darce

Exam season was right around the corner, and both of your schedules had blurred into a stream of classes, library study sessions, and endless study hours. But there was always time for each other, even if that time was just spent sat side by side in the library as he studied a textbook that you'd never fully grasp and you worked on a paper. It worked in it's own kind of way, and it was only ever temporary.

You slipped through the building like a ghost, not because you didn't want to be seen, but because you didn't want to disturb that quiet equilibrium that only reared it's head after midnight on weekday. You reached out and rested your hand on the handle of his dorm door, and of course it gave, he always left it open when he text you, part of the routine you'd established long ago.

He never slept well with exams looming. He'd explained it to you once, it was too noisy in his head. It was like every fact, equation and chemical reaction he'd ever learnt bounced around his brain and he had no control over it all, couldn't switch off.

"Buck?" You murmured as you pushed the door open just enough to slip through, closing it quietly behind you. God, he looked unfairly good even lay in bed staring at the door, hair sticking up at a funny angle from the back which you could only assume was from the hours of tossing and turning that he'd probably done before shooting you a text. "Alright, scoot over, c'mon. It's cold over here."

You loved his room probably a little more than you'd ever let on, and your favourite hobby? Buying him little trinkets when you were out and about. like last summer when you'd gone home over the break and went thrift shopping with your sister and stumbled across a lava lamp in the shape of a rocket ship, that same lamp now sat on his nightstand, proudly displayed next to the snow globe that you'd got him when you'd visited the space centre. Some of the things were a little more childish than the others, like the glow in the dark stars that were stuck up on his ceiling, the same ones that were going to pull the paint off when it was time for them to come down.

But for him, you could have brought him back a polished rock and he'd cherish it just as much as any other gift you'd ever given him. Before you came along, he'd been so used to fading into the background of life, being the overlooked one or the just the nerdy one. and sure, he was a massive nerd, but that wasn't the only thing about him. He loved hard, had a heart the size of the solar system that he knew so much about.

"You came." He sounded almost surprised, like you wouldn't say 'how high' if he asked you to jump. He shuffled over just enough to pull the blankets back, and you wasted no time climbing in next to him. he just lay there for a few more seconds, letting the silence settle between the two of you.

You broke it first.

"You called. Well, texted. Same difference." You laughed quietly, turning onto your side so you were facing him. "Y'know, i'm starting to think we're gonna have to surgically remove you from this thing." You reached out, fingers brushing over the soft cotton of his Nasa t-shirt. You'd 'borrowed' it once, and then accidentally put it through the washing machine with a pair of rogue black sock so the fabric was more grey than the white it was supposed to be.

"Nah, this one's gonna come to the grave with me." He didn't say it was because it had your touch, but he didn't need to. He shuffled closer, slowly uncurling himself. "It's one of a kind, technically, after the little washer incident."

You just raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. you mirrored him, shuffling closer until your noses were practically touching. "I offered to buy you a new one." You reminded him as you moved your hand from his t-shirt, sliding it under the blankets to find his. You curled your fingers around his, holding onto his hand. You couldn't help but notice the faint dark circles under his eyes, no doubt a product of too much studying, stressing about an equation that he couldn't quite grasp, and not enough sleep. You didn't bring it up, not tonight, but you filed it away for another time.

For a few minutes, the only sounds that filled the room was the soft sounds of both of you breathing, and a too loud party somewhere in the distance. He wasn't in a rush to fill the gaps in either, just like you weren't. There was a few places that bucky found actual peace, the quiet kind, one of them being the library, the other under the night sky, and then here. here with you, tucked away from everyone else.

You noticed it slowly, the way his blinks started to gradually get longer, head sinking into the pillow a little bit further. "Come here, baby." You rolled over onto your back, letting go of his hand under the blankets after one final squeeze. "Let's get some sleep, mhm?"

He hummed sleepily as he followed you a few seconds later, rolling over and shuffling down the bed to rest his head against your chest, the steady thump of your heartbeat under his ear dragging him deeper into sleep. A noise that was a cross between a sigh and hum escaped his lips as he settled down.

"How do black holes work again?" You asked, brushing your fingertips through his hair, his head resting against your chest. The lava lamp on his nightstand cast a soft orange glow across the room. You tilted your head just enough to look down at him, smiling to yourself. It was your favourite question to ask, his favourite to answer.

He must have talked you through it at least fifty times, and each time you listened like it was the first again. You were pretty sure he'd worked out that it was a distraction technique, but he never called you out on it.

"Black holes? Happen when stars die. Massive ones. Each one has it's singularity, that's where the density becomes infinite, never stops. They're just a never ending battle of quantum mechanics and general relativity." He murmured letting a soft sigh escape from his lips. "Singularity lives inside the event horizon which forms the surface of the black hole, the stuff you see, even though technically it doesn't exist." He yawned quietly, turning his head and burying it deeper into his chest.

As he followed it up with solar masses and gravitational pull, you felt him sink deeper against you, breathing evening out as he fell asleep like every bit of knowledge in his brain had finally found it's place.

"You still with me down there, starman?" You murmured, fingertips still carding through his hair. When the only response you got was the silence, you smiled to yourself. "Didn't think so." Your hand stilled for a second as you leant down and brushed your lips against his forehead. Not quite a kiss, but a gentle reminder that you were still there.

Tomorrow, you'd finish listening to him talk about black holes, then he'd probably move onto dark matter and planetary nebulae, and you? You'd let him explain every single inch of outer space to you.

buckyverse — @firingstars

⤷ welcome to the buckyverse— a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy!

bwatober! — @houseofhyde .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

⤷ one, two, bwa is coming for you… what’s scarier than one bwa collab? another bwa collab! welcome to our rendition of kinktober/flufftober, a collection of 17 bucky fics featuring select prompts. the only thing more terrifying than our deadlines is the emotional coin-toss you’ll be playing with each fic… so what will it be: dick or sweet?

once upon a time...⏾⋆.˚— the tales of bucky barnes masterlist— @superbassbuck

⤷ “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a man named Bucky Barnes. Some say he was a devoted prince, others whispered of a pirate adrift on wild seas, and others claimed he was an ugly beast cursed by ruin. Yet no two tales of him were ever the same, for not every story follows the path as old as time.”

the twelve days of christmas —@chateaubarnes ❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

⤷ 'twas the night before christmas, and all through the house, not a bucky was stirring, not even to pout...

lifting the pink veil — @spdrveil

⤷ bucky writers’ association (2026)　×　lifting the pink veila duo collaboration starring @pinksplace and @spdrveil .ᐟ with a special bonus feature from @unificsation ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

✶ 𝓣AKE 𝓑UCKY 𝓗OME .ᐟ — @superbassbuck

⤷ i, superb ass, and my right hand man, @houseofhyde, are returning to our origins as directioners and bringing you 6 fics, inspired by one direction songs.

spring into stardew — @pinksplace

⤷ After suddenly finding himself the owner of a new (admittedly decrepit) farm located in the quiet recesses of Pelican Town, Bucky Barnes has to face his toughest challenge yet: growing parsnips. Oh! And of course, falling in love.

bwat — @barnesonly

⤷ winter never came for bucky barnes because he's living in eternal brat summer! welcome to a completely new masterlist of fics created by bucky writers' association to make your holidays even hotter. dial 999 in case the temperature gets too high!bwa takes zero responsibility for the horniness or the emotional damage you suffer while reading.

© .ᐟ all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.

© .ᐟ bwa logo by @barnesonly , search bar by me, line divider by cafekitsune

❝ 360 ❞ by @houseofhyde — Sun, June 28, 2026

fleeing from a messy situationship, you embark on a journey to travel across the globe and discover the hidden beauties earth has to offer. you find the rarest beauty of all in him, bucky barnes. honey eyed, smooth-talking, and capable of working just about every job under the sun. as you continue to crash into him with every country you travel through, a chilling thought starts to take hold of your heart: is fate pushing you together, or is something darker chasing you?

❝ Club classics ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 1, 2026

If managing a housing complex in Greece during peak tourist season wasn't hard enough, your stupid, DJ manchild of a tenant, Bucky Barnes, goes one step further to make it even more difficult—that is, until he overhears an argument between you and your boyfriend, John, and decides to prove that he actually cares about you for more than just pissing you off with his loud music.

❝ Sympathy is a knife ❞ by @tw1sters — Sun, July 5, 2026

Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

❝ I might say something stupid ❞ by @superbassbuck — Wed, July 8, 2026

While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.

❝ Talk talk ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, July 11, 2026

What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. There are plenty of ways to talk.

❝ Von dutch ❞ by @houseofhyde — Wed, July 15, 2026

one brand campaign. two models who hate each other’s guts. three months of torture, bickering, and looks that linger. bucky barnes might have a pretty face, but his heart is rotten to the core and his ego is larger than life. his need to make his dislike of you know is borderline obsessive, never failing to keep your name in his mouth... so maybe it’s time he just confess it: you’re his #1.

❝ Everything is romantic ❞ by @heldbybarnes — Sat, July 18, 2026

when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.

❝ Rewind ❞ by @tw1sters — Wed, July 22, 2026

Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.

❝ So I ❞ by @firingstars — Sat, July 25, 2026

notorious for a reputation he worked so hard for, bucky barnes is certain the world is his. he has it all- money, good looks, a fraternity that hangs on his every word; what more could he possibly need? ah, that's right. the pretty girl he met back in freshman year of university that refuses to give him time of day.

❝ Girl, so confusing ❞ by @danysdaughter — Wed, July 29, 2026

bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.

❝ Apple ❞ by @54nboo — Sat, August 1, 2026

after hundreds of years of corrupt ruling and tyranny your family had wrought upon your kingdom, a disease wipes out half of the continent. as the last remaining royal in your family, the crown finally falls into your hands. with your council plotting your deposition, you are left with only your knight to support your claim to the throne. can you fix the years of ruin your ancestors had left to you, or does the apple not fall far from the tree?

❝ B2b ❞ by @barnesonly — Wed, August 5, 2026

as a rising singer, signed and promoted by Barnes Records, you try to find your way through the overwhelming whirlwind that is LA. Little do you know, your producer, Bucky, is determined to do everything to keep you as his biggest star.

❝ Mean girls ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — Sat, August 8, 2026

it seems as though everything is finally falling into place for you: you’ve just won your first Oscar academy award for your film Rendezvous, and you’ve just scored your first deal with the world-renowned film studio, Piston Pictures. it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. that is, until the leading actor in your new film, the up-and-coming Bucky Barnes, makes a grave mistake that completely destroys your carefully crafted reputation overnight. except the mean girls of Hollywood can’t stop you from honing your craft, and they certainly can’t keep Bucky Barnes away from you, no matter how hard they try.

❝ I think about it all the time ❞ by @unificsation — Wed, August 12, 2026

bucky makes you think about having a child all the time. but the funny thing about time is it always, always runs out.

❝ 365 ❞ by @pinksplace — Sat, August 15, 2026

There are eight million people in New York City. Statistically, you shouldn’t keep running into the same man. You definitely shouldn’t keep fucking him.

── .✦ due to outside circumstances, our beloved @/spdrveil & @/artficlly cannot take a part in the collab. but don't worry, they're out there bumpin' that .ᐟ

Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore. 

It was practically perfect.

You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.

The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.

Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.

“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.

You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.

Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.

Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.

“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”

The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation. 

Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.

“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively  the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”

Intense.

You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.

That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.

You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.

“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”

Inside was not fine.

At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.

“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”

“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.

“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that.  “You need something undeniable.”

“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.

“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”

Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”

You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement. 

The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to  the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.

They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance,  you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.

Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.

He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.

His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.

King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.

Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.

“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”

Leah, unfortunately, looked too.

“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight

“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.

You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”

“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”

Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”

“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”

The words landed before the joke did.

You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.

A whole identity built on being wanted.

The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years. 

You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.

Leah's  brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”

You rolled your eyes at that.

“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.

There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.

At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.

“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided. 

“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's  right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”

Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential. 

“And Harrington?”

You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.

“Steve is the case study.”

You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.

—

You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.

He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out. 

Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.

You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more. 

“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.

“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.

“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”

That got him.

A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.

You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you. 

“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being,  strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”

You gave a low hum in response.  “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”

“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”

The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.

You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”

Now, he seemed a bit confused,  his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two. 

“With?”

You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.

“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.

His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”

“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.

You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.

“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”

Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”

“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”

You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.

You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.

Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.

You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.

Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”

His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.

“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”

“Seven.”

“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”

You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.

“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”

You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships,  but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study. 

Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.

You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.

—

On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.

He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.

Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.

"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door. 

You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl.  “Do you do that for all your dates?”

Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale,  the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”

You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.

He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.

“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.

He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”

“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.

His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Not really.”

“Why?”

He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I told you. Inquisitive.”

“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”

The words fell between the two of you in a hush.

You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.

“What?”

“You’re shivering.”

Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not fine.”

Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.

“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.

Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”

Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”

“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle. 

You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.

The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.

“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control. 

You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him.  They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words.  “That’s not true.”

He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”

You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”

The words had you faltering from the truth it held.

Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”

Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”

He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”

Nancy.

There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't  one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.

What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.

You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”

“She is.”

The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it. 

You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.

“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”

You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”

His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.

What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.

You didn't. You didn't stop him.

You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.

His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.

For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.

Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.

Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side.  He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was,  and didn't know how to navigate it.  “So. Did I help?”

You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't. 

“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong,  small and breathless. “You did.”

You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated.  The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly. 

The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.

—

In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that. 

Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.

“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”

You shut your locker too hard.

“Can we not do this right now?”

His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.

“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?

“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”

People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.

Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.  

Keyword, tried.

His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”

His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”

“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”

You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.

You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”

Steve blinked.

His jaw tensed with movement,  your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant. 

“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.

“I don’t need you to fix it.”

“Then tell me what you need.”

His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.

And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.

You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.

At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.

He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.

You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.

Even detached on paper didn't feel right.

— 

The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.

The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.

It was a rough start to say the least.

When you got there, he came around to open your door.

You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.

The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was. 

The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.

For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.

Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.

“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”

Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.

He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him.  “Does it look terrible?”

“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve. 

His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”

“I mean it.” you did. 

He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.

The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.

You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that. 

“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”

The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.

You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.

You just remembered things instead.

You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.

You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.

And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.

It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.

You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.

His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.

The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric. 

Neither of you moved away. 

“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.

You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”

“It’s big.”

Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”

He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”

You understood what he meant.

Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.

You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”

“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”

You didn't like how his eyes dimmed.  “And you?”

“I stay.”

The word sat between you.

He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine.  “God, that sounded pathetic.”

“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower. 

“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked.  “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”

Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them. 

The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.

“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips. 

He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor. 

“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”

He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down. 

His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you. 

You reached for his hand quickly.

He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you,  but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.

You shifted closer.

That was all it took.

He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”

His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering.  The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.

You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.

He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.

“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped. 

Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely  impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.

But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.

The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.

You kissed him back.

Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story

You wanted to, you truly wanted to..

You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours

He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.

“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.

“Shut up, Steve.”

His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."

For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.

—

The article sat unfinished for two days.

You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.

So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean. 

No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.

You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.

The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.

You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.

“Working late?”

You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”

His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”

“No.”

“So yes.”

You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”

He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”

“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.

Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.

“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”

“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly. 

You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.

If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.

You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.

Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.

It was the worst version, the sharpest version.

The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.

Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.

By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.

A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”

You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.

There it was.

Your article.

Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king

Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.

The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.

But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him

When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.

Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.

You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't,  you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.

You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.

You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.

But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.

He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't. 

His eyes were red.

Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.

“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind. 

“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live,  this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that. 

“Was any of it real?”

You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue. 

He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly. 

“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true.  And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”

“No!”

“No?”

“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”

His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.

He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”

“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”

“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”

Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything,  wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.

“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked  nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”

“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.

Steve flinched back.

The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.

He was the one that came back sharp and strained.

“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it.  “you just used me for a headline.”

The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue. 

He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.

Then he turned and walked out.

The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.

The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.

You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.

With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven. 

— 

For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.

You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.

That hurt like a stab to the heart. 

Then came the other little things that made you feel significantly worse.  He stopped coming to the parking lot after school until the buses had left. He stopped looking down your hallway. He stopped being available to your guilt.

You tried to corner Mark. He denied leaking it with the loose, oily confidence of someone who knew proof mattered more than truth. Mr. Walsh gave a speech to the staff about journalistic ethics while refusing to meet your eyes. Stacey apologized three times, then stopped because the apologies had nowhere to land when she held you while your sobs filled your bedroom. Leah sat beside you at lunch without talking much. That was the kindest thing anyone did.

By Friday afternoon, the newsroom felt smaller than it ever had for you. More suffocating. 

The printing press sat under the window, still and waiting. Dust turned in the late sun. Your original ambition lay around you in stacks of paper and headline sketches and discarded layouts.

You looked at the front page proof with Mark’s article on school spirit and felt nothing.

Not disappointment. Not anger.

Nothing.

That truly scared you more than pain did.

You had thought giving up the article would be enough. You had thought killing the story would count as a moral act. But the story was already alive, crawling through Hawkins High with your fingerprints around its throat. You didn't know what to do, the words were already there for everyone that listened. 

You sat at the typewriter.

For a long moment, you did not move. Shortly after a fit of tense silence, you finally rolled in a clean sheet. The keys struck hard enough to ache in your fingers.

This time, you did not write anonymously because you were clever. Or because you were trying to be witty or cruel. You wrote anonymously because the confession was not meant to redeem your name. It was meant to give him back his.

By the final bell, the flyer was everywhere, curtesy of your desperate and frantic efforts. 

It wasn't approved, it certainly also wasn't polished. Id didn't become formatted with Mr. Walsh’s careful little rules. It was just a single page copied until the machine jammed twice and your hands were black with ink that you couldn't scrub off

Students grabbed them from the tables, from the lockers, from the floor where they skidded under shoes. After all, no one loved potential hidden stories more than Hawkins High

You didn't wait to watch them read. That had been the least of your priorities. There was more important things that you cared about than who read a piece of your work now, and he had been gone from your sight long enough.

So, you ran.

The hallways exploded around you with the annual end-of-week chaos of Hawkins High School. Lockers slammed open, someone yelled about a shared ride, and a freshman dropped an entire stack of books and cursed with such feeling that a teacher shouted his name from twenty feet away. The sun poured through the front doors in a white-gold sheet, way too bright after the fluorescent dimness of the hall.

Steve was not at his locker. He was not outside the gym. He wasn't by the trophy case or the pay phones or even the side entrance near the band room. Your lungs burned by the time you shoved through the heavy double doors and stumbled into the afternoon.

The parking lot sprawled ahead of you, shining under the cold sun. Cars backed out in crooked lines. Girls shouted through open windows. The air smelled of gasoline, damp leaves, and somebody’s cigarette. It was all nothing that you cared about. The one thing you did seemed to be missing from the scene. Your eyes squinted in the light as it traveled across the parking spaces of the lot, failing to find what your heart desperately wanted to see.

At the far end, the BMW’s engine roared to life.

“No,” you breathed with pure adrenaline rushing through your veins. Steve sat behind the wheel, one hand on the gearshift, his profile hard through the windshield. 

Before you even knew it, you started running. 

It was stupid, rushed, and entirely filled with desperation. Your shoes slapped the asphalt. You heard Leah faintly calling your name, but you didn't turn back. The wind tore at your hair. Your bag bounced painfully against your hip but you paid it no mind. You cut between two parked cars and nearly slipped on loose gravel.

“Steve!”

He did not hear you, or pretended not to. You gave a groan of loud annoyance, but it still did little to deter you.

You reached the car just as the reverse lights flashed.

Without thinking, without dignity, and definitely without any plan beyond the awful certainty that if he drove away now something inside you would never forgive you, you threw yourself in front of the driver’s side door.

The car jerked to a stop and Steve froze behind the wheel.

Through the glass, his beautifully bright eyes  widened. Hurt, shock, and stubborn pride moved across his face so quickly you could barely separate them. Then his mouth tightened. You could tell he wasn't expecting your actions, and you couldn't exactly say you were the most sane person now.

The window rolled down slowly, the crank turning under his hand with mechanical, agonizing patience.

“What are you doing?” his words came loud and filled with unresolved frustration. Steve’s voice was rough. Thick in its tension. He wouldn't look straight at you. You refused to settle for that, the days spent with the familiar feeling practically left you numb and empty. 

“Go back inside,” Steve’s eyes and words seemed to contradict each other. He shifted back into looking into his dashboard instead of you. “Go celebrate your front page.”

You shoved the crumpled paper through the open window. It landed in his lap.

“I don’t care about the stupid article, ” you said, breathless enough that the words broke apart. “I don’t care about the front page. Just–read it. Please.”

His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he would throw it back at you. Then Steve looked down at the copy of printed words.

You watched his eyes move over the page.

Correcting mistakes:

There was an article circulating this week about a king. It was clever in the cruel way people mistake for intelligence when they are too afraid to admit they have been wrong.

The girl who wrote it thought she was exposing a system. She thought it clever and brilliant. She told herself the boy at the center of it was an idea, a symbol, a lesson with good hair. She thought distance made her fair and judicial. She thought observation made her honest.

Then the boy gave her his jacket when she was cold.

Then he admitted he was afraid of being forgotten, and the girl realized she had been so busy studying the crown of his that she had ignored the weight of it on his own head.

The first article was right about one thing: Hawkins High School makes kings out of boys and then punishes them for not knowing how to be anything else. That wasn't the mistake here. But it was wrong to confuse a boy’s damage with his character. It was wrong to turn trust into evidence. And it was wrong to take the softest things he offered and sharpen them for public consumption.

This is not an apology meant to earn forgiveness. This is meant, instead to fix the record.

The boy was never a god. 

He was kinder than any story allowed him to be, and he was kinder than she deserved. 

Steve stared at the paper.

His chest rose and fell under his yellow polo. His rings glinted where his fingers gripped the page. Around you, students slowed. A few openly stared. You could feel the parking lot turning toward you with the appetite of a place that loved spectacle.

For once, you really, truly, couldn't care.  

Steve’s eyes lifted to yours,  and you could weep just from that alone. “Why should I believe you?” he asked.

The question was quiet enough that no one else could hear. You stepped closer, hands gripping the edge of the open window. Your own voice want any better, it was loud and messy, and undeniably real. A breathless bount of laughter escaped you “Because I was playing a game and I lost, Steve.”

“I lost.”

His throat moved but you hadn't seen it.

“And I lost you,” you sighed with your head hanging low in shame near the open window, voice shaking now, “and I regret it. I was supposed to push you away, but every time you held my hand, every time you looked at me like I actually mattered, I—”

Your breath caught, and you forced it down in order to continue.

“I don’t care about King Steve. I don’t care about the crown or the table or the stupid front page. I want the guy who gets cold in his own car because he gave me his jacket. I want the guy who pretends he doesn’t use cherry chapstick. I want the guy who worries too much and fixes his hair when he’s nervous and acts tough until somebody he cares about needs him to be gentle.”

The words were embarrassing in their vulnerability, and it didn't help that Steve just stared at you. But even small battle wins were tremendous to those who were cautious.  The defensive hardness in his face trembled.

You leaned closer, not touching him. Though God knew you wanted too. But you wouldn't take what he had not offered.

“I just want you,” you said and the words hung there in the bright afternoon.

For a second, nothing happened. That scared you.  Because if even though all of this, he didn't believe you, you were sure that would break you entirely. You didn't understand how looking at him now, with his beautifully enrupturing genuine gaze and constellations of freckles so faint kissing his skin with blessings, you could have been so stupid.

Your panicking monologue was cut off when Steve let out a breath that broke halfway into a laugh.

It made you falter momentarily. You wouldn't exactly describe it as fully happy or clean. Instead, it was more ragged. Disbelieving. Full of relief that came so sudden it seemed to knock the strength out of him. He looked down at the crumpled printed again, then back at you. You saw the exact moment when whatever he had been holding together for two days came apart in his hands.

“You’re insane,” Steve held his head in his hands. The heels of his palms dragged to his eyes, and that when you noticed the concealed redness there. Your panic was a quick guest arrival as your hand hesitantly went over the threshold of the open window and found its spot tangling through his hair at his temple.

Your voice came out soft. “I know.”

“You ran in front of my car.” Steve's was returned in a disbelieving laugh. The sound on instinct made you smile.

“I know.”

“I could’ve hit you.”

You weren't quite so sure you believed that. And it seemed like neither did he fully either. The both of you stared through the air between you “You're not exactly driving donuts with your Beamer in a school parking lot, Harrington. You were going four miles an hour, max.”

His mouth twitched and your heart found its comfort. There he was. That was the boy you wanted to see, the one who was sincere and silly and all of the words in between.

The moment didn't truly feel fixed all the way, and it didn't feel so easily forgiven so neatly that the hurt could be vanished beneath a kiss. But there, beneath the bruised pride and the red eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, was the boy from the park. The boy from the rainstorm. The boy who had laughed quietly when nobody asked him to perform.

He shoved the car door open.

You barely had time to step back before he was out, hands catching your waist. Steve lifted you clean off the pavement, and a startled sound escaped you as your hands grabbed his shoulders.

“Steve—”

“Shut up,” he rasped, but his voice broke around the smile. Then kiss that came next didn't surprise you. But it certainly didn't prepare you for it either.

It was not exactly graceful, but it was completely and utterly impassioned.

Someone in the parking lot whooped. Someone else yelled something that sounded suspiciously like “Harrington!” A horn blared because a car was stuck behind his open door. The reminder of just how crazy this whole situation was roared in your ears. 

Steve didn't seem to hear any of it. You had a feeling that he did, but just pretended he didn't. That made you smile on reflex against him.

His hands held your waist with desperate certainty, then slid up your back, pulling you close enough that the cold afternoon disappeared between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining it again, and he made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half relief. He tasted the same sweet cherry chapstick you started buying for yourself and breathless warmth. The kiss carried every unsaid thing neither of you knew how to organize yet. Anger. Want. Hurt. Forgiveness beginning somewhere far off and walking slowly toward you.

When your feet touched the ground again, you were dizzy. It was a good dizzy, and the pounding in your side was a welcome pleasure now. 

Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, refusing to let you drift away. Up close, you could see the faint details scattered along his neck, the tiredness under his eyes, and the careful hope he was trying not to show too quickly.

“You really printed that?” The question broke you out of your stupor. You were still so dazed from his touch that you distantly found yourself nodding. Your hands refused to leave their spot in reaching for him now that there wasn't a lie justifying it.

“Over Mark’s stupid school spirit thing?”

Your words came mechanical,  as if offended he'd even question it. “Technically under it. Around it. On top of some of it.”

“I made a stupid amount of copies.” The confession came paired with you momentarily dropping your hands where they were wrapped around him to hold up the black ink stains on your fingers.

His smile spread, crooked and real enough to hurt. And you swore that it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

“Good.”

You laughed weakly, your hands finding their way back into sliding to the back of his nape. “That’s what you took from the public confession?”

“I’m processing.” His thumb moved along your jaw, slow and familiar. “Also, I liked the cherry chapstick line.”

“I hoped you would,” you felt like a cat relishing in caresses. The smile that mirrored his came quick and teasing on your mouth.  His eyes stayed on yours, and his smile softened at the edges.

“You’re a terrible writer.”

Your brows lifted in instinctive defensiveness of your craft. “Excuse me?”

He brushed his thumb beneath your chin, eyes bright with that old Harrington charm, gentler now, and clearly worn in rather than performed.

“You didn’t even come close to losing me.”

The ache in your chest loosened all at once.

It would not be so easy for you to say it was gone, you would still have to apologize without speeches. He would still have to decide what trust looked like after being turned into copy. 

But Steve was standing in front of you with his hair wrecked by your hands and your confession folded against his car seat. He was looking at you, really looking, not the way a king looked over a crowd, but the way a boy looked at the girl he was still willing to let close enough to hurt him.

You rose onto your toes with a soft shake of your head and grin. “Just shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”

His grin flashed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Delmar’s is too loud.

Too crowded and too hot with summer bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath yellow hanging lights while someone’s record player crackles faint jazz into the room.

The whole neighborhood showed up for the send-off. Brooklyn boys in freshly pressed uniforms get clapped on the back and handed drinks while mothers dab at their eyes pretending they aren’t terrified. Girls dance too close to soldiers trying hard to make tonight feel normal and worth remembering. Dum Dum is already halfway drunk, Morita’s winning money off somebody in cards while Jones keeps trying to drag everyone onto the dance floor.

And Bucky keeps looking at the door.

“Barnes!”

A hand slams against his shoulder hard enough to jolt him from his thoughts as he turns automatically, plastering on an easy grin for the older man standing there.

“Mr. Delmar.”

The man beams proudly while shoving another beer into his hand.

“Look at you, huh? Sergeant now.” He shakes his head. “Your ma would’ve been proud.”

Bucky swallows around something uncomfortable in his throat.

“Thanks.”

More people pull him away before the conversation can linger. Another handshake, another “good luck overseas.” Another smiling girl asking for one dance before he ships out. Bucky gives everyone exactly what they expect, the grin and the charm.

Because that’s what they need tonight. What they deserve.

But every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the entrance anyway, still waiting. Steve notices first, obviously, because Steve Rogers has always looked at Bucky like he can read the wiring in his head.

“You’re gonna wear a hole through the door,” Steve mutters beside him while accepting two drinks from the bartender.

Bucky tears his gaze away too slowly. “I’m not lookin’ at the door.”

“You checked it four times during one conversation.” Steve stares at him flatly.

“She’s probably just late.”

The words slip out before Bucky can stop them and Steve’s expression softens immediately. Oh. So that’s what this is.

“You told her to come?”

Bucky shrugs too casually.

“Mentioned it.”

“You must really like her.”

“I invited her for the drinks.”

“That’s practically a marriage proposal from you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches despite himself. Then the door opens again and Bucky looks up immediately.

Not you, just another group filtering in from the street laughing loudly. The hope that sparked in his chest disappears so fast it almost embarrasses him.

Steve notices that too.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Lie.

Across the room somebody calls Bucky’s name again with ,ore congratulations, more shoulder claps, more promises that he’ll “make Brooklyn proud.” And Bucky tries, God, he tries to stay inside the moment but all he can think about is you.

The way you looked the last time he saw you standing outside the corner store while he told you about deployment papers finally coming through, the party that the block was putting up for him. You’d smiled for him but it never reached your eyes.

Now hours pass and there's still no sign of you. The party keeps moving around him anyway. The music swells and people dance, someone starts singing badly near the bar while Bucky stands in the center of all of it feeling strangely disconnected. Like he’s underwater because deep down, a thought keeps growing uglier and uglier in the back of his mind. Maybe she’s not coming.

The realization settles heavy in his chest until Jones eventually drags him into a celebratory toast near midnight.

“To Sergeant Barnes!” someone yells.

Everyone cheers loudly around him and Bucky lifts his beer automatically, smiles on cue but over the rim of the bottle, his eyes drift one last time toward the door. Still hoping, still waiting.

Nothing. And for the first time all night, his smile finally slips just for a second. Long enough for Steve to see it from across the room, long enough for Bucky to quietly wonder what he did wrong. Or worse—if maybe you saying goodbye would’ve hurt less than not showing up at all.

The phone rings three times before you answer it.

You almost let it keep going.

Almost let the sound echo through your apartment until whoever stood on the other end finally gave up and hung up for good. But something ugly and hopeful twists in your chest when it rings a fourth time, and despite every stubborn thought in your head, your hand reaches for it anyway.

“Hello?”

Static crackles softly through the line before his voice comes warm and rough and achingly familiar.

“Doll?”

Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. Of course. You lean heavily against the kitchen wall, fingers tightening around the receiver.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

There’s a pause, not long, just enough to hear the smile fall from his voice.

“You were supposed to be there.”

The deployment party.

The one at Delmar’s with music too loud and cheap beer and neighborhood girls crying into handkerchiefs while boys barely old enough to shave pretended they weren’t terrified of dying overseas. You couldn't go. Because you knew the second you saw him in uniform smiling like war was just another adventure, something inside you would crack clean open.

“Yeah well,” you mutter quietly, swallowing around the ache climbing your throat, “forgive me if I didn’t feel like celebrating.”

Silence hums between you. Somewhere through the line you hear traffic, distant voices, Brooklyn still moving like the world isn’t changing around it.

Then softer than you'd ever heard before.

“Doll…”

“No, Bucky, don’t do that.”

Your voice comes sharper than intended. You press your hand harder against your forehead, pacing once across the apartment.

“I’m not gonna stand there and watch you ride off to your death, alright?”

The words finally spill loose after being trapped in your chest for days.

“Because you’d smile that stupid smile like everything was okay, and it’s not.” Your breath catches painfully. “I might not ever see you again.”

The line goes quiet enough that for one terrible second you think maybe he hung up.

“You’ll see me again.”

You laugh weakly under your breath.

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he admits gently. “Guess I can’t.”

The honesty nearly ruins you more than reassurance would’ve. You slide slowly down the kitchen wall until you’re sitting on the floor, phone cord twisted around your wrist.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate the uniform.”

“I know.”

“I hate everybody acting like this is brave and noble when really it’s just—”

You stop yourself before the word terrifying escapes.

Bucky finishes it quietly anyway.

“Scary.”

Your eyes sting. On the other end of the line, his voice lowers like he’s speaking something sacred.

“I’ll always be yours, no matter what.”

The words settle heavily into the silence and your chest aches with them. Then carefully, Bucky almost sounds hesitant for the first time in his life.

“Can I come see you?”

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes before he can somehow hear it.

“…Only if you leave the uniform at home.”

Bucky goes quiet.

“I want Bucky,” you whisper. “Not Sergeant Barnes.”

For the first time since answering the phone, you hear his real smile, small and soft and entirely yours.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find him standing there in dark slacks, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair still damp like he rushed washing the pomade from it before coming over.

Not Sergeant Barnes, just Bucky, and suddenly the air leaves your lungs. Because this, this is the dangerous part. Not the war, not the train he’ll board tomorrow morning to England. It’s this soft, ordinary version of him standing in your hallway looking at you like you’re home already.

Neither of you speaks at first. Bucky’s eyes move slowly over your face, searching for damage. You realize distantly that he probably expected you to still be angry, to scold him some more, instead you step aside quietly.

He walks in like he’s trying not to disturb something fragile, glancing around before landing on you again.

“You been cryin’?”

“No.”

“Doll.”

“Don’t start.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth despite everything.

“There she is.”

You hate that the sight of it still makes your heart stutter. Bucky takes a slow step closer, then another until your socks nearly touch his shoes, close enough to smell soap and cigarette smoke and the familiar warmth of him.

“You really that mad at me?” he asks softly.

You look up at him then, finally letting him see it. Not anger, but the fear. Pure, ugly fear. And Bucky’s expression breaks instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

His hands settle carefully at your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“I invited you tonight because I didn’t wanna leave things bad between us.”

“They’re not bad,” you whisper shakily. “They’re just… ending too soon.”

That wrecks him a little. You see it happen in real time. Bucky lowers his forehead against yours with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.

“I wish I knew how to make it better,” he admits quietly.

You melt a little hearing that. Because Bucky Barnes always acts like he knows exactly what to say, but not now, not when it matters. So instead of answering, you lift your hand to his cheek and he leans into it immediately.

“You come back to me, that'll make it better,” you murmur.

Bucky opens his eyes and there’s something unbearably tender in them now. Something young, frightened and loving. Maybe it was the thought of tomorrow morning, maybe it was the way he looked at you like leaving already hurt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding you both had that there might not be another chance after this one.

Whatever it was, it pulled you toward him before fear could stop you.

The kiss happened softly, your lips brushing his in a way that felt almost disbelieving, like even this was subject to disappearing if you thought about it too long. Bucky exhaled shakily against your mouth as he kissed you back, one hand tightened lightly at your waist while the other slid warm against your jaw.

It wasn’t a practiced kiss, wasn’t smooth or perfect. It felt like relief, like months of almosts finally giving in all at once. When you pulled back, Bucky stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours.

His eyes were still closed.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ll try real hard to do that.”

You want to believe him. To know in your heart that his words are true. But it's hard. Loving someone during peacetime already felt terrifying enough, but loving someone marching toward war feels unbearable.

“That wrinkle between your eyebrows means you’re thinkin’ too hard again.” He says with a soft grin.

You huff softly through your nose.

“You say that like it’s avoidable.”

“For you? Probably not.”

“I’m comin’ back for you, you know.”

Your breath catches softly.

“Buck—”

“No, listen to me.”

There’s something steady in him now. He steps closer until the world narrows into the smell of cigarette smoke on his collar, soap, and the warmth of him standing near enough to feel.

“I’m gonna come back,” he says quietly, “and the first day I do, I’m gonna take you to the pictures.”

A laugh escapes you through the ache in your chest.

“The pictures?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re using all your big romantic material tonight, huh?”

Bucky grins softly.

“I’m serious.”

His thumb traces lightly along your cheekbone.

“I’ll get one of those giant buckets of popcorn you like.”

“The overpriced kind?”

“The very overpriced kind.”

“And?”

“And those little chocolate M&M’s you like.”

You smile helplessly and Bucky’s expression softens like he’d do anything just to keep seeing that look on your face.

“We’ll spend the whole day there,” he murmurs. “Movie after movie until you fall asleep on my shoulder.”

Your chest aches so badly it feels beautiful. Because the promise itself isn’t really about popcorn or candy or movie theaters. It’s about a future, small and ordinary and domestic. The kind of life that war keeps trying to steal from boys like Bucky.

You reach for him before thinking too hard about it, fingers curling softly into the front of his shirt.

“You really believe that?” you whisper.

Bucky looks at you like the answer is easy.

“I believe in you.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you permanently and you think maybe this is what love really is. Not grand speeches or dramatic declarations. Just a boy standing close, promising you a future made of popcorn buckets and shared silence in dark movie theaters because that’s the only way he knows how to say please wait for me, please let me come home to you.

And finally you let yourself lean into him completely. Bucky exhales softly the second you do, arms wrapping around you instinctively, pausing only long enough to look at you, to really look at you.

Like he wants to memorize this version of you beneath the streetlight forever.

Then he kisses you again. His hand slides warm against the back of your neck while yours bunch softly in the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried and aching with all the things tomorrow threatens to take from you.

Bucky kisses like he’s trying to promise something impossible, like if he loves you carefully enough, the war won’t touch either of you.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours while both of you breathe the same summer air.

“See?” he murmurs softly, lips brushing near yours again. “Now you got somethin’ to come back to too.”

the day that you had received the news that your best friend was getting married and that she wanted you to be her maid of honour, bucky had never seen you so happy.

he'd been in the kitchen halfway through making grilled sandwiches for the two of you when the door had slammed open. you'd burst through your apartment door breathless and beaming, your phone is one hand and a box full of tissue paper and embroidered satin in the other.

bucky barely had any time to turn off the stove before you'd thrown yourself at him, the news spilling from your mouth like a secret you simply couldn't keep.

"buck—" you gasped out, voice pitching up in disbelief as you show him the contents of the box. "look!"

bucky watches as shreds of paper and glitter fall to the ground, catching on your shoes and on his socks and on literally every in a two feet radius, but none of that is what catches his attention.

its the small card that sits on top, baby pink and unmistakably handwritten by your friend. the text is written in glittery ink and the paper is wrinkled at the edges like you'd already opened it a million times.

he looks up at you just to see that you're already staring at him with those big gleaming eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"what am i looking at, baby?" he asks softly even though the answer already sits in the forefront of his mind.

you exhale, a small shaky kind of breath that makes your shoulder lift, and then you turn the box around. you nudge it a little closer like the words won't make sense unless he's really looking at it, and then glittery ink finally makes a little more sense.

"she asked me to be her maid of honour!" you chirp.

there it is. the truth, the joy, the reason you look like you might just grow wings and fly off into the sky.

bucky lets your announcement settle for a minute, not because he's surprised— he isn't— but because watching you say it, watching the way your face lights up from the inside and out, feels like something he just shouldn't rush.

he'd seen you happy before— laughing at a movie happy, seeing a cute puppy happy, scoring the last parking space happy— but this? this was different.

"yeah?" he smiles, "sweetheart, that's huge. i'm happy for you."

you nod way too fast, already biting back another grin. "i know! i know, i just— i wanted to tell come home and tell you first."

and something in that small confession settles in his chest; the fact that you ran straight home— straight to him— like it wasn't even a second thought.

"well—" he says, voice dropping into something more fond and a little helpless, "c'mere and let me give you a hug before you explode all over the kitchen."

you laugh— a light and breathless little giggle— and set down the box onto the kitchen island before throwing yourself around bucky. his arms come around you instantly, tight and warm and instinctive like his body was just waiting for an excuse to hold you.

"i'm proud of you." he murmurs as he presses a kiss against the side of your head, "she picked the right person. youre gonna do so well."

you dont say anything and bury your face further into his chest. your heart is pounding against your ribs, still trying to crawl its way out of your chest, but the hug grounds in you the best way possible.

"okay." you pull away from the hug, wiping at your flushed cheeks even though you're smiling too hard to actually cry, "i need to call her back before she thinks i passed out."

bucky grins as he wipes away a stray bit of glitter from your cheek, "you still look like you might."

you roll your eyes and grab the box again, practically levitating down the hall. as bucky watches you disappear into the bedroom, he finds himself smiling at the empty space you leave behind— soft, fond, and completely enamoured.

the wedding day comes before he can even blink.

one moment he's waking up with you clinging to his side, your leg thrown over both of his like you always do when you're asleep, and the next, you're shoving him into a freshly tailored suit and driving halfway across town to a venue that looks like it's been taken straight from a bridal magazine.

as he drives, he finds that your perfectionist energy has infected him. he finds himself looking at himself in the rear view mirror and swiping a hand through his hair and adjusting his tie every so often even though everything about how he looks is fine, because your perfume lingers in the car from the ride there like a ghost in the upholstery and it's messing with his ability to think.

you're not there to help him. your friends has picked you up earlier that morning, laughing to each other and hurried as they stole you away from him under the thin excuse of time. you'd left him with a soft peck on the lips and a wide smile as you adjust his tie, fingers careful and familiar, like you'd trusted him enough to pull himself together while you were gone.

"the reception starts at one, and the ceremony starts at three." you tell him, your hands flat against his chest. you can feel his heart thumbing under your palm, and it makes you smile. "do you remember where you're sitting?"

bucky huffs out a quiet laugh as he nods, "second row, closest to the exit. if i dont know where to sit, just follow the man with the funky tie and sit on his left."

you smooth your hand over his chest once more, this time moee self-indulgent than before. "if you forget, i wrote it on a card and put it in your jacket pocket."

his brow lifts. "you did?"

you nod. "i did."

there's a loud honking that echoes around the street in front of your apartment building, and the two of you turn towards the sound. the driver is grinning at you through the tinted window and the other is poking her head out of the car's sunroof,

"i have time anxiety, so move it!" your friend claps her hands and ducks back into the car, reaching over the steering wheel to bang her fists against the horn. it resonates through the street, and the two of you wince.

you turn back to bucky with a defeated sigh, giving him a tight lipped smile like this is some bittersweet goodbye between lovers who would never see each other for years after.

"that's my cue." you murmur, adjusting his suit just one more time, lingering longer than you probably should. "you look really handsome, bucky."

"and you look beautiful, sweetheart." your boyfriend is quick to compliment, hands reaching up to grab at yours and hold them in his. he leans in for a kiss and you gladly accept it, savouring the warmth and familiarity one more time before you're ripped away by responsibilities.

and when you pull away, your noses touch and bucky's thumbs brush over your knuckles, a silent promise that he'll see you in no time.

much to your dismay, your friend pops her head out of the sunroof again. "if you don't let go of that man and get in the car within the next ten seconds, i'm tellin' the bride that you tried to elope before her wedding!"

you roll your eyes as you finally pull away from him, the two of you prolonging the farewell with lingering physical touch and quiet smiles. "i'll see you in four hours, buck. don't have too much fun without me!"

"i could never." he replies, thumbs brushing yours before you finally let go and make your way to the car. the door shuts behind you and bucky watches as it turns out of the street, heart already aching at your absense.

but now he was at the wedding venue four hours later, standing at the front as he fixes his cuffs just to make himself a little more presentable for your sake. the cuffs itch and they're uncomfortably stiff, but you'd picked the suit out for him and you were so happy about it— why would he ruin that?

he's welcomed by the venue staff with easy smiles as he steps in, and he's welcomed by the family members of the bride who light up when they recognise him. there's a few warm hellos, a clap on the shoulder, a joking 'when are you proposing to your girlfriend?', and bucky takes it all with polite nods and half-smiles, even though his attention keeps drifting elsewhere.

he's looking for you, and anybody paying even the slightest bit of attention to him would be able to figure that out. his eyes trace every face in the room just to find yours. somebody asks him how work is and he gives a vague answer. somebody asks him where he got his suit from and he simply shrugs with a polite 'my girlfriend got it for me'. everything he does traces back to you.

and then the ceremony starts.

bucky follows the man with the funky tie and finds his spot closest to the exit just as the music swells. the room quiets, and bucky watches as the crowd turns to watch the doors open.

his breath catches in his throat when he catches sight of a bridesmaid, walking through the doors, silk dress brushing against the aisle as she carries herself towards the altar with grace. another follows, and then another, and he recognises them all— your friends, the people who'd practically torn you away from him this morning, the people you'd laughed and cried and leaned on for every milestone.

then, with the next shift of the music, you appear.

you glide in with the elegance of a swan, a pink bouquet of flowers held between your hands. every movement you make is precise and practiced, head held high like you're not just carrying the flowers and walking down the aisle, but like you're ecstatic to be the one chosen to stay by the bride, to hold a piece of her joy for yourself.

bucky freezes for a moment. the muscles in his face loosen and his jaw almost goes slack, caught between awe and something warmer that could deep within his chest.

you look just as beautiful as the day he met you.

with every sway of your dress, every firm press of your heel into the floor, and every grin you shine to a guest, theres a quiet tug that cant— and doesnt want to— resist.

and when the bride enters and the crowd erupts into aws and whispers, bucky can't help that his eyes follow you instead. your shoulders are straight and your steps are measured, and despite the stiffness you try to instil in your movements, there's a softness in the way your eyes sweep the crowd— curious and warm and searching— until they land on him.

for a brief moment, it's only you two. the music, the audience, the flurry of movement around you fades into the background. you smile at him— a small, private smile, one that makes bucky's chest tighten and his thoughts scatter— and something cracks open inside of his chest.

it's subtle, but it seeps through his body like warm hands on cold skin, or sunlight beaming through closed eyelids— slow, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.

bucky doesn't want anybody else. he never has. he's known it since the day he met you, but something in this moment cements it.

it's you when he wakes up, and it's you when he comes home. it's you when his days are both invigorating and exhausting. it's you standing there in soft silk and the warm light, grinning at him like your smile is something that loves inside of you rather than something you put on for show, like the world hasnt just rearranged itself around the fact that he doesn't want nor does he need anybody else.

every passing thought of anyone else has always faded the second you walked into the room. seeing you like this— radiant and proud and impossibly beautiful— its doesn't make him want more; it makes him want you.

bucky exhales through his nose, something like a laugh caught in his throat, his eyes never leaving you throughout the entire ceremony— not when the bride steps forwards and the groom gets his first look, not when the vows are exchanged, and not when the newlyweds walk down the aisle. he's enraptured by you up until you and the bridal party disappear back through the doors, swallowed by flowers and fabric and congratulations.

the reception begins with the swell of piano music and the horde of guests spill into the dining room.

the lights of the dining room are dimmed, string lights hanging from the ceiling like constellations. the tables are covered with cream cloth and the chairs are lined with glittery ribbon that catches the light just right. suit jackets are shrugged off and heels are kicked loose under the table, the forced stiffness of the ceremony melting into something more carefree.

bucky finds his assigned seat at a table full of familiar faces, mostly the significant others of your friends, the bridesmaids. they welcome him with open arms and pats on the back with easy smiles and casual greetings like he belongs there.

the conversation drags into easier topics— jokes about the ceremony, complaining about how long the speeches are going to be, speculation about what the food will be like, mentioning the open bar like it's a gift from the heavens— until the screech of feedback from a microphone slices through the room.

"sorry—" the groom's brother apologises as the crowd quiets down, "didn't mean to do that. uh, thank you everybody for coming today. really, it's surreal looking at all of you and seeing so many people who love them both in one place. i know it means a lot to the newlyweds, and for me as well, because my brother is paying me to mc and dj tonight."

a ripple of laughter moves through the room.

"so, before we get into the speeches and— what i know you're all waiting for— the food," he clears his throat, tucking his palm cards into his pocket, "let's welcome... the bridal party!"

there's a wave of cheering and applause, chairs scraping and heads whipping around as people turn to watch the grand entrance. bucky straightens without meaning to, his neck craning to look over the mass of hair-sprayed heads.

the first couple walks in to loud whoops and whistles, laughing as they're ushered towards their table. then another, and another, each introduction met with more cheers, more clapping, and more playful shouting from the crowds.

and then you waltz in with your assigned groomsmen, the two of you bouncing around each other with the same bright energy, and the room eats it up. you bow dramatically for the crowd before being tugged upwards again, and you catch bucky's eyes with a wave. bucky grins into his glass like a love-struck idiot as you find your spot beside the bride.

the groom's brother lifts his microphone again. "alright... we're gonna start with speeches now, and i think it only makes sense to begin with the person who organised about ninety percent of this wedding. the woman who kept everyone on track, kept the newlyweds from losing their minds, and somehow looked incredible doing it— the maid of honour!"

there's an immediate ripple of excitement as the crowd begins to start clapping. people turn towards you. someone cheers your name. someone else whistles. it's a smorgasbord of noise and attention that rushes towards you all at once.

you blink— flustered— before laughing softly and pushing your chair back. you smooth your hands over the front of your dress and then reach for the microphone as it's passed to you. the room quiets again, and you take a breath.

"hi, uh." you lift your hand in a small half-wave like you're not quite sure what to do with all of the attention. your cheeks are pink and your smile is wide and almost disbelieving, but you continue.

"as you probably know by now, i'm the maid of honour. i've known the bride since... god, since forever. long enough that i remember her bad bangs phase and her obsession clear jelly shoes, so if anyone wants those photos later, i do take bribes."

the memory and the joke sends a ripple of laughter throughout the room, and bucky can't help but smile.

"but seriously," you say your voice softening. "i love her. i love her in a way that feels like family— in a way that feels like home. she's the person i lean on when i need help and the first person i call when something amazing happens. she's seen me at my best and my worst and still decided to keep me by her side anyways."

you glance towards the bride, you eyes shining.

"and when she met him... i could see it happen almost instantly. something in her just clicked, and when i wouldnt stop hearing about him after their first date, i knew that i was witnessing the start of two people finding themselves in each other.

over the years, i've watched them grown into each other. i've watched them choose each other again and again and again, even when things were hard or messy, and that's the type of love that lasts— the kind that you build a life on."

you swallow, eyes flicking back to your cards, but you find that nothing written in ink could possibly say what you really think. so you let them lower just a little, the paper flush against the table.

your eyes flick— not even intentionally— towards bucky, who's staring at you like you put the stars and the moon in the sky, like you're the only thing that's emitting light in the darkest night, and maybe that's why your voice softens when you speak.

"and i think what you two have taught me is that love isn't always about the big gestures or huge displays of affection." your eyes return to the bride, "it's knowing how you like your coffee... knowing whether you need quiet or distraction after a long day... being the place you feel the safest landing."

your smile is barely there now, warm tears flooding your eyes. you try not to blink just incase a tear ruins your makeup, but you can't help it when one runs down your cheek.

"and i hope that when it's my turn one day— when i'm the one wearing a dress i picked out months in advance and trying not to cry into the microphone— i hope i get something like this, and i hope that i get to look at my person and know, without a single doubt, that this is my person." you sniffle, "thank you for reminding me what love looks like."

something in bucky's chest twists, warm and tight, like a cord snapping taut.

it all makes sense now— those nights where you'd shut yourself in your room a with a notepad and a pen, the days where you randomly ask him how you take your coffee, or those odd moments where you'd drift off towards a corner, whispering ideas into the air like the walls were listening— you'd been writing a speech. a speech that, whether you realised it or not, was meant to show everyone— and maybe especially him— how you see love.

you raise your glass, and everyone in the room follows. "here's to love that feels like home and safety, to partnership, to choosing each other everyday, and to two people who did exactly that. i love you guys."

and as the room clinks glasses and cheers, bucky's eyes lock onto yours. his chest is full and aching in the best way possible, because he knows, without a doubt, that when the time comes, he wants that with you.

the speeches fade into laughter and applause, glasses clinking as everyone settles back into their seats for dinner. soon enough, the piano gives away to a livelier song, something upbeat and familiar, chairs scraping against the floor as feet shuffle towards the dance floor.

bucky watches from his seat for a moment, glass of champagne swirling around in his hand, before standing and letting himself be carried by the storm of people running towards the floor.

its a crowd of organised chaos and delight, the spotlights dimmed. couples are spinning each other around and little kids are dropping it low to the music, laughter bouncing off of the walls and the string lights ahead showering everything in a soft, golden glow.

the air is warm with perfume, sticky champagne, and the faint scent of sweet vanilla cake, and somewhere in the middle of it all, bucky finds you.

you're in the centre of the dance floor, laughing at something one of your friends just said. whatever little light there is catches on the curves of your face, your dress moving on its own as you sway to the music. and then, almost like you're tugged by some invisible string, your attention is pulled towards bucky. you send him a soft 'come over here' gesture and his chest tightens.

he cuts through the crowd without hesitation and almost before he even realises he's moving, weaving through dancing people and people chatting in circles until he's standing right in front of you.

your hands find his almost instantly, fingers curling around his like they've always known wgere to go, your warmth seeping into his skin and spreading through his body in a way that makes him feel a little lightheaded.

"hey, sweetheart." bucky is the first to speak, a soft smile stuck onto his face as he traces your features like he's seeing you properly for the first time.

"hi, babe. how are you? did you eat? how do i look? do i look okay?" you rush out in a single breath, brows almost knitted together as you stumble over your words.

but the answer comes easy to bucky, the words certain and firm, carrying the wright of everything he's been feeling tonight— "you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen."

your eyes widen for a fraction of a second before a slow smile spreads across your face. you look away, your cheeks warming. "buck, stop—"

"i'm serious, sweetheart. you look perfect." his voice comes out lower than he intends. he steps forwards, hands reaching for your waist, and he brings you close enough that he can see the flecks of glitter dusted upon your eyelids. "you are perfect."

for a heartbeat, the crowd and the music melts away. the laughter, the people, the twinkling lights— none of it really matters. its just the two of you, the brush of your hands, the heat of your presence, and the look in both of your eyes as you share your moment of joy.

"thanks, darling." your lips twitch— a tiny private grin that you try to hide. "you clean up pretty good yourself."

bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, eyes flicking between yours like he can gauge every unspoken feeling that runs through your mind. "yeah, well... i needed to be worthy of the maid of honour."

"worthy, huh? you've still got a long way to go, soldier." you tease, though you feel your chest tighten when his arm wraps around your lower back.

bucky grins, eyes glinting with mischief. "oh, i plan on spending a lifetime getting there."

you roll your eyes but your small smile gives you away. bucky pulls you in until your lips are pressed against his, your lipstick certainly staining his skin. the warmth of him, the press of his skin on yours, the brush of his hands on your hips, it’s enough to make everything melt away, but you almost don’t render him pulling away.

almost.

you suck in a breath when you notice the creases forming on bucky’s forehead, the lines soft and worried like the thought had been sitting in his mind for too long.

something catches in his throat, the question falling out before he can stop it. "did you mean what you said?"

you cock your head to the side just slightly, a teasing tone in your voice as you stare up at bucky with soft eyes. "what did i say?"

"that one day you want to be the one standing up there… with your person. that you want that kind of love.” he says quietly, uncertainty lacing each word. “that you want to get married.”

your heart thuds against your chest with a warmth that’s almost overwhelming. the look on bucky’s face rivals even the cutest of things— soft and unsure, like a puppy behind scratched glass waiting to see if its wanted.

you reach up without thinking, a hand resting along his jawline. his jaw clenches as you rub your thumb along the stubbled skin, his eyes flicking between yours as he awaits your answer.

"of course, i meant it. i’d love nothing more for that day to come.” you say gently. and then, with a tiny huff of a laugh and your other hand pressed against bucky’s chest, you grin. “and maybe the day would come quicker if a certain somebody stopped walking on eggshells and just popped the million dollar question already."

a soft laugh escapes bucky, and almost like all of the stress leaves his body, you can feel him melt into your touch.

"what kind of idiot keeps a woman like you waiting?" he murmurs with jokingly narrowed eyes, forehead tipping towards yours. “guy’s a real coward, isn’t he?”

"the biggest." you easily agree with a sneaky smile, but then more sincere, you say; "but he should also know that there's no rush, and that i'm not going anywhere anytime soon. i quite like having my very own barista in the mornings."

you lean up and press a soft kiss to the hollow of his cheek, your lips lingering for a moment as if to say ‘i love you’ before you pull away with a cheeky grin.

“now, you wanna stop standing there all love-struck and take the maid of honour for a spin? she’s been waiting all night for a dance with a man as handsome as you.”

bucky raises his brows, a smirk settling into his face as you tug him towards yours. “wouldnt want to keep a pretty lady like you hanging.”

his hand slips into yours as you pull him into a steady rhythm, his body following yours as you sway to the song. you pull him into the movement and the music and the lights, a breathy laugh escaping you when bucky spins you once, and then twice. it’s clumsy and uncoordinated, your dress flaring as you come back into his arms.

as he laughs, something in that moment— warm and spinning and so close to you— it hits him with a quiet certainty; maybe that five thousand dollar diamond wedding ring in his underwear drawer might find its way into his hands earlier than he'd thought.

Winter was a beast of persistence and grit, howling through the weathered edges of the window frame, making the radiator sob a death-rattle like groan. Within the creaky floorboards and crumbling walls of your apartment, the air smelled of menthol rub and the faint, smoky scent of the wood-stove.

You laid motionless, buried under a mountain of heavy quilts and cotton blankets, feeling like your joints were glued together, and your brain clogged with wet wool. Every time you closed your eyes, the fever pulled at your neck, harassing your temples into a restless, dizzying fog of a headache.

Then came the sound of the bedroom door creaking open.

Bucky didn’t even take off his coat before he was at your side. Looking worried, a hint of urgency in his step and demeanour that lit his eyes up and pulled his eyebrows, but they softened the second they landed on you. With a boyish grin, he reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out two items; a small tin of aspirin and a single orange, placing them down on the bedside table with a small, reverent smile.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, shrugging out of his damp jacket. "Ma always gave us oranges when we got sick. Said it hydrates or somethin’ other, and no way in hell was I gonna let you suffer without a little help."

The springs dipped and squeaked under his weight as he sat himself on the edge of the mattress. He cracked open the tin first, and with easy care, coaxed you with a soft 'open' to take two with a sip of lukewarm water.

Then, he turned his attention to the orange. He peeled slowly, attentively willing himself to be delicate with the soft flesh. Zest filled the room, sharp and sweet, cutting through the stuffiness of your sinuses. But Bucky couldn’t just hand it to you, not when you’re huddled under throws, pillows twisted and misshapen to your liking; he broke off individual segments, meticulously removing the whites before holding the slices to your lips.

"Eat up," he whispered. "Don't fade away on me now."

You complied, chewing as well as you could with your stiff joints.

As you nibbled from his hand, the fog in your brain began to lift, replaced by the steady, grounding presence of your man. Bucky always hated when got were sick, said you 'go quiet', makes him feel like you're miles away, too stuck in your own head, deep enough where he can't reach you.

To keep you tethered to the room, he reached for the discarded newspaper at the end of your bed and flipped to the back pages.

"Let’s see what the rest of the world is fussin' about while you're playing hooky," he joked, voice a low, rhythmic rumble, and your lips twitch as you could hear the smirk on his face. He started reading out the headlines, thumb absently stroking your ankle through the blankets.

Suddenly, he stilled. Eyebrows shooting up, and a sharp, disbelieving huff barked out of him.

"Shit, hey... d’you remember Bonnie?"

You let out a wet, miserable sniffle, squinting through the dim light. "I knew three Bonnie's, Buck. You gotta be more specific."

"The brunette with the real high-pitched laugh, uh… Bonnie Hollis?"

Shifting yourself with a groan, elbows holding you up, the gossip acted like a shot of adrenaline to your weary system. "The one who dated Tommy Whitman? The guy who'd pick on Steve?"

Licking his lips through a grin, shaking his head a mumbling under his breath, "yeah, that's the bastard." He continued, leaning closer. "Guess what? They’re gettin’ married."

Your eyes, previously heavy and dull, snapped wide open. Jaw slack with a scoff, brows furrowing in disbelief, darting to the newspaper as if you could read it through the back of the page.

"Shut the fuck up, no they’re not!" Your palms shoot over your mouth before you could catch the curse, lowing your voice a fraction. "Tommy told everyone at the New Year's dance that he was moving to Jersey to be a bachelor."

"Ha, guess Jersey didn't want him," he snorted, turning the paper so you could see the fine print in the society column. "See? Says right here. Ceremony at St. Jude’s next Sunday, reception to follow at her mother's place."

You croaked, "God, that poor girl," a genuine spark of life returning to your face. "Bet you half my years earnings she’s gonna be miserable within a month. He's such an ass!"

But Bucky wasn't listening, not really anyway, he was too busy staring at your face — your red, tissue-chapped nose, bed messed hair, and those bright, indignant eyes that were finally focused on the present moment instead of the fever. So animated and alive.

A look of pure, unadulterated devotion crossed his face, and before he could think of the repercussions (as if he could care anyway), he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your heated forehead.

"There’s my girl," he murmured against your skin. "I knew a little drama would bring you back to me."

Bucky didn’t pull away immediately, letting his lips rest against your temple for a second longer, his breath warm and steady. The sharp, clean scent of the orange still lingered on his fingertips as he reached out to thumb a smudge of juice from the corner of your mouth.

"You’re a real terror when you’ve got a scoop, y'know that?" He teased, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating right through the pillow.

You let out a congested little hum, leaning into his touch despite yourself. "Someone’s got to keep track of the neighbourhood's morals, Buck. Since you’re too busy working and being all pretty."

"'Being all pretty', huh?" Grinning that lopsided, effortless smirk that made your heart do somersaults. He tossed the paper back to the edge of the mattress and stood up just long enough to shuck off his boots, then slide onto the mattress. Not wanting to chill you by getting under the covers, so he turned into a weighted blanket, slinking into your side and securing you into a warm embrace.

"Go on," he murmured, pulling your back to his chest. "Keep talkin', sweet girl. I got nowhere else I wanna be but right here."

As you spoke, rambling about Tommy's very evident track record and Bonnie's being too sweet for her own good, your voice cracked at every other sentence.

Bucky didn't interrupt once. Something in his chest pulled while he listened to your voice waver and crackle. Not with nervousness or sorrow, this was something warmer and more careful. Loving. He just reached down, found your cold hand under the layers of blankets, and laced your fingers together, squeezing.

By the time you reached the part about a scandal in the boys locker room back in high school, your words began to slow. Eyelids grew heavy, and the frantic energy finally dissipated to a soft, jaded exhaustion.

Stroking his thumb against your knuckles, Bucky waited until your breathing turned deep and even before he reached over to turn down the lamp. Letting the room fall into a cosy, amber twilight.

"Sleep tight, doll," he whispered into the crown of your head. "I'll buy you another orange tomorrow. Even if I gotta walk all the way to Manhattan for it."

He didn't move an inch. Gladly staying perfectly still and by your side, stroking your damp forehead, shushing and humming gentle made-up tunes into your hair, making sure that if you woke up in the dark, his voice would be the first thing you heard.

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“You're gonna fall,” he warned, arms crossed, but with a smile pulling at his lips.

You turned your head, a grin already blooming. “Then catch me.”

“Don’t joke,” he said, stepping closer. “You know I would.”

You turned fully, facing him, the wind pulling your dress tight around your legs. “That’s the problem, Bucky. You always would.“

He paused, eyes on you now—less amused, more... full. You felt it in your chest.

You walked toward him slowly, deliberately, barefoot and brave. “What would you do if I jumped off something one day and you weren’t fast enough?”

He caught your wrist when you reached him. “Then I’d follow you down.“

You stared at him. The laughter on your tongue dissolved.

That was always the thing with Bucky. He said stuff like that, and he meant it. Fully. Without fear. Like loving you was easy.

“You make it too easy to love you,” you whispered, eyes soft now.

“And you make it hard to survive,” he shot back, teasing, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Running around barefoot on rooftops like a little menace.”

“I just don’t want to waste time being careful,” you murmured, resting your forehead to his. “We’ve got now, don’t we?”

He kissed you like a promise.

Slow. Long. With one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other anchoring your hip. You sank into it, into him. Into the kind of kiss that made the city disappear.

When he pulled back, he said it—finally said it.

“I’m in love with you.”

You blinked.

You smiled.

And then, without missing a beat: “Took you long enough.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night – Bucky’s Apartment

The fan turned slowly overhead, humming quietly as the heat clung to the air, thick and lazy. You were stretched across Bucky’s bed, legs tangled in the sheets, one hand trailing down the slope of his chest while the other held a cigarette loosely between your fingers.

Bucky watched you like he always did: completely, unapologetically.

"You’re staring,” you murmured.

“You’re naked in my bed,” he said. “I’d be stupid not to.”

You grinned, putting the cigarette out in the tray on the nightstand before crawling over to straddle his hips. “Stupid, huh?”

He ran his hands up your thighs, gripping them like he was grounding himself. “The second I saw you in that bar a year ago, I knew I was in trouble.”

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Good. Trouble keeps you young.”

Your lips met—soft at first, sweet—but it didn’t stay that way.

Bucky's hands slid up your back, palms warm and sure, dragging you against him as your hips began to roll. His cock hardened beneath you, thick and hot where it pressed between your thighs. You moaned into his mouth, hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that made his grip on your ass tighten.

“You're gonna kill me,” he groaned, voice ragged.

“Not yet,” you whispered, reaching between you to line him up.

You sank down onto him with a gasp, your walls stretching around him, the burn sweet and perfect. Bucky’s hands flew to your hips, holding you steady as you took all of him, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked.

You didn’t move at first. Just leaned forward, forehead to his, feeling the way he throbbed inside you, the way his breath stuttered against your lips.

Then you rolled your hips—slow and deep—and his whole body tensed.

“You're so fuckin' tight,” he panted, bucking up into you instinctively. “Like you were made for me.“

You bit your lip, rocked again. “Maybe I was.”

And that was all it took.

He gripped your hips and fucked up into you, his rhythm desperate, rough, but never careless. You met him thrust for thrust, nails dragging down his chest, breath hot against his throat.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking the wall, bodies slick and needy. You were panting now, fingers tangled in his hair, moaning shamelessly as your orgasm built like fire curling in your belly.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky groaned, voice gone. “Come for me. Show me I’m the only one who gets to have you like this.”

Your body clenched—tight, hot, overwhelming—and then you were coming, crying out his name, hips jerking as he held you down and fucked you through it.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” Bucky’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the rubber, hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

You collapsed onto him, both of you sticky and breathless, hearts thudding in unison.

“I love you,” he whispered again, softer this time, like he knew what was coming.

You closed your eyes, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“Then don’t ever leave me.”

He didn’t answer.

He just held you tighter.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, September 1943

Three weeks before Bucky ships out

The letter sat on the kitchen table, opened, unfolded, and lined up too neatly for it to be an accident. You froze in the doorway, fingers still smudged with newspaper ink from the classifieds you hadn’t really been reading.

Bucky stood on the other side of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You weren’t gonna tell me?” he asked, voice low but razor-sharp.

You exhaled slowly. “I was. I was waiting for the right—”

“There’s no right time to tell me you’ve signed up to follow me into a war zone.”

“I didn’t sign up for you,” you said, stepping forward, calm but firm. “I signed up for the people who need help. And for the ones who don’t get to come home.”

He laughed—bitter and low. “Right. And that just happens to be the same front line I’m getting sent to?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because yes. Yes, it did happen to be the same region. Same Allied deployment. You’d pulled every string possible, leaned on every nurse you trained beside, begged to be assigned where you knew he was going.

“I’m not gonna sit at home and wonder every day if you’re still alive,” you said. “I won’t do it.”

“You’re not supposed to be there,” he snapped. “Do you know what it’s like out there? You think the enemy’s gonna care you’ve got a Red Cross on your arm? You think they won’t shoot through a nurse like anyone else?”

“I know the risks.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, slamming a hand on the table hard enough to rattle the cup beside your letter. “You’ve never seen a man bleed out on the ground with half his leg gone. You’ve never had shrapnel spray through a tent while you’re catching your breath.”

His voice cracked.

You stepped closer.

“This isn’t about you thinking I’m naïve,” you said quietly. “It’s about you being scared.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

And God, he was scared. Eyes red, jaw clenched like it hurt to speak.

“I am scared,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m terrified.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his forearm. “Then let me be where I can help. Let me do what I can. Don’t ask me to stay behind and feel helpless.”

He swallowed, shaking his head.

You stepped closer. “You’d do the same for me.”

“That’s not the point.*”

“It is,” you said. “It is, James. Because I don’t want to lose you and wonder if I could’ve saved someone else just like you.”

He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

You stood there, pressed to his chest, both of you silent.

You weren’t changing your mind.

And neither was he.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he needed to hold something.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.

You kissed him. Slow. Steady. Real.

“You won't.”

2 Years Later

Occupied France, 1944

A dusty bar just past midnight

The bar was a converted farmhouse—dusty, dimly lit, and barely holding itself together. Bottles clinked, laughter spilled like smoke, and music hummed from a battered radio in the corner. 

Somewhere in the background, Dugan was arm-wrestling two locals at once, while Morita laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. There were glasses clinking, boots scuffing the floor, and one of the Commandos yelling about needing more whiskey like they hadn’t just cleared out half the stock already.

And Bucky was holding you like he couldn’t believe it.

You were tucked into his lap in a shadowed booth near the back, your arms draped around his neck, one hand gently threading through his hair. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers pressed to the curve of your spine like he was scared you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

Outside, the war still existed. But not here.

Not in this small, golden sliver of now.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You know they’re watching.”

He smiled, eyes half-lidded and heavy with whiskey and relief. “Let ‘em. If I can’t kiss my girl after dropping a Hydra base, what the hell are we even fighting for?”

You laughed, low and quiet. It rumbled in his chest.

“I missed your laugh,” he said, voice rough. “It’s been weeks since we’ve had more than ten minutes where we weren’t being shot at or yelled at.”

You tightened your arms around him. “You keep surviving and I’ll keep laughing.”

He went still for a moment, just holding you, his nose brushing the side of your neck.

You leaned into his touch, fingertips tracing along the nape of his neck. “What are you thinking about?”

He paused.

Then he smiled—small, quiet, soft.

“I see it now.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “What?”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“The future,” he murmured. “Us. After all this. I didn’t used to let myself picture it. Thought it was bad luck or something. But tonight? I see it clear as day.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight.

You opened your mouth to answer, but he cut you off—his voice gentler now, steadier. Certain.

“When this is over, I’m gonna marry you.”

Your breath caught.

Not because it surprised you. Not because it was sudden.

But because he meant it.

His hand slid up your spine, warm and steady.

“I’m serious,” he whispered. “We’ll get a better place in Brooklyn. You’ll still complain about the noise. I’ll pretend I like fixing things. You’ll still be wild. And I'll still follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky…” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed you like it was a vow.

“When it’s done,” he said again. “You and me.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, smiling as you fought the sting in your eyes.

There, in the middle of a war. Blood on his knuckles. Dust on your shoes. You both knew the odds were shit. But still—he saw it. You.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“I’ll hold you to it, Barnes.”

“You better,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you again—slow and deep and full of everything he’d never said, everything he was too afraid to hope for.

You didn’t say anything either. 

Because you saw it too.

And it was beautiful.

And it would never happen.

────────────────────────

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945

The flaps of the medical tent opened with a violent rustle as Bucky stormed in, his arms wrapped tightly around your limp body.

“I need a medic!” he shouted, voice hoarse, desperate. “Somebody—she needs help, now!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, blood trailing from a gash at your temple. Your uniform was scorched along one side, and your skin—hot to the touch, glowing faintly blue—made his breath choke in his throat.

Steve was right behind him, bloodied and breathless from the mission, his face pale beneath the dirt and sweat. “Bucky—there—over there.”

Bucky stumbled toward the nearest cot, easing you down with shaking hands. “She’s not—she’s not waking up—why isn’t she waking up?!”

“Move,” a voice snapped. One of the medics pushed past him, and behind them, Howard Stark rushed in, eyes scanning the tent before landing on your still body.

“What happened?” the doctor asked quickly, already peeling back your uniform sleeves to check your vitals. “Where was she hit?”

“She—shit, she—she was trying to get to the evac point and that Hydra weapon—the blue thing, it exploded—she was right there, it hit her—dead on.” Bucky’s words were a mess, stumbling out one over the other as he paced, eyes wide and wild. “There was this light—this blast—and she just—she dropped.”

Howard’s head snapped toward him, face going white. “The Tesseract?”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “What?”

“That wasn’t just energy,” Howard said, approaching the cot fast. “That was Tesseract radiation. If she was that close to a direct hit—she should be—”

“Don’t say it,” Bucky growled, eyes blazing. “She’s not dead. She’s not.”

He dropped to his knees beside the cot, grabbing your hand, pressing it to his lips. “C’mon, doll. You’re tough. You always get up. You’re gonna get up now.”

The medic pulled out a flashlight, gently prying one of your eyes open. “Pupils responsive but sluggish. She’s breathing, but it’s shallow. Pulse is unstable.”

Howard moved in beside them, watching your vitals with a furrowed brow. “This doesn’t make sense. There’s no visible trauma except the cut. If she took a full dose of that energy—”

“Why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky’s voice cracked, and suddenly he was whispering. “She’s always so loud, y’know? Never sits still. Never—she wouldn’t just go quiet like this. She wouldn’t.”

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Buck. We’re gonna figure this out.”

Bucky shook his head, holding your hand tighter. “She promised me a future, Steve. She promised.”

And you weren’t waking up.

Not yet.

────────────────────────

Two Days Later

You hadn’t moved.

Not once.

Not even a twitch.

Bucky sat beside your cot, slouched in a metal folding chair, his fingers still wrapped around your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His uniform was wrinkled. His face unshaved. Eyes red and ringed with exhaustion, like sleep hadn’t dared touch him in forty-eight hours.

Outside, the camp buzzed with movement—boots, trucks, whispered plans. Another Hydra facility marked. Another opportunity to get ahead.

But inside the tent, it was silent. Except for the monitor’s slow, steady beep. The only sign you were still in there somewhere.

He watched your face like it might change. Like your eyelids might flutter. Like you’d sigh and mutter something sarcastic just to mess with him.

But nothing. Stillness.

Until the tent flap rustled, and Steve stepped inside.

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Steve waited a beat, then approached quietly. “Zola’s train. We’ve got confirmation. If we intercept it, we can get him—and maybe trace it back to the Tesseract.”

Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Buck…”

“I can’t leave her,” Bucky muttered, voice low, ragged. “She could wake up. She’s gonna be scared, disoriented. I have to be here.”

Steve crouched beside him, elbows resting on his knees.

“She’s strong,” he said gently. “She’ll hold on. She always does.”

Bucky shook his head slowly, like if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. “She followed me here, Steve. Through hell. And now she’s like this ‘cause she was near me. I can’t—I won’t walk away from her.”

Steve was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, soft and steady, “One last mission.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

“We get Zola. We find out what Hydra’s planning. What they hit her with. Maybe it'll help Howard figure out how to wake her.“

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll come back to her. You always do.”

The silence stretched. Bucky looked at your face, memorizing it all over again.

Then—reluctantly, slowly—he stood.

He leaned down, brushed his lips over your knuckles. “Don’t you dare wake up without me.”

And then he walked out.

Into the mission that would steal him away.

────────────────────────

London Outskirts — Allied Medical Facility, April 1945

There was a buzzing under your skin.

Not like electricity. Not pain, exactly. Just… noise. Dull and heavy, like someone had wrapped you in cotton and dropped you underwater.

You blinked, slow and uneven, as the world filtered back in pieces.

White ceiling. IV drip. The scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers.

You didn’t know where you were. Or when. Or how long it had been since anything had felt real.

Your throat was dry. A soft, broken sound rasped from your lips, not quite a word, not quite a cry.

Movement.

A figure stirred beside you, and your head turned weakly toward it. There she was—Peggy Carter—neat, composed, hair swept into a familiar roll, lips pressed in a tight, unreadable line.

You tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

Your tongue felt thick. Your thoughts slow. Your chest ached—not sharp, but deep, like it had been cracked open and stitched back wrong.

Your lips parted. It took effort to find your voice.

“…Peg?”

She looked up instantly, eyes wide with something too deep to name. Relief. Sorrow. Something between the two.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for your hand. Her grip was warm. Gentle. “You’re awake.”

You blinked again. Your eyelids felt like stone.

“Where’s… Bucky?”

Peggy hesitated. And you knew.

Not because of what she said.

Because of how long it took her to say it.

You blinked again, trying to force the fog out of your head. “Where is he?” you repeated, a little clearer. A little louder.

Peggy’s eyes were steady. Too steady.

“There was a mission,” she said gently. “A train in the Alps. HYDRA. Bucky was… he fell.”

You stared at her, the words not quite landing.

“He fell,” you repeated.

She nodded once, eyes glistening. “Off the side. Into the ravine. We searched for him. We tried—”

“No.” It was out before you meant to say it.

Peggy looked down.

You opened your mouth to keep talking, but your chest locked up. Something thick and painful wedged under your ribs. You tried again.

The buzzing returned. It roared now. Every breath hurt.

“No…” you said again, barely above a whisper.

Peggy reached for your hand.

You flinched.

“No—no, no,” you repeated, squeezing your eyes shut like it would erase her words. “You’re wrong. He—he said—we had plans. He promised—he—”

Peggy squeezed your hand, her voice like broken glass. “I’m so sorry.”

Your chest heaved. Tears slid down your cheeks in silence—slow, unstoppable.

You didn’t sob. Not yet. You just cried. Soft and disbelieving.

The kind of crying that felt like your bones were cracking open from the inside out. Like your body couldn’t process the grief fast enough.

He was gone.

Your entire world, gone.

You turned your face away from Peggy, trembling as the tears kept falling.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t speak.

You just wept quietly into the pillow, mourning a future that died a thousand miles away—on a mountainside, in the snow—where no one could bring it back.

Five Years Later – Brooklyn, 1950

You didn’t notice it at first.

You never noticed anything, really.

The world had kept moving without you, chugging forward like a train on a track you’d never boarded. You went through the motions—woke up, went to work, cooked meals you rarely ate. Laughed sometimes, though you never meant it. Time passed. The war ended. Cities rebuilt.

But inside?

You were still there. Still in that bed. Still in that room.

Still clinging to a lifeless hand that never gripped back.

Grief had folded itself into your bones like marrow. You carried it like your own shadow—quiet, constant, invisible to anyone who didn’t know where to look.

You’d heard the comments, of course.

At first, they’d sounded like kindness.

“You’ve held up so well.”

“Still got that youthful glow, huh?”

“God, I wish my skin looked like that.”

But you never paid them any mind. Compliments slid off you like water off wax paper. You never saw what they saw. When you looked in the mirror, all you ever saw were dead eyes. Eyes that stopped shining the day Bucky didn’t come back to you.

Until one day… you looked.

Really looked.

You were standing in front of the mirror, brushing your wet hair absently, staring at yourself like usual—not *at* yourself, just through—when something pulled you up short.

Your hand stilled.

You blinked.

And this time, you really saw it.

Your cheeks—still full. No hollows. No lines from laughter or frowning, even though you'd done plenty of the latter and none of the former.

Your skin—glassy. Smooth. Not youthful, not radiant. Just… untouched.

No crow’s feet. No crease between your brows where you’d furrowed them every morning for five years straight.

Your fingers tightened around the brush.

You leaned closer.

No greys in your hair. Not one. You combed through the strands slowly with your fingers, heart beginning to thrum like distant thunder.

Your hands—steady, soft. No sag to the skin. No dark spots. No thinning at the knuckles.

You didn’t look thirty. You didn’t even look twenty-five. You looked exactly the same. And in 1950, that wasn’t beautiful.

It was unnatural.

It hit you in the gut like ice.

You stepped back from the mirror, shaking your head like that might fix it. Like your reflection might catch up to the pain you’d earned.

But it didn’t.

Because you hadn’t aged a day.

And something was very, very wrong.

That's how you ended up in front of Howard Stark again.

Hair wind-tossed, coat clutched tight around your body, eyes hollow as you stood in the lobby of a new office in Washington D.C.—clean lines, too many acronyms, glass walls that looked out onto a world you didn’t recognize anymore.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” you said.

Howard blinked when he saw you. He hadn’t changed much—bags deeper under his eyes, tie looser than it used to be, but his mind still whirring like a machine. He didn’t ask questions. Just brought you inside.

That’s how you found out about S.H.I.E.L.D.

Some quiet initiative he and Peggy had started—first as a resistance concept, now evolving into something more. Protection. Prevention. Oversight.

And now? Medical diagnostics. They ran tests. Endless ones. Blood. DNA mapping. Tissue scans. Vital readings.

They cross-referenced data from other soldiers exposed to Hydra weapons, to radiation, to anything remotely alien. They even examined your service uniform—residues from the blast, particles trapped in the fabric’s weave.

And the answer came slowly. Then all at once.

“You’re not aging,” Howard said, voice flat with disbelief, eyes scanning the readouts. “Not at all.”

Peggy sat in the corner of the room, hands clasped, eyes dim.

Your heart thudded in your chest.

Howard looked at the scans again. “Your cellular regeneration rate is exponentially higher than the baseline. Mitochondrial aging markers are… nonexistent. The tissue sample we took yesterday? It’s already reversed degradation overnight.”

You stared at him like he was speaking a language you didn’t want to learn.

“What does that mean?” you whispered.

He hesitated. “It means your body is repairing itself faster than it can age. And at this rate… it likely won’t ever stop.”

Your breath hitched.

Peggy stood. “We think it was the Tesseract,” she said gently. “The radiation wasn’t like anything we’ve encountered. It was… beyond us. Beyond Earth. It changed you.”

“I don’t want this,” you said, voice small, breaking. “Howard—fix it.”

He looked at you.

And for the first time in your life, you saw fear in his eyes.

“We’re trying.”

You laughed—short, bitter. “Try harder. I don’t want to be some—some relic. Some myth people study as I live forever. I don’t even want to live right now.”

Peggy reached for you. You pulled away.

And then the days blurred. Months passed in white walls and test tubes. Howard kept trying. Peggy kept reassuring. You kept waking up to the same face in the mirror, the same unwrinkled skin, the same 24-year-old trapped in a body that wouldn’t let go.

And before you knew it… it was 1960.

You were supposed to be forty. But the woman in the mirror? Still looked like the girl who had just lost everything.

New York, 1970

Stark Residence – Late Autumn

“He’s beautiful,” you said softly.

The baby blinked up at you, barely able to focus, cheeks round and pink, one tiny fist curled in your sweater. His eyelids fluttered, mouth opening in a sleepy pout.

“Can’t believe you named a baby Anthony, Howard,” you added dryly, glancing up at Howard. “What is he—fifty already?”

Maria laughed from her seat on the couch. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I said.”

Howard rolled his eyes. “It’s a strong name. Classic.”

“It’s a grandfather’s name,” you teased, rocking gently as the baby blinked again. “He’s gonna come out of the bassinet asking about tax reform.”

Maria smiled, rubbing her side gently. “How was Italy?”

You exhaled through a faint smile. “Beautiful. Quiet. Just the break I needed.”

Maria nodded knowingly. You didn’t have to say more. Everyone needed to escape sometimes. You, more than most.

“Though,” you added, “I did have some issues at the airport. Apparently, people get suspicious when your passport says you were born in 1920.”

Howard gave you a look from across the room, but you ignored him.

“And you?” you asked Maria, gently bouncing the baby as he started to fidget. “How are you doing? Six months in and you’re still glowing.”

Maria smiled, eyes warm. “Recovering. Slowly. He’s worth it, though.”

You nodded and glanced down at little Anthony. He yawned, the movement so pure and small it made your chest ache.

Then Howard spoke.

“You missed your last screening.”

The air shifted. The bounce of the baby in your arms slowed.

“It’s just one test,” you said without looking up. “None of them work anyway.”

Howard straightened from his chair. “That’s not the point. Science is evolving every day—we’re closer now than we were six months ago. You can’t just keep skipping—”

“You’ve been saying that to me for the last twenty-five years, Howard.”

Silence.

The baby cooed, soft and unaware of the sharpness that had entered the room.

Maria cleared her throat gently, trying to soften it again. “He’s right, you know. One day something will work.”

You rocked Anthony again, gaze drifting down to his little hand curling in your shirt.

Maria’s voice was softer now. “You ever think about doing this for yourself? Finding someone? Starting a family?”

You stared at the baby. Long enough that the quiet turned into something heavy.

Then you whispered, “So I can outlive them, too?”

No one spoke. Maria reached for her tea. Howard looked away.

Anthony blinked up at you, peaceful and unaware of the fact that your heart had just folded in half again—quietly, invisibly, like it had learned to over the decades.

Washington, D.C. – 2011

S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, The Triskelion

Level 4 Medical Wing

The medical wing smelled like antiseptic and recycled air—sterile, humming, too bright. You’d memorized every corner of it. Every buzzing fluorescent tube. Every faint scratch on the polished floor from wheeled machines that came and went like clockwork.

You sat on the exam table, sleeve rolled up, arm extended. Your gaze was blank, unfocused, fixed on a point past the wall while the needle pierced your vein.

The young man adjusting the monitor beside you was rambling. Scottish. Awkward. Unapologetically enthusiastic.

“…so basically, your cellular repair rate’s increased by point-zero-four percent in the last decade, which—honestly? Shouldn’t even be possible. We’ve all sort of—well—not to be weird—but we’ve sort of been passing your case files around the medical research division like they’re…” He cleared his throat. “Like they’re legend.”

You blinked slowly.

He winced at himself. “Right. Sorry. That was probably weird to say out loud.”

You said nothing.

He smiled awkwardly and gently removed the IV. “Honestly, I can’t believe they’ve got me doing your panel this cycle. It’s usually Doctor Winslow, or sometimes Simmons when she’s not in the field—uh, that’s my colleague, she’s brilliant—but I drew the assignment this time and I—well, you’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than the agency has even existed, which is wild, right?”

You tilted your head slightly, like you were watching a small animal knock its head against a glass door.

He fumbled with a tablet, clearly trying to keep the energy going. “Anyway, it’s fascinating. You’re…you’re basically a walking contradiction. Functionally immortal, ageless, regenerative to a degree we can’t replicate even with alien tech—God, I hope that wasn’t offensive, calling you that—immortal, I mean.”

You raised one brow.

He paled slightly. “Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

You didn’t smile. But you also didn’t tell him to shut up, so he took it as a kind of social win.

When he finally finished up with the last scan, he gave you a sheepish glance.

“Um… would it be weird to ask for a photo?”

You slowly turned your head, looking at him fully for the first time.

The silence that followed was so sharp, it could’ve been used to sterilize the room.

His face blanched. “Right. Yes. Terrible idea. That was—that was inappropriate. Of course. Never mind. I’m just gonna go ahead and, uh—upload these. You’re done for today! Thanks!”

You slid off the table wordlessly, tugging your sleeve back down.

And as you walked out, you heard him whisper to himself, “Cool. No, totally cool. Great job, Fitz. Legendary immortal war nurse just stared into your soul.”

The door hissed shut behind you, and you exhaled—long, steady, trying to shake off the sterile weight of fluorescent lights and Fitz’s over-enthusiastic commentary still clinging to your thoughts like static.

You turned down the hall—

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall just outside the medical wing like he had all the time in the world. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. That signature half-smile that never reached his eyes until you made it.

Agent Cole Turner.

“You missed your window,” you said, not even slowing your pace. “I escaped the lab untouched.”

He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside you effortlessly.

“They always let you go. I just come here for the view.”

You raised a brow. “You’re shameless.”

“And yet you don’t seem to mind,” he said, glancing sideways at you, voice low, rich, smooth enough to run a finger through. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you time your exit to run into me.”

“I could have you reassigned.”

“I’d come back.”

You cast him a glance—flat, unimpressed, too good at hiding the flutter under your ribs.

But he saw it.

He always saw it.

Turner let the silence hang a second too long. Then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“You look different today.”

You stiffened slightly. “Do I?”

“It’s your eyes,” he said, quieter now. “They’re a little softer. Sadder.”

You didn’t answer. He stopped walking. You took two more steps before you realized and turned slowly back to him.

“Something happen?”

“It’s just been a day,” you said.

He studied you for a long beat, something sharper edging into his expression. “You’re not like the rest of them.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I say it like it’s true.” He took a step closer. “You keep everyone at arm’s length like it’s a strategy. But you still come back. Still take the tests. Still give just enough. Why?”

You blinked slowly. “Maybe I’m a creature of habit.”

“You’re not a creature of anything. You’re a woman who’s been running from something so long, she doesn’t know what it feels like to stay.”

That hit a little too close. You looked away.

Turner’s voice dropped again, lower, more deliberate. “I could take you out. Just coffee. Just air.”

You stared at him.

“You don’t even know what today is,” you said softly.

He tilted his head. “Then tell me.”

You didn’t. Because it was your birthday. You were now ninety-one.

And you still looked like you were twenty-four, standing in front of a man you might’ve let yourself love in a different life.

You gave a short breath of a smile instead. “You’re really bad at backing off.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

You turned away before he could see you almost smile again.

He fell into step beside you once more, casually.

“Tell me one thing, and I’ll go.”

You paused. “What?”

“Do you look at me like that on purpose?”

You didn’t look at him this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you did. And so did he.

He let out a soft breath, low and amused. “Then I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t watch him walk away. But you wanted to. More than you’d admit.

But you continued, stepping out into the cool D.C. air, the late afternoon light washing over the concrete courtyard in golden warmth.

And for the first time that day—a real smile touched your lips.

Because there he was.

Leaning against a sleek black Audi like it was a runway, sunglasses perched on his nose, suit pressed like he hadn’t ever known a wrinkle in his life.

Tony Stark.

He pushed off the car when he saw you, arms opening like he was about to go full dramatic hug.

You crossed your arms. “What are you doing here?”

He removed his sunglasses with a flourish. “What, you think I’d miss my godmother’s birthday? The woman who once grounded me for hot-wiring my own father’s car?”

“You were eleven,” you said.

“I was innovating,” he countered, pointing a finger. “Visionary. Ahead of my time.”

“You were stealing a ride to go get candy.”

Tony grinned. “And you were the only one who had the guts to chase me down in heels and throw me into a bush.”

You shrugged. “And I’d do it again.”

“I know. That’s why I love you.” He opened the passenger side door. “Get in, old lady. I’m taking you out.”

You raised a brow. “Where?”

“That crappy restaurant in Brooklyn you always go on about,” he said, circling around to his side. “You know the one. Peeling wallpaper. Weird lasagna. Waiter with a God complex.”

“Vincent’s,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You hate that place.”

He started the car. “I do. But you don’t. And I’m feeling particularly generous today.”

You slid in beside him, smirking. “Did Pepper put you up to this?”

He turned to you with mock offense. “Wow. You think I can’t do a nice thing out of my own volition?”

“You called me an ‘ancient vampire’ last year when I wouldn’t let you have champagne before noon.”

“And I was right,” he said. “But you’re my ancient vampire. Which means I’m buying you overpriced garlic bread and pretending I don’t gag at marinara.”

You laughed, for real this time, the sound warm and effortless.

He glanced at you sideways, smirk softening. “You deserve something good today.”

You looked out the window for a second. “Thanks, Tony.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just pulled onto the road and turned the radio down.

Then, casually: “You know, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and punch anyone who ever made you feel alone on your birthday.”

You looked at him again—really looked.

And your chest ached in the best way.

“Careful,” you said. “If you get any more sentimental, I might think you’re going soft.”

He smirked. “I’m Tony Stark. I can be whatever I want.”

You smiled again. “Then today? Be my annoying godson who buys me garlic bread.”

“Done.”

────────────────────────

The cabin of Tony’s jet was warm and plush, stocked with things you’d never dream of asking for but he always insisted on having. The faint hum of altitude mixed with his voice as he made some dramatic comment about how you were a “terrible birthday date” for refusing to pick a champagne.

You rolled your eyes, lounging with a drink in hand, just starting to let yourself relax.

And then your phone rang.

You frowned.

Tony looked up too. “You actually have your ringer on? What are you, eighty?”

“Actually I'm ninety-one,” you murmured, glancing at the screen.

Unknown.

You picked up.

“…Hello?”

“Don’t speak,” came Fury’s voice, sharp and direct. “Just listen. We’ve got a situation. You need to come to our Manhattan facility. Immediately.”

You straightened in your seat. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“We recovered something. Someone.”

You were already on edge. “Fury—”

“It’s Rogers,” he said flatly. “Captain America. We found his body in the Arctic. He’s… he’s awake.”

Silence.

It ripped through you like a bullet.

“What?”

“We thawed him two days ago. He’s stable. Fully conscious. Still adjusting.”

Your breath left your lungs like a punch. “You what? And you’re just telling me now? I should’ve been told the moment you found him—how long have you known?!”

There was a beat of static. Then the line went dead. You pulled the phone back, stared at the screen: Call ended.

“Motherf—” You cut yourself off, nearly launching the device across the cabin.

Tony raised both brows, slowly closing his tablet. “Well. That sounded like a vibe killer.”

You were already standing, heart pounding, hands shaking. “I—I need to raincheck. I’m sorry.”

He blinked. “Raincheck? On your birthday dinner?”

You looked at him, pained. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”

He studied you for a second, expression unreadable.

Then: “Fine. But if this turns out to be you ghosting me to avoid carbs, I will send you gluten-laced muffins in retaliation.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, grateful and soft.

“Next time,” you promised.

He nodded, but as you rushed toward the cabin door, he called after you.

“Tell the Captain he owes me a drink. I’ve got questions about the hair.”

You didn’t answer.

You were already gone.

────────────────────────

S.H.I.E.L.D. Manhattan Facility – Sub-Level 3

The elevator opened with a cold metallic hiss, and there he was—Nick Fury, standing at the threshold with his arms folded, eye already tracking your every movement like he expected a detonation.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t slow down.

You stormed past him with the force of a tidal wave.

“You should’ve told me immediately,” you snapped, heels echoing down the corridor as he turned to follow you.

He didn’t flinch. “You weren’t cleared.”

You stopped.

Pivoted sharply.

Face to face with the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., your expression carved from stone.

“Bullshit.”

Fury’s jaw flexed. “Might I remind you that you are not an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nevertheless having the clearance—”

“He is Captain goddamn America,” you bit out, voice low and lethal. “And you thought it wasn’t logical to contact the only living person he knows? The one who knew him before the shield, before the serum, before the goddamn war?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped closer, finger pointed square at his chest.

“Don’t play smart with me, boy.”

That stopped him. For a second, the Director of the world’s most covert agency looked like he’d been slapped.

“I was born before your parents even met,” you said coldly. “I was holding soldiers hand while they bled out on a field you’ve only ever read about. I sat in a room and cried over Steve Rogers before your daddy learned how to spell his own name.”

Your voice shook—not with weakness, but with fury barely leashed. “I watched everyone I ever loved disappear. And now he’s back, and you didn’t tell me.”

Fury’s gaze dropped, just for a moment.

“You think S.H.I.E.L.D. built me?” you hissed. “I’ve outlived organizations. I’ve outlived time. You don’t keep something like this from me.”

There was a beat of silence. The hallway was cold and empty, save for your words hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Fury spoke, quieter.

“…He’s just through here.”

You stared at the door.

Your hand trembled, just slightly. The door slid open with a soft hiss.

The room beyond was quiet, dimly lit. Stark white walls. No windows. Just the low hum of surveillance tech and a single man sitting at the edge of a hospital-style cot.

Steve Rogers.

His elbows rested on his knees, broad shoulders hunched, head in his hands like the weight of the century he missed was finally bearing down.

You stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind you with a final click.

He didn’t hear it. Not at first. But then—his head lifted. His eyes—tired, shell-shocked, too blue—locked on yours.

And for a moment… everything stilled.

He stared at you like you were a ghost. Like you might disappear if he blinked too hard.

“…No,” he whispered, breath catching in his chest. “No… that can’t be…”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at him, eyes burning. “It’s me, Steve.”

He was on his feet in seconds—crossing the room in three long, desperate strides, his hand reaching before he could stop himself, like he needed to touch you to believe you were real.

You let him.

He stopped inches away, eyes wide, searching every line of your face.

You whispered, “I’m real.”

He didn’t speak.

He just pulled you into his arms—tight, fierce, trembling—and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding for seventy years.

His voice cracked at your ear.

“…How?”

You closed your eyes, gripping the back of his shirt. “It’s a long story. One you won’t believe.”

He held you like the world had finally stopped spinning.

And maybe, for one perfect second, it had.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, 2012

The streets of Manhattan were still choked with debris, flickering emergency lights, and the aftermath of an invasion no one expected. But you didn’t stop moving—not through the airport, not through the eerily quiet flight, not through the ash and twisted metal littering the city.

Because you saw it.

The footage.

Steve.

Tony.

A hole in the sky. And now—you were here.

You stepped through the busted entryway of Stark Tower, heart in your throat, shoes crunching glass. Security didn’t stop you. They knew who you were.

You pushed through the ruined lobby, into the elevator—thankfully still functioning—and rode it in dead silence, hands clenched.

The doors opened onto chaos.

And you saw them.

Tony, pacing near a half-functional console, bruised and blood-streaked but upright. Romanoff sitting on the edge of a workbench, stitches on her temple. Barton standing guard at the window. And—

“Steve—”

He turned at the sound of your voice.

You crossed the room before you could stop yourself, arms flying around him, holding tight.

“Are you okay?” you demanded, breathless, checking him over with your hands, ignoring the shield slung across his back. “What the hell happened—I saw you on the news, I thought—”

“I’m okay,” he murmured, voice tired but warm. “I’m here.”

“Well, great,” Tony cut in dryly, limping slightly toward you. “Glad to see Cap gets all the hugs. Never mind me, the guy who literally flew a nuke into space and crash-landed back to Earth like a comet.”

You turned, expression flat. Then without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him too, tight, one hand on the back of his head.

He blinked. “Okay. Wow. That worked better than expected.”

You pulled back. “Never do that again.”

“No promises,” he said, voice softer now. “But… since you’re here—” he gestured vaguely to the rubble, “—and we’re alive, I might’ve found something. A possible fix.”

You frowned. “Fix for what?”

Before he could answer, a voice echoed behind you like rolling thunder.

“Milady.”

You turned—and stared.

There, standing tall among the wreckage, was a man out of myth.

Blonde hair, broad shoulders, armor gleaming despite the mess. A cape. And a hammer—impossibly heavy-looking, dangling from his fingers like it was nothing.

Your eyes widened.

He stepped forward with regal ease. “I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, and wielder of Mjölnir.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

He bowed his head slightly. “The Captain of America and the Man of Iron have spoken of you.”

Steve looked faintly exasperated; Tony was smirking.

“They told me of your… predicament,” Thor continued, “and of the relic that caused it. The Tesseract and it's power is not unknown to me. It is one of the Infinity Stones—powerful beyond your world’s understanding.”

You glanced between them, mind catching up. “You know what it is?”

Thor nodded. “And I believe I can help.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, all you could see was possibility.

You turned slowly toward Steve, toward Tony.

Steve gave a small, hopeful nod. “I think he can really help you.”

And for the first time in a very, very long time…you felt it.

Hope.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn – Abandoned Warehouse, October 2014

The space was cold. Cracked walls. Rotting beams. Bare concrete that echoed every breath like it was trying to remind him he was still alive.

He sat in the corner of the second floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up, metal fingers clenched around the edge of a weather-worn blanket someone had left behind. He hadn't turned the lights on. He couldn't. He didn’t want to see what kind of ghost looked back at him.

A memory flickered.

A pair of blue eyes—his? Someone else's?

Gone.

He pressed his fists to his forehead, hard. Like pressure might force the truth out.

He knew the facts.

Names from placards and plaques. Faces on digital screens in museum halls. Steve Rogers: Hero. Captain. Friend.

And a photograph—grainy, faded.

Her.

You.

A woman in a dark dress. Laughing. Elbow hooked in Bucky Barnes’s. Smiling like you didn’t know war was waiting.

But he didn’t remember your name.

Not really.

Only—flashes.

A smoky bar. Laughter like wind chimes. A voice sharp with wit, low with want. The way you’d leaned in, chin tipped up, mouth just barely grazing his.

Then—touch. A warm thigh under his palm. Your fingers threaded through his hair. Skin on skin in a dark apartment that smelled like old books and lavender. His hand gripping your hip, your breath catching in his ear, your laugh—

“You make it too easy to love you.”

That one he remembered.

He choked on a breath. Pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

His mind was full of holes, Hydra-shaped voids that swallowed everything whole. But you were like a splinter stuck beneath his ribs—sharp, aching, impossible to dig out.

And it hurt. It hurt.

Not just the not-knowing. The not-having. But the knowing enough to miss it. To miss you.

He doubled over, forehead to his knees, metal fingers curling into the floor, dragging small scars into the concrete.

He hadn’t cried. Not in forever. But now his chest was cracking open, silent and violent and shaking.

Because the woman in the flashes—

the one who touched him like he wasn’t a weapon—

the one who kissed him like tomorrow was a joke—

She was real.

The air had gone still.

No traffic. No wind. Just the buzz of old wiring somewhere in the walls and the sound of his own breathing—too fast, too shallow, like even that was a struggle.

He opened his notebook again—small, weather-stained, bent at the corners. A pen rested inside it, lid chewed to hell. His hand trembled as he flipped past scribbled museum facts, fragmented Russian, coordinates scratched in blind frustration.

Then—on the last page. A single line.

"Beautiful eyes, sharp mouth. Loud and free."

He stared at it. He didn’t remember writing it. But he knew it was about you.

You, who lived in the gaps between dreams and triggers. You, who surfaced in the quiet moments before the nightmares started. You, who touched him like he wasn’t broken, even though maybe he always had been.

The worst part? He couldn’t remember your name. Not your voice. Not your laugh in full.

Just impressions—like the warmth a flame leaves after it’s gone out.

A breathless laugh behind a rooftop kiss. A low murmur against his throat—“Don’t ever leave me.” A flash of skin in moonlight, your leg draped over his hip. And something deeper. Something dear.

The way you’d looked at him once—like he was worth everything. That memory stabbed.

Because no one looked at him like that anymore. Not even himself.

His metal hand clenched around the pen until it creaked, until it cracked, until the ink bled into his palm and he barely noticed.

He stood, pacing, fast and desperate. He needed something. A lead. A name. A reason.

He tore through the backpack he kept hidden under the floorboards—scavenged burner phones, papers, an old StarkPad he barely knew how to use.

He cracked it open with shaking hands.

Typed:

Brooklyn, 1940s. Woman. Bucky Barnes.

Nothing. Too vague.

Bucky Barnes. War nurse. Brooklyn, 1940s. WW2.

Still nothing useful.

He slammed the pad down hard enough to fracture the case.

“Please…” he whispered to no one. “Please…”

He didn’t know who he was begging.

Not Steve. Not God. Just you.

Because he could live without memories. But not without you.

The cracked StarkPad balanced on his knee, the screen flickering from overuse. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then moved faster—typing, deleting, retyping again over and over.

And then—

There it was.

A headline.

“The Mysterious Case of The Girl Stuck in Time: Survivor of World War II. Known for her service as a front-line nurse alongside Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Has not aged since 1945.“

His breath caught.

He clicked the article with trembling fingers, the screen loading slow like it knew it held something sacred.

There you were.

A black-and-white photo from the war, standing in uniform beside Steve and him, smiling wide. The same eyes.

Then a more recent image—different setting. S.H.I.E.L.D. file photo, maybe. Hair pulled back, skin impossibly smooth. Too smooth. Like glass. Like time had decided it didn’t apply to you.

You looked the same.

But also—not.

The curve of your lips was tight, your eyes dull. Your beauty was preserved, but your light had dulled. In the photo, you looked like someone still breathing only because the alternative was worse.

His fingers brushed the screen like it might bring you closer.

He didn't understand.

What the hell did they do to you?

He dug deeper. Articles. Theories. Old interviews. They all called you a miracle. A myth. A phenomenon.

They didn’t know what he did.

That you were real.

Warm. Loud. Wild.

The girl who kissed him like the world was ending.

The woman who swore she’d never let the war steal you both.

Now the war had ended.

And you were still fighting.

He kept scrolling. More photos. All of them wrong.

That wasn’t how you’d looked when you whispered “You’re mine” against his mouth.

But you were alive.

His heart pounded. For the first time since the collapse of the helicarriers—for the first time since your name came back to him—he felt something close to clarity.

He had to find you.

No matter how long it took. No matter who you’d become. Because somewhere in there—

you were still his.

────────────────────────

San Francisco – November, 2014

Outer Richmond District, 4:37 p.m.

The sky hung low, swollen with clouds, heavy with the kind of gray that made the entire street look washed in cold ash. Rain fell in a soft, steady rhythm—thousands of tiny drops kissing pavement, pooling along curbs, hissing off car roofs.

Bucky stood across the street, half-sheltered beneath the overhang of a florist’s shop. A faded baseball cap pulled low over his brow, collar turned up high. The leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers flexed in slow, anxious rhythm.

He’d been here for hours.

Watched people pass. Listened to the city breathe in traffic hums and bicycle bells.

Waiting.

Waiting to see you.

He knew your life now—what pieces the world had.

The woman they called “The Girl Stuck in Time.”

He’d read everything. Every grainy tabloid photo, every polished New York Times spread from the 60s. He found the interview you gave in ’71—your voice quiet, controlled, your smile tight as you said you were just “trying to do something good with the time I’ve been given.”

Philanthropy. Global aid. A foundation in your name. Book deals you barely promoted. Speeches you didn’t like giving. Smiling for photos you didn’t believe in.

A life that looked full. Beautiful.

But behind your eyes? Still the same sadness from the museum photos.

Still you.

And now you lived here. In San Francisco. Far from Brooklyn. Far from the ghosts.

He didn’t blame you.

He didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t even know what he wanted.

Just a glimpse.

Just you.

You stepped out of the café first—coat belted tight, hair swept back from your face, a slight flush to your cheeks from the warmth you’d just left behind. Your umbrella tilted slightly as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, brow furrowed at something on your phone.

And then you looked up.

It wasn’t even at him—just up, vaguely, across the street.

But it didn’t matter.

Because your face.

Bucky’s lungs forgot how to work.

You looked exactly like the pictures.

Exactly like the memories—at least, the fractured ones that still burned inside him.

But it was more than that.

It was you.

Alive. Breathing. Whole.

The girl from his dreams. The girl who haunted the spaces between gunfire and screaming. The girl whose name he whispered in sleep like a prayer, whose laugh he remembered better than his own.

You weren’t just real. You were here. And for one moment, just one impossible second—

You smiled.

Soft. Small.

Like the rain didn’t matter. Like maybe you had seen him. And in that moment, Bucky thought—maybe.

Maybe this was it. Maybe the universe had given him a mercy. Maybe you had been waiting for him too. Maybe this was the end of the darkness. Maybe he could finally come home.

His feet moved before he knew it. One step into the street. Then another.

Then—

Another figure stepped into view. A man. Umbrella in one hand, bouquet in the other.

Bucky stopped. Mid-step.

The man reached you. And you lit up. Brighter than you had been in those pictures he saw. Brighter than any memory he had left of you.

You laughed, pressed your hand to your mouth, and said something Bucky couldn’t hear, but he didn’t need to. The look on your face said everything.

This wasn’t polite. Wasn’t passing. This was love.

The way you touched his arm. The way he brushed a thumb across your jaw, held your umbrella steady as you tilted your head to receive it.

The flowers. Hydrangeas, your favorite. The familiar rhythm of your bodies as you walked together. The comfort of your closeness.

It was intimate. It was effortless. It was everything Bucky had lost—and you had found.

His chest cracked. Not in a dramatic way. Not loud.

Just quietly. Completely.

He stumbled back onto the curb like he’d been punched, mouth open, breath stolen. His hands curled into fists—both of them—like he could grip the pain and hold it somewhere that wasn’t his ribs.

You were smiling like you were safe.

You were holding someone else like he was home.

The ache bloomed slow.

Hot. Cold. Heavy.

He backed into the shadow of the building, eyes still locked on you.

He had imagined this moment so many times.

But in all of them, you were alone. Waiting. Needing him.

Not…

Not like this.

Not happy. Not healed. Not loved by someone else.

He didn’t feel the rain pick up again. Didn’t feel the damp against his jacket, the wind at his back. All he felt was the slow collapse of something deep in his chest.

A collapse that didn’t come with a crash.

Just… silence.

Stillness.

Because he was too late.

The woman in his dreams—the girl from rooftops, from crumpled sheets, from smoky bars and whispered promises—she had survived.

She had moved on.

And he had no right to pull her back.

Because that smile—

That was enough. That was all he came for.

Once more to see you.

────────────────────────

San Francisco, January 2015

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know how to breathe.

Steve had said the words so quietly, like saying them too loud might break something sacred.

“He’s alive.”

And your whole world folded in on itself. Again.

You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Waiting for it to make sense.

It didn’t.

Not right away.

Your hands were still in your lap. Fingers laced together, knuckles bone-white. You hadn’t moved since he said it—like if you stayed perfectly still, the gravity wouldn’t shift.

But it already had.

“He went into hiding after D.C.,” Steve had said, voice tight. “Tried to disappear again. But eventually… he came to me.”

You hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t. The room felt too full. Too loud.

“And the only thing I could think to do…” He’d run a hand through his hair. “He needs something to hold on to. Someone. He barely remembers me. Only fragments. Just what Hydra left behind, and what he read in a museum.”

A sharp breath caught in your throat. Of course. That’s what he’d been reduced to. A legend on a plaque. A soldier behind glass.

And now—he was breathing. Somewhere in the same country. And he didn’t even remember Steve.

But he remembered you.

That’s why Steve was here. Because you were the only thread Bucky still clung to in the tangled web of his mind.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” Steve said finally, quieter now. “But… if there’s anything that can help him—it’s you.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed again. Nothing came out.

Because you had loved him. Loved him with every second you were sure you’d never get back.

And now? Now he was here.

And it felt like your heart had just started again. But you didn’t know if it was beating for him.

You didn’t know what to feel—except everything, all at once.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, February, 2015

The jet landed in silence. No welcoming fanfare. No agents or escorts. Just the hum of engines winding down and the weight of Steve Rogers standing beside you like the ghost of your former life made flesh.

He hadn’t said much during the flight. He didn’t need to. The silence between you spoke loud enough.

And now, as you stepped into the elevator, every floor closer felt like pressure against your lungs. The kind that makes it hard to breathe.

You hadn’t seen Bucky Barnes in seventy years. And he wasn’t the same man.

Steve had told you as much. That the boy who used to kiss your neck in the back of his tenement hallway now had metal where his arm used to be. That he rarely spoke unless spoken to. That he was healing—but painfully slow.

You nodded. Told Steve you understood. But you didn’t. Not until the elevator doors opened. Not until you saw him.

He was in the corner of the room—half-shadowed, quiet, like he was trying to make himself smaller than a man his size could be.

And God, he was bigger.

The serum had carved him into something unrecognizable and so achingly familiar. Broad shoulders, thick arms, his back rising and falling in slow, cautious breaths.

But it was the hair that struck you.

Longer now, brushing his jaw. Unkempt but soft. And tucked behind it—those eyes.

Still that same steel-blue.

Still yours.

For a second, you didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the metal arm—exposed, gleaming in the light. Every line of it sculpted, silent, awful. That was new. That wasn’t the man you remembered. That arm had done things your Bucky never would have.

But when he turned—

When he really looked at you—

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your throat like a sob you hadn’t meant to let out. And still… you walked forward. One slow step at a time. Trying to keep your spine straight. Your voice level.

“Do you… do you know who I am?” you asked.

You hated how your voice trembled.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Like his body knew before his mind did. Like his heart was dragging up something his brain couldn’t catch yet.

Then—finally—he spoke. Your name. Whispered. Barely there.

But yours.

It hit you like a knife to the sternum.

His lips parted like he wanted to say more—but the words came slow, fractured, unsteady.

“I… I met you in a bar,” he murmured, voice raw from disuse. “June ’41. Summer night. You were with… friends. Your hair was down. Laughing.”

“And you…” he huffed, something like a memory making his mouth twitch. “You told me not to buy you a drink because you didn’t like whiskey. Said I could impress you by dancing instead.”

Your eyes burned.

“You danced with me. That night. All night.”

A slow nod.

“And the next,” he mumbled. “And every night I could steal before they shipped us out.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and felt everything crash forward. All the time, all the silence, all the grief.

Because it was him. Changed. But him.

That need—the one you thought had died with the war—it flooded you all over again. Your skin remembered his touch. Your mouth remembered the shape of his name in a moan. Your heart remembered everything.

It was still there. Alive and loud and aching. But so was something else.

Because you loved someone else now. A different man. A good man. One who had held you when the world forgot you. One who kissed your cheek when your nightmares made you shake. One who was real.

And now your whole world was breaking open.

All over again.

A Year Later

The Avengers Compound – Sublevel Quarters

Morning, June 2016

The world was quiet. Too quiet for a day like this.

Bucky sat in the half-dark of his room, blinds pulled but not shut. Sunlight bled through in thin, uneven strips, painting his floor in quiet gold. The air was warm—June warmth—but he hadn’t changed out of last night’s clothes. Just a black shirt. Worn jeans. Bare feet.

The metal arm caught the sunlight. And he hated how quiet the room was. How quiet he was.

The voices were gone now. The static. The screaming commands. The weight of Hydra’s grip wasn’t around his throat anymore—but something else had replaced it.

Emptiness.

Like he’d fought his way out of hell and found nothing waiting for him on the other side.

His reflection in windows didn’t scare him now.

But it didn’t look like him, either. He didn’t know what he looked like anymore.

There was a knock. Soft. Then the door opened slowly.

Steve stepped in, already in a charcoal suit, tie neat. He looked uncomfortable—like the fabric didn’t sit right on his soldier’s frame. But his expression was soft. Tired. Familiar.

“We’re headin’ out,” Steve said, voice low. “Last call if you wanna come.”

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Just kept twisting the chain of his dog tags—cool, rhythmic, constant.

He already knew what today was.

Your wedding day.

And somehow, it felt like his funeral.

Today, you’d be someone else’s wife.

You’d wear white.

You’d say I do.

And Bucky would watch the sunset knowing he wasn’t the man you wanted forever with anymore.

“I’m not coming,” Bucky murmured, finally.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He stepped in, let the door close behind him.

“You could,” he said. “Nobody would mind.”

“I would.”

Silence.

Steve sighed. “You’re not… excluded, Buck.”

Bucky let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been a choke.

“I know.”

His fingers stopped moving.

“I just don’t think I can watch it happen,” he whispered.

Steve looked at him for a long time. “You love her.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“I’m glad she’s happy,” Bucky said eventually. “I mean it.”

Steve nodded, quiet.

“But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

The room fell still again.

Steve walked over, rested a hand briefly on Bucky’s shouler, “It’s okay, Buck.”

He hated how gentle his voice was. Hated that he needed it.

“You did good, letting her go.”

Bucky didn’t look at him just clenched his fist over the tags.

He didn't say anything else. He couldn't.

And then Steve turned to leave. Gave him one last look over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell her you said congratulations.”

The door clicked shut behind him. And Bucky just sat there. Still. Breathing like it hurt. The silence swelled again. And then—

Something snapped.

He stood. Abruptly. Too fast. The chair scraped.

His breath caught. He stared at the door. His chest was tight. His heart too loud.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. Or do.

But he had to see you.

Just once.

One more time.

Before he let you go completely.

────────────────────────

The Plaza, Private Bridal Suite – New York, Late Morning, June 2016

The room was silent.

Soft light filtered in through lace-curtained windows, dust floating like quiet confetti in the air. The kind of stillness meant to calm. The kind of stillness you’d prayed for.

You stood in front of the mirror, veil draped over the back of a nearby chair. The dress fit perfectly. Your hair was set, every pin tucked just so. Everything was exactly how you had planned it.

And still…

Your fingers trembled as they traced the edge of your neckline.

Your eyes studied your reflection like it was a stranger.

This was supposed to be the beginning. The start of your real life.

You’d earned this. You’d survived. In 2012, the doctors confirmed it—after Thor's help, your cells had finally stabilized. The tesseract’s grip had faded. You were free.

You were aging. Like everyone else. Like you were supposed to. And you’d cried.

Out of relief. Out of fear. Out of the overwhelming weight of time returning to your body.

But you hadn’t gone back to your old self.

You hadn’t gone back to her.

The wild girl who danced barefoot. Who loved a soldier with reckless joy. Who pressed her cheek to a metal dog tag in the dark and whispered “come back to me.”

You buried her.

Built something new. Something safe.

You found someone who loved the woman you became—quiet, poised, a little haunted but finally real.

And today, you were marrying him.

Your hand hovered over your heart. But there was this… ache.

It didn’t make sense. Everything was perfect.

The dress. The weather. The man waiting at the altar. But something deep inside your chest was pulling.

You pressed your hand flat to your ribcage, as if that would stop it. It wouldn’t.

Because it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was something else.

Something… missing.

And you didn’t know why.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't hear it close. You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

You were too lost in the mirror. In the image of yourself. The one everyone else would call beautiful. Radiant. The woman who made it. Who endured.

But all you saw was someone still trying to believe this was real. Still trying to make that ache go away.

Then—

A voice. Low. Familiar. Reverent.

“You look beautiful.”

You flinched. Spun. Your breath caught. Because he was there.

Bucky.

Standing just inside the door, tux fitted like it was cut from memory, his long hair combed back, bowtie slightly uneven—because of course it was.

He looked… God.

He looked unreal.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since you’d started wedding planning. Not since the night you said goodbye with your eyes but not your mouth.

But here he was. Right in front of you.

You stared at him. And he stared right back. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

The air felt too thin.

And somehow, it wasn’t the dress that made you feel exposed—it was his eyes.

Because he looked at you like he still remembered the curve of your smile before it broke. Like he still saw the woman from 1942. And every version you became after.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

It was all you could manage.

His lips parted like your name was the only thing holding him together. He took a breath.

And the world, for just a second—stopped turning.

Your throat was tight. It ached just to breathe.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers brushed against the fabric of your gown, like that would steady you. Like anything could.

Bucky’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand. And lingered.

On the ring. Silver. Simple. Clean.

His mouth twitched—not in a smile. In something like memory.

“For him,” he murmured. “Not you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded at your hand. “It’s silver. You always liked gold.”

You looked down. And for a second, the breath you’d been holding collapsed in your lungs. Because he was right. You did like gold. You always had.

“Bucky…” your voice broke around the name, fragile.

He stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to be near.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just—I needed to see you. Just once.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely stand.

His voice was velvet and gravel, threaded with every unspoken word you’d buried over the years.

“I didn’t come to stop you,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want the last time I saw you to be the memory of you walking away.”

You closed your eyes. Because it hurt.

Everything about this—his presence, his voice, his knowing you even now—it made your chest feel like it was folding in on itself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“But you are.”

“I am.”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. And still—you didn’t move. You swallowed, but it didn’t help.

Your voice came out thinner than you meant it to, laced with something between ache and awe.

“You’re alive…”

You shook your head, barely. “But I still feel like I’m mourning you.”

The words hit the room like a confession no one had earned but had to be said anyway.

And maybe you were mourning him.

Not just the man in front of you, breathing and solid, with his tux and his sorrowful eyes. But the man you were supposed to have.

The one who never got to put a ring on your finger. The one who never came back from that train.

A tear slipped free before you could stop it. Bucky moved before you even registered it—just one step. But it was instinct. Memory. Love.

His fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light, catching the tear like it offended him. His metal hand didn’t flinch. He held you like he might break something sacred.

You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. Sighed softly, shakily.

He studied you like you were the most precious thing on earth.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, voice low, rough-edged. “It’ll ruin your face.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. “It’s already ruined.”

“No,” he said, softly, firmly. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath stilled. His thumb traced the damp track left behind. His brow was drawn, eyes dim but focused like the moment might disappear if he blinked. And in his silence was everything neither of you could say.

I loved you. I still do. But it’s not mine to hold anymore.

You didn’t mean to reach for him. But you did.

Arms around his waist. Face against his chest. The scent of him—clean, warm, familiar in a way that shattered you.

And he held you. Not like someone about to say goodbye. But like someone who already had. His arms wrapped around you like they were the only safe place you had left. One flesh, one steel. Both trembling.

You could feel his heartbeat—steady, slow, heavy.

He lowered his head, nose brushing your hair, your temple, your jaw. And he breathed you in. Like he wanted to memorize you one last time. Like this was the end of a dream he had held onto for too long.

You held him just as tightly.

Because what else could you do? What else could you give him, when your name was about to become someone else’s?

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered.

And the silence that followed was louder than any scream. You didn’t say it back. Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was.

A knock shattered the stillness. Soft. Gentle. Final. You both froze.

Your hands lingered on his back for just one more second. Then slowly—too slowly—you pulled away.

You crossed the room. Heart in your throat. You opened the door.

Tony stood there in a sleek tux, his mouth already forming some sarcastic line until his eyes locked on you. And for once—he said nothing.

He just looked at you. Then softly, “You ready?”

You didn’t answer right away. You turned.

Bucky stood in the shadowed half of the room, just behind the edge of the door. Out of sight. Out of reach.

But your eyes found his. One last time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But he nodded. Just once.

You nodded back. And then turned.

You took the bouquet Tony handed you. Slipped your fingers into the loop of your veil.

And when he offered his arm, you rested your hand on it gently.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. Because some part of you would always be in that room.

Wrapped in arms that could no longer hold you.

────────────────────────

The music swelled—soft, elegant, perfect.

You held onto Tony’s arm, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands. Your veil floated gently behind you, trailing over polished marble floors beneath glittering chandeliers.

The room was everything you’d never imagined as a little girl. Beautiful. Grand. Full of carefully curated perfection.

Your eyes lifted—

And there he was.

Cole.

Waiting at the altar. Back straight. Eyes soft. A man who had held your hand through everything, who had made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how.

But as your steps echoed down the aisle—

Your mind drifted. Just for a second.

And the year wasn’t 2016 anymore.

It was 1946.

And you weren’t in Upper Manhattan.

You were in a modest little church in Brooklyn—St. Mary’s of Carmine, two blocks from the tenement you’d grown up in. The kind of church with creaky pews and peeling paint, where sunlight spilled through old stained glass like warm memory.

And waiting at the end of that aisle…

Was Bucky.

Fresh-faced. Hair neat, eyes wide and red-rimmed like he’d already cried and might do it again. He looked at you like the whole damn war had been worth it just to see you in white.

Next to him—Steve. Grinning, proud, a little choked up but trying to play it cool.

You weren’t wearing silk or designer lace. Just a simple, sleeveless dress. No name label. Just love stitched into every seam.

And you were walking toward forever.

The fantasy faded as the room came back into focus—music, flowers, the soft murmur of guests.

Cole was still there. Still smiling. Still waiting.

And you loved him. You really did.

But as you neared him—hand still resting on Tony’s arm—you couldn’t stop the ache that curled low in your chest.

Because somewhere in time, in a church that never stood long enough… You’d already walked this aisle once before.

Your steps slowed. Tony gently squeezed your hand, then released your arm, stepping back as you took your place at the altar.

The air was still.

Cole turned to face you fully. His eyes were soft, steady, full of the kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations.

And maybe that was why this could be real. Why this was.

Your fingers trembled slightly around your bouquet. You glanced up once, just once, to the soft light pouring through the high windows.

The music faded. The pastor cleared his throat gently.

“Dearly beloved…”

You looked forward again. At Cole. At the future you had chosen.

Even as another version of you, in another year, in another universe, still stood in a Brooklyn church, whispering I do to a boy with a medal on his chest and stars in his eyes.

And maybe that version of you would always live, tucked away in a corner of your heart.

But this one? This you—

This you was ready.

The ceremony had begun.

And you didn’t look back.

A/N | Yes chat, we all crying rn, I don't know how many times I made myself cry writing this. Lowkey think this should be left like this, but if ever I write a part 2, it would be like post-blip, Tony's dead, Steve's dead, and cole died somehow, and you're suffering from postpartum and grief, and Bucky's there always to be there for you.

Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.

Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.

Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.

Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.

The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.

Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.

Bucky stares too long. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”

Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.

“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”

“That’s not—”

“Five.”

Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.

Bucky exhales slowly.

Say something to her. Anything.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.

“You uh—”

Brilliant start.

“You’ve been standing there a while.”

The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.

Nice going, Barnes.

But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”

Then your eyes flick back to his.

“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”

And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?

I notice you every single time you walk into a room. I started showing up early hoping you’d be here. I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.

Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.

“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”

Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.

“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”

You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”

The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.

“I notice you too.”

Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.

“You do?”

Smooth. Very cool.

You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.

“Kind of hard not to.”

Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.

This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.

Bucky clears his throat.

“I uh—”

God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?

“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”

You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.

“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”

There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.

“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.

“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.

"A setup?"

"You and Sam."

"We've never discussed you."

"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."

The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.

"What are you having?"

"Lemonade."

He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.

The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.

You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.

Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.

You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.

"Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are."

"I haven't said a word."

"You're thinking things."

That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.

"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"

Your eyebrows lift slightly.

His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.

"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."

Fantastic.

"God."

You laugh again.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly.

"Let me start over."

"Okay."

He's smiling now despite himself.

"So. Next cookout."

"Next cookout."

"Would you wanna come with me?"

The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.

"I'd like that."

Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.

"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."

PRIOR 

It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else. 

Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating. 

Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there? Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together. 

The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave. 

Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out. 

And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·

PRESENT

Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering. 

“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once. 

“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?

“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door. 

“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion. 

But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.

You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall. 

“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.” 

You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him. 

You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark. 

Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with. 

It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for. 

You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.

Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal. 

Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.

You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission. 

But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders. 

You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?” 

But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable. 

That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.” 

The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently. 

The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question. 

“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.

“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you. 

He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.” It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet. 

Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet. 

Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.

“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine. 

“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.” 

“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge. 

Fine then. 

You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees. 

“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place. 

“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation. 

His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”

Okay, ouch, but fair. 

“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person. 

You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany. 

“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”

“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”

“Well you might as well have–”

“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.

Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth. 

“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!” 

“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength. 

“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires. 

“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew. 

Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this. 

Small victories. 

You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.” 

Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring. 

Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit. 

After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear. 

Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve? 

You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck. 

You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear. 

You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door. 

“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond. 

“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.” 

It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in. 

“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”

With her. 

With her? 

You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain. 

Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite. 

Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you. 

You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest. 

“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow. 

When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.” 

His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?” 

You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.

He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.” 

Right. 

Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.

Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.

“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent. 

The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy. 

When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better. 

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening. 

“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out. 

“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–” “That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”

You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry. 

He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you. 

You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff. 

So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much. 

“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing. 

He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing. 

Your eyes widened, was he…? 

“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?”  He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.

“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering? 

As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature. 

You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.

A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good. 

He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?” 

You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.” 

He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.

“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing. 

“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”

You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either. 

He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled. 

And there it was. 

You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.

Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged. 

The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name. 

By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing. 

You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away. 

“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument. 

You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie. 

When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.

“Bucky–”

“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move. 

“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”

“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant. 

He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—

“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE. 

You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–” 

He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly. 

“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”

“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.” 

You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”

“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin. 

You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth. 

Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth. 

An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.

But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.

The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern. 

Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just. 

You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…

“Okay, come here.”

His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead. 

“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours. 

“Are you not…?”

He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.” 

You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you. 

He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere. 

His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain. 

You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back. 

What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture. 

You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question… 

“…Why?” 

You were asleep before you could hear his response. 

₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿୨୧ · · ♡ · ·

The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light. 

The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome. 

So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms. 

You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–

You stood, took several steps back.

That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy. 

You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver. 

One more time.

You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…

Little more to the left.

Angle, and–

Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system. 

Rock… country… rap… pop…

“What are you doing?”

His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching. 

You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was. 

You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.” 

Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said. 

You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least. 

You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood. 

“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment. 

You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”

He growled your name, but it was too late. 

The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers. 

You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.

You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–

Until the music stopped completely.

You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you. 

Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.

But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong? 

You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door. 

But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it. 

You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go. 

You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for. 

It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.

 “Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?” 

“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.” 

You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will. 

“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.

“Because you go and do shit like this!” 

“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”

“You remind me of the 40s!”

His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place? 

You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra. 

“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”

“What are you–”

“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–” 

You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything. 

The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.

Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved. 

“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”

“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger. 

“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!” 

“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–” 

“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!” 

“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.

It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns. 

But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks. 

“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst. 

“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them. 

“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha. 

She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.

You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.” 

You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight. 

When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day. 

The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen.  What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?” 

You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention? 

She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…” 

You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.

Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.” 

“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more. 

“Maybe you need a distraction?” 

“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”

“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother. 

But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”

“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’ 

She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory. 

You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble. 

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“You wanna talk about it?” 

Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress. 

He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record. 

Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.” 

Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get? 

There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.” 

Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” 

“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.” 

Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest. 

Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all. 

And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked. 

Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.” 

Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.” 

He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it. 

When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.” 

“Did you try to make it right?” He asked. 

“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.” 

“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.” 

“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”

Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.” 

Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”

“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement. 

And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.” 

Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”

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In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you. 

You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor. 

You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers. 

Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner. 

It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.

You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.

You cleared your throat, “Yes?” 

There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”

Oh. Straight to the point. 

You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.

But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them. 

You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard. 

And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”

“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”

“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?” 

The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet. 

You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–” 

“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.” 

What? 

You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words. 

But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”

“I walk in a room, and you leave–”

“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant. 

But he couldn’t possibly–

“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.” 

Oh. 

But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”

“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.” Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels. 

“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.” 

You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words. 

He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…” 

Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…” 

He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.” 

That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was… 

You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!” 

He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–” 

But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you,  and you knew better than to get your hopes up. 

He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head. 

You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–” 

You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt. 

And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.

Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this. 

The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into. 

And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.”