism of it, managed silence and dormancy coming apart at the seams with one look too full of things he has been keeping behind professionalism and boundaries.

This time, Bucky’s the one who closes the distance between the two of you.

His mouth finds yours without hurry, without the frantic quality of something held back too long. He moves with intention, giving you every opportunity to see it coming, and his hand comes up to your face, warm, rough-palmed, cupping your jaw too quickly like he has thought about this a hundred times already.

You stop thinking, because what else is there to think but the touch of his lips on yours?

The paperwork on the kitchen table and the Wednesday night phone call that tore your life apart all recede to somewhere very far away, and what remains is only this. The smell of earth and roses, the solid pressure of him under your fingertips when your hands steady themselves on his chest.

He kisses you the same way he tends to things, with attention that isn’t performance, letting the kiss exist completely in itself without rushing toward anything else. Flesh thumb moves once along your cheekbone, tongue presses against the entrance of your mouth and allows itself in because you let him, and his metal arm snakes around your waist and brings you closer because you let him.

Your fingers curl into the worn fabric of his shirt while time does something strange. Loses its forward momentum and simply rests, hanging, until you decide to make it move again.

There’s nothing to say to improve the silence when he pulls back only a few inches, forehead dropping to yours. Morning birds are suddenly very loud, and the fountain is running, and the roses are blooming right there, and his breath is slow and warm against your mouth, and…

Tasting the way your mind runs ahead of your thumping heart, Bucky squeezes your hip gently, bringing you back to him. You're thinking about your grandmother's handwriting on the back of the business card.

He listens to the earth.

He knows how to listen to you, too.

“I tried,” he says, very quietly. Rough at the edges, like he’s been struggling to keep the words down. “I want you to know that. I tried real hard.”

“I know,” you say against his mouth. Deep in your gut, you know what he means. Tried to stay away.

“Kept tellin’ myself that it wasn’t right. That you were grievin’, that you’d come here to heal somethin’ and I was just the man hired to fix your garden, it wasn’t my place to—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt, fingers tightening around his shirt and leaning that much closer again that you’re almost kissing when you speak. “Come inside with me.”

Hesitation is gone when he follows you inside, through the back door and into the dim warmth of the cottage. Walking together through the hallway, Bucky closes the distance and doesn’t let go of you the whole time, while heavy steps sound on the floor and you walk him with a very specific location in mind.

He kisses you differently when you get there. Outside, by the roses, it was a start. Now, walking past the door of your bedroom, his right hand finds your face again, with the same instinct, but he exhales against your mouth and kisses you harder. Desperate, a man who pushes his lips against yours like he has never wanted to kiss anyone else in his entire life. Kisses your mouth and the soft place at the corner of it, and the line of your jaw when he pulls back, then your temple, then back to your lips again because stopping seems impossible.

Your hands find his shoulders, the dark hair at his nape, and every point of contact registers with a vividness that makes the last months feel like an absurdity. Like you had both kept yourselves from drinking water on the premise that you weren’t sure you deserved to be thirsty.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and draws you toward him, keeping you standing between his legs as he stares up at you. His right hand moves with certainty when he reaches for one of your wrists and brings it to your lips, kissing the skin. Blue eyes watch his own fingers move across your skin before they close, feeling you warm and real and present, and he keeps having to relearn this fact from the beginning every few seconds, because a part of him has not yet fully accepted that you are here and that you are letting him do this.

His left arm, however, stays where it is.

At his side, against the bed. And of course you notice it, so you reach for his left hand anyway while you move to sit on his lap, straddling him. Half of him freezes; his right hand moves over your collarbone, dips under your shirt to trace your shoulders. His left side, in the meantime, feels like it’s been dipped in a bucket of ice-cold water.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” You turn the metal hand over in both of yours, the articulated joints and cool weight of it, and you kiss it slowly, dragging your lips over every ridge, mapping every inch of the metal. Under your touch, Bucky almost crumbles, breathing unsteady, and you swear you almost feel him shaking.

“…Fifteen years. I haven’t… I never trusted it enough. The calibration for—” He’s looking for the word, but can’t seem to locate it in any comfortable dictionary while your lips trace his hand like it’s sacred. “This. I don’t know what I’m doin’ with this hand when it comes to this.”

“You found the green inside the rose cane,” you remind him again, just like the last time you talked about his arm. “Pulled the lavender out without breaking it.” Both your hands bring his metal palm flat against your face, warm skin against cool metal, and you watch his blue eyes build up a storm. You hold very still so he can feel that you are not afraid, that there’s nothing in you rejecting any of him. “You already know how.”

Metal fingers move then, slowly, tracing the hinge of your jaw, and he watches them, or watches you, reading the feedback, adjusting. You barely move at all, except for a shiver that runs through your spine when the metal touches the back of your neck, but the fingers quickly curling in his hair to pull him closer are enough indication that this shiver has nothing to do with fear. Fifteen years, and some things still aren’t figured out. You feel more than inclined to help him.

Both his arms move to wrap around you and he pulls you close, pressing his mouth to your hair before he lays you down.

His right hand moves through your hair, across your ribs through your shirt, learning you with the patience he gives everything, and his metal hand follows (more carefully, but follows nonetheless). The cool metal traces the same path a heartbeat later, fingertips gliding like he’s afraid the warmth of your skin might burn him if he presses too hard.

It’s strange to be on your back on the bed that used to be yours as a child (you were never brave enough to take over your grandmother’s bedroom, but you did manage to move out of the guest bedroom), the quilt soft and familiar beneath you, while Bucky is above you. But the strangeness doesn’t make you falter, not even when his flesh hand slips under the hem of your shirt and spreads, palm flat against the bare skin of your stomach.

He finds the bottom of your shirt and lifts it, inch by inch, and when the fabric clears your head, he sets it aside carefully before returning both hands to you. Flesh and metal cradling your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if the shape of you is a miracle he never expected to hold.

His voice says things while he worships you, words that he has been carrying too long in his chest. That he had felt it early, earlier than made sense, that he’d genuinely tried to stay away, that he believed he was doing the right thing because you were in the middle of grieving.

“I kept thinkin’ that if I just kept my head down long enough it’d go away. That I could go home and sleep it off like a cold,” he says, his mouth at your temple. Then leans down and presses his mouth to the center of your chest, right over your heart.

He kisses lower, open-mouthed, while his hands keep moving, always touching. The right hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, easing the fabric down with a care that makes your breath catch. The metal hand helps, fingertips hooking the other side, sliding the material away as though he’s afraid even the brush of denim might mark you. When you’re bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels for a moment, just looking. Both hands rest on your thighs and he strokes upward in perfect unison, reverent drags of fingers that leave trails of heat and coolness in their wake.

“You’re so beautiful. I never let myself believe I’d get to touch you like this.”

Open mouth follows the path his hands have already started, kissing the curve of your breast, the soft plane of your stomach, the dip of your hip, while his fingers never stop. They trace over the hollow of your throat, then come down over your sternum, finding your breasts and pushing the fabric of your bra aside. His flesh hand cups one breast with impossible gentleness, thumb brushing over the peak until you arch into him, sighing his name. It hardens under his touch and he looks at you smiling, like he’s proud of his achievement, or maybe just in awe that his rough hands still have enough soft touch in them to make you feel good.

Either way, you barely notice when he settles between your legs, still not rushing there either. He kisses the inside of your thigh first, both hands moving to cradle your hips and spreading you open, then higher, until his nose is tickling the space between your thigh and your panties, where a wet patch has formed. Metal fingers curl around the soft fabric and push it down your legs in a gentle motion, and then without warning, without fireworks, his mouth finds you, warm and delicate.

“Bucky…” You sing his name in a soft melody, legs closing around his head instinctively, but his metal hand curls around your thigh and pushes it open again, not forcefully, but with enough firmness to keep you in place. His tongue speaks a new language into the wetness of your cunt, licking every whisper of your wetness, a stripe, then smaller hits, then focusing on your clit until you are almost begging for mercy.

You thread your fingers into his dark hair and pull, and mercy is not an option when he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. Tug, pull, push, legs shaking around his head as he throws both your legs over his shoulders and goes to town as if staying alive depended on it.

‘Bucky’, you call again, needier this time, a dying whine on your lips, and he closes his eyes as if savoring the sound, but never relenting.

Even when your hips start to buck and your fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair, Bucky stays right where he is, a devoted lover, too focused on your pleasure. The flat of his tongue drags up the center of you in a long stripe, then circles your clit with patient pressure until something starts to burn behind your eyelids: not stars, maybe an all-out supernova.

“Bucky, oh my god,” your voice cracks in the middle and he answers by sliding his metal fingers into one of your hands, pulling it from his hair and instead lacing your fingers together against the mattress. In eating you out he never takes more than you can give, as if he knows exactly what the limit of your pleasure is, but he toes it with every lick until he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, soft, warm, until you can almost swear your slick is now a mix of your wetness and his own drool.

You come hard, sudden and overwhelming, like you haven’t in a while, in maybe too long, with his name on your mouth sounding more like a pathetic plea. It’s been a minute since your voice sounded like this for anyone. It’s been a minute since you’ve allowed yourself to feel anything at all. Bucky doesn’t pull away until you’re trembling and soft and breathless, and even then he only replaces the warmth of your cunt with other skin for his mouth to touch as he kisses up your body with slick-covered lips.

 “Still with me?” he whispers against your stomach, kissing the sweat away.

You nod, heart thundering in your chest. “That was… you’re… God. Bucky.”

A chuckle slips past his lips, which is just as surprising to you as anything else happening today, because when have you ever heard this man this carefree in all the months you’ve spent together?

“I’m not God. But it’s good to know I still got what it takes to please my woman.”

That makes you pause, only a little, and you move the one hand still in his hair to press over his heart.

“Is that what I am now? Your woman?”

Bucky looks up from your stomach, eyes finding yours in the dim afternoon light, blue and steady.

“If you want to. I’ll take whatever you want to give me.” His right hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “A friendship. A warm bed. Somethin’ in between. I’m not a man who needs a lot, but I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have a preference.”

“And what’s your preference?”

“You,” he says, too simply. “All of you. In my arm, next time I go to town to get some supplies. So I can take you to see a movie, or out for dinner, or both if you want. In my bed, so I can pull from you every night the same faces you just did.”

That makes you chuckle, and you realize you are still more out of breath than you thought.

“I like your preference,” you whisper to him. “I think it's mine, too.”

Bucky Barnes, a man on the edge of his own composure, finally pushes himself up and reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers are clumsy, the tremor of want making a simple task all too difficult. Through the haze of your recent pleasure, you reach up, covering his hands with yours.

“Let me.”

You undo them one by one, and as the fabric falls away, the breadth of him is almost overwhelming. Years of hard work have carved muscle into his frame, but there are scars, too, old ones, pale and faded, mapping stories across his skin. There’s a line where the flesh meets metal on his left shoulder, almost screaming at you, but you don’t react, don’t even flinch. Instead, your fingers trace the edge of it gently, the same way you touch any other part of him, and you lean up to kiss the scarred skin. Bucky is attempting to kick his boots off when you do, and you feel him stagger right there, as if it’s too unexpected, too soon despite it being on his body for fifteen years now.

You wait for the anger, for him to ask you to stop. Instead he exhales slowly, sheds his pants and boxers and lies down over you, mattress dipping under your combined weight. His body against yours is a revelation; strong and thick, radiating heat that rivals the summer sun.

You open your arms and he comes to you, settling between your legs with a care that very few men have ever shown you. Between your bodies, you feel the hard length of him, pressing not all subtly between your folds, not yet pushing in, but resting there. Blue eyes meet yours again, his brows furrowed in what seems to be a man deeply lost in thought. One of your hands reaches up, strokes the spread of his cheek.

“You are incredible. So beautiful,” he whispers against your temple, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent of your hair.

“You’ve said,” you reply, letting humor make the moment feel less heavy. Bucky grips your thighs a little harder.

“Don’t mock an old man laying his heart out to you,” he says back, the same amount of lighthearted fun in his tone, but you know he means it, deep down.

Before you have a chance to reply, he leans forward and kisses you deeply as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He doesn’t push in right away, instead just rocks gently while your mouths work together, sliding through your slick folds and coating himself. You moan against him and he swallows it in a breath, and that’s when he finally presses forward, inch by careful inch. Soft praises are whispered against your lips when he pulls back, and he moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, but your body still struggles to keep up, given how sensitive you still are.

Bucky moves with soulful patience, metal hand buried in the pillow next to your head and flesh hand gripping your hip, and every thrust feels like a question that is answered with the way you wrap your legs tighter around his waist every time, feet digging into the small of his back.

“You’re okay?” he gasps, searching your eyes for any trace of discomfort. Is the metal too cold, is he too heavy?

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I’m okay, Bucky, keep going.”

The thrusts start slow, metal arm braced beside you, fresh hand cradling the back of your head with his fingers threaded through your hair. He angles his hips just right, grinding against that stop deep inside you that sets sparks lighting up behind your eyes. You meet him thrust for thrust, hands roaming where they can reach, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, his shoulders, holding on to his biceps and he kisses your neck, your collarbone, mouth open and wet.

The pace stays unhurried, passionate in its restraint. Every slide of his cock drags deliciously, building heat low in your belly, and soon enough you can feel another orgasm begin to coil, slower this time. But Bucky’s control is fraying, obvious in the way his breaths turn ragged, in the slight stutter of his hips. It’s been too long for him, and you’re too warm, too wet, too many years of self-imposed winter, and the sound of your voice calling out his name is a catalyst he can’t fight.

His teeth graze your shoulder, eyes blown wide.

“I can’t… fuck—” he chokes out. “I’m gonna—”

He realizes he’s at a point of no return before he’s ready to be. With a frustrated groan, he braces himself with his metal hand and pulls out, the friction of the exit making you cry out in protest. Hot stripes of cum spill across your stomach in thick pulses, painting your skin as he weakly strokes himself through it with a shaky hand. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open on a silent gasp.

When the last spasm of his body fades he slumps forward, landing on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry, that was… I swear I can last longer, just… has been a while…,” he rasps, breath still coming in harsh pants. “I didn’t even—I wanted to ask you where… where you wanted it and I—”

“Inside,” you say, breathless but slightly deadpan.

“… What?” His voice is tentative, as if he’s sure he’s misheard you through the gaze of his own orgasm.

“If you had asked, I would have told you to come inside me.”

Bucky exhales, though there’s barely oxygen left in his lungs after you’ve punched it out of him with those words.

“Do you wanna fuckin’ kill me?” he breathes against your mouth, and it would sound like half a laugh if he wasn’t almost breaking apart.

That’s when you feel him moving again, right hand slipping between your bodies and tracing feather-light patterns over the sticky mess on your stomach before gathering it on his fingers. Two thick fingers are now shiny with it, and he brings them down between your legs without hesitation, rubbing them over your swollen clit in one slow circle. Immediately, your hips jerk, a sharp gasp punching out of you.

Bucky doesn’t tease, just pushes those two fingers inside you in one smooth stroke, feeding his own release back into your cunt. The wet sound it makes is obscene in the quiet room, mixing your arousal with his release, his fingers stretching you open around them as they curl and search for that same spot his cock had hit not too long ago.

“Bucky,” you whimper, thighs trembling around his wrist.

His eyes are locked on where his fingers disappear inside you, dragging his cum deeper with every thrust of his fingers. “Promise I’ll fill you up proper next time. Just take my fingers for now.”

A third finger is added to the others, stretching you fuller, and his thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with the curl of his fingers. Pressure builds fast, too fast, burning hot in your belly. Every time your slick drools from inside you, he coats his fingers in it and fucks it right back inside you, making it messier.

It hits you not long after like a storm crashing over your garden, all too overwhelming and sudden, pulling you under. Your cunt clamps down around his fingers and you come with a loud cry and Bucky doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through every spasm, drawing it out while he murmurs soft praise against your neck until you’re oversensitive and still clenching around him like your body refuses to let him go.

You don’t know this yet, but tonight you’ll fall asleep in his arms, and it’ll only be the first of many nights.

A year later

You and Bucky have finished the garden. Well, sure, Bucky has told you enough times that gardens are never truly done because living things require continued attention and presence, the willingness to show up before the heat peaks and stay past the point of easy. But it at least looks like itself again, the place it was always trying to be underneath all the strangling vines.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you are standing in front of the fountain with your second cup of tea of the day when Bucky comes around to meet you, cap on backward, shirt damp from the exertion of honest work.

“Finished your tea without me,” he says by way of greeting.

"I made you a cup. It's on the porch."

Bucky doesn’t move toward it. Instead, his hands slide firmly around your waist and with a sudden huff of effort, he hoists you clean off the ground. He doesn’t just lift you, he sweeps you into a wide twirl and the garden blurs into a smear of lavender purple and rose red.

“Bucky!” you gasp, laughing as your feet dangle and your head is thrown back with the afternoon sun dancing through the trees. Eventually he sets you down again, then steals you a breathtaking kiss.

“Had to get you out of your mind. You had that look.”

You raise an eyebrow, still feeling a bit dizzy. “What look?”

"The one where you're thinkin' something and decidin' whether to say it."

You huff in fake disapproval before you start making your way back to your porch, Bucky following right behind.

“I don't have a look,” you say just as you sit on the first few steps, watching the garden ahead of you.

“You have about twelve looks.” He comes to sit beside you, close enough that his shoulder presses against yours. “I’ve memorized all of them. That’s number four.”

“Bucky, you did not catalogue my looks.”

“You got the happy look, mad look, thinkin’ about your grandmother look, somethin’s on your mind look—”

“You’re making those up.”

“—stubborn look, which looks exactly the same as your grandmother’s stubborn look, for the record—”

“Absolutely not—”

“—lemonade look, which you think I don’t notice but you always make lemonade when you wanna ask me somethin’ you think I’ll say no to, I’ve verified this over twelve months of data—”

You laugh, an undignified full-chest sound, something that still surprises you because you can’t quite believe, all this time later, that it comes this easily when you’re around him. How little it costs you to just be happy when he’s with you.

“Anyway, number four. What’s on your mind.”

A Wednesday night in a city apartment, spreadsheets blurring into gray bars. A phone call that broke the world open. A business card in a phonebook. Two cups of coffee made without intention. Dormant, dead, the green inside the rose cane. A man who showed up and didn’t stop showing up. How life will look like five years from now. Ten. Eighteen.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start.

“You’ve been thinkin’ since about six this morning, based on when you stopped bein’ asleep next to me and started starin’ at the ceiling.” His right hand finds yours on the step between you and covers it. “Take your time.”

“The garden looks good,” you say.

A pause. He knows you well enough to let you take the long way round.

“It does,” he agrees.

"It feels like her."

He is quiet for a moment, that particular quality of quiet that you know now is not absence but presence, the whole of his attention given without requiring you to perform for it. Then he offers you an out; he continues for you.

“Everything’s growin’ fast,” he says, eyes scanning the spread of the garden before settling back on your face. “We’re gonna need a bigger fence. Probably more hands to help by next season.”

That makes you smile, and you lean in until your head is resting against his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. But we’ve already taken care of the extra set of hands. They’re just… attached to a body currently about the size of a lemon.”

His gaze softens impossibly at that. His metal hand reaches out, rests flat and protective against your stomach, a motion he has repeated every day since the news was confirmed by a doctor appointment.

“A lemon? Did you see that on your app?”

“Yep,” you say, chuckling. “Was thinking about the nursery this morning. When we should start building it.”

The two of you stay like that on the porch steps while the afternoon moves around you and the garden your grandmother had loved and left you lives on with you.

Slowly, things have gone back to normal, roses blooming, lavender coloring the path.

Things that are worth having will sometimes take longer to come. But they arrive, anyway, so long as you tend them and give them water and time to grow.

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